Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52447 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
No matter how many times she saw it, she could never get enough of the beautiful building that was a mix of Romanesque and Neo-Gothic architectural styles. During their first visit, Marianne had organized a tour. The guide had explained that the church and monastery had been founded in 1648, but that the building had been greatly damaged in an earthquake in 1730. In 1817 it had housed the liberation army, and had been reconstructed in 1845 by the architect, Antonio Vidal, hence the mixture in styles. Since its last construction, little had been done to maintain the grounds, and the bell tower was especially in need of repair. All of that had been undertaken by Mr. Dréan, who seemed to harbor a passion for antiquarian buildings and books.
They went all the way to the end of the hallway, turned right, and passed the library. At the end of the corridor, they turned left and took the stairs. For a reason she couldn’t explain, her skin broke out in goosebumps as they climbed the creaking wooden steps with the ornate balustrade to the first floor, past the ‘Private’ sign. From upstairs, she had a clear view of the neglected garden and restoration work in progress on the church. They turned left onto a landing directly above the library that overlooked the pool at the back.
The man knocked on the first door. He didn’t wait for a reply, but pushed it open and made a slight bow, motioning for her to step inside. She did so cautiously, and jumped when the door closed behind her with a bang.
A man who sat behind a large desk came to his feet. She swallowed. Just as she’d thought. It was the man she’d caught a glimpse of that morning. She could tell from his clothes and his height. His face had been in the shadows however, and Lann Dréan was nothing like people said. The descriptions didn’t do him justice. Apparently Mr. Dréan didn’t like publicity, because he never allowed his photo to be taken. Now she stood facing the man himself, and nothing could have prepared her for his physical appearance.
He was tall and dressed immaculately in grey slacks and a white dress shirt, no doubt privately tailored because the clothes perfectly fitted his lean, muscled body. His long, blond hair was braided down his back, his sideburns extending down a strong jaw. His distinctly Arian features were off-set by almond-shaped eyes, eyes that were almost yellow, like amber flecked with gold, and lined with long, blond lashes.
His sensual lips pulled into a beautiful but practiced smile, exposing faint laugh lines around his eyes. It came as a strange disappointment that he used a gesture with her he’d probably used with countless females, all as defenseless to his good looks as she was right now. Even so, politeness dictated that she returned the smile. As she continued to stare, he took his time to round the desk and cross the floor until they stood face to face.
He was composed, too controlled, as he took her hand and brought it to his lips, letting only his breath caress her skin. Long, strong fingers grasped hers lightly. She could have easily pulled away, but she was mesmerized, studying his impeccably manicured hand, the gold band around his thumb, and the ruby ring on his pinky.
The monastery owner released her hand and took a step back. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said with a very appealing Russian accent. “I’m not sure if I should say, Miss White … or Miss Clark.”
At the mention of the false name, her smile faltered. Thrown off balance, she gripped the chair back next to her. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected Mr. Dréan to discuss with her, but it wasn’t this.
“Do you need to sit down?” He moved to a lounge area facing a fireplace and pulled out an armchair. “Please.”
It wasn’t an invitation. She walked to the chair on shaky legs but with a straight back, and sat down on the edge, eyeing him warily. “How did you find out?”
He took the sofa opposite her and poured liquor from a crystal decanter into two tumblers. “I’m a member of the flying club.” He offered her a glass. “Scotch?”
It wasn’t a question either. She reached over the low table to accept the drink, even if she had no intention of drinking it. “I’m not a security risk, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He gave her an amused smile. “No?”
“How do you know about my, um, other name?”
“First things first. Let’s get the formal introduction out of the way, shall we?”
“I know who you are, Mr. Dréan.”
“Please, call me Lann.” He added with humor, “I’m not sure what I should call you, Ms. White. Maybe you prefer a pseudonym?”
She ignored the sarcasm. “Katherine. Everyone calls me Kat.”