Lost Library: An Urban Fantasy Romance (3 page)

While she was still
staring—and probably drooling, for all she knew—Hot Guy slipped his foot over the threshold of the door and braced it against the frame.
What? Get that hot butt out of my house
.

But what she actually
said
, was “I'm sorry - you must have the wrong house. This is number 4920. Which house are you looking for?"

When placed in socially awkward or stressful situations, why did she always apologize? Lizzie wasn't sure, but apologize she did.
Even though this was
her
house,
her
door,
her
personal space being invaded.
Wait a minute.

"Sir, you need to step away from my door."
 
Dang it. Sir? Really? 
Why was she so polite?

"If you don’t immediately step away from my door, I'm going to call 911."
Much better.
Calm, assertive …okay, maybe a tiny bit panicky—but, hot or not, he was a really big guy.

D
uring this entire inner monologue, the strange and rather large man on her doorstep said not a word.

Hot Guy
paused another few heartbeats. Then he said, “Lizzie Smith?”

S
he slowly nodded, her brain still trying to process that a very attractive man, who was oddly pushy, stood on her doorstep calling her by name.

His startling blue eyes stared calmly at her. “I’m here about the book.”

There
is a moment in movies when the heroine experiences an unpleasant surprise. She flutters her eyelashes as her eyes glow with tears. Or perhaps she gracefully swoons onto a conveniently placed sofa. Why was life not a movie? Lizzie wondered. Because she got sweaty, nauseous, and turned a rather unattractive shade of green, when shocked. Lizzie knew this because of a public presentation made at age fifteen, a sprained ankle at twenty-three, and a horribly embarrassing public break up at age twenty-nine.

She and Kenna had
worried about what a motivated someone might do, to get the book. This was not good.

Convinced she was slowly turning a minty
green color—not a shade that flattered her pale skin and dark hair—Lizzie considered her options.

A) Lie. Admittedly
, not Lizzie’s best skill.

B) Misunderstand. “Oh, my library book is
so far overdue that you’ve come to collect it?” This had the advantage of truth. It had been a good two months since she placed it on the front seat of her car, intending to return it. This option had a very low probability for success, unless Hot Guy was also Not-So-Bright Guy.

C) Misdirect.
“Come on in; I’ll just run into the kitchen and retrieve it”…while in fact planning to leave by the back door, located conveniently in the kitchen. But, then what? This was her house, and he—scary, large man who happened to be hot—knew where she lived.

So in moments like these, Lizzie did what she always does. She chose option D
) Improvise.

“
Okay. Tell me about the book.” She paused, thinking. “And if you’ll remove your foot from the door, I’ll get you some tea. That you can drink
on the
porch.
” Lizzie gave the man a disapproving look, so he wouldn’t think tea meant she was a pushover.

He nodded
curtly in response. Apparently, a man of few words. Annoyingly so.   

She’d been p
olite, direct, and honest, with just a dash of please-don’t-murder-me-on-my-own-front-porch expressed only through the higher pitch of her voice. And the minty green face. Well, to be perfectly honest, also the shaking hands. But all in all, a pretty good effort, considering she just invited a unknown person to tea on her porch to discuss a mysterious, magical book no one should know she has.

Darn her curiosity!
Well, she didn’t have many other choices. She couldn’t exactly call the police and report the as-yet-to-be-committed crime of theft…of a magical book.
Right
.

Offering tea had been
her attempt at a little privacy, so she could get her shaking hands under control and let her brain catch up to events. Having a task always seemed to help calm her nerves. She also needed a minute of privacy to text Kenna.

Man at door about book.
Didn’t let in. Call in 5.

That seemed better than any phone conversation she could imagine having with her friend.

Several minutes later, mystery man and she were seated on her porch, steaming mugs of tea in hand.

“You clearly know who I am. Who are you?”

“John.”

“Ok
ay, John with no last name. I texted my friend. She’s heading this way in ten minutes and calling the police if she doesn’t hear from me in five. So no funny business.” No funny business? Who said that?
Stupid nerves.

Lizzie wasn’t sure if
contacting Kenna was a great plan, but that was the best she had with five seconds of prep time. Mysterious men drinking tea on her porch hadn’t been covered in her short self-defense class. Or maybe not inviting the prospective thief/murderer/kidnapper to converse and drink tea had been a part of the first fifteen minutes she’d missed.
Oops.

John
seemed unconcerned. “Okay. I recommend against discussing the book with the police.”

She
mentally rolled her eyes. She liked her unmedicated, psych-ward free existence. But no need for him to know it was a bluff, so she tried to keep a straight face.

“
So—why are you here?” she said.

“I’ve already told
you—the book. I know you have it, and I want to know why you haven’t contacted us.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke. Lizzie guessed it was involuntary and probably meant he wasn’t particularly pleased with her. He could go jump in a lake. She didn’t even know who he was.

Although
, still big and broad, John appeared less intimidating seated. Equally hot, but less…large and manly. It didn’t hurt that she’d taken the broad, nicely-cushioned swing, leaving him with a delicate wicker chair. She had to remind herself that John’s handsome profile was a charming lie, a façade hiding a rude bully. Only a bully would wedge his foot in the front door like this guy had.

She answered his question with a tight voice. “Not possible, since
I don’t know who you are.
” It’s not like the thing had come with a return address.
What an ass.

When John failed to respond immediately, Lizzie kept talking, her usual good temper fading the longer she interacted with him.
“Tell me why you’re here, and what you want. Be specific. Or I skip my friend and call the police directly. Remember, you’re the one who tried to shove his way into my house.”

“And I could stop you before you even reach the phone.”

She narrowed her eyes, giving him a hard look.
Condescend much?
What
a total ass. And she was definitely right—a bully.

While the front of
Lizzie’s brain steamed and pointed an accusing finger at John, the Bully, the back of her brain wondered why she was wearing a T-shirt, her fifth best bra, no makeup, and wanted to run a hand over John, the Hot Guy’s, bicep.

John had clearly made an error. In his search for, and eventual discovery of the book and Elizabeth Smith, he had failed to uncover an important piece of information. As Alpha of the largest North American pack, he wasn’t accustomed to making mistakes, much less admitting to them—but he did his damnedest to be honest with himself. Elizabeth, Lizzie, had no idea what the book was or what information it contained. Had she attempted to read it, and if she had—had she failed?

Also obvious
, Lizzie Smith had no idea who or what he was, as demonstrated by her threat to phone the police. He smiled to himself. That’s all it was, a threat. He could smell the lie. She was as reluctant to involve the police as he was.

She look
ed downright pissed. A change in tactic was required. He had to make nice or he’d get nowhere—and that meant an apology.
Damn.

He had to stiffen practically all of his facial muscles not to grind his teeth together.
“I apologize.”

That book belonged to his family, his people.
Apologizing for attempting its recovery went against his nature. He had to remind himself, the book alone wasn’t nearly as valuable to him as the book and the girl together. And this was a situation requiring some finesse; commands would fall on deaf ears.

“For what, exactly?” she replied, lips pursed together. Oh, she was pissed. He thought back quickly.

“I shouldn’t have tried to push my way into the house.”
Shit.
Please let none of his friends, or worse, his pack, ever hear about this. He would never live it down. “I just wanted a minute to speak with you, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Because it had been
a good idea. He was here. They were talking. Hell, she brought him tea. Unpoisoned tea, no less…he’d checked.

“Hm
m. Okay.” Her eyes were still suspicious. Although…his nose twitched
. I’ll be damned.
If his nose was right, little Ms. Proper and Pissed was oozing lust. He smiled. His nose was never wrong.

Her face still had the tight, pinched look of anger.
But he was feeling much more charitable toward Lizzie Smith. A nose full of aroused, attractive woman can have that effect.

His tone softened considerably and he said, “I know you’ve got the book. It appears you may be having some problems with it?” His voice
raised slightly at the end of the sentence. He hoped she’d bite and give him some idea of why she hadn’t read the book. And if she had, why she hadn’t contacted the pack. His little Lizzie didn’t seem the extortionist or power hungry type, so he was betting she hadn’t read it. But why? What was her game?

She deflected, rather than answering his question. “First, it’s not here. The book, I mean. It isn’t here in the house. What do you want with it?” Her question revealed curiosity, but he could smell the much stronger scent of her increasing fear. And he could smell the lie. The book was in the house.

He may have hit on her discomfort. She thought he was here to steal it. He could certainly answer some questions if it made her more comfortable. The smell of fear was st
arting to overpower her arousal—and it was making his nose itch.

“If it’s the same book I’m searching for, it belonged to my family
. We lost it a number of years ago,” John said.

“And now you want it back.” It wasn’t a question
, and her concern was growing the longer he stayed. She was clearly not in the best state of mind for the full story. And he needed to tell her, if he was going to have any success.

“Not necessarily.” This was the difficult part. He didn’t want to lie, because a lie would
cast an unpleasant pall on her future dealings with his family. But the entire truth wasn’t an option. Not now, here on her porch. He did want the book. But more than that, he wanted both the book and the girl.

He continued cautiously, “I would like your help.
Help with reading the book and learning the contents. I can’t do that without your assistance. So the book on its own isn’t as useful to me or my family.”

“If it belonged to your family, don’t you already know what’s in it?” Lizzie’s question made it clear she didn’t know how the book worked. The information stored in the book was much larger than any one book, or even ten books, could hold. In that sense, the book was more like a computer holding a vast store of knowledge.

“Not exactly.”
John could read the disappointment on Lizzie’s face, so he quickly continued. “But, I do know that it contains stories of my family and of their journey to the United States. For all I know, there are also recipes and dress patterns, alongside crop yield information and favorite horse shoeing methods.”

All true. He also hoped the book showed the patterns of changing cultural norms and laws
over the last several centuries, as well as the marriages, births, and deaths of pack members. If he was right, there might be clues in the book that could help his pack thrive well into and beyond this century.

Lizzie was staring thoughtfully out
into the yard, possibly considering her next question, when she stood up suddenly. “I just realized the time. I’m sure my friend will be here soon, and I think it would be best if you were gone before she arrives.”

John pull
ed a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her, intentionally brushing his fingers against hers. “My cell is on the back. I’d like to meet with you again. To discuss the book, and if you’d be willing to help.” He grinned. “Look me up. I’m a completely upstanding citizen.” No lie there. He paid his taxes. And followed the law. Mostly. When it was convenient.

Seeing her indecision, he said, “I won’t knock on your door again.
Promise. Not unless I’m invited to.” He flashed his most innocent smile. He’d been told it made him look approachable. And he held up three fingers in the traditional Boy Scout’s honor sign. And he meant it—he wouldn’t be knocking.