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He waits at the top of the staircase, and when I reach him, he moves to the door, grasping both knobs. “I know you’ve been bored here the last week. This might help with that.”
His hands turn the brass, and he pushes open the doors.
The familiar scent of parchment, ink, and old books hits me so hard that it brings tears to my eyes.
It can’t be…
A gasp slips from my lips as I move forward into the massive library.
Floor-to-ceiling bookcases cover every square inch of the walls and stand in rows from one end of the huge space to the other. Each crammed with a collection of books that makes what we have at the Lewis and Clark Library—the oldest in Montana—look like a kindergarten classroom’s bookshelf.
Two long tables run down the center with various papers and books spread out across them, as if The Beast himself has been up here working.
It takes several minutes for me to take in everything from my position, which is only a few steps into the room. Stunned silent, I gape, turning to The Beast. “Oh, my God…”
Why would a man like Weston Barker have a library like this?
He fights a smirk at my stunned-stupid reaction, and I wander to the right, to the first bookcase that appears to be all British authors. A set of three simply bound publisher-board style editions immediately draws my eye to the author’s name.
My hand shakes as I reach for one of the books, then jerk it back. “Is that…a first edition?”
Weston approaches and carefully slides one book of the set from its place, turning it toward me and flipping open the first page. “Pride and Prejudice printed in 1813.”
A first fucking edition…
“That has to be worth fifty grand!”
His lips curl into a satisfied smirk. “Closer to one hundred, I would imagine.”
Holy shit.
I scan the rest of the case in front of me. It alone holds at least a million dollars’ worth of books, if not more. Titles and editions I would never find in my library, nor at most libraries anywhere in the world.
My eyes move from them to the entire vast room that takes up the entire third floor of the house. “How did you get all these?”
He moves over to one of the tables and leans back against it, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. Fabric pulls over his biceps and his shoulders, and he crosses his ankles and scans the room. “Many of these books have been in my family since we built this house. Some came with us from England, well before Montana was even a territory.”
“Really?”
Nodding slowly, he motions toward glass-fronted bookcases along one wall. “Those are locked in climate control due to their age. My many-times great grandfather was a librarian in London. He kept the important records for the Barker family for generations, which is now my job.”
Along with burying the bodies…
That little mental reminder of the other night sends a shiver through me as I scan the papers and books spread out on the table. Perhaps documentation of the current workings of the Barker family. Certainly nothing he would ever want me to see. But there are so many books here; there isn’t any way I could read all of them in ten lifetimes.
Fiction.
Nonfiction.
Every author.
Every book imaginable exists in this one glorious space.
I can’t manage to find my words as I move down the racks across the far wall, trying to take in every spine but unable to read them fast enough as my heart jackrabbits. “Do you have any idea how important this place is?”
“To you? Yes.”
I freeze, unable to look at him when his words have stolen my breath.
