“Have you been to the lake at night?”he asked.
“I haven’t been to the lake at all except to drive past it every now and then.”
“You need to get out more, love.”
“This from the man who works seven days a week.”
“Touché.”
Even in the dark, the lake was beautiful with the nearly full moon reflecting white light off the waves.Maybe he’d buy her a sailboat and they’d sail along the coast, stopping at the small towns along the way.
The idea sounded wonderful, but he recognized the impossibility of it.To take his mind off the treasure would be disastrous, yet he found it difficult to concentrate when Madelaine was around.
“Tell me about your family.”He didn’t need to ask because he knew everything.More than even Madelaine knew, but he found himself wanting to hear about her life from her.And, yes, he wanted to connect to someone who had a family.
She shrugged.“Not much to tell.I grew up on a farm and was an only child.”
“Growing up on a farm sounds like fun.”
He’d grown up on a farm, as well.For the first time in years he let himself think about his long-dead family.His four brothers and five sisters were always into mischief, always laughing, always happy.Looking back, he had to think his mother had been stressed but she never showed it.He remembered her laughing a lot and even wading through the creek that ran beside their house, searching for toads with them.His father had been a hard worker, always in the fields, coming home late at night and leaving early in the morning.’Twas a wonder he managed to impregnate his wife as many times as he did.
They were all dead, of course.Wiped out when the bubonic plague spread through their small village.By then Christien was already immortal and deep into the intrigue of the Knights Templar, but he’d still grieved for them.
She shivered, bringing him out of his musings.
“Cold?”he asked.
“Content.”
He drew her closer for a quick hug, feeling the same contentment, an emotion he hadn’t experienced since wading in the creek and laughing with his mother.
She twisted her head to look up at him.“Tell me about you,” she said.“And your family.”
He shrugged, dislodging her head then guiding it back with the tips of his fingers until she rested comfortably again.“I was born and raised in France—”
“What city?”
He hesitated.“A small town you wouldn’t recognize.”
“Brothers and sisters?”
How much to tell her?On his official biography put out through his company, he listed himself as an only child because it prevented people from looking too deeply into his past.A past he reinvented every few decades.And yet a part of him wanted to tell her about himself—his real self—not some story created for the press.
“None,” he finally said, hating himself for lying and not yet ready for the truth.
“Parents?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry.”She covered his hand with hers.
“’Twas a long time ago.”
He pushed the glider again.From so far up they barely heard the long line of people outside the club.
“Tell me,” she said into the silence, “about us.In that other time.”
Christien stilled, but quickly resumed the motion of the glider.
