"Aphrodite's_Flame_034" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kenner _Julie_-_[Protector_04]_-_Aphrodite's_Flame_(V1.0)_[lit](multi-file html))

Chapter Thirty-one

Nothing.
Mordi turned the word over in his head, looking for double meanings.
Nothing.
His father had passed the test, or so Isole said. But Mordi knew that couldn’t possibly be right. Everything he believed in, everything he knew, hinged on the fact that his father was a certifiable nut-job.
She couldn’t be right.
He knew that and yet, even so, one tiny thought poked at his mind. He tried to push it away—he didn’t even want his thoughts going that direction. But it was too persistent: If Hieronymous really was having a change of heart—if he really was serious about re-assimilating, joining the Council, and fighting to protect mortals against the evil that walked the earth—would he finally, maybe, be proud of his son?
Mordi pushed the thought away. He knew better than to open the door to hope. He’d wasted too many years tying himself to his father with a fragile thread of optimism. Hieronymous had snapped it every time. The man wasn’t a father any more than he was a true Protector. And Mordi intended to make damn sure that his name never again graced the Council rolls.
Yet Izzy seemed convinced that Hieronymous was turning over a new leaf and wanted to be good. He had no idea if her approbation was genuine, or if she had some ulterior motive, but he was sticking close until he found out.
Right now, she was staring at Mr. Lincoln, her face pensive. He wondered what she was thinking, and the wondering nagged at him, all the more because he knew that with just a touch, Izzy would know exactly what he was thinking.
Which, of course, meant that he couldn’t touch her.
Not a hardship, he told himself. He had no reason to touch her, no matter how much his fingers itched when he stood near her, and no matter how much the lavender scent of her perfume teased his senses.
If he plucked out the pins that held her hair up, would it fall soft and loose over his hand? If he stroked her skin, would it burn under his touch?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And naturally, that made him want it all the more.
“Come on,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
She turned away from Mr. Lincoln to look at him, but didn’t seem inclined to move. “Come where?”
“Are you staying here all night?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you my chaperon?”
He exhaled, clenching his fists against rising frustration. “Actually, I thought I’d be civil and offer you a ride home.”
“Thanks, but I flew.”
He frowned, his gaze taking in her tiny purse. “Where’s your cloak?”
Her laughter rang out, the light sound echoing off the stone walls of the monument. “American Airlines,” she said.
“Oh,” he said stupidly. “Well, when’s the return? I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”
“I haven’t booked it yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure how long we’d need to stay here.”
“Then why don’t I give you a lift home?”
She blinked at him. “Home? To New York?”
“Sure. Why not? I’ve got my car. It’s not even five. We’ll be there by dinnertime.”
She licked her lips. “That’s getting us in awfully late. I’ve got piles of work to get through.”
“The piles will be there tomorrow.”
“I don’t know...”
His desire overwhelmed him. “Why are we fighting this?” He knew the answer, and still he blurted out the question.
“Because it’s a bad idea,” she said, not missing a beat.
“Probably,” he said. He crooked his arm in invitation. “But can we at least do dinner?”
She frowned but shifted slightly, and he knew he’d almost convinced her. He told himself he simply needed to keep an eye on her—but it was so much more than that.
“Dinnertime’s too far away,” she said. “I skipped lunch.”
“I’ll buy you dinner on the way home.”
The color rose in her cheeks, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “It’s a bad idea, Mordi,” she said. “Getting in your car together, alone...”
“Probably,” he agreed. “Are we going to let that stop us?”
Her mouth twitched. “No,” she said. “We’re not.” She slipped her arm through his. “So long as dinner’s still included, I’ll accept your gracious invitation.”
“Good,” he said. And then, because he couldn’t resist: “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Nothing.
Mordi turned the word over in his head, looking for double meanings.
Nothing.
His father had passed the test, or so Isole said. But Mordi knew that couldn’t possibly be right. Everything he believed in, everything he knew, hinged on the fact that his father was a certifiable nut-job.
She couldn’t be right.
He knew that and yet, even so, one tiny thought poked at his mind. He tried to push it away—he didn’t even want his thoughts going that direction. But it was too persistent: If Hieronymous really was having a change of heart—if he really was serious about re-assimilating, joining the Council, and fighting to protect mortals against the evil that walked the earth—would he finally, maybe, be proud of his son?
Mordi pushed the thought away. He knew better than to open the door to hope. He’d wasted too many years tying himself to his father with a fragile thread of optimism. Hieronymous had snapped it every time. The man wasn’t a father any more than he was a true Protector. And Mordi intended to make damn sure that his name never again graced the Council rolls.
Yet Izzy seemed convinced that Hieronymous was turning over a new leaf and wanted to be good. He had no idea if her approbation was genuine, or if she had some ulterior motive, but he was sticking close until he found out.
Right now, she was staring at Mr. Lincoln, her face pensive. He wondered what she was thinking, and the wondering nagged at him, all the more because he knew that with just a touch, Izzy would know exactly what he was thinking.
Which, of course, meant that he couldn’t touch her.
Not a hardship, he told himself. He had no reason to touch her, no matter how much his fingers itched when he stood near her, and no matter how much the lavender scent of her perfume teased his senses.
If he plucked out the pins that held her hair up, would it fall soft and loose over his hand? If he stroked her skin, would it burn under his touch?
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And naturally, that made him want it all the more.
“Come on,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.
She turned away from Mr. Lincoln to look at him, but didn’t seem inclined to move. “Come where?”
“Are you staying here all night?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Are you my chaperon?”
He exhaled, clenching his fists against rising frustration. “Actually, I thought I’d be civil and offer you a ride home.”
“Thanks, but I flew.”
He frowned, his gaze taking in her tiny purse. “Where’s your cloak?”
Her laughter rang out, the light sound echoing off the stone walls of the monument. “American Airlines,” she said.
“Oh,” he said stupidly. “Well, when’s the return? I’ll give you a lift to the airport.”
“I haven’t booked it yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure how long we’d need to stay here.”
“Then why don’t I give you a lift home?”
She blinked at him. “Home? To New York?”
“Sure. Why not? I’ve got my car. It’s not even five. We’ll be there by dinnertime.”
She licked her lips. “That’s getting us in awfully late. I’ve got piles of work to get through.”
“The piles will be there tomorrow.”
“I don’t know...”
His desire overwhelmed him. “Why are we fighting this?” He knew the answer, and still he blurted out the question.
“Because it’s a bad idea,” she said, not missing a beat.
“Probably,” he said. He crooked his arm in invitation. “But can we at least do dinner?”
She frowned but shifted slightly, and he knew he’d almost convinced her. He told himself he simply needed to keep an eye on her—but it was so much more than that.
“Dinnertime’s too far away,” she said. “I skipped lunch.”
“I’ll buy you dinner on the way home.”
The color rose in her cheeks, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “It’s a bad idea, Mordi,” she said. “Getting in your car together, alone...”
“Probably,” he agreed. “Are we going to let that stop us?”
Her mouth twitched. “No,” she said. “We’re not.” She slipped her arm through his. “So long as dinner’s still included, I’ll accept your gracious invitation.”
“Good,” he said. And then, because he couldn’t resist: “I promise you won’t regret it.”