Chapter 5

      Natalie glared at Rupert. “Macbeth, Rupert? Seriously?” She shook her head as she placed the book back on the shelf. “That was rude.” Rupert had been a ghost for nearly a century and had picked up some tricks through his research at the institute.

      “You’re welcome,” Rupert responded before shuffling over to his chair. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly what’s going on?”

      Natalie took the seat next to him and told him everything. Well, nearly everything. She left out the part about the kiss. Rupert was like the grandfather she’d never known and there were some things she just didn’t share with him.

      “However did you meet Lucien Marchetta? Even I knew of him—and his family. You two don’t look like you’d move in the same circles.”

      She laughed for a moment. “No, we did not. I met him when I was nine years old, in the hospital. I was going through a round of chemotherapy and dialysis, and he’d occasionally come and visit.” She didn’t go into the detail of their first meeting, or how she, a sickly nine-year-old, had negotiated unlimited visits from whom she’d later learned was a savvy business tycoon.

      “Well, now I’ve heard everything. A philanthropic Marchetta,” Rupert quipped.

      Natalie smiled. “Well, we met there, but he continued to visit me, even after I left the hospital.” She shook her head. “He’d wake me up in the middle of the night, and we’d chat for hours. Sometimes I’d read to him, sometimes he’d read to me...” She tapped a gloved finger on her jean-clad thigh. “He never treated me like some sick invalid. He’d take me on excursions and always had me back home before sunrise, and before my parents woke up.”

      Rupert tipped his head to the side. “I’m not sure if that’s sweet or a tad creepy.”

      “Oh, sweet. Definitely sweet. He was always the perfect gentleman.”

      He’d never once acted as though there was anything more—not even when she’d gotten drunk on her sixteenth birthday and demanded a kiss as a gift. He’d given her a very chaste peck on her forehead. Then, when she was nineteen...well, that still belonged in the too-humiliating-to-remember file. Today? Well, today was a revelation, on so many levels. Natalie’s cheeks warmed. Just remembering his lips on hers, his body against hers—phew. She pulled off her gloves. She always made sure she wore them at work—she never knew what she might encounter with some of these books and artifacts. Her hands were uncomfortably warm. She was uncomfortably warm. She swallowed, conscious that Rupert was watching her intently.

      “In fact, he was like a big brother to me—you know, like the program they used to run through hospitals and schools? I tried to apply for that, but got rejected on account of my terminal illness, but that didn’t seem to bother him.”

      “He sounds like quite a friend.”

      “He was. My best friend—my only friend. At least, that’s what I thought. He said he’d always be there for me, and I believed him. Until he wasn’t.”

      “Natalie,” Rupert chided. “What happened to you—that was unforeseeable. Surely you can’t blame him—”

      “I do,” she interrupted. “He was in town, Rupert. I was out, because I wanted to see him. My parents were out with me, because I wanted to go see him. And then we were killed.” She shrugged. “Never trust a vampire, Rupert. They’ll say anything, do anything, to get what they want.”

      “But you told him you trusted him tonight,” Rupert pointed out.

      “No, I didn’t. I told him trust works both ways.” She did not, could not, trust that particular vampire. If the vampire and werewolf hadn’t killed her, her broken heart would have.

      “Relax, Rupert. I might be working with Lucien, but I don’t trust him.” She yawned noisily and Rupert grimaced.

      “Well, he’s right about something. You need some sleep. Off you go, and I’ll keep going through the library.”

      Natalie smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Rupert.”

      “Yes, well, he’s caught my interest. A cure for lycanthropulism.” Rupert was still chuckling when Natalie left.

      * * *

      “I wasn’t sure I’d see you back here,” Lucien admitted as he stepped into Natalie’s office. He made sure to keep his relief out of his expression. She glanced up at him in surprise, her glasses resting on the top of her head. Did she actually ever wear them?

      Today she wore a pale pink tailored shirt. It suited her. With her blond hair tied back in a ponytail and minimal makeup, she could have passed as one of her students. He eyed the opening of her shirt. And again, he was reminded that she was old enough where it counted. Her top two shirt buttons were undone and the shirt was parted enough to show a hint of shadow between her breasts. He remembered how those breasts felt in his hands, all warm and soft, with just the right amount of shape and weight.

      And then he noticed she was wearing gloves. Again. He frowned. It was chilly, admittedly, but not that chilly. Winter wasn’t due for a few weeks yet.

      “I’m not the one who has a problem with keeping promises,” she pointed out tartly. She nodded at the pile of books by his chair. “You can start with those.”

      He shot her a dark look as he took his seat. He wondered if she’d ever get past that. He hoped she would. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of tobacco in the room. “Do you smoke? Like, cigars or something?”

      “Nope.” She didn’t look up but kept reading.

      “You can’t smell that?”

      “Nope.”

      He shrugged and pulled forward the first book on the pile. There was a faint scent of something in the air, but it didn’t make sense. Natalie didn’t strike him as the type to hide and smoke behind closed doors...

      He opened the book and frowned. “Fairy tales?”

      She shrugged. “Why not?”

      Why not, indeed. He wasn’t sure if the answer to his problem could be found in this book, or any other, but he’d keep searching, just in case. Natalie seemed to think the books held some answers.

      They’d been reading for about an hour, and every now and then Natalie would look up something up on her computer, the sound of her fingers tapping on the keys so loud in the quiet of her office. She leaned back in her chair. “I need to go to the library.” She rose, holding a book.

      “Is it open?” It was Sunday night and he hadn’t seen or heard anyone other than them at the institute all evening.

      “It is for me,” she murmured, swooping up her keys and walking toward her door, hugging the book to her chest. Pushing her