Dark Surrender

“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 (#u1f090327-ebe3-5bd4-aff2-beb1072e2f49)

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.