I am a calm, blue ocean.
The mantra always put her back in control.
She slipped past Mr. Smith, catching the scent of his cologne. He smelled rich and spicy, vibrant. Kind of like incense, or really old books. She felt his eyes on her as they left the café, walking between the pair of black and gold Grecian urns she’d had converted into fountains with trickling water. Green fronds of assorted palm trees swept down from overhead, and ancient rocks she and her grandfather had collected from their travels to places like Greece, Egypt and Africa, lined the short path back to the museum lobby.
“We’re still finalizing things for Saturday’s gala opening,” she said, leading the way across the white marble floor of the lobby to the red carpet at the entrance of the exhibit, where tall white pillars lined the archway. “It’s mostly ready.”
Since she had systematically taken charge of nearly every operation at the museum in order to keep the running of things out of Jonathon’s hands, she was falling a little behind in some areas. It was already Wednesday, and that left her with three more days. She would have it finished on time.
“Your grandfather founded the museum,” Mr. Smith said. “I feel like royalty, getting a tour from a celebrity.”
“The Whitmores are hardly celebrities.” Jillian was strangely flattered by his interest. “Well, maybe my grandfather, but he’s passed on.”
“Your loss was recent,” Mr. Smith said, coming around to walk by her side. “I was sorry to hear of their death.”
Jillian still couldn’t talk about her grandparents and the accident. Tears welled in her eyes and her chest constricted with the pain of their absence. In losing them, she’d lost what remained of her only family, along with the love, emotional support and security they provided, leaving her to face the world alone.
She blinked back the tears as they reached the white pillars of the exhibit entrance. “Here’s the exhibit.”
“I thought it would be bigger,” he commented, walking through the entrance ahead of her to get a quick look around.
“The Whitmore is a small museum,” she said.
“Yes, but surely you have more than what is here.” He turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the entire exhibit in a few seconds.
“I had trouble verifying the authenticity of many items I came across.”
“Weeding out the impostors?”
“Something like that.”
“It goes along with the territory. You learn to spot a fake.”
“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?
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