Taking over Thomas Molina’s life had brought him a nice stash of cash, but turning his charity into an arms retailer was going to bring him what he truly craved. Power.
He would have the power, and he would have the woman he wanted, too.
Avery was sweet, perfectly innocent.
It was up to him to see just how much he could corrupt her. He looked forward to the job.
But first he had to deal with the problem of Eli Nelson. Fuck but he wished the former CIA agent hadn’t gotten exposed. The man was quickly becoming a pain in his ass.
And Thomas didn’t like pains in his ass.
Chapter Three
The next day, Avery stared at the mummy in his glass case, but her mind kept flitting to other things. She thought about her dinner the night before. Adam and Jake were such a cute couple. She hated to admit it, but she’d enjoyed hearing American accents again. Adam had made a heavenly dinner, and she’d briefly forgotten how lonely she was. She was trying not to think about it today.
The Egypt Gallery held many wonders, some as lovely as the Greek and Roman rooms, but the mummies were definitely interesting in a less aesthetically pleasing way. She was standing in a room with a person who had lived centuries before. Millennia. A deep connection to a distant past. She was being fanciful, but it was her day off. She could let her mind do that wandering thing it so often did and not be worried she would screw up a big deal like the one with Lachlan Bates that Thomas had taken off her plate. It had been odd. He usually didn’t like to take care of things himself. He had told her on many occasions that he’d hired her so he didn’t have to talk to people.
But she was relieved he was taking more of an interest in their donors. Maybe it meant he would be more sociable. And it wasn’t like he never talked to donors. He’d pulled three files from Monica’s desk this year, all over a million dollars.
She let it go. She wasn’t going to think about work today. She was going to spend the afternoon staring at mummies.
She really wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Not that she’d ever actually been in Kansas. She was from New York, but it seemed an appropriate thing to say. Think. Unless she’d actually said it out loud. Avery glanced around, but no one was looking at her like she was a crazy person. Her impulse control issues were much better hidden in big cities. No one noticed the girl who talked to herself when there were so many actually real crazy people walking around. Just earlier in the day she’d had a conversation with a man on the Tube who believed he was Henry the Eighth and wanted his Tower back.
Yes, she should go see the Tower of London. Definitely.
Mummies. She forced herself to concentrate. She felt a smile cross her lips. It was so much nicer when her rambling thoughts were about mummies and historical sites than bedpans and whether or not her legs would ever work again. Or where her baby was now that she wasn’t in her arms.
“It can’t be all that bad. I don’t think he minds being stuck in here.”
Avery started, a deep voice pulling her from the edge of a very dark thought. She turned on her heels and, as any sudden movement was likely to do, her weak leg buckled underneath her. She started the long trip to the ground, except this time she was headed straight for the ancient, probably priceless, mummy. God, she was going to set off all kinds of alarms and get kicked out of the museum and maybe out of England, and then she would have to find a new job and who would want a woman who’d been arrested for molesting mummified corpses?
And just like that, she stopped. Two big arms wrapped around her, lifting her away from the oncoming chaos. “You okay?”
Without even thinking about it, her arms drifted up and around his neck, fingertips brushing warm, deliciously firm skin. The dark-haired man she’d seen before, the one she’d fantasized about last night, held her in his arms. Curly, midnight-black hair and emeralds for eyes. He was dressed for sin in a black motorcycle jacket and a T-shirt that molded to his very well-defined chest. Did he have to buy them one size too small? Did he have to walk around like a big old gorgeous man cupcake when she’d been on a diet for so long?
“Lost the power of speech? Well, that guy’s ugly mug would do that to me, too.”
She’d thought for sure he was British. She’d fantasized about a lyrical accent coming out of his mouth, but no, his voice was pure Midwestern American. And she should say something since the man was still standing there holding her like she was his virgin bride or something. Virgin. She wasn’t. Unless it grew back after too many years of vaginal disuse. God, say something, Avery. “I’m so sorry.”