The castle in the Black Forest was immense. The structure itself had been built in the 1500s and the land had been in the same family for longer than that. A final descendent of the family who’d built the castle was selling off antiques and other unique items prior to the sale of the land. Those invited to the sale were also invited to stay in the castle.
Esme had visited many castles over the years. Even sales inside of castles. But she’d never actually stayed in one. She was surprised her employer had allowed it. But he’d called several days before the sale and informed both her and Jove of the change in accommodations. Jove took it in stride, like he always stayed in castles, but Esme had to contain her excitement. What woman wasn’t once a little girl who wanted to be a princess in a castle?
Now Esme knew why no one lived in castles anymore. They were cold. Her room might not be that big, but the fireplace was small and didn’t heat the entire room. Not to mention the bathroom that wasn’t really a bathroom more than a chair with a chamber pot in it behind a screen. The section of the castle they were in also didn’t have coverings for the windows beyond a wooden shutter, but if you closed it, the room filled with the roiling smoke from the fireplace. The window wasn’t huge, little more than a foot across, but it was tall, so a lot of cold air came in at night.
She wasn’t feeling so much like a princess anymore.
The first day of the sale was quiet. Only three other buyers had taken up the offer to stay in the castle, and of the three, none spoke French fluently. She kept to herself unless specifically addressed. Because she and the three other buyers had opted to stay in the castle, the first day of the sale was theirs entirely. Though Esme had a list of what was already purchased by her employer, she was allowed to go through the entire catalog and had been given leave to purchase what she liked.
That made her feel better. About her job and about herself.
She was in the library, her catalog in hand, going through the volumes upon volumes of books when Jove found her that first day.
“Esme,” he said politely, then sat down in a chair near her.
“Jove,” she responded. She turned to him, lowering her catalog. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he said sullenly.
“This must not be fun for you,” she answered.
“This is horrible. I need running water.”
Esme laughed. “I must confess, that took me aback as well.” She wandered closer to Jove, then sat in the twin of his chair. “Jove, may I ask you something?”
He shrugged, not looking at her.
“You know our employer well?”
Here he cut her an unfathomable look. “We go way back.”
She nodded, then looked down at her catalog. The harsh German on the front was hard to read, the inside even harder. Like it was all an old dialect. She sighed and tapped the book. “Do you know what it is he is looking for? He has given me a small amount to purchase items, and I would like very much not to disappoint.”
Jove cocked his head to the side. “Why not?”
“Well, this is my job,” Esme said, sitting up straight. “I got this job because I procured artifacts for the Louvre, for other museums, for—”
“That’s not why you got this job,” Jove interrupted.
Esme frowned. “What do you mean?”
Jove chuckled, but there was no humor. “Never mind. I’ll tell you what he wants, though. What he’s looking for.” Jove leaned closer to her and she unconsciously mirrored the movement. “Relics.”
Esme blinked. “Relics?”
“Yeah, from a long time ago.”
Esme frowned again. “Relics,” she said softly. “As in, religious artifacts?”
“No, not really.” Jove glanced around at all the books in the room. “Is there a copy of Paradise Lost in here?”
Esme flipped to the indexed section of books in her catalog. After a quick scan, she shook her head. “No, I do not see one.”
“Hmm, that would have been easier.”
She closed her catalog. “What do you mean?”
“Paradise Lost was written by an old, blind man named John Milton. In part, it told about the fall of the angels. Named some of them, too. There’s speculation that John Milton didn’t write the text as much as took dictation from one of those angels.”
Esme waved her hand at Jove. “Bah. I have never heard such a thing.”
He shrugged. “Some people believe it. Some people like our employer. So now we’re chasing over Germany looking for items that might have been left behind.”
“So…none of this means anything? We are not looking for historical items? Or genuine artifacts?” Even to her ears, she sounded disappointed.
Jove leaned back in his chair, his large body making the old wood crack and creak under his weight. He snapped his fingers and a small blue flame appeared, almost immediately doused. Esme blinked and shook her head. Surely she hadn’t really seen that? He snapped again and now the flame was red. It stayed steady for almost fifteen seconds, then flamed out.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“You don’t have to believe in anything to purchase what he needs you to purchase,” Jove said, totally ignoring her question. “But you asked what you should look for. And I told you.” He lumbered to his feet and turned to face her. “Look for a copy of Paradise Lost. Check out all those names. And think about what it would mean if all of that were true.” He grinned and tipped an imaginary hat, then strode out of the room.
Shaken, it took Esme several minutes to quiet her nerves. Surely Jove was pulling her leg. Surely what he said had been a joke? She stared down at the list of books in her hand. On it were first editions, even copies that were handwritten. Old, classic, some priceless relics. People used to believe a lot of strange things. Were fallen angels one of those things? Most assuredly. That did not, however, mean they were real.
Always a practical sort, Esme finally decided that Jove didn’t mean a word of what he said. And even if he did, it didn’t mean any of it was true. But she still kept an eye out for a copy of Paradise Lost.
****
The second day of the sale Esme came downstairs to a crowded breakfast table. Nearly all of the other buyers had arrived, and loud, jovial voices cut through the room. Nothing like the day before had been.
Esme took the same spot she’d used at the table previously. As she delicately chewed a piece of bacon, a larger man sat down next to her, his plate mounded with food.
She glanced at his plate, then him, then did a double take. “Ezra Rubenstein?”
He paused as he placed a large napkin in his collar. Finally, he finished tucking and glanced around the table. Luckily Esme hadn’t said his name too loudly and no one seemed to be paying them any attention.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said conversationally in English.
This was not the first time Esme had come across a famous collector. It was, however, the first time one had sat down next to her. “I apologize,” she said swiftly to the famous Hollywood director. “I was not aware you would be here.” She held out a hand. “Esme Jean-Pierre.”
He eyed her hand, then shook it with a firm grip. “Pleasure to meet you.”
She watched as he tucked into his breakfast. The mountain of man next to her was no doubt enjoying the hospitality of their hosts, but he noticed her stare and turned to look at her.
“My dear, I don’t mind a lovely woman staring at me, but you’re making me a bit self-conscious.”
A flush crept up Esme’s face. “My goodness, I apologize. I just, I….” she trailed off, unsure what kept her staring at him. Maybe it was the excitement of a Hollywood director sitting next to her. Maybe it was the curious conversation she’d had with Jove the day before.
Ezra Rubenstein put his fork down and leaned toward her. “Clearly something is troubling you. Do you want to talk about it?”
If the tabloids were to be believed, the director, who’d won two Oscars and been nominated for several more, had a soft spot for younger women. He was by no means old, maybe about sixty, and he was still in good shape, but Esme didn’t have a visceral reaction to him. And she would bet he wasn’t attracted to her either.
“I am not sure,” she whispered.
Ezra pulled his napkin out of his collar and covered his plate. With purpose, he pushed his chair back and pulled Esme to her feet. “I hear there are lovely gardens here. Shall we?”
She stumbled along beside him and caught Jove glaring at her before his eyes slid to Ezra. She turned away before the director led her out the door.
They didn’t go to the gardens. He took her straight for the library where she’d spent so many hours the day before. He only let her go to close and lock the door. Once that was done, he turned back around and took her hands.
“You’re shaking.”
Esme dropped into a chair. Ezra Rubenstein knelt before her. What was wrong with her? Why this reaction to the famous director? She’d never been this way before, star struck and stupid. But then he leaned closer and she realized that her reaction was not that of a star struck groupie. She was scared.
“Are you here with that man that was staring at us?”
Esme lifted her eyes to Ezra. “Jove?”
“Oh, is that his name? I’ve seen him before but never have been introduced.” He patted her hand. “You work for him? Or he works for you?”
“We-we both work for the same person.” She squeezed his hand. “I do not understand—”
“We’re here for the same thing,” Ezra told her. “And I think your friend Jove isn’t too happy that I’m here.”
“What are you here for?” Esme whispered.
Ezra paused, his eyes scouring her face. When he finally said the word, she felt her heart stutter and skip. Because she finally had to believe what Jove had told her.
“Relics.”
Esme sucked in a breath.
What had she gotten herself into?
****
Sam and Rack entered the castle that had been home to the Drezek family for centuries. The final Drezek was old and ill and had no use for the castle or the grounds. Sam had a contract to purchase the property, but because of debt, the final Drezek had decided to auction off a lot of his personal property.
So here they were, to see what was available.
Rack shook his head at the proper butler who offered to take his coat. Sam did the same. They both, however, took a catalog, which Sam immediately began to thumb through. Rack led them further into the castle, the arched ceiling of the foyer giving way to a delightful great room. The beams were carved brilliance, although in terrible need of repair.
“This shit is nice,” Rack whispered.
“Yeah.”
“You meet with Drezek to look it all over?”
“About 20 years ago.”
“How come he’s having this sale then?”
“He just sold me the land and the castle itself.”
Rack frowned. “You shitting me?”
“Said he was going to start selling things off.” Sam held up the catalog. “Doesn’t look that way. Looks like he just kept buying.”
They wandered into the great room, an enormous fireplace taking up nearly the entire wall. While the fireplace itself was stone, the mantle was carved wood. A tree, halved and lovingly carved held up two large iron candelabra. Rack studied the carving, exquisite and detailed, a scene from the Bible where Noah gathered animals two by two. All species were depicted it seemed. The mantle was a gorgeous work of art.
Sam came to stand next to him. “I’ve seen carvings like that before.”
Rack looked at him. “Yeah? Where?”
Sam’s expressive black eyes cut over to Rack, but he didn’t say a word. He moved on from Rack’s side.
Rack didn’t stay with Sam and walked all over the great room. From tapestries to furniture, to statues and paintings, Drezek was selling everything. Rack wondered if there were more chains of Sam’s hanging around.
From the catalog, he found a map of the house, places where he could go and places that were off limits. To the left of the fireplace was a door that, on the map, was marked “Library.” Even though the door was closed, the map still indicated the room as somewhere he could go, so Rack shoved open the door.
Books. Sure, libraries had books, but this place was filled. The ceilings stretched almost as high as the great room’s ceilings and every inch was covered with books. The room even smelled like books, of higher learning and intelligence. Rack closed his eyes and inhaled. Gorgeous.
Then he heard a sniffle.
His eyes shot open and he glanced around. The room itself wasn’t as big as he’d thought, just cluttered and full. But he finally caught sight of the person who’d sniffled.
It was her. The woman from Berlin.
His back went ramrod straight and he slammed the door behind him. She jumped, whirled around on the settee, and then quickly got to her feet.
Her hair was still black and straight, but today she wore soft blue jeans and a pink sweater that fell off her shoulder, exposing her collarbone. Her eyes were bright with tears and she hastily scrubbed away at her cheeks.
“You bought the chains,” he accused. He tried, he desperately tried, to curb the thoughts that crowded through his head. About how pretty she was, about how kissable those lips were, about how her slim fingers would look trailing down his chest.
Now she frowned. “Je suis de’sole,” she murmured. Then in English, “My German….”
“You bought the chains,” he said again, this time in English.
Her brow furrowed. “I do not recall purchasing any chains,” she said softly, in a strangely lilting voice that did not help how his cock was feeling about her.
“In Berlin.”
Now her brow cleared. “Oh, I see. No, you misunderstand. My employer purchased items in Berlin. I was sent to pick them up.”
“Who’s your employer?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you to demand things of me?”
Rack narrowed his eyes right back. “What are you doing here?”
“I will not be talked to in this manner,” she announced, her French accent running circles in his head. “I am here for the sale and to transport other objects my employer has already purchased. I do not need to explain myself to you.”
“But you will.”
Why was he being an ass? He knew he was, but he couldn’t stop himself. The fact that he’d found her again, here, purchasing more items that might possibly need to come to the fallen angels was driving him crazy. Her bright red lips were driving him crazy, so he was an ass. None of it made sense, but there it was.
But this woman was not cowing to his wishes. She swiftly brushed off the sleeves of her sweater and shook back her hair. No, this woman was standing up to him.
Fuck. Him.
After all these years, he’d found a woman who would stand up to him. Every piercing in his body tingled. He hoped his hair hadn’t started on fire. Because this woman had just turned him on in every way imaginable.