Some sins are unforgiveable…

Every time the planets align Lucifer has a chance to break open the Gates of Hell. The only thing that stands in his way is the fallen angel warrior Kyriel. Banished to Earth, Kyriel must atone for his sins of pride, envy and lust. His entry back into heaven is dependent on him finding the Ring of Melchior—which is currently in possession of gorgeous Head Curator Dr Jillian Whitmore.

Jillian has always considered herself immune to the charms of even the most irresistible of men. Afraid of her own desires she has hidden in her family’s museum poring over ancient relics… until she met the inscrutable Mr Smith. She feels an invisible pull to this mysterious man, but he is on a quest to uncover a missing artifact, one she had in her possession until it was stolen.

Jillian and Kyriel must find the ring before the next planetary alignment or risk losing the world they call their own—as well as an illicit love they are just starting to discover…

Also available by Alyssa Morgan

Gladiator Heart

Dark Surrender

Alyssa Morgan

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Alyssa Morgan 2014

Alyssa Morgan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2014 ISBN: 9781472096272

Version date: 2018-10-30

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

ALYSSA MORGAN

is a native of Minnesota, but has also lived in Hawaii and Utah, and now resides in Los Angeles. She has worked as a waitress, a bartender, a file clerk, and a licensed financial adviser, and many of her experiences have added to her true passion: writing romance. When she's not slaving away over her latest work or devouring a novel by one of her favorite authors, you can find her giving in to her shopping problem, sunning herself at the beach, enjoying a leisurely Sunday brunch, or spending time with her friends and family.

I’d first like to thank my awesome editors, Laurie and Lucy, for their constant enthusiasm, and for helping to make Grace the best story it could possibly be.

Thanks, as always, to Mom and Dad, who are the best PR reps a girl could ask for.

And last, but never least, thank you to the readers. I hope you enjoy taking another journey with the characters who live in my head. Thanks again! Alyssa

To R. who believed I was a writer before I did, and encouraged me to follow my dreams.

For sin shall not have dominion over you: for ye are not under the law, but under grace.

Romans 6:14

Prologue

Alexandria

500 A.D.

Kyriel had no desire to return to Heaven.

Funny thought for an angel.

But then, he wasn’t an angel anymore. Not really.

He’d been stripped of his wings and most of his powers Ages ago. God had banished him and the other angels to Earth for their sins, and they’d finally given up on the idea of ever returning to Heaven. Some sins were unforgivable.

Why, then, had he agreed to assist Gabriel by chasing a Holy Man half way around the world?

A warm breeze blew through the tower window and played with the ends of his long, blonde hair. Kyriel lifted his head from the maps on the table and glanced out the narrow window, down to the Mediterranean harbor below, watching ships with great masts loading and unloading their cargo at the docks.

Why was he here? Maybe he was bored after all these Ages. Maybe he’d come along with Gabriel because he was excited by the prospect of searching out a few more Holy relics – Egypt was full of them and he couldn’t get his hands on enough.

Or maybe Gabriel’s promise of redemption had proven to be more important to him than he’d thought.

Kyriel’s current lifestyle wasn’t winning him any favor with God. Pride.Envy.Lust.He had a list of sins, and the longer he stayed on Earth, the more he added to that list. He was a fallen angel. Redemption wasn’t something that belonged to him, it wasn’t something he deserved, but that didn’t stop him from wanting it. Left on Earth to rot, he was merely a shadow of his former self. He had no powers, no glory. The Exalted Ones frowned upon him and his kind.

Kyriel was abandoned. Only Gabriel could show him the way back.

A strong gust of wind blew open the door to his tower room with a loud bang!

Kyriel anchored his hands on the ancient maps and scrolls spread out on the table as the Archangel Gabriel swept into the circular room with all the force of a raging storm. The howling wind swept out the door and it slammed closed, leaving them in silence.

“The last Magi is dead!” Gabriel declared, pacing the stone floor, his sandaled feet kicking up clouds of dust.

Then it was exactly as they’d feared.

Kyriel stared out the tower window, gazing across the azure blue sea. He’d hoped to be done with this chase and on his way back to Heaven.

Now it looked like his journey was only beginning.

Why hadn’t Gabriel’s mysterious source warned them of the danger sooner?

Lucifer wanted the three rings that held the power to open the Gates of Hell and free him from his eternal prison. The angels had made it their task to keep him right where he was, and with all three Magi dead, someone else would have to be charged with the mission of guarding the rings.

“Are you certain Melchior is dead?” Kyriel wondered if he’d missed something.

“Without a doubt,” Gabriel replied, his hand toying with the hilt of the golden sword strapped to his waist. The mighty weapon looked oddly out of place with the shorter length Egyptian garments they’d picked up after their earlier arrival in Thebes. “The priests are already preparing him to enter the afterlife.”

“And the rings?” Kyriel asked, shifting in his chair.

“The rings are gone.” Gabriel sat down on the wooden bench along the wall and leaned his head back, releasing a frustrated sigh. “The priests said Melchior didn’t have them when he arrived in Alexandria. He knew Lucifer was coming after him so he entrusted the three rings to an excommunicated priest living somewhere in Palestine, who in turn assigned each ring to a Keeper, and then scattered them to different locations. None of the Keepers are aware of the others, and only this priest knows who they are and where they can be found. We’ve got quite a search on our hands.”

Kyriel didn’t mind a challenge. He was good at sniffing out treasures. Perhaps Gabriel had picked him for the right reason.

“If I can find this priest, I’ll find the rings.”

“No,” Gabriel said with a firm shake of his head. “We’ve decided to leave it in the hands of the humans for now.”

“Is that wise?”

“The angels haven’t exactly proven themselves trustworthy,” Gabriel reminded in a chastising tone. “Lucifer has demonstrated that he can seduce them as easily as the humans. The rings are safer if no one knows where they are.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Kyriel could return to his home, where his servants would prepare him a feast fit for a king, fill his cup with an endless amount of wine, and then he could take a few beautiful women to his bed and make love to them all night. He had given up everything to have such an indulgent life, and now he lusted for the familiar comforts of his old world. He envied the angels their wings.

How long was God going to punish him by keeping him on Earth?

Kyriel studied the maps before him, his gaze roving over the different lands and imaginary boundaries. Lands and boundaries that had changed over time, and would continue to change as time moved on. He would be here to watch it all happen. It was miraculous and tedious at the same time. What would he do to fill up the lonely centuries?

Gabriel rose from the bench and stretched his arms over his head. “I need you to stay on Earth. I want you to watch.”

“Watch what?”

“Any time there is a planetary alignment, just like on the night the Christos was born, Lucifer will try to draw the rings together to complete a full alignment of all the planets, and he’ll be able to use that power to help break open the Gates of Hell. We all know what would happen if he ever got out.”

Total destruction of everything Kyriel had come to love about Earth and the humans.

“So I watch?” Kyriel gave a derisive snort. “That’s perfect.”

“It’s a very important task,” Gabriel insisted, that clever twinkle in his eye.

The one that told a person he was already two moves ahead in the game.

“It sounds very important,” Kyriel said, not impressed.

He thought he’d be getting a task more suited for the type of angel he’d once been.

A Warrior.

Gabriel sidled over to the table and inspected the different maps he had spread over the surface. “What do you want with these old maps of Mesopotamia? The place is practically wiped out. Soon the humans will start calling it something different.”

“Which is precisely why I want these maps.” Kyriel rolled up the ancient parchments and placed them back in the leather cylinder case. “They’ll be extremely valuable one day.”

And Kyriel would take great pride in having them hanging on his wall. Another of the many mementos he’d collected to help mark the passage of his time spent on Earth. His banishment from Heaven had already lasted longer than some civilizations.

“I don’t know why you bother collecting so much human stuff,” Gabriel said. “You’re going to need a bigger home to store it all. What’s the point?”

“I enjoy collecting, and a bigger home is no problem.” Kyriel couldn’t explain his passion for wealth and treasure to the Archangel.

Sin was a weakness that belonged solely to the fallen.

He rose from the table and tucked the cylinder case under his arm. “Besides, it sounds like I’ll have a lot of time to waste down here.”

He should have expected the promise of redemption to linger ever out of reach.

“I can assure you, my brother, time won’t be wasted.” Gabriel took a few steps back while he freed his long blonde hair from the tie at his neck. “You’ll need some time to get used to having your powers back.”

Gabriel raised his hand and blasted Kyriel in the chest with a pillar of white light. Kyriel screamed aloud, his arms flung out to the side, and he dropped the case of maps.

Burning pain spread throughout his body, moving down his arms, into his belly, down into his legs. No longer able to stand, he fell to his knees and lowered his head, gritting his teeth against the misery.

When the light faded and the pain finally receded, he looked up.

Gabriel was gone.

Kyriel felt his restored powers surging through him with a comforting warmth he’d long forgotten. With each passing moment, his powers grew stronger and stronger.

He threw his head back and laughed with all the joy of the angels. It might not be the redemption he’d been hoping for, but having his powers back was as close to Heaven as he was going to get.

Chapter 1

Rome, Italy

Present Day

A sober, quiet man, Father Antonelli spent his Friday nights with a relaxing bath, a double espresso, and the weekly edition of L'Osservatore Romano. He read the Vatican newspaper more for entertainment than information. It was full of gossip. Though he still lived in his apartment near the Vatican, he had stopped believing in the politics and practices of the Catholic Church long ago.

Man had great evils to fear in this world, and the very Church that should be protecting and preparing its followers preferred to keep the truth from them. There were many secrets hidden in the Vatican.

By rights he should have left the Holy City, but Father Antonelli was a man of habit and after spending more than fifty years living in these apartments he would not be comfortable away from the Church that was so familiar, yet so foreign to him.

There was great power surrounding the Vatican. Something even more powerful than the stench of corruption. It came from the prayers of the faithful, the vows of the devoted, those who came to pray with only love in their hearts. The Holy Spirit brought him comfort in difficult times, and it just so happened that now was one of those difficult times.

At seventy-six years of age, he never expected to find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. Cold, black, metal. As cold as the dark eyes of the man standing over him, wearing black gloves and holding the gun. He had Father Antonelli tied to his desk chair, his arms secured behind his back.

The clock on his desk chimed, announcing the midnight hour.

“I want the names,” the man said.

His voice held no emotion. No humanity whatsoever.

Father Antonelli said nothing.

“All you have to do is give me the names of the Keepers, and tell me where to find them,” the man lightened his tone, as if to sound hopeful. “And I will let you live.”

Father Antonelli knew he wasn’t getting out of this alive. The man’s eyes were those of a practiced killer.

“I told you, I don’t know what names you’re talking—”

The man struck him over the eye with the butt of the gun. Blinding pain cracked through his skull. A trickle of blood raced down over his eye, flooding his vision red.

“Don’t lie to me,” the man warned. “I know who you are, Priest.”

Father Antonelli had sworn a magical oath to protect the Keepers from dark forces. If he gave their names to this man, an Angel of Mercy would hunt him down and kill him for betraying that oath. If he kept his oath and didn’t give away their names, this evil man would kill him. Since it was evident he was going to die either way, he intended to keep his secret.

Father Antonelli swallowed his fear before he defiantly said, “If you know who I am, then you know you won’t get the names.”

The man’s stare turned harsh and chilling. “I think you’ll change your mind.”

He reached one of his gloved hands into his jacket and brought out a leather roll that he unfurled on top of the desk. A variety of sharp metallic instruments gleamed under the light of the desk lamp. They were carefully arranged on the black leather and held in place with elastic ties. The pointed tips, curved hooks and shiny spikes of the grotesque torture devices had Father Antonelli swallowing another dose of fear.

The man freed a short, silver spike and twirled it between his gloved fingers. “Who are the Keepers?”

Father Antonelli focused on the sharp spike, wondering how the man intended to use it.

“What are their names?” The man held the spike firmly between his fingers.

Father Antonelli remained mute, but only until the man spun the desk chair around, grabbed one of his hands still tied behind his back, and rammed the sharp tip of the spike under the nail of his middle finger. He released a scream of agony, unable to believe such a form of clear, precise pain existed.

“Must we play games?” The man rammed the spike under his next fingernail, and then under the nail of the little finger, eliciting an even greater amount of pain.

He paced the floor while the old priest dropped his head and whimpered with the aftershocks of his torture. Father Antonelli realized he hadn’t sufficiently prepared for this day because he never expected it would come.

What a fool.

He couldn’t fail the Keepers. Their safety depended on his silence. He whispered a prayer for God to grant him strength.

“You think praying will save you?” The man drove the spike under the thumbnail of his other hand, causing him to scream with renewed pain. “Only I can save you, old man. Now give me the names and all the pain will stop. I can make it worse, or I can make it all go away.”

Father Antonelli smiled through his agony. “Go to Hell.”

The rest of his fingers exploded into bright points of fire as the man mutilated his hand with the sharp tip of the spike. Still, he kept his secret.

The man began rifling through the books and papers on his desk. “Do you keep the names in your head? Or have you written them down through the years?”

Father Antonelli simply watched him through a haze of pained tears. The man went to work on the rest of his apartment, tossing books from shelves and emptying the contents of drawers. The old priest watched as all the pieces of his life settled on the floor around him in chaotic disarray.

“I want the names!” The man flew into a rage, tossing the furniture and toppling over lamps and chairs, completely tearing the room apart.

Then he came back to the desk and, after regaining his composure, took a shiny, hooked instrument from the case.

Pain consumed every inch of the old priest’s body, until he became the pain. Father Antonelli held onto his secret for as long as he was able, but the torture won out in the end, and he heard himself giving the man the names he wanted before that final shroud of darkness fell and he was no more.

Chapter 2

New York City

Four Months Later

“Would you take a look at that?”

Jillian Whitmore casually ignored Denise’s reference to the latest male victim walking through the museum café where they were finishing up their lunch break.

Was that all she could think about? Men?

Maybe that’s why Denise always had a boyfriend who looked like he’d walked straight out of a hunk-of-the-year calendar. Since the time they first met in college, Jillian had watched Denise date every breed of man from professional athletes to foreign dignitaries. Jillian wished she shared the same remarkable portfolio of past lovers, but it was her curse to remain perpetually single. An affliction her extravagant, outgoing friend seldom suffered.

Currently, Jillian had more important things on her mind than checking out guys or guessing whether they were the type to wear boxers or briefs. She was still busy trying to understand why her grandparents had left their only grandchild out of their Will.

Almost two months had passed since they’d been killed in a car accident, and she just couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that they’d left everything they owned—including the museum—to none other than Jonathon Crawford. She didn’t trust the dreadful man, and couldn’t believe her often sensible grandparents had fallen for his phony act.

Their previous museum Director, a man working for them for over thirty years, died of a sudden heart attack and the very next day Jonathon Crawford appeared out of nowhere, dressed in a flawless designer suit and enquiring about a job. Turns out not only did he happen to have all the right credentials and experience to fill the vacancy, he was nice and helpful as well.

Once he won over her grandparents and started taking over at the museum, Jillian got pushed to the back burner, and now Jonathon owned everything that should belong to her.

But she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet. There was something unsettling and suspicious about Jonathon, and she intended to find out what.

“Are you looking?” Denise asked, her Jersey accent coming through.

“Looking at what?” Jillian feigned ignorance.

She didn’t want to get pulled into ogling some guy Denise thought she should simply walk up to and ask out on a date.

Jillian wasn’t that desperate.

Or that brave.

In college she and Denise had shared the same zest for life, nothing fazed them, they hadn’t been afraid to take chances, but somewhere along the way Jillian felt like she’d fallen behind while Denise was still going strong.

When had she become so afraid of life?

Where had she gotten lost?

In that moment, she realized how different the two of them had become. Jillian sat at the table in a gray pencil skirt and a conservative white blouse, her long blonde hair neatly pulled back into a chignon, hands folded in her lap. Across from her, Denise wore a short, black chiffon skirt and a lacy red tank top under her black leather jacket. With her high-heeled ankle boots, she looked ready to ride off into the sunset on the back of a Harley. Her shiny brown hair hung straight and long around her shoulders and she had perfectly manicured nails, painted red this week, and her toes were probably done in the same shade to match.

To outsiders the two appeared nothing alike, but on the inside they were kindred spirits, and Jillian knew they would always be friends. To the end.

Denise was the only family she had left.

Jillian pushed her empty salad container to the side of the table, then arranged the salt and pepper shakers at a perfect angle to the square sugar bowl. When she routinely started turning the sugar packets so all the labels were facing the same way, Denise swatted her on the arm.

“You’re missing it, Jilly,” she said, the excitement clear in her voice. “There’s got to be at least one man in New York you’ll go on more than one date with, and I think I’ve found him.”

Jillian was curious to see the man if he had Denise all worked up. She did have exceptional taste in men. Her current boyfriend was the stuff of dreams. A tall, hunky fireman named Nick.

Jillian gave a casual glance over her shoulder at the café entrance, and then she craned her head even further and gaped, her mouth open. She’d never seen a more handsome man. He was riveting, and she couldn’t help but stare.

“Got your attention now?” Denise laughed. “He looks like your usual stodgy, upper-class type, but he’s young. No doubt that one comes from Old Money.”

Jillian shook her head, unable to form any coherent thought. There was nothing stodgy about the man. Everything he emanated was purely raw and masculine, sexual.

“His suit is nice, classic,” Denise commented, approving his wardrobe. “Looks like Gucci. The choice suggests excellent taste.”

Denise would know. During college she’d interned at a fashion magazine and spent an entire summer studying fashion in Milan.

Jillian didn’t have to know Gucci in order to admire the way his elegant gray suit fit such a tall frame and wide shoulders. The collar of his crisp white shirt had been left open with the top few buttons undone, revealing some of the smooth, golden skin of his broad chest. He wore the tawny, blonde locks of his shoulder-length hair neatly pulled back at his nape. His stance was casual, with his hands tucked into his pants pockets, but no one could mistake the aura of power and ageless strength he possessed.

A sudden rush of heat surged through her veins as wicked images of strong arms drawing her up against a rock-hard chest formed in her mind. She curled her fingers as she imagined the solid feel of rippling muscle flexing beneath her fingertips. Licking her lips, she could almost taste the salt of flesh on her tongue.

“Bingo!” Denise sucked loudly on her straw as she finished her diet soda. “Your lady parts are going soft, admit it. He’s beautiful.”

Jillian felt alive in a way she had never before experienced. There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach and a longing ache deep within her that only intensified as her eyes landed back on his sharp, handsome face.

“More than beautiful,” Jillian said, breathless, as she rested her arm across the back of her chair. “He’s perfect.”

“Then it’s settled.” Denise plopped her purse in her lap and pulled out a sparkly red tube of lip gloss, which she handed to Jillian. “Go ask for his name, and then ask him if he’d like to take you out to dinner.”

Anxiety seized her, shutting down the warm tingle of desire. Even if she could work up the courage to ask a man for a date, she didn’t think she could make herself get out of the chair and walk across the room.

“You can do it,” Denise encouraged, waving her hand. “Don’t let one bad choice ruin you forever. Be glad you didn’t marry the jerk, and get back at him by being blissfully happy and dating a guy like that.”

God bless Denise. She’d made it her personal mission to pull Jillian out of the rut she’d been stuck in for the last three years, no matter how much she kicked and screamed. After her ex-fiancé turned psycho on her she’d called off the wedding and moved in with her only family, her grandparents. To this day the jerk still stalked her, harassing her for having the guts to leave. How could she bring a new man into her life when it was such a terrible mess? What would he think?

“I can’t ask a guy like that out.”

“A guy like that is just what you need.” Denise set the tube of lip gloss on the table, then smoothed her hands through her long, dark brown hair. “I’m working very hard to get you laid, and it has to be with the right guy. That,” she pointed to the man, “is the right guy.”

Jillian looked over at the man again and found him staring right back at her, his steely blue eyes piercing through her like lasers. She was caught, held in his captivating stare, unable to look away, and it made her feel exposed, like he could see her innermost desires, her deepest secrets.

“A man built that well has to be good in bed,” Denise remarked offhand. “He just has to.”

The man’s brow quirked up, his blue eyes lighting with interest.

Could he hear them across the café? Over the loud din of voices as the other customers talked and laughed?

The start of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. Jillian’s entire body smoldered from that subtle look. She imagined his full lips on hers, kissing her, wrapping her up in his strong arms.

Afraid he really could see into her mind, she turned back to the table to hide her embarrassment. She braced her hands on the end of the table to anchor herself to something tangible. She didn’t dare look back at him, no matter how badly she wanted to. The man was almost too much for her to take in all at once. Tall, devastatingly handsome, and way out of her league.

Denise chewed on the end of her straw while she continued to stare at him. “I’ll bet he can go all night.”

“Would you be quiet?” Jillian hushed. “I think he can hear us.”

“Really?” Denise set her soda on the table. “Come over here, big boy,” she purred softly, smiling and waving her fingers at the man. “My friend needs what only a man like you can give her. Please come over and ask her out, because she’s way too chicken to make the first move.”

“Are you nuts?” Jillian wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

She knew it wasn’t possible he’d heard what Denise said, so why did she have such a weird feeling?

Denise laughed. “If he comes over here, you’d better say yes.”

“He’s not going to come over here.” Jillian knew that for a fact.

She ran into handsome men all over the city, and she considered herself a fairly pretty woman, but they never asked her on a date. They never asked for her phone number. Not even coffee.

What was she doing wrong?

Denise said she was closed-off and jaded, and that men could sense it. Jillian liked to think she was just waiting for something extraordinary. For a man who made her breathless.

The gorgeous stranger standing in the café of her museum seemed like a good place to start. In spite of her embarrassment, she stole another glance over her shoulder. He appeared to be waiting for someone and he checked his watch. She took the chance to study his powerful, chiseled profile: his straight nose, the sharp angles of his face, covered by a soft dusting of blonde stubble. Despite the fancy suit and well-groomed hair, the shadow of a beard gave him a rugged, savage look. Like he’d be just as comfortable standing on a battlefield with a sword and armor.

Jillian could stare at him all day and, judging by the ravenous looks directed at him from the rest of the women in the café, she wasn’t alone.

“Where do guys like that come from?” Denise propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand.

“Heaven,” Jillian said, once again feeling breathless. “Straight from Heaven.”

***

Kyriel wasn’t blind to the desirous looks he got from women. Those were exactly the kinds of looks that had landed him on Earth in the first place. He couldn’t help the enticing lure he had as an angel. He was irresistible to humans. God made the angels that way on purpose. Through the centuries he’d gotten used to the unwarranted attention he received from women.

Eventually every female pair of eyes in the room would become trained on him, and they all held the same secret desire.

Sex.

Kyriel used his irresistible sexuality to his advantage. He figured if he was banished to Earth, he might as well enjoy his punishment. Women were his favorite pastime, along with food and drinking. And driving, of course, but he put his love for expensive cars and high speeds in a separate category. He’d already committed the greatest sin—disobeying God—so he didn’t think indulging in a few of the mortal sins would make much difference. It certainly made his endless sentence more bearable.

Once there had been a time when he couldn’t stand being stuck on Earth, and now he almost preferred it over Heaven.

Having his full powers made all the difference.

He checked his watch again, not necessarily concerned with the time, but upset that the man he was supposed to be meeting was late. Manners had become a thing of the past. People today placed less value on respect and more emphasis on money. It was a shame, but Kyriel didn’t like to get involved in human affairs. If they wanted to live an empty existence he wouldn’t stand in their way.

As an angel he’d risked everything to bring them forbidden knowledge but, unfortunately, he couldn’t make them use it. To their credit, being ignorant wasn’t totally their fault. There were dark powers at work. Organizations that wanted to keep the sacred knowledge for themselves and enslave the rest of humanity. Thanks to angels like Kyriel, those of them who were watching, that would never happen.

While he waited, he perused the small cafe. No threats and nothing to hold his interest, until he spotted a watchful pair of green eyes looking at him with genuine attraction. Blonde hair, cheeks soft with color, nose dainty, mouth rosy. She was a natural beauty. The kind of woman who didn’t know how beautiful she was.

Kyriel also knew Jillian Whitmore was smart. Wicked smart. She’d gone to school at Columbia and had earned two doctorate degrees, one in Art, one in History, and at twenty-eight years of age she was Head Curator of her family’s museum.

His excitement grew. Kyriel had found the perfect mode of introduction, and after seeing her in person, he couldn’t wait to meet her.

Because she had something he wanted.

***

“Who do you suppose he is?” Jillian wondered as she continued to study the man with casual glances.

She couldn’t keep her damn eyes off him.

He radiated a savage intensity. It glittered in his wild, blue eyes. He looked like he belonged on an ancient battlefield, or seated on some royal, Heavenly throne, not loitering in the café of a small museum like The Whitmore.

“It looks like he’s waiting for someone.” Denise leaned back in her chair and popped a cold French fry in her mouth. “Let’s wait and see if she’s gorgeous model material, or another handsome hunk, in which case you’d be out of luck.”

“He doesn’t look gay.” Jillian fumbled with the clasp of her gold necklace and routinely centered it at the back of her neck.

“They never do, honey.”

Jillian reached for the tube of lip gloss and opened it, swiping some of the sticky, sweet stuff on her lips, when she saw Denise frown. “What is it?”

“It’s worse than I thought. Take a look.”

Jillian braced her arm on the back of her chair and pivoted around to see the man being joined by her boss. He and Jonathon shook hands.

“Oh God,” Jillian heaved a sigh. “I hope they aren’t friends.”

“Deal breaker.” Denise reached her hand out for the lip gloss.

Jillian passed the sparkly tube back. “Total deal breaker.”

She’d known there had to be something wrong with a man that perfect. A friend of Jonathon Crawford’s was not a friend she wanted to have.

“He might just be interested in making a donation, or lending the Whitmore a rare, valuable collection,” Denise tried to see on the bright side. “In that case, he’d be working with you.”

“Unless Jonathon needed to suck up to him,” Jillian said. “Then he’d take over.”

“You two are both fighting so hard to maintain control of everything around here that one day, one of you is going to drop from sheer overload, or one of you is going to have to let it go.”

Jillian knew what Denise meant. Jonathon was the legal owner of the museum through the Will her grandparents had left behind, but Jillian couldn’t let it go so easily. She loved the museum. She’d been raised by her grandparents and had spent endless hours roaming the halls and exhibits. It was all she had left.

As for Jonathon, his dishonesty was apparent. She could sense a layer of darkness in him and knew he didn’t care about the museum. He was after something else, and she was going to make sure he didn’t get it. She only needed a majority vote from the Board of Directors to push him out of his position, then she could work on the legal part.

“I won’t let him win,” Jillian declared. “This is my museum, and I know it better than he does.”

“You know I’m in your corner,” Denise said. “I can’t stand Jonathon.”

Jillian watched as the two men conversed, marveling at the striking contrast between their features. Jonathon was tall, but barely reached the man’s shoulders, and his short, dark hair, dark eyes and black suit lent an air of coldness to him. The man, with his navy suit, blue eyes and golden hair, emanated a warmth of spirit.

What business could a handsome, dignified man, well under the age of sixty, possibly have with Jonathon and her museum?

“They’re looking over here.” Denise dropped the lip gloss in her purse and zipped it closed.

“I know.” Jillian’s stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. “Let’s go.”

“No way,” Denise protested. “You’re going to meet this guy. I can already picture your first date: a heated discussion about Art and History and ancient artifacts. It’ll be a real blast.”

Jillian had a sudden image of her and the man seated on an intimate sofa before a blazing fire, drinking a nice Beaujolais, lost in conversation, lost in each other. It was a nice thought, but she didn’t know if she would ever find what she was looking for.

Most men had no idea what she did for a living and they were unable to communicate with her beyond a certain level. Her knowledge and expertise in her field earned her more glazed-over looks than hot dates, and her glasses, chignons and pencil skirts only added to her nerdiness. What would it be like to have a man who understood exactly what she did? One who shared the same passion for Art and History?

A girl could dream.

Denise shot upright in her chair. “Don’t look, they’re coming over.”

Jillian froze. Panic bloomed in her gut. What did she do? What did she say? How did she make sure her craziness didn’t show?

Denise got to her feet and strapped her purse over her shoulder, then pushed in her chair.

“Where are you going?” Jillian didn’t want to make a fool of herself alone.

“I don’t think they’re coming to see me.” Denise smiled. “Come by my office later and tell me what happens.”

“Wait—”

“Hello, Jillian,” Jonathon said, reaching their table.

“Jonathon.” She gave a slight nod, hating that she had to speak to him at all and not about to acknowledge him with a title of respect if he couldn’t do the same.

“Do you have a moment?” he asked. “There’s someone who would like to meet you.”

Jillian glanced at the man standing next to Jonathon. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, but his blue eyes held an intensity she couldn’t describe. She felt his gaze all over her body, like the gentle caress of a lover. A shiver of excitement danced along her spine.

“How’s it going, Jonathon?” Denise gave him a bright, fake smile. “Did you get that little problem cleared up?”

Jonathon stared darkly at Denise, and Jillian swore if looks could kill, he’d be pleased.

“Just leaving, Ms. Randall?” Jonathon’s condescending tone left no doubt he expected her to do exactly that.

“The restoration lab calls.” She hugged Jillian goodbye. “See you later, hon.”

Jillian watched Denise walk away in her short skirt and her high-heeled boots. She wished she had the same easy confidence and self-assurance as her friend. Jillian found it hard to even function without her anxiety pills.

“Let me introduce Mr. Winston Smith,” Jonathon said.

Jillian rose from her chair and accepted the man’s offered hand. “Hello.”

It was all she could say. His hand was warm and his grip firm, but gentle. Her lady parts were definitely going soft. She didn’t want to let go of his hand, but she had to.

“Mr. Smith wants to make a donation and has some questions about becoming a patron,” Jonathon continued. “I thought you could go over the details for me. I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

Jillian knew that wasn’t true. Jonathon couldn’t go over the details of the museum because he didn’t care to know them. “I thought your schedule was clear this afternoon.”

Jonathon narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “Something came up.”

“Oh.” She nodded.

In truth, she didn’t care what he did, as long as he left her alone.

“I admit,” Mr. Smith finally spoke. “I’ve overlooked this little museum in the past, but it’s rather charming.”

Jillian loved the husky sound of his voice, tinged with an accent she couldn’t quite place. It only added to his sensual appeal.

“How did you find us, Mr. Smith?” she asked, curious, and found that saying his name didn’t feel right.

Mr. Smith.

It sounded false.

Not that she was good with names, she just had a strange feeling it didn’t belong to him.

“I’ve noticed your signs advertising the upcoming Lost Treasures of the Bible exhibit,” he explained. “It sparked my interest. I collect Holy relics.”

“So does half of the archaeological world, Mr. Smith,” Jillian said.

She’d met so many fanatics while putting together the latest exhibit, had seen a ton of false relics and replicas, that he’d have to give her something better than that.

“I might be interested in donating a few of my pieces, but I’d like to see the exhibit first.”

“What sort of pieces?” she enquired.

“Does it matter?” Jonathon snapped, clearly irritated. “Just show him the exhibit.”

He adjusted the perfect knot of his gray-striped tie and cleared his throat, collecting himself.

“I’ll be in my office.” After a nervous glance at Mr. Smith, he left the café.

Those were the small slip-ups that made Jillian suspicious of Jonathon. Like for the slightest moment he’d let his true nature show, and then remembered he had a particular role to play. She wasn’t falling for it.

“I’m sorry he was rude,” Jillian apologized for Jonathon’s hasty retreat.

It was difficult to come up with anything else to say. Finding herself stranded alone with the handsome Mr. Smith left her tongue tied.

“Have I interrupted your lunch?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with the hint of a devilish smile.

A simple question to answer. Her anxiety ebbed away and she began to feel more comfortable in his overwhelming presence. She felt compelled to smile sweetly. “My friend and I had already finished our lunch. It’s no bother.”

As she pushed in her chair she stared at him, letting her gaze drift up along his broad chest, to where the top few buttons of his shirt had been left undone. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. She looked up to his face, over his strong chin and his full, sensuous lips, to his straight nose, finally landing on his celestial blue eyes.

He stared back at her with a growing intensity, like he was trying to unlock some secret she had hidden deep inside her soul. It was a weird, invasive feeling.

“Shall we see the exhibit?” he asked.

What exhibit? she thought.

Her mind felt empty, then quick as a flash she remembered. “Oh, yes, the exhibit.”

Duh! You work here, idiot.

What was wrong with her?

She felt crazier than normal for some reason. Not her normal form of anxiety, this was something different.

Jillian motioned towards the café exit with a sweep of her hand. “This way.”

“After you,” he said, giving a wolfish grin as he ran a heated look along the length of her body, his gaze lingering on her hips.

And he’d be staring at her ass when she led him out of the café. Knowing he was checking her out sent little shivers racing over the surface of her skin. When her mind started to take off on a wicked tangent she quickly shut it down and wiped the thought away. Exactly like Dr. Weber had taught her to do in their sessions.

I am a calm, blue ocean.

The mantra always put her back in control.

She slipped past Mr. Smith, catching the scent of his cologne. He smelled rich and spicy, vibrant. Kind of like incense, or really old books. She felt his eyes on her as they left the café, walking between the pair of black and gold Grecian urns she’d had converted into fountains with trickling water. Green fronds of assorted palm trees swept down from overhead, and ancient rocks she and her grandfather had collected from their travels to places like Greece, Egypt and Africa, lined the short path back to the museum lobby.

“We’re still finalizing things for Saturday’s gala opening,” she said, leading the way across the white marble floor of the lobby to the red carpet at the entrance of the exhibit, where tall white pillars lined the archway. “It’s mostly ready.”

Since she had systematically taken charge of nearly every operation at the museum in order to keep the running of things out of Jonathon’s hands, she was falling a little behind in some areas. It was already Wednesday, and that left her with three more days. She would have it finished on time.

“Your grandfather founded the museum,” Mr. Smith said. “I feel like royalty, getting a tour from a celebrity.”

“The Whitmores are hardly celebrities.” Jillian was strangely flattered by his interest. “Well, maybe my grandfather, but he’s passed on.”

“Your loss was recent,” Mr. Smith said, coming around to walk by her side. “I was sorry to hear of their death.”

Jillian still couldn’t talk about her grandparents and the accident. Tears welled in her eyes and her chest constricted with the pain of their absence. In losing them, she’d lost what remained of her only family, along with the love, emotional support and security they provided, leaving her to face the world alone.

She blinked back the tears as they reached the white pillars of the exhibit entrance. “Here’s the exhibit.”

“I thought it would be bigger,” he commented, walking through the entrance ahead of her to get a quick look around.

“The Whitmore is a small museum,” she said.

“Yes, but surely you have more than what is here.” He turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the entire exhibit in a few seconds.

“I had trouble verifying the authenticity of many items I came across.”

“Weeding out the impostors?”

“Something like that.”

“It goes along with the territory. You learn to spot a fake.”

“What makes you such an expert?” she wanted to know. “If I might ask?”

“I’ve devoted a good portion of my life to finding and preserving items which best represent the presence of the Divine here on Earth.”

Jillian had never heard her career summed up more perfectly.

“So did my grandfather,” she said, amazed that Mr. Smith understood her field so well.

An interesting coincidence.

“I didn’t used to believe in God or Heaven when I was a little girl,” she told him. “And when I started going out on digs with my grandfather, or traveling around the world with him, searching for relics, I was skeptical. Most of the items were based on legends or stories, but they held no history. You couldn’t feel the passage of time from the fakes, but once and awhile, when you held something authentic in your hands, you just knew it was real. You felt it in your soul.”

“Is that what you love about history, Ms. Whitmore?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling at her in the dim light. “That you can feel it?”

Jillian blushed, realizing she’d revealed too much about herself to a stranger. “Only those who really love history would understand.”

He smiled, seeming pleased. “I’m glad you do.”

A sudden rush of excitement flooded her veins. The fact that Mr. Smith understood any of what she was talking about was a refreshing change, and she wanted to hold onto the moment for as long as she could.

“Would you like to see some of our main pieces?” She walked over to the clay Sumerian tablets, encased by glass. “These were found on a dig in Thebes.”

“Sumerian Scribes,” Mr. Smith said.

“How did you know?”

“They invented this form of writing around 2000 B.C.,” he stated, as if he’d been there.

“Are you familiar with this piece?” She moved on to the next display.

“The Silver Bowl of Artaxerxes,” he said, passing right by the giant silver bowl to go to the next placement, with Jillian following helplessly along. “Sea Scrolls are a dime a dozen, and I see you have three more displays full of them. Are they your main focus?”

Mr. Smith stopped abruptly and turned to face her.

Jillian stuttered, trying to find something to say in defense of her exhibit. It had originally been her grandfather’s labor of love. She only wanted to finish what he’d started, in a way that would make him proud.

“I don’t mean to tarnish your work,” he said. “The collection might be of interest to some.”

Jillian had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “But not you?”

“If you saw my personal collection, you’d understand why.”

“Is that an invitation?” she countered. “I’d love to see what types of pieces you’d be interested in donating.”

“My collection is private,” he said, his tone final.

Of course it was. All the good ones were.

“Why are you here?” she questioned, having a hard time figuring him out. “You don’t seem to have much interest in the exhibit. What are you looking for?” She had no doubt he had come in search of something very specific.

He stepped forward, closer to her, and she cautiously backed away, until she came up against the wall in a dark corner of the exhibit. He closed her in by bracing his arms against the wall.

“I am searching for a very unique piece.” He bent his head, bringing his face an inch from hers, his breath warm and gentle. “I was hoping you’d have some information.”

Jillian swallowed tightly. She didn’t like being trapped, alone, with a stranger in the dark, but this irresistible man didn’t frighten her like he should.

He excited her.

He smelled like sandalwood and musk, earthy and masculine, and she wanted to fall into his arms. The urge to touch him was so strong she had to press her hands against the wall behind her to prevent herself from actually doing it.

Her gaze lingered on his full, sensuous mouth and she imagined kissing him, wondering how his lips would feel on hers, gentle and warm. “What makes you think I’d know anything about this piece you’re looking for?”

“Because you reported it stolen three days ago,” he said, his expression turning fierce, frightening. “Where is the Ring of Melchior, Ms. Whitmore?”

Her stomach clenched tight.

How did he know about the ring?

Chapter 3

Don’t lie to me, beautiful.

Kyriel willed her to tell him the truth.

He watched the hesitation flicker across her lovely face as she tried to form a response.

“The ring of wha—” she faltered. “What ring?”

He was having a hard time getting inside her head to use his power of persuasion. Jillian Whitmore had a strong mind, but he could sense she was afraid. Because she knew exactly what he wanted.

“Tell me the truth, Ms. Whitmore,” he demanded. “And I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

Her bright green eyes narrowed behind her black-rimmed glasses as she studied him. The frames were the kind that tilted up a little at the corners, like cat eyes, and gave her a very sexy appeal.

“Who are you?” she asked.

He had a million ways to answer that question.

Adventurer.

Collector.

Lover.

Fallen angel.

He leaned in close. The move was meant to intimidate her, but he also had the overwhelming urge to feel her body close to his, to breathe in the soft scent of her blonde hair. She smelled like jasmine, mixed with something sweet and uniquely exotic.

Enticing.

But he wasn’t here to seduce the woman.

“I’m someone you don’t want to upset,” he warned.

“If you get any closer, I’ll scream,” she tried to sound brave, though her voice wavered. “Security will throw you out of here—”

“Security would never get here in time.” He boldly traced one of his fingers along her jaw, using the invasion of her personal space to put her on edge. Her skin was so soft. “Tell me where to find the ring.”

He forced his way into her mind, using his persuasion to compel her answer.

“I… I don’t know what ring you’re talking about.”

Despite the fact that she felt afraid and vulnerable, she was fighting against him, pushing him out of her mind.

“Gold, Ms. Whitmore, with a big, shiny ruby,” he said. “Foreign symbols etched around the band. Sound familiar now?”

She hesitated, searching for a lie.

What a strong mind she had to fight his persuasion. He admired that quality. It made her an exciting challenge.

“If you know about the ring, then you know you could be in danger,” he tried to draw her out. “I’m here to help you. Will you tell me where it is?”

Kyriel stared at her rosy mouth, waiting for her to answer. How badly he wanted to kiss her. How sweet would she taste? Would she kiss him back?

“You know I reported the ring stolen,” she replied. “How should I know where it is? If you want to help me, why don’t you find the ring?”

Her words struck a nerve. He already felt like he was failing at his task, and she wasn’t making things easy.

Kyriel shifted his weight forward, crowding her even more, looking down as he towered above her. “Perhaps you reported it stolen to make people think you no longer have it.”

Her emotions scattered. She was afraid, yet excited. Kyriel liked having an effect on her, getting her all flustered and making that sweet blush come to her cheeks. It seriously turned him on.

“I reported it stolen because someone broke into my grandparent’s house and stole it,” she snapped, looking up to meet his eyes. “Along with their wedding rings, all my grandmother’s antique jewelry, and a flat screen television.”

The hard defiance in her eyes and the firm set of her lush lips made not kissing her impossible. Unbearable.

He wanted to know how she kissed, how she tasted.

Cupping her face in his hands, he closed his mouth over hers in a slow, languid kiss. She tensed at first, but then relaxed and softened, angling her head to accept the thrust of his tongue as he swept past her parted lips and dipped into her moist, warm mouth.

She was delicious, beautiful, all too tempting… and a distraction he didn’t need. He had to remember getting the ring was his top priority. He wanted his redemption more than anything else. Gabriel’s source of information told them the woman would have the ring, so why didn’t she?

Kyriel wasn’t kissing her simply for the thrill. He wasn’t the only one after the ring. With Father Antonelli and all the Keepers dead within weeks of each other, and two of the rings gone, Jillian Whitmore was his last hope. She would have inherited the ruby from her dead grandfather, and rather than obtaining it from her like he’d expected, Kyriel was learning it was out there floating around.

He had work to do.

He deepened the kiss, getting one last sweet taste of her before he had to leave. She breathed heavily, watching him as he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the ridge of her knuckles. “You’ve been lovely.”

He took a few lingering steps back, admiring her beautiful face, then turned and left her behind without another word. He hurried through the museum lobby and out the front doors, across the parking lot to his red Corvette.

He told himself it was best this way. He would take the ring from Jillian without ever having to involve her in a fated battle between Heaven and Hell. Kyriel didn’t want to see the woman come to any harm.

He wanted to see her naked, in his bed.

He had to get his mind straight. Focus on the task at hand. The planets were already aligning and he didn’t have even one of the rings. He hit the button on his key ring to deactivate the car alarm, opened the door, and slid down into the leather seat of his Vette.

He didn’t need to drive to get where he wanted to go. With his powers, he could flash himself to any location, but he preferred not to do it in front of the humans for obvious reasons. He cranked the powerful, roaring engine to life, shifted into gear, and pulled out of the parking lot.

The race for the rings was on, and if Jillian Whitmore was smart, she’d disappear.

***

I’m in deep shit.

Jillian’s grandfather had warned her that people would always be after the ring for its powers, she just hadn’t expected they would come looking so soon. First Jonathon, saying it belonged to him because of the Will, then it was stolen, and now she had Mr. Smith scaring her and making threats.

At first, she’d thought he was going to strangle her if she didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. People were murdered in this city every day, and he looked fierce enough to do it.

Instead, he’d kissed her.

Kissed her until her knees went weak. A long, unhurried, extremely thorough kiss that left her dizzy, breathless, her thoughts muddled, and afterwards he’d just walked out and left like it was nothing.

She thought about what he’d said, about her being in danger. If he and Jonathon were after the ring, how many others would be coming?

She’d barely had it for two months.

How had her grandfather managed to defend a ring coveted for its magical powers for the last fifty years?

Jillian had better find a way, or she wouldn’t survive nearly as long. The police were her only hope for recovering the ring, and then what would she do?

Leave New York?

Travel the world like her grandfather? He’d always been on the run, and now she knew why.

Jillian wasn’t good at traveling. Everyone she loved had died in car accidents. Planes crashed all the time. Trains derailed. Boats sank.

She tried to focus on the positive. She could do this. Her grandfather wouldn’t have prepared her to guard the ring one day if he hadn’t thought she was capable. The fact that the Will left all material goods and possessions to Jonathon meant nothing. She didn’t believe her grandfather meant him to have the ring, and he was the last person on Earth she’d give it to.

Right now, Jillian had to go back to work. She took a moment to calm herself, not sure what had her more shaken: Mr. Smith kissing her, or him questioning her about the ring. For some odd reason she’d felt compelled to tell him everything she knew, and she’d had to fight hard not to reveal her secret. It hadn’t been easy to do. There was something different about him, an intensity that drew her right in and made her want to give him whatever he wanted. It helped that he was deliriously handsome. An amazing kisser.

He was dangerous.

She smoothed her hands over her hair, and then adjusted her glasses on her nose. With the back of her hand she wiped away the remnants of her lip gloss, but she could still taste Mr. Smith’s kiss.

Next she tugged the half-sleeves of her blouse so they each came just below her elbows, then straightened her watch so it was aligned with the bones in her wrist. Three deep breaths—calm, blue ocean—and she emerged from the dark corner of the exhibit.

No one was around. There was no reason for anyone to be there. She would do the final walk-through of the exhibit with Jonathon tomorrow.

Jillian hurried towards the white pillars marking the entrance, pretending she was fine and that everything was normal. Her high heels clicked along on the marble floor, then dulled when she hit the red carpet and passed into the lobby. She prayed if there was a God, the ring would come back to her and she’d have another chance to keep it out of the wrong hands.

Chapter 4

This was an awkward moment.

Kyriel stood naked in his shower, thinking about Jillian Whitmore under the hot spray of water, when an angel in white robes appeared on the other side of the glass door.

She looked strangely at home in his bathroom, with her white wings and blonde hair amidst all the marble tile, shining glass and golden fixtures. He’d designed the room to look like the Hall of Angels. A place he’d thought he might never see again.

Tonight, however, he wasn’t in the mood for a Heavenly visit. He ignored the angel and ducked his head under the spray, letting the water wash over him and rinse the white lather of soap from his body.

“It looks like I might have interrupted something,” she said in a loud voice.

Kyriel opened one eye to look at her, annoyed.

“With all the women you seduce, I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a need for self-abuse.”

“What do you want, Neriel?” he snapped, shutting off the water.

She had no way of knowing what it was like to be attached to a physical form. One driven hard by demanding needs. As her sweet, sugary, angel scent filled up the bathroom, he couldn’t be angry about her innocence. A Messenger angel, Neriel had to remain pure and untouched to stay in her position. Once a Messenger was compromised, the messages they delivered became tainted.

“I have a message,” she said. “From Gabriel.”

“I have one first.” He grabbed a towel and wrapped it snugly around his waist. “Tell him his source was wrong again. The woman doesn’t have the ring.”

Kyriel never fully trusted the information that came down from Gabriel’s mysterious source. While it was useful and had helped them get ahead in many situations, it wasn’t always accurate. Half the time Kyriel felt like he was running in circles. Like a dog chasing his own tail.

“He sent me to tell you that he fixed the glitch, and the woman will have the ring tomorrow.”

Kyriel stepped out of the shower and grabbed another towel to dry his hair.

“Is there more?”

“He said you have to help the woman guard the ring.”

“Christ,” Kyriel swore under his breath and stopped drying his hair. “Does he think this is a game?”

He threw the towel to the floor and walked over to the bathroom counter to look at his reflection in the wall mirror over the double sinks. He was all for taking risks, but not with someone else’s life.

He glanced at Neriel in the mirror behind him. “She could get killed.”

“Gabriel says she’ll be in danger whether she has the ring or not. He wants you to protect her through the planetary alignment.”

Kyriel turned around and leaned back against the counter, then crossed his arms over his chest as he regarded her solemnly. “I’m a Warrior, not a Guardian.”

Kyriel did battle, not loss prevention.

“You’re neither really,” she said. “You’re a fallen.”

“Thank you for that gentle reminder, Neriel.” It was hard to keep his cool with her brusque directness.

“Gabriel said she’ll need a Warrior for what’s coming.”

Kyriel considered the implications of getting too involved with a human. He wanted to keep his identity secret. He’d made the mistake of letting people know what he truly was in the past, and it had never ended well.

He braced his hands on the edge of the counter and leaned forward to ask, “Will Asmodeus be joining the party?”

He was waiting for the dark angel to make an appearance. As long as Lucifer remained sealed in Hell he was unable to leave in his physical form, so he needed a lackey to do his dirty work on the surface. That was Asmodeus.

Neriel toyed with the gossamer sleeves of her robes, and a wounded look crossed her beautiful face. “He’s been tasked with assisting the humans Lucifer has chosen.” Her eyes drifted up to his. “Please, don’t judge him for what he has to do.”

Kyriel couldn’t understand why she always made excuses for the dark angel. “He’s chosen his path. We all have. He’ll never find redemption.”

“How can you say that?” her voice died away.

“He’d kill you without even thinking twice,” Kyriel delivered a dose of reality as he took long strides over to where she stood. “He’d kill all of us and destroy the world if Lucifer told him to.”

“No he wouldn’t,” Neriel argued, shaking her head. “You don’t know him. He’s not like that.”

“What is he like, Neriel?” It enraged him that Neriel would defend the very monster who fought against them. “Why don’t you tell me how Lucifer’s left hand, the devil’s boot-licking minion, Asmodeus, is worthy of redemption after everything he’s done to us. Tell all the people he’s led down the wrong path. People he’s lied to, deceived, and killed—”

“He doesn’t have a choice,” she said. “Don’t you see?”

“No, Neriel, I don’t.” Kyriel was about to end to the conversation. “You’d better put whatever warm feelings you have for Asmodeus to rest.”

Kyriel stared hard at the beautiful angel. Of course she was tempting, especially to a fallen like Asmodeus. She was the embodiment of Heaven, with glowing streaks of silver in her long blonde hair, radiant skin, and eyes bluer than the sky. The flowing, diaphanous robes she wore held no shape, but Kyriel knew God had created her to be perfect. Asmodeus would surely destroy something so precious and beautiful.

“Did Gabriel say anything else?” Kyriel lightened his tone.

“You mean about getting your wings back?”

“Did he?”

“Helping the woman is a big part of it, that’s all I know.”

Kyriel walked back to the bathroom counter and stared at his reflection in the mirror. “Gabriel has to stop changing the rules. He said I’d get redemption to stay here and watch for the signs, then it was redemption for the three rings of the Magi, and now it’s help the last living Keeper.” He sighed heavily.

“Get used to it,” Neriel said with a smile. “He does it to me all the time.”

“I thought it would be easy.”

She raised her brow in surprise. “You thought redemption would be easy?”

Yes.

No.

Kyriel was tired.

“Your redemption comes at a high price, and it must be earned,” she said. “But if Lucifer wins and manages to escape from Hell, it won’t matter anyway. He’ll come after all of us.”

Kyriel shifted his gaze across the mirror to look at her. “You have a funny way of sweetening the deal.”

Neriel winked. “And it worked, because you’re going to do what Gabriel wants.”

“Yeah.” Kyriel resigned himself to the fact. “I’ll do it.”

“I knew we could count on you.” Neriel faded out, disappearing as quickly as she’d arrived.

Her sugary sweet angel scent lingered in the air.

“That was enlightening,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

Kyriel ran the water in the sink, swiped some shaving foam onto his face, and dragged his razor over his stubbly beard. After he rinsed his smooth face and patted on some aftershave, he ditched his towel for a gray silk robe and walked down the hall to his library.

He headed across the dark wood floor towards the bar in the back corner and poured a generous glass of the oldest scotch he had on hand. He threw back the entire drink, then quickly poured another.

He didn’t get drunk like the humans. Since he was an angel, but in physical form, it took him three times the amount of alcohol to feel the effects. He poured a third full glass and brought it with him to his desk, where he sat in the high-backed leather chair and kicked his feet up on the dark mahogany desk.

He sipped his scotch as he gazed around the room at the many Holy relics in his collection of Holy relics. Golden swords he’d found buried in the rubble of great battles in which God had ordered the angels to take out an entire city of sinners. An original manuscript of Paradise Lost, signed by the poet Milton as a gift for telling him tales about fallen angels.

The mind is its own place, and can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

Kyriel’s favorite piece was the golden shield hanging on the wall above the fireplace. On it was the image of a rearing horse, one leg held high in the air. Centuries ago he’d helped the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse out of a jam. The Horseman War had damaged his shield in the fight, and after the five of them were standing on the leveled battlefield, victorious, War had given it to him for his bravery and skill.

The shield was a reminder of what he’d once been.

The stack of mail centered on the desk stared at him as he took another sip of his drink. His butler, James, had left it out for him before going to bed. Kyriel didn’t care about the mail. He cared about redemption.

On the other hand, he’d lived on Earth for a long time, and there were many luxuries he’d gotten used to having that he would no longer find in Heaven. No more enormous feasts or aged scotch. No naked women in his bed. No Egyptian cotton sheets or silk suits. What about his Corvette? It was custom built, the only one of its kind.

And what about his collection?

He couldn’t dream of leaving his Holy relics behind. He’d spent centuries traveling and bargaining—and in some cases stealing—to gather it all together. He’d done it because he wanted to feel close to Heaven, and now that he had the chance to go back, he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Kyriel didn’t know what he wanted.

He threw back the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on his desk. Tomorrow he had to get the ring from Jillian Whitmore. The first step to keeping her safe was making sure she didn’t have the ring in her possession.

He wondered what she would think of his collection. His home held more lost treasures of the Bible than her little museum. For once, he’d met a woman who could understand and appreciate the work he’d put into procuring every piece. It wouldn’t be stuff or old junk to a woman who shared his same dedication to art and history. A woman who was hosting an exhibit full of Holy relics in her museum.

And that’s when he got the idea. He knew exactly how to get the ring away from Jillian Whitmore.

Chapter 5

Downtown New York

The Next Morning

The Twelfth Precinct was probably the safest place in the world for her to be, and Jillian couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

Too many bad memories.

Or maybe too much coffee at work earlier that morning.

She had gotten a call from Detective Steve O’Malley, telling her the police had recovered the items stolen from her grandparent’s house. Their home was still in escrow after Jonathon had put it up for sale, and she’d been forced to go through a lifetime of cherished memories and belongings in only a few short weeks. She’d been keeping the ring from him on purpose, saying she hadn’t found it among their things when, wouldn’t you know it, someone broke into the house and stole the ring along with the other jewelry and the television.

Now there was a good possibility the ring was somewhere in this police station.

She got into the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. Her first visit to a police station happened when she was six-years-old. She was brought there after she and her parents had been in a car accident on the George Washington Bridge. The engine caught on fire, and a stranger had pulled her from the backseat before the car plunged over the side. Her parents both died. She’d been sent to live with her grandparents.

Even though twenty years had passed, she mourned her parents every single day. As a young girl growing up, she’d felt robbed, cheated out of a normal, happy life by an unfortunate accident. Part of the reason her grandfather had brought her along on his travels was to help alleviate some of her grief. Over time, her grief had faded, until her grandparents’ accident had left her with no family whatsoever.

She hadn’t been prepared to feel so alone.

So lost.

Her more recent trips to the police station had been to get a restraining order filed against her ex-fiancé, who had thankfully decided to show his true nature before the wedding when he turned psychotic and violent. Dr. Weber said Kevin was a sociopath. Jillian agreed.

To this day she was still learning a tough lesson. All a restraining order accomplished was pissing Kevin off even more. It didn’t stop him from calling her, or following her, showing up at her house or, worse, the museum. The police always got to the scene long after he’d done his damage. At best, she could ball up the piece of paper and throw it at him.

She’d spent over a year in and out of the police station and court rooms because Kevin wanted the restraining order lifted. She’d gotten so afraid of being alone that she moved in with her grandparents and stayed with them until almost a year ago. She finally got her own apartment five miles from the museum. Kevin’s harassment had slowed down but he still reared his ugly head from time to time, coming out of the woodwork with the rest of the lunatics when the pull of the moon was just right, usually when she least expected the attack.

Jillian thought he’d get over her leaving him eventually but Dr. Weber said he was fixated on her and, until something else came along to capture his attention, his sociopathic behavior would continue.

And she was the one seeing a therapist.

How crazy was that?

The elevator dinged as it stopped on the third floor. Jillian stepped out into the busy work area where most of the detectives had desks and offices. She didn’t have to wait long before Detective O’Malley came up beside her, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Jillian.”

She’d forgotten how handsome the detective was, with his dark brooding brows and that Boston-Irish accent.

“You too, Detective.”

“Would you like some coffee, or water?” he offered.

“No, thank you.” She smiled politely, while her stomach fluttered with anxiety.

She was too nervous to eat or drink anything until she learned whether they had recovered the ring or not.

“I’m glad I had good news for you this time.”

Detective O’Malley had been the one to arrive at her apartment in the middle of the night to tell her that her grandparents had died in a car wreck.

“It’s a nice change,” she said.

She should have taken more than one of her pills down in the parking lot.

The detective must have sensed her anxiety because he motioned for her to follow. “I’ve got everything over at my desk.”

As they walked through rows of desks, she noticed he held a plain brown folder in his other hand.

One of her many case files she assumed. Dead parents. Check. Psychotic ex-fiancé. Check. Dead grandparents, robbery. Check, check.

What would life throw at her next?

If she didn’t get the ring back, it wasn’t going to be good.

Detective O’Malley brought her over to his desk by the only wall of thick-paned windows. Muted sunlight fell on a drooping green plant in a plastic pot that rested next to a broken-down printer on a metal table. She sat in the uncomfortable chair in front of his desk and crossed her legs, anxiously tapping the heel of her shoe.

She watched him go through some of the papers on his desk. Jillian liked Steve O’Malley. As a detective he was cool and professional, yet tough. They’d also gone out on one date together, right after she’d moved into her apartment, but she hadn’t been ready for a relationship at the time and didn’t know if she wanted to date a cop. Now that she found herself sitting in front of his desk again, she was starting to second guess her decision.

What if she was missing out on a really great guy? Definitely good boyfriend material.

So why could she only think of Mr. Smith? His smell, the warm feel of his touch, his bold, sensual kiss.

“We were able to recover everything.” O’Malley opened the brown file on his desk. “It all turned up at the same pawn shop in Queens.”

Her stomach fluttered wildly. Had they truly gotten the ring?

“How did you find it all so fast?” Jillian figured her odds of ever recovering the stolen items were low.

O’Malley closed the file and leaned his elbows on the desk, lacing his fingers together. “The pawn shop owner was murdered last night, and we got an anonymous phone call that the place was full of stolen goods. In cases like these, we cross-reference the shop’s inventory against our stolen goods database. In your case, we had pictures of all the items so it made our job a lot easier.”

Thank God her grandfather had been meticulous about insuring his valuables.

“Someone was murdered?” Jillian whispered, her mind running wild.

Could the murder be connected to the ring?

Her stomach tightened with panic. Was that to be her fate as well?

“Probably a robbery gone bad,” he said. “Those shops keep large amounts of cash on hand.”

Jillian wanted to believe it was nothing more than an everyday crime, a coincidence, but the knot of dread in her stomach told her there was a connection. If the ring hadn’t been stolen, she might be the one who was dead, and the awful thought got her heart racing as her anxiety continued to build.

“Don’t worry,” O’Malley said in a calming voice. “The chance of anyone robbing you again is unlikely, though you should think about storing any valuables in a safe deposit box.”

“Thank you, detective.”

“Steve.” He smiled, the one corner of his mouth twitching. “Call me Steve.”

“Steve.” She tried to relax, but he held her gaze. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“It’s my job.” His gaze roamed down to her hips, over her gray skirt and along her smooth legs. “Would you like to have dinner with me again?”

Jillian hoped she didn’t look too stunned, but she hadn’t been expecting that.

“It’s nice of you to offer,” she said. “But I don’t know if I’m in the right place to start a relationship.”

“It’s only dinner,” he pressed further, smiling. “It doesn’t have to be anything serious.”

Jillian knew what kind of “date” he was looking for, and she gave him a half-hearted smile. “I’m not good at casual flings.”

“I had to try,” he said, his smile hardening, like it was stuck in place.

After a long moment, he rose from his desk and handed her a yellow evidence envelope.

Jillian opened the envelope and peeked inside. The ruby ring sat on top of the golden pile of her grandmother’s antique jewelry.

Her prayer had been answered.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Now what did she do?

“The television is over here.” O’Malley picked up a flat-screen television from the floor and held it tucked under his arm. “I’ll help you out to your car.”

“That would be nice.” Jillian was almost tempted to have dinner with him again, but she didn’t feel that romantic spark with him, and it wouldn’t be right to lead him on. O’Malley was a nice guy, and he deserved a woman who was crazy about him.

Jillian was just crazy.

It had only taken Dr. Weber two meetings before he prescribed her a steady dose of anxiety pills.

She and the detective took the elevator down to the first floor. O’Malley kept stealing hopeful glances at her, and she pretended not to notice. Honestly, how many dates would it take to scare him off with her obsessive-compulsive quirks? Even now, she felt the need to run through her system checks. Hair, glasses, sleeves, watch. To compensate, she hiked her purse strap up higher on her shoulder.

When the elevator doors slid open she took a deep, calming breath and stepped out into the downstairs lobby, relaxing when she got out into the more open space.

“Where are you parked?” O’Malley walked ahead of her, carrying the television.

“I’m in the visitor lot on the side.” She pointed towards the doors.

He pushed one of the double doors open with his shoulder and held it for her to pass through.

“Thank you.” She slipped out into the sunny afternoon and made her way directly across the parking lot to her silver Mercedes SUV, fishing her keys out of her purse and deactivating the alarm as she walked.

“Where do you want this?” O’Malley asked.

She opened the back door and he put the television on the seat and strapped it in with the seatbelt, then he closed the door and leaned his hand against the top frame. His blue suit jacket hung open and revealed the holstered gun he wore strapped to his side and the shiny, golden badge on the waistband of his jeans.

“Thanks again for your help.” Jillian got her car key ready in her hand.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind about dinner?”

She studied his handsome face and cute smile, waiting for any kind of a spark to ignite, but there was no fire, no energy. He didn’t turn her inside out or make her senses reel. With Mr. Smith, she’d felt a wild attraction from the moment she’d seen him standing in the café at her museum. The very thought of him made her breathless.

And that was what she was looking for.

“Maybe some other time.” She opened her car door.

“Call me if you change your mind.” He handed her his card. “Or for anything.”

Jillian nodded and tucked the card in her purse. “Take care, detective.”

“Steve,” he corrected her once more, then gave her a parting smile and took out his cell phone as he walked back to the police station.

Jillian got in her car and tossed her purse and the yellow envelope on the passenger seat.

What did she do now?

Going back to the museum wasn’t an option. Jonathon had been pestering her about the ring all morning, making her promise if the police had found it to bring it back immediately.

She wasn’t stupid.

Jonathon wanted the ring for its powers. She’d pretended to believe the story he concocted about it being a rare piece from a magical order that mysteriously disappeared during the Crusades.

She’d learned the true story from her grandfather. Lucifer had convinced the three most powerful Magi of the East that Jesus was the Antichrist, and they created the three rings to banish his soul after he was born. Instead, the three Magi were so spiritually moved by the Savior’s birth, they turned against Lucifer and used the powers of the rings to seal him in Hell forever.

If he ever broke out, he’d destroy the Earth, the human race, everything in existence.

Jillian wasn’t ready. She didn’t want the ring. Where was she supposed to keep it?

Her cell phone rang. She grabbed it out of her purse and checked the screen. A New York number.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Ms. Whitmore, I’m so glad you answered. This is Winston Smith.”

Unbelievable.

She’d barely had the ring for five minutes.

“Mr. Smith,” she said in her sweetest, most innocent sounding voice. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you, Ms. Whitmore.”

“If you’re calling to try to frighten me again, it won’t work.” Not when she was safe in her car with a full tank of gas.

She could go anywhere. Hundreds of miles away from New York.

“I just thought you should know you’re being followed,” he said in his husky, accented voice.

Her pulse skittered.

“I am?” Her gaze darted around the parking lot, and suddenly she was wary of every car and every person outside. “How do you know someone is following me?”

“There are many people who want the Ring of Melchior, Ms. Whitmore, or did you think I was the only one? The enemy is everywhere.”

Detective O’Malley was still standing on the sidewalk outside and he looked over his shoulder, watching her as he talked on his phone.

Who was he talking to?

Why was he watching her?

She swallowed hard. Trust no one. Her grandfather had warned her, and now it was all happening so fast.

“What makes you think I have the ring?” she asked Mr. Smith.

“Let’s not waste time on how I know. I can help you, Ms. Whitmore. Come to my house and I’ll explain everything.”

“Why should I trust you?” Jillian grew tight with tension. “You could be the enemy.”

“If I were the enemy, I would simply take the ring and you’d be helpless to stop me.”

She pictured his tall, strong frame and his fierce blue eyes, and knew she was no match for him physically.

Who was she kidding?

Jillian was no match for anyone. She didn’t know how to fight, or how to shoot a gun. She had to survive with her own skills, and they were sorely lacking when it came to saving the world.

“How can you help me, Mr. Smith?”

“Take down my address.”

Chapter 6

She should have known by the address what type of house she’d find. Mr. Smith lived in one of the most expensive, upscale neighborhoods in New York.

High walls and wrought iron gates enclosed great Estates set back from the quiet street by sprawling green lawns. The circular driveways held every luxury car from Bentley to Rolls Royce. She pulled up to his house and waited for the gates to open before she drove up the arched driveway, circling around a white stone fountain big enough to swim in.

She parked her SUV behind a red sports car with the top down. The afternoon sun sparkled on the flawless finish and shiny tire rims. As pretty as the car was to look at, Jillian only saw a death trap.

How fast could that thing go?

To her right flat stone steps led up to the front portico, where huge white pillars flanked the black double doors.

The home was as large and intimidating as its owner. How could a man as interesting and mysterious as Mr. Smith live anywhere else?

Jillian worried she’d been too hasty in deciding to go to his house. It had sounded like a good idea over the phone, but she’d had some time to think about why it wasn’t during the drive, while she checked her mirrors every few seconds to make sure she wasn’t being followed. It was too late to turn around. Without help, she wouldn’t keep the ring through the end of the day.

Tearing into the yellow envelope she took out the ring and, not knowing where to hide it, she tucked it down the front of her bra. She left all of her things in the car, with the keys in the ignition, ready for a fast get away.

She walked up the front steps and knocked on one of the doors. Not a moment later the door swung open and an older gentleman in a livery suit greeted her with a pleasant smile.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Whitmore. He’s expecting you.” When he stepped aside and bid her to enter, she expected to see him wearing white gloves.

“Hello,” she said, smiling politely at the gentleman as she stepped over the threshold and into Mr. Smith’s home.

Instantly she felt transported into a different world. The house was a treasure trove of collectibles and artifacts from almost every period in the history of the world. The center table in the foyer wasn’t just any table, it was a neoclassical pedestal table, several hundred years old and in pristine condition. Atop the table, an actual blue and white Ming Dynasty vase held fresh red roses. Never had she smelled roses with such a heavy perfume. They were intoxicating, and she wanted to bury her nose in the soft petals and breathe in the scent.

On the massive wall leading to the staircase, a hand-woven tapestry depicting a hunting scene had no doubt come directly from the wall of some eastern European castle.

Jillian was awestruck, and she’d barely gotten as far as the entryway.

“Follow me.” The butler continued past her and led her up the massive carpeted staircase. On the wall of the second story were ancient maps of Mesopotamia, Egypt, and the Holy Land, illustrated by hand in rich, vibrant ink and encased in expensive frames specially designed to preserve the aged parchment. Jillian stopped to inspect them closer. Some of the maps were dated before the early Dynastic Period.

Amazing.

Where could he have found items from that time that had aged so well?

The butler paused on the stairwell and turned back to ask, “Are you coming, Ms. Whitmore?”

Jillian couldn’t take her eyes off the maps. They were either authentic, or very convincing replicas. “These pieces are in excellent condition.”

“Yes, Master Smith is very particular when it comes to caring for his collection.”

Her lips parted when he said Master Smith.

What century had she walked into? His home held a piece of them all.

“If you’ll follow me,” the butler said. “We’ll continue to the library.” He resumed climbing the stairs.

Jillian followed him wordlessly, taking in as much of the surroundings as possible. Overhead were vaulted ceilings and skylights. Her gaze roamed over the Renaissance furniture, crystal chandeliers, marble banisters and floors. One entire hall across the way was lined with alcoves displaying full suits of armor, with swords, shields and lances mounted above them on the wall.

Private collection indeed.

This wasn’t a house. It was a museum.

And Jillian never wanted to leave.

***

Upstairs in his library, Kyriel heard Jillian’s smooth voice from the staircase. He paced the rug in front of his desk, wanting a drink to calm his nerves. Why did he feel so nervous?

His stomach knotted up and his mouth went so dry he couldn’t swallow. Part of it was the thrill of the chase, the anticipation that came with knowing he was about to get a coveted treasure and the key to his redemption. What was the other part then?

The woman?

He’d never been so tied up over a woman before. One he hardly knew. He’d like to know her—intimately—but was afraid that would only make his strange affliction worse. The timing was all wrong. He couldn’t develop feelings for anyone if he planned on returning to Heaven soon. He might find it too hard to leave, and he didn’t want anything standing in his way.

Beautiful and intelligent, able to understand his world, Jillian Whitmore might be the perfect woman for him. And he was going to leave Earth and return to Heaven.

To say he’d been waiting for her would be ridiculous.

He’d only been waiting for his redemption, and she was carrying it up the staircase.

The glint from the golden shield hanging over the fireplace caught his eye. His gift from War. The state of mankind hovered on the verge of another Apocalypse, and if the Harbingers of Doom were released from Hell the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would have a hard time sending them back with the seal broken.

If Lucifer won this battle it would bring about the end of the world, and Kyriel didn’t want to lose the things he’d come to love. He might be going back to Heaven, but he had to ensure that life on Earth would continue before he left.

The double doors of his library swung open and James led Ms. Whitmore into the room. She had on another of those tight skirts that emphasized the curve of her hips and her long legs. Her black sweater had short, ruffled sleeves and her shiny, black high heels were feminine and sexy. She had her blonde hair pulled back from her face and her librarian glasses sat on the slender bridge of her nose.

“Ms. Whitmore,” James formally announced their guest.

Kyriel walked over to greet her. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

“I’m not sure it was the best decision,” she said as her eyes scanned the room. “But I feel I can trust you, and I don’t know why.”

Nothing like a little persuasion to make a person believe whatever he wanted them to believe. The power he had over human minds was subtle, yet effective, and most of the time it saved him from having to use force.

“I want to help you, Ms. Whitmore, it’s as simple as that.”

Her emerald green eyes scrutinized him from behind her glasses. She wasn’t fully convinced, and when he tried to break into her mind, he found it blocked. All he could pick up on were her emotions. To not have the full use of his power was frustrating. It took away his edge.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” James asked from the doorway, taking his cue to leave.

“No, thank you,” Kyriel dismissed the old man.

He backed out of the room and pulled the doors closed, leaving the two of them alone.

“I wouldn’t imagine someone like you to have a butler,” she said.

“What would you imagine?” he wondered, curious to see what she thought.

“You seem like more of a loner.” She grasped her hands behind her back and fidgeted nervously. “Not someone who leaves the management of life’s details to another.”

She was right, but what she didn’t know was that Kyriel lived two lives. Being a fallen angel was his secret, but he found managing the everyday aspects of his human identity tedious, and that’s why he employed James.

“An estate of this size requires a lot of work,” he said. “And I need someone to take care of things when I’m traveling.”

“You must have been around the world at least a hundred times to have put together such a vast collection.”

He admired the mild irony behind her observations. She would never guess how close she was to the truth.

“I’ve been a few places,” he remarked, seeing his travels reflected in the pieces of his collection. “Home is where I’m most comfortable.”

“I can see why.” Her roaming gaze finally landed on something of interest. “Is this Michelangelo’s work?”

She rushed over to one of the bookshelves, to the red chalk sketches done by none other than Michelangelo. Kyriel watched her as she inspected the drawings, his gaze roaming over her round backside and down the length of her smooth, shapely legs. He remembered their kiss. The way she’d parted her lips, letting him taste the sweetness of her mouth. To see her eyes light up with interest over his collection excited him, and he wanted to do more than kiss her today.

“Those were done during Michelangelo’s planning phase for the Sistine Chapel,” he provided some of the background.

“These drawings are extremely rare. They’re signed,” she noticed. “Did you get them at an auction?”

“No, they were a gift.”

“They were passed down to you?”

“You could say that.”

She wouldn’t believe Michelangelo had signed the sketches and given them to him more than four centuries ago.

Something to remember me by, Amico, and should I become a famous artist, perhaps you could even sell them for a flask of wine and drink to my name.

Kyriel wouldn’t dream of selling them.

“These are amazing.” She peered at the drawings through her glasses, and her hands hovered inches from touching the parchment. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

Kyriel had an entire house filled with things she had never seen. He could spend days showing her his treasures. A sudden image of the two of them sprawled out naked on top of his desk leapt into his mind, exciting him even more, and he had to struggle to get control of his lusty thoughts. This was meant to be a strictly professional visit. He’d brought her here because she had something he wanted.

“How about a trade, Ms. Whitmore?”

Chapter 7

“A trade?” Jillian hadn’t seen that coming. “Like with baseball cards?”

Mr. Smith had original sketches by Michelangelo sitting on a bookshelf in his house, and he wanted to trade. Did he belong to a circle of rich collectors who traded priceless art and artifacts with each other, or bet with them in card games when they got bored?

Mr. Smith walked over to the massive desk and sat on the edge, staring at her with his mesmerizing blue eyes. “A trade where we both get what we want.”

He had dressed more relaxed today, wearing only a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and gray suit pants. His hair was neatly pulled back and he had shaved, but the well-groomed appearance didn’t hide the wolf lurking beneath. Jillian got the feeling Mr. Smith was used to getting what he wanted, either with money, intimidation, or force. But there was also something so compelling about him and it drew her to him, almost helplessly.

“Obviously you want the ring.”

“And you want authentic Holy relics for your exhibit.”

“How do I know your pieces are authentic?”

He gave a wolfish grin. “You’re welcome to challenge any piece in my collection. If we’re going to trade, I don’t want you to feel cheated.”

Jillian’s mind was getting that fuzzy feeling again. Confused, as if she’d missed part of a silent conversation. She had no intention of parting with the ring, yet Mr. Smith spoke as if they’d already agreed to the trade. He was getting her all turned around, just like when he’d kissed her.

That one kiss had set her whole body on fire with a deep longing. She might have agreed to anything in that position, and it scared her because it wasn’t like her to lose control. This man, no matter how charming and enigmatic, made her question her sanity. She didn’t need that. She felt crazy enough without his seductive kisses.

“Any piece?” she questioned, feeling like a kid given free rein in a candy store.

Although she would never trade the ring, it wouldn’t hurt to let him think she might consider it, therefore getting a good look at his collection in the process. This grand, golden room sparkled with treasure. Light bounced and reflected off glass, a rainbow of jewels, and thousands of gilded pages. Surprisingly, she felt comfortable, considering the potential threat Mr. Smith posed. The room had symmetry, rows of books, pictures on the walls, rugs on the wood floors. They were all laid out in perfect patterns, down to the glasses and bottles of booze on the gleaming black bar. She felt no compulsion to organize or arrange. The room was perfect.

Just like Mr. Smith.

“Where would you like to start?” he asked.

Jillian’s gaze shifted to his impossibly handsome face. This was all like a dream come true.

So she got started.

“First edition?” she questioned, walking to the next shelf, where a book sat on display, left open to the remarkable illustration of Hell receiving the fallen angels.

“Paradise Lost is very close to my heart,” he said, pushing away from the desk. “Milton was a friend.”

Jillian shot him a quizzical look. “You knew a man from the seventeenth century?”

“I said he was like a friend.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his steely blue eyes focusing on her with avid intensity.

Jillian felt that confusing swirl in her head and figured she must have heard him wrong.

“Where did you find the book?”

“It was also a gift.”

“You have some generous friends,” Jillian commented as she looked at the many items filling the room, wondering just how many of them were gifts.

“I can also be generous.” He crossed the room to stand behind her. “Extremely generous.”

She felt the heat of his breath on the back of her neck and his closeness electrified her, sending a delicious shiver sliding down her spine. She imagined leaning back and molding herself against the hard length of his body. The impulse was purely sexual and so foreign to her that it brought on a wave of nervous anxiety.

She took a few steps away from him, while she pushed up her glasses with her finger, and then straightened the hem of her sweater. In a hurry to find a distraction her gaze latched onto a golden sword with colorful jewels encrusted around the hilt. It sat on a shelf across the room, resting sideways in its stand, and she walked over to it, attempting to keep Mr. Smith at a distance.

“Where did this sword come from?”

She could feel a kind of raw, otherworldly power emanating from the sword, or maybe that was just because the thing was so old. The cut of the blade and the way the jewels were laid into the hilt suggested early fourth century. Her inner nerd was doing cartwheels. What an astonishing find.

“The Archangel Michael lost it at the battle of Samson and the Philistines. The angels found it among the rubble.”

Jillian gaped at him, her lips parted. “You’re telling me this is the sword of an angel?”

“Yes.” His eyes held confidence, authority.

He truly believed it, or she wasn’t the only crazy one in the room.

“How can it be?” she argued. “Even if the stories in the Bible are true, why would they leave something so important behind?”

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