“I’m glad you did,” she said, seeing no reason to be coy.
His gaze dropped to the book on her lap, and he tilted to read the spine. “Don Quixote?”
“It’s my favorite novel,” she said.
Luke slanted her a disapproving glance. “But you’re reading a terrible translation.”
“I am? I didn’t know there was more than one.”
“Don Quixotehas been translated into English eleven times in the last two hundred years,” Luke said. “The twelfth will be out later this year, and it’s the best.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the translator.”
She burst into laughter. “No!”
He grinned. “Yes!”
“Why are you bothering to translate a book that’s already been translated so often?”
“Because the other translations are lousy. I’ve read them all, and know I can do better.”
It was such an arrogant thing to say, but it was impossible not to smile at his unabashed boasting, and if he had read eleven different translations ofDon Quixote, he must love the novel as much as she did.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he continued. “This translation is shamefully close to my heart, and aside from my editor at the publishing company, no one knows about it.”
The fact that he shared the secret with her triggered a tiny thrill. “Why haven’t you told anyone about it?”
“It’s embarrassing.” He blushed madly as he spoke, so apparently he was genuinely sensitive about it. This was a man who risked his life to save a stranger’s dog but was embarrassedabout his secret translation project. “It’s not a traditional translation. I’ve modernized it. I’m not as long-winded as Cervantes, and English is a very different language than Spanish. I’m afraid I took some literary license. A lot, actually.”
Marianne’s brows rose. “Are you allowed to do that?”
He shrugged. “I’m doing it. The other translations are so literal. A word-for-word translation sounds unnatural in English. I want the text to heave with emotion. I don’t want Don Quixote to be sad, I want him to rend his garments and howl in despair. I want blood and tears on the page. It’s going to be a controversial translation. A lot of people will hate it.”
“Blood and tears on the page? My, weareextravagant today.”
He preened at her comment. “We are extravagant every day,” he admitted. “Passion is what sets the world ablaze and drives men to strike out for the horizon and discover new worlds. It makes me get up in the morning looking for a new dragon to slay or an antiquated text begging for the breath of new life.”
She couldn’t wait for hisDon Quixotetranslation. If he wrote with the same fervor with which he spoke, the book would probably burst into flame while she read it.
“The darkroom is all yours, Marianne.”
It was Abel Zakowski, her fellow photographer from the department, nodding to her on his way out the front door. Never had she been less eager to head into the darkroom.
She sent an apologetic glance to Luke. “I only get an hour, so I can’t loiter.”
“I’ve never been in a darkroom,” Luke said. “Can I join you?”
She longed to spend more time with him, but a darkroom wasn’t the ideal place. “It can be a little stinky.”
“I don’t mind stinky,” he said with a good-humored wink.
She had a lot of work to squeeze into the next hour, so she tuckedDon Quixoteinto her satchel and stood. “Then let’s go,” she said, and he rose to follow her.
Was this really happening? Was the world’s most charmingand exciting man only steps behind her as they headed down a narrow hallway toward the darkroom?
She led the way inside, where the sharp scent of silver nitrate was ever-present in the air. She pulled the heavy drape away from the only window to let daylight into the room.
