Page 6 of The Vampire's Guide to Wooing a Curator
She cleared her throat. “Yes. However, you must understand that museums are not the most lucrative of employers. You could find much better pay elsewhere.”
Her attempt at warning him away was kind, although misplaced. He had no interest in money. Given a choice, he’d rather have thrown her over his shoulder and taken her to a room with a sturdy lock, where he could taste her blood in peace, but he wasn’t about to kidnap an unwilling woman.
“I have my own reasons for wanting to work here,” he said. Then, because he could not resist tweaking her nose, added, “Even if there’s nothing worth protecting.”
Her cheeks reddened. “There most certainly is! For example…” She glanced around and then lifted a sword in a scabbard with both hands. “This seventeenth-century rapier.” She clasped a hand around the hilt, which was decorated with an intricate circular basket. It was not a weapon he would have expected her to select. During the year he’d observed her, she’d favored long-distance weapons such as crossbows. He’d greatly enjoyed watching her improve from barely hitting a target to consistently striking the center.
She removed the sword from its sheath and held it in the air.
“A remarkable piece,” he said, rather than pointing out that no thief would steal such a distinctive item. It would be impossible to fence. It would be much easier to take crowns or necklaces with jewels that could be pried free.
She didn’t seem to hear him or didn’t care. She was too busy staring at the sword with a wistful expression, as if imagining all the blood it had shed in its long existence. He didn’t recognize the blade but assumed it had once belonged to a vampire.
He gave an exaggerated yawn.
The tips of her ears turned red. She slammed the sword on a table, picked up an old book, and opened it to an illustration of a red flower next to a page of scrawled text.
“Ah, yes. A dusty tome,” he said. “A thief’s most ardent dream.”
“Thisdusty tome,” she said, venom dripping from each word, “is worth a fortune to the right collector.”
He clamped his lips tight to keep from laughing. Even after he’d admitted he was a thief, she was so offended by his disparagement of her artifacts that she was willingly revealing which items were the most valuable. Teasing her was quite entertaining.
He held out his hands. “Let me see it, then, and judge for myself.”
“Absolutely not!”
Her conviction only made him more determined. He lunged, but she dodged. Then she grasped behind her, withdrew the sword she’d shown him earlier from its sheath, and swished it. The tip passed within an inch of his chest. He stumbled backward, smacking his elbow on the door and sending it swinging closed.
She blanched. “No! Don’t close the—”
The door slammed shut, plunging them into darkness.
He rattled the handle, but it was stuck. He fell to his knees and peered closer until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. There was no denying it. The latch was engaged.
“It’s locked,” he said.
He heard her ragged breath followed by a muffled cry. It was so quiet that he thought he’d imagined it, but then it came again, an obvious sound of distress.
He abandoned the lock and turned toward her. There was just enough light to make out that she’d wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her chin to her chest.
“T-The door,” she whispered. “P-Please. You must get it open.”
A mighty descendant of the Sorrow hunters, trembling like the last leaf on a tree in autumn. Terrified out of her wits by mere darkness. It was a flaw he could, and fully intended to, exploit. But as he opened his mouth to utter a witty retort, she sniffed, and he realized she was crying.
His stomach twisted. She was a hunter, a cold-blooded murderer who had nearly killed Marcus’s wife and deserved to be tortured in the cruelest possible manner.
But he’d never been able to watch a woman cry.
He reluctantly stepped forward and grasped her shoulders. “You’ll be fine. A guard will be passing by shortly. He’ll let us out.”
Her sniffling continued.
He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it into her fist, then turned around. “I apologize.”
The ache in his chest eased as she appeared to recover, but it lasted only a few moments before her sobs resumed. He uttered a groan and turned back to the door. Comforting women was not one of his talents. The better solution was to eliminate the source of her distress.
He removed the tools of his trade from his pocket, rolled them onto the floor, then selected a turner and the thinnest pick in the set. If the lock was like the others in the museum, it would have three pins, possibly four, and they would be loosely fit.
