Curse And Craving

3

The niggling doubt forced a hesitant retreat. I took a step back toward the vacant storefront, keeping my eyes locked on his—not that it helped me understand his intent. His face was masked in absolute stoicism. With such an attractive face, he didn’t seem like he should be dangerous. Or perhaps I just didn’t want him to be dangerous. Yet my skin crawled, and adrenaline started coursing through me, making my palms sweat and my head pulse. “I came to start a new job.” Why am I explaining myself to this crazy man? I could hear the words of a confident rebuff resounding in my head, but I couldn’t force them past my constricted throat. It was no different than any other time I’d been in an uncomfortable situation. I resorted to placating my tormentor. Life was easier that way. Safer. “Who are you working for?” His eyes narrowed a fraction. My brows drew together as I glanced toward the stone building behind him. “At the museum. I’m the new assistant curator.” Why the hell did it matter to him where I’d be working? “Look, I have somewhere to be. I really need to get going.” I started to turn until a strong hand clamped down around my wrist. Gasping, I spun to find the man inches away, his formidable body towering over me. For several eternal seconds, time stood still. His earthy scent filled the air around me while his penetrating stare held me captive. Eventually, I pulled in a shaking breath and tried to extract myself from the hold his eyes had over me. “Please, let me go,” I whispered. His hand squeezed tighter. “If you try to run, I’ll find you. It’s what I do.” His statement was the rumble of distant thunder, threatening a cataclysmic storm. Suddenly, I was free from his grip, though his body made no move to retreat. I should have fled the instant he let go, but it took several erratic heartbeats before I forced my body away from his gravitational pull. Securing my coat around my middle, I hurried down the sidewalk with only a quick glance over my shoulder. The man was nowhere to be seen. OceanofPDF.com Chapter Two THE NEXT MORNING, NERVOUS ENERGY HAD ME UP EARLY, IRONING MY BEST black slacks and cardigan set. I wasn’t particularly curvy and never had a flair for girlie outfits, so most of my work attire revolved around slacks and cardigans. While I wasn't blessed with an hourglass figure, I did inherit a generous chest from my mother. That was where the similarities ended. My parents were both fair with blue and hazel eyes. In contrast, my hair was almost black, and my eyes were a dark brown that suited my olive skin. Growing up, I was sometimes teased about being the milkman’s daughter. I had been blond with hazel eyes as a young child, but my coloring gradually darkened until I hardly resembled the blond baby in my mom's photo albums. Despite the teasing, I liked my dark coloring. I was often asked if I was Native American or something equally exotic. The fact of the matter was, my mom was all Irish/English, and Dad was a mutt with a German predominance. Mom’s Irish ancestry was one of the main reasons I gathered enough courage to take the job in Belfast. When the unexpected email came through from my university’s career center stating the Ulster Museum was looking for a curator position, I decided to apply on a whim, but I never thought I’d get an offer. The phone interview had gone beautifully. The next day, I was faced with a life-changing decision. I could accept my dream job in a country I’d always wanted to visit, but that would require moving an ocean away from everyone I knew and loved. I agonized for two days over the decision. Eventually, it was my ingrained love of all things Irish that had clinched my fate. Two weeks and three panic attacks later, I was on my way. The Ulster Museum was an impressive building constructed from smooth white stone. The front half of the building facing the street bore the original turn-of-the-century, multipaned windows with giant stone columns, giving it the appearance of an old courthouse or state building. On the other hand, the back half of the large building, added in recent years, was ultramodern. The two halves were somehow sewn together seamlessly in a brilliant display of architectural design. Surrounding the property were trees bursting with fall colors and a thick carpet of green grass. I pulled open the heavy solid-wood door at the front entrance and took in the lobby as I stepped inside. Much like the back half of the building, the interior had been completely updated. Smooth white surfaces adorned much of the entry with occasional rich wood paneling to warm the room. The gift shop was sectioned off by thick plate-glass walls, and through a tall archway, I glimpsed the central atrium of the four-story museum within. Pride and excitement warmed my chest as I took in the beautiful facility where I would be working. “Rebecca! You look just as lovely as your photo, lass. I’m Fergus Campbell, but you can call me Fergus. It’s wonderful to make your acquaintance in person.” A middle-aged man in a deep purple suit strode swiftly in my direction. I was quickly wrapped in a tight hug and kissed on each cheek. That would take me a while to adjust to. I wasn’t even a hugger, and I certainly didn’t walk around kissing people I hardly knew.

“Thank you so much! I’m thrilled to be here. The museum is absolutely awe-inspiring.” “It’s our home away from home. How about I show you the offices, and you can meet the rest of the staff?” he suggested animatedly as he clapped his hands together and turned toward the elevators. He was exactly as I’d pictured him after our colorful conversation over the phone. At about five-nine, he was not particularly tall but had a proud stature with red hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and blue eyes. His plumcolored suit was high quality, and the light gray dress shirt and purple striped bow tie polished off his look with sophisticated panache. He even wore shining black patent leather dress shoes that clacked on the floor as he strode to the elevator bank. “We're up on the fourth floor. I think you’ll get along with everyone swimmingly, although there are fewer of us than you might expect. We have a good number of patrons through our doors, but I’m afraid we are still a small-scale museum compared to yours in New York City,” he commented as we got on the elevator and headed to the top floor. His accent, though thick, was refined, and I found it was easier to understand in person than it had been over the phone. I wondered if he had spent some time in England or if it was just schooling that had kept his words discernable through the otherwise thick accent. “I’d much rather have a hands-on role in a smaller museum than be stuck in an office for a larger one, not that there's anything small about this museum,” I assured him as we exited the elevator. “Excellent, because you will definitely be down in the trenches here. I’ve needed some help desperately, and finding someone with the proper skills around here has been a bloody nightmare.” Lifting his hand, he guided me off the elevator and around to the glass door labeled “Administration.”