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them. She tried never to go without mascara to compensate for her mother’s English rose genes: blue eyes, pale blond hair and lashes. And how tired was she, to be thinking of eyelashes at a time like this?
“Fee, I’ve told you a thousand times, when I’m looping the cameras on a high-tech system like that, I can’t see you, either. I see what I’ve got them seeing, unless we start fitting you out with a buttonhole camera. I only caught a glimpse of the room where they stopped the loop.” He flashed a guilty glance at Hopkins. “You’d stepped out, and I didn’t want to worry you. But, Fee, you have to understand, it’s the—”
“Stop. Okay. I get it. Please, for the love of Saint George, no more technical discussions of wavelengths or pixels or whatever. My brain can’t take it.” Her gaze automatically went to the priceless oil-on-wood painting of Saint George slaying the dragon, in its place of honor across from her desk. Every time she glanced up from her work, the visual reminder that she, too, could slay dragons, reinforced her mission.
Or vampires, as the case may be. The curators in the Louvre might even still believe they had the original, although last she’d checked, the website had listed Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon as “not on display.”
Not exactly true. It was on display, of course, just not in the museum. It’s not like a self-respecting ninja master thief could hang a reproduction in her home. The painting represented her entire life’s work, after all.
She leaned her head back on the chair and closed her eyes, sighing. So good to be home. So awful to have to share her news.
The scent of rich chocolate wafted under her nose and her eyes snapped open. Hopkins stood next to the chair, still stern and frowning, but holding a cup of freshly poured aromatic heaven out to her.
“Drink it, and then tell us everything, if you please,” he said.
Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
Page 32 of 188
So she did, leaving out the flirting part and the kissing part. But what she did disclose was bad enough, judging by the expression on her butler’s face and the apparent inability of her baby brother to make actual words, since sputtering noises kept coming from his general direction.
“You let a common criminal get close enough to you that he could have harmed you? He could have ripped off your mask? He could have murdered you and left you lying in a pool of your own blood in the middle of the Jewel House?” Hopkins bit off each word as precisely as a cutter following the shape of an octahedral raw diamond crystal.
Bloody damn precisely, in other words.
Fiona sighed, but before she could respond, the air in the room changed and flames chased ice through her in a blaze of sensation that brought her up and out of her chair so fast she knocked the cup of chocolate to the floor. She whipped around to face the door, and it was him.
Her mystery man.
In her office, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed on that amazing chest and a cocky grin on that gorgeous face.
“Hey, I take exception to that remark,” he said. “I’m not at all common.”
Christophe couldn’t believe it. She was freaking gorgeous. Even in faded jeans and an ordinary top, her hair simple and mostly pulled back from her face, she was as beautiful as the priceless art that adorned every wall in the room.
More beautiful. Paintings couldn’t blush, after all, and the faint staining of pink on those porcelain cheeks made him think of strawberry jam, Atlantean blushberry tarts, and other luscious, delectable treats.
“Common or not, you are a trespasser, sir,” said the well-dressed elderly man with the very large gun.
He was dressed like a butler or an undertaker, and yet he held that gun with the relaxed ease of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Majordomo via MI6, perhaps? Where James Bond types went when they retired?
“Oh, no, I was invited,” Christophe replied. “Ask
“Fee, I’ve told you a thousand times, when I’m looping the cameras on a high-tech system like that, I can’t see you, either. I see what I’ve got them seeing, unless we start fitting you out with a buttonhole camera. I only caught a glimpse of the room where they stopped the loop.” He flashed a guilty glance at Hopkins. “You’d stepped out, and I didn’t want to worry you. But, Fee, you have to understand, it’s the—”
“Stop. Okay. I get it. Please, for the love of Saint George, no more technical discussions of wavelengths or pixels or whatever. My brain can’t take it.” Her gaze automatically went to the priceless oil-on-wood painting of Saint George slaying the dragon, in its place of honor across from her desk. Every time she glanced up from her work, the visual reminder that she, too, could slay dragons, reinforced her mission.
Or vampires, as the case may be. The curators in the Louvre might even still believe they had the original, although last she’d checked, the website had listed Raphael’s Saint George and the Dragon as “not on display.”
Not exactly true. It was on display, of course, just not in the museum. It’s not like a self-respecting ninja master thief could hang a reproduction in her home. The painting represented her entire life’s work, after all.
She leaned her head back on the chair and closed her eyes, sighing. So good to be home. So awful to have to share her news.
The scent of rich chocolate wafted under her nose and her eyes snapped open. Hopkins stood next to the chair, still stern and frowning, but holding a cup of freshly poured aromatic heaven out to her.
“Drink it, and then tell us everything, if you please,” he said.
Atlantis Betrayed – Warriors of Poseidon 06
Page 32 of 188
So she did, leaving out the flirting part and the kissing part. But what she did disclose was bad enough, judging by the expression on her butler’s face and the apparent inability of her baby brother to make actual words, since sputtering noises kept coming from his general direction.
“You let a common criminal get close enough to you that he could have harmed you? He could have ripped off your mask? He could have murdered you and left you lying in a pool of your own blood in the middle of the Jewel House?” Hopkins bit off each word as precisely as a cutter following the shape of an octahedral raw diamond crystal.
Bloody damn precisely, in other words.
Fiona sighed, but before she could respond, the air in the room changed and flames chased ice through her in a blaze of sensation that brought her up and out of her chair so fast she knocked the cup of chocolate to the floor. She whipped around to face the door, and it was him.
Her mystery man.
In her office, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed on that amazing chest and a cocky grin on that gorgeous face.
“Hey, I take exception to that remark,” he said. “I’m not at all common.”
Christophe couldn’t believe it. She was freaking gorgeous. Even in faded jeans and an ordinary top, her hair simple and mostly pulled back from her face, she was as beautiful as the priceless art that adorned every wall in the room.
More beautiful. Paintings couldn’t blush, after all, and the faint staining of pink on those porcelain cheeks made him think of strawberry jam, Atlantean blushberry tarts, and other luscious, delectable treats.
“Common or not, you are a trespasser, sir,” said the well-dressed elderly man with the very large gun.
He was dressed like a butler or an undertaker, and yet he held that gun with the relaxed ease of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Majordomo via MI6, perhaps? Where James Bond types went when they retired?
“Oh, no, I was invited,” Christophe replied. “Ask
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