Dark Surrender. Alyssa Morgan

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?”