The Lost Garden (The Lost Garden Trilogy Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: K.T. Tomb
around. His eyes never stopped looking for her, but he was afraid he had missed her. The ambush by the Pearlmans had cost him a chance to meet his dream woman.
You’re being silly , he told himself. How could your dream woman be real?
Knight knew that was a logical question that should have an obvious answer . He had long ago lost his grasp of what could and couldn’t be real. The woman he had seen tonight could have fit the description, but this wasn’t the first time he had jumped the gun. Throughout most of his life, any particularly tall, black-haired woman had set his mind and heart racing, until he could see the woman was not the beauty of his dreams, a woman he knew to be a warrior, by the way she dressed and handled her sword.
Knight was no stranger to the sword. Ever since his early dreams of a flaming one, he had been intrigued by the weapon. He had taken up fencing in college. He had been a national champion for four straight years.
Now, she was nowhere in sight. She had obviously slipped out the back the moment the lecture was over and now, he might never see her again. Knight fought an overwhelming desire to run outside and search the departing crowd, but he knew it was useless. The woman was gone. A great sense of loss overcame him, but he fought through it bravely. After all, she had probably been just another close call. Not truly the dream woman. The dream woman, he reminded himself again, did not exist and he was once again behaving like a fool.
For a short time tonight, though, he had been filled with hope. It had been a long time since he had felt hope. For now, he had to entertain a bunch of stuffy academics. He had to get through the night and forget the woman. He was planning on having more than his fair share of drinks.
Chapter Two
As Evan Knight pushed open the front door to his Malibu home overlooking the ocean, he realized how exhausted he was.
He was mentally fatigued as he tossed his keys and wallet in a Phoenician copper dish that he had personally brought up from the bottom of the Mediterranean. He was certain that the artisan who had created the dish had never meant it to be used in such a manner. Nevertheless, Knight liked it and found a certain satisfaction that it was still of some practical use and not housed away in the bowels of a museum.
He stopped in mid-step, thinking he’d heard a noise from somewhere. He listened, but the sound did not repeat. The old house often made settling noises. This had sounded...different. He let it go.
His spacious three-bedroom home was modestly decorated. He had custom-made mahogany bookshelves running the entire length of one wall, and most of another. His furniture was designed for easy access to his library of over ten thousand books; it was filled with mostly obscure historical works, with the occasional Crichton and Michener thrown in for lazy days.
He thought his home was too cozy, with muted lamps and dark paneling. He loved coming home, but he also loved to be abroad. He could only stay cooped up for so long.
Just a handful of women had been entertained here. They rarely came back, and he suspected it was because his heart just wasn’t into it. Few women intrigued him enough to pursue them.
The home had cost a fortune, but he had inherited a lot of money from his grandfather and he made a good salary as a professor at Pepperdine University in Malibu, a school tolerant of his radical views toward history and religion.
It was 12:30 a.m., and the woman hadn’t shown up again. He had half-expected her to make a grand appearance at the bar across the street from University of Long Beach. No such luck. He knew he should go to bed, because he was tired. That damn woman at the lecture had been determined to make a fool of him. He should have probably kept his mouth shut, but he’d noticed more and more of late that he was able to speak from his heart and he knew the reason why.
The dreams were recurring more often, and had
You’re being silly , he told himself. How could your dream woman be real?
Knight knew that was a logical question that should have an obvious answer . He had long ago lost his grasp of what could and couldn’t be real. The woman he had seen tonight could have fit the description, but this wasn’t the first time he had jumped the gun. Throughout most of his life, any particularly tall, black-haired woman had set his mind and heart racing, until he could see the woman was not the beauty of his dreams, a woman he knew to be a warrior, by the way she dressed and handled her sword.
Knight was no stranger to the sword. Ever since his early dreams of a flaming one, he had been intrigued by the weapon. He had taken up fencing in college. He had been a national champion for four straight years.
Now, she was nowhere in sight. She had obviously slipped out the back the moment the lecture was over and now, he might never see her again. Knight fought an overwhelming desire to run outside and search the departing crowd, but he knew it was useless. The woman was gone. A great sense of loss overcame him, but he fought through it bravely. After all, she had probably been just another close call. Not truly the dream woman. The dream woman, he reminded himself again, did not exist and he was once again behaving like a fool.
For a short time tonight, though, he had been filled with hope. It had been a long time since he had felt hope. For now, he had to entertain a bunch of stuffy academics. He had to get through the night and forget the woman. He was planning on having more than his fair share of drinks.
Chapter Two
As Evan Knight pushed open the front door to his Malibu home overlooking the ocean, he realized how exhausted he was.
He was mentally fatigued as he tossed his keys and wallet in a Phoenician copper dish that he had personally brought up from the bottom of the Mediterranean. He was certain that the artisan who had created the dish had never meant it to be used in such a manner. Nevertheless, Knight liked it and found a certain satisfaction that it was still of some practical use and not housed away in the bowels of a museum.
He stopped in mid-step, thinking he’d heard a noise from somewhere. He listened, but the sound did not repeat. The old house often made settling noises. This had sounded...different. He let it go.
His spacious three-bedroom home was modestly decorated. He had custom-made mahogany bookshelves running the entire length of one wall, and most of another. His furniture was designed for easy access to his library of over ten thousand books; it was filled with mostly obscure historical works, with the occasional Crichton and Michener thrown in for lazy days.
He thought his home was too cozy, with muted lamps and dark paneling. He loved coming home, but he also loved to be abroad. He could only stay cooped up for so long.
Just a handful of women had been entertained here. They rarely came back, and he suspected it was because his heart just wasn’t into it. Few women intrigued him enough to pursue them.
The home had cost a fortune, but he had inherited a lot of money from his grandfather and he made a good salary as a professor at Pepperdine University in Malibu, a school tolerant of his radical views toward history and religion.
It was 12:30 a.m., and the woman hadn’t shown up again. He had half-expected her to make a grand appearance at the bar across the street from University of Long Beach. No such luck. He knew he should go to bed, because he was tired. That damn woman at the lecture had been determined to make a fool of him. He should have probably kept his mouth shut, but he’d noticed more and more of late that he was able to speak from his heart and he knew the reason why.
The dreams were recurring more often, and had
Readers choose
Kylie Brant
Karin Tabke
Richard Wagamese
Danielle Steel
Gladys Mitchell
Robert N. Thompson
James Patterson
K. Hollan Van Zandt
C. James Jensen
Maisey Yates