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When he first came to the library, he hadn’t worn his colors. It was more to be anonymous than for any other reason—at least he told himself that. Sometimes he just got a feeling. Whenever it happened, he acted on it—and he’d had that feeling, the one that often saved his life, so he’d removed his colors and gone into the library, feeling a little naked without them.
He didn’t want to be noticed, although he was covered in tattoos and scars that couldn’t be seen beneath the tee that stretched tight across his chest. Just his sleeves showed, those tattoos that meant something to him but wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. Memorials to his lost family and the children that hadn’t survived that nightmare he’d lived through.
Now, he still didn’t wear his colors for the same reason, although he felt like a fraud, because he was Torpedo Ink. His club colors were tattooed onto his back, but it was more than that. His identity went beyond skin and sank right into bone. He knew with absolute certainty that he couldn’t live without his club, nor would he want to. Torpedo Ink was his identity. His life. His family—brothers and sisters—and their lives were bound together irrevocably.
They were woven together like an old tapestry, and nothing could take them apart, and yet he felt as if he had betrayed them. Skulking away. The members rarely went off alone, certainly not daily for six weeks. And they didn’t go six weeks without wearing their colors. It wasn’t done. He might as well have gone naked. He didn’t know why he kept this place to himself …
He did though. It was the librarian. The little redhead. She moved like poetry. Flowing like words across the pages of a book. One moment she could be a lady in a historical novel, taking the hand of a gentleman and gracefully emerging from a carriage, the next, a modern-day woman striding down the busy street in a business suit with her briefcase. Or a sexy librarian dressed in a pencil-straight skirt that hugged her curves and gave him all kinds of very dirty and graphic thoughts, like bending her over that desk of hers when the rest of the world went away.
Still, that feeling of staying anonymous, of keeping his identity secret so that no one had a clue what or who he was, persisted while he unraveled the mystery of the woman who ran the library so efficiently.
He was back. Oh. My. God. The most gorgeous man in the entire world and he just walked in off the street like he owned the place. Like the library was his home and gorgeous men came in every single day. He was tall with broad shoulders and a thick chest and arms. Really great arms. Muscles. Really great muscles. Scarlet Foley spent a lot of time perving on his muscles. And all those delicious tattoos. Who knew she’d fall for tattoos when she’d never been all that fond of them?
He had thick blond hair, a lot of it, and it spilled across his forehead, making her fingers itch to smooth it back. His eyes were very different. Blue. But not. More crystal blue. But not. Like two really cool crystals. She couldn’t decide. When she wasn’t perving on his muscles or fixating on his fascinating mouth, she was definitely wondering how to describe his eyes, and she was really good with words as a rule.
She knew she shouldn’t be around him. He left her breathless and tongue-tied. If she had girlfriends, she would be over at their houses every night after work so she could share the mythical pictures she would secretly sneak of him like a crazy stalker. They would have dropped by the library to see him and giggled like schoolgirls.
Instead, she acted the part of the librarian. Dignified. Hiding behind the glasses she didn’t really need. She had that role down perfectly. No giggling. No snapping contraband pictures to stare at in the middle of the night and fantasize over and pretend she might actually have some sort of love life. Or worse, get out every single toy known to single women, which wouldn’t even help because he was too gorgeous and nothing was ever going to match the real thing. But as long as he kept coming to her library, she was going to do some daydreaming. No one could take that away from her.
He liked science fiction. He read psychology books. Not self-help books but the real thing, industry books. He also read a lot of obscure reference books on the pyramids of Egypt. The building of them. She knew because she watched his every move, and sometimes she helped him find the books he wanted. Up close, he smelled like cedarwood, and at night, when she was alone, she couldn’t get that scent out of her mind. She knew she would always associate it with him. Man. Muscles. And sex. Worse.
Yes. It did get worse because she’d looked down his body. It wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t meant to. She’d practiced keeping her eyes up on his chest. But she handed him the book and her gaze just dropped and there it was … in all its glory. Hard as a rock. The full ultra-impressive package. So now she had it all to take to bed with her. And quite frankly it sucked that the man wasn’t in bed with her as well.
He would ask her for help in finding a particular book, and when he asked, his voice was mesmerizing. Velvet soft. She swore she felt the sound sliding over her skin. Stroking her. An actual physical sensation. A little shiver always slid down her spine and a very inappropriate flutter in her sex accompanied that shiver. Now that she knew what he had, her wayward gaze strayed often, and her panties went damp more than they should have. She had no respect for herself. None. But that didn’t stop her.
She’d never had that kind of reaction to any man, not in college and not when she’d traveled to other countries. His voice was always pitched low, very soft, but it was commanding, and she heard a little twist of his words, as if he had an accent under the English pronunciation, but she couldn’t place it. She’d never heard a voice like his before, and she’d traveled extensively. He was very much a gentleman, and yet he gave off an extremely dangerous vibe. She’d been around dangerous men, and she would have placed him right there with them, but she didn’t know why. He seemed as if he’d be more at home in a suit and tie than casual clothes. And he wore his clothes like a model.
She had a lot of time—too much time—to think about him when she went home from the library and sat alone in her reading chair, surrounded by her books and little else. He was the fastest speed reader she’d ever seen in her life, and she knew he was for real. At first she thought he was faking his ability to read that fast, but then she realized after some time that he was clearly reading the books and must be comprehending what he was reading.
She was impressed. She’d taken several speed-reading courses and, in the end, had gone with the advice of the fastest reader in the world, learning from his books. She picked up things fast; she always had. The more time spent, the faster she learned. It was a gift she had, and she used it often, which made it all the more readily available to her.
She’d made certain to touch him. The first time had been a brief brush of their fingers as she handed him a book. Frankly, she hadn’t been certain if he’d made that initial contact or if she had, but she would never forget it as long as she lived. The spark had gone up her finger to every nerve ending in her body, spreading like a wildfire, bringing her to life as if she’d been asleep—or dead—her entire life and it had taken him to wake her up.
She had been dead. She’d chosen to be dead. She’d shoved the woman in her aside out of necessity and become what she had to be. Now she was simply surviving. Until he walked in. She had no idea what to do with him—but she wanted him. She’d sworn she would never—not ever—go there again. Put herself in a situation where the dark things inside of her had a chance to escape. She’d seen the results of that, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him … wanting him.
Touching him was dangerous, but she couldn’t seem to resist no matter how hard she tried, and every touch brought something new. She couldn’t get to him, couldn’t uncover him or strip him in layers like she did others, but something connected them so strongly, melded them so tightly together, that there was no going back, and she knew it. Every time he was close to her, he melted away that shell of a hardened human being that wasn’t real, and for a moment, she felt alive and genuine—and vulnerable.
Right n
ow he sat in her library, disturbing her beyond all measure. She hadn’t thought it possible. She thought she was stone cold when it came to the opposite sex, but she lit up around him. On fire. Hot as hades. She apparently had red hair for a reason, and it wasn’t her temper. Okay, maybe it was that, too. She hadn’t made up her mind how she felt about Mr. Aleksei Solokov. That was the name on his library card. She didn’t know if her body coming to life was a good thing or a bad thing. If fantasies were wonderful or a curse. There was a lot to think about, but then she had a lot of time to think.
“Miss Foley?”
She jerked her head up, her breath exploding out of her lungs. No one had managed to sneak up on her in years, and yet just perving on Aleksei Solokov, she failed the first lesson in survival. She turned slowly, already knowing who was behind her, identifying him by his voice.
“Hi, Tom.” He was sixteen and trying desperately to learn to read at his level. His English teacher was no help, giving him assignments far beyond his comprehension. It made Scarlet angry that the man couldn’t take the time to help the boy. “I was hoping you’d come in today. I have plenty of time to help you.” She flashed him a reassuring smile.
The boy’s face flooded with relief. “Thanks, Miss Foley.”
She waved him toward the table where they often worked together, and where she was most comfortable. She could see out the windows, but no one could see her or the boy she tutored. She was always careful just in case, so no one could ever harm any of the teens just because of her. She put aside the rest of the evening’s work and settled down to help Tom do his homework. She would have plenty of time to finish her own work before the close of her shift.
The librarian moved, drawing Absinthe’s attention. It was growing late, and she walked the boy she’d been helping with his English paper to the door, reassuring him he was getting better with every paper and she was proud of him. She moved like someone who could handle herself, always balanced, even when she was carrying stacks of books. He’d noticed that almost immediately about her. When one was as fucked up as he was, you always assessed the men and women around you to see who the fighters were. Under that sexy prim-and-proper librarian facade, she could handle herself.
She wore her hair up in an intricate, twisted bun, but twice after work he’d seen her let it down. It was bright red, shiny red. There was no other word for the color. Just red, and that color hadn’t come out of a box. It was a waterfall of true, thick, silky red. Her hair, once let loose, refused to be tamed. It snaked down her back to her waist, drawing attention to just how small her waist and rib cage were and how curved her hips were. She had an ass, and tits that were high and firm, and very generous. Her curves were deceptive considering she was very fit.
Absinthe’s entire body reacted to her in an entirely unprecedented way. He didn’t have normal erections. Those had been beaten or raped out of him when he was a child. To achieve one, he had to command his body to cooperate, and why the hell bother? To sit in the library—that quiet and peaceful place—and feel his body respond to a beautiful woman was a form of magic. He enjoyed the feeling, knowing he would never take it for granted—and it happened every damn time he looked at her.
He had experimented after he’d had a reaction to her, going to various bars and even the market in the hope that his body would respond to someone else after it had come to life, but it seemed it was only the little librarian with her bright red hair that did it for him. That was just fine with him. He liked her. He liked the way she was so gentle and calm—so patient with the kids that came in, asking her homework questions. If she noticed there was a much higher percentage of boys than girls, she didn’t make a big deal out of it. She spoke in soft, melodic tones, but hushed, in keeping with the library rules.
After seeing the boy out, she turned and looked straight at him. He could never quite interpret the expression on her face. He was always careful not to touch her for too long. He didn’t want to read her thoughts. He was enjoying their dance around each other too much for that. She was fascinated but nervous—anxious, even, which he found interesting as well. She was always so calm with everyone else. She couldn’t know he was in a club, so it wasn’t that.
She came toward him, flowing across the room. She was breathtaking. Beautiful. All woman wrapped up in that sweet package. Her name was Scarlet, and he loved that name. It said Scarlet Foley on her nameplate, and she’d finally introduced herself formally to him three and a half weeks earlier. It had taken quite some time before she actually spoke to him. She’d smile, but she didn’t come near him at first. Even now, she was extremely reserved with him.
“You’ve been here for hours. Are you doing research again? I might be able to help you,” she offered. “Although we’re closing soon.”
He glanced around. The library was empty. It was definitely near closing time. He decided to take a chance. “I stayed late on the off chance you’d have time to have dinner with me. Nothing fancy, just across the street there.” He indicated the more upscale restaurant facing the front of the library.
He liked the location of the library. It was on a block that was also quieter than most of the town’s streets. Foliage was abundant; in fact, the front and sides of the library were covered in ivy so that it appeared to drip down the brick walls and fall like a waterfall over the second story to the first. Everything about the place proclaimed it was cool and inviting.
Scarlet stood very still, her large green gaze, behind her glasses, moving over his face slowly. For a moment she looked scared. Not scared exactly. That wasn’t the right word. Leery, maybe. Assessing the risk? He wasn’t certain, but she wasn’t jumping at his invitation. She glanced over her shoulder toward the restaurant. Absinthe stayed silent, letting her make up her mind. He needed her to feel safe with him, and he wanted her to want to spend time with him, the way he wanted to spend it with her—just the two of them. Walking across the street with her vehicle close was a good start.
“I think that sounds fun,” she said finally. Almost reluctantly.
He could hear lies. She wasn’t lying, but there was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. For the millionth time, he glanced at her hand to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. She wasn’t. There was no faint tan line that might indicate she’d worn one. She had very pale skin. A dusting of freckles was across her nose, spreading out just a bit, very faint, but he had the unexpected urge to kiss each one.
“I’ll wait here for you while you close up, and we can walk over together,” he said. He made it a statement. She more than likely would want him to go out the door first. She didn’t walk outside with anyone, even if one of the teens stayed late. Not one time in the six weeks he’d been coming. She always stood at the door for a long period of time, scanning the entire block, the buildings and even the rooftops.
Her small white teeth caught at her lower lip for a moment, and his heart nearly stopped. Why he found that sexy, he had no idea, but he did. His body stirred, and heat rushed through his veins like a drug. Just being close to her was addicting. Her eyes did that reluctant drop, as if she couldn’t help herself. He fucking loved that. For just one moment her gaze rested on the bulge at the front of his jeans, and he hardened even more. She turned red and averted her eyes. He resisted grinning.
“I have a few things to do. You could grab us a table and I’ll meet you there.”
Yeah. She didn’t want to be seen with anyone. That was a red flag. He held up his cell phone. “I’ll text them to hold us a table. I scoped it out earlier and they have a few tables for two. They’re kind of in the shadows, but if you’d rather sit on the main floor …”
“No, I think a table for two sounds excellent.”
She jumped at that. A little too fast. She didn’t want to be seen with him. Fuck.
“I’ll make us a reservation and you finish up.”
She hesitated again, but then turned away with a little nod. He watched her go back to her desk. He’d already made the re
servation. If she’d said no, he simply would have canceled it. He kept an eye on her while he made a show of writing down a few facts from the book he had pulled out to reference. Truthfully, he didn’t need to write anything down. He could read and absorb over twenty thousand words per minute. He retained everything he saw or read. He could compel truth and make suggestions that others would follow. He had highly developed gifts. Some were a curse, no matter what others thought. Most were. Or maybe it was how he’d had to use them.
He was uneasy without his fellow Torpedo Ink members close by, and even more so now that he could see just how nervous she was. They had survived their childhood and then later, as teens and adults, by sticking together. The rule had always been that one or two stuck close to a third. Sometimes they were unseen, up on a rooftop with a rifle, and sometimes they were in the shadows, but there was always someone close to protect another.
Absinthe knew if the pull toward the librarian hadn’t been so strong, he never would have continued to come without at least one of the others. He wanted them close. Eventually he would have to ask them to ride with him, but there would be so many questions, and he wanted this time with her to be real. He wanted to unravel the mystery of Scarlet Foley alone. If he enlisted the aid of his club, Code would be involved, and her life would instantly be an open book. No one escaped Code’s ability to uncover their past with his genius computer skills. There was something to be said for the old-fashioned way of conversation and courtship.
He drummed his fingers on the table, reminiscent of Czar, their Torpedo Ink president. When Czar was thinking, he often kept time with his fingers. Absinthe found himself with the same habit, and he’d never bothered to try to break it. Twice, there in the library, his little redhead had sent him a small frown. Now he often drummed his fingers on the table just to see that frown because he found it provocative. Sensual. Hell. Everything she did was sensual.