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Chapter Eight
Elena had gone into the bathroom dazed and numbly grateful. She came out angry.
She wasn't quite sure how the transformation had taken place. But sometime while she was washing
the scratches on her face and arms, annoyed at the lack of a mirror and at the fact she'd left her purse
in Tyler's convertible, she started feeling again. And what she felt was anger.
Damn Stefan Salvatore. So cold and controlled even while saving her life. Damn him for his
politeness, and for his gallantry, and for the walls around him that seemed thicker and higher than
ever.
She pulled the remaining bobby pins out of her hair and used them to fasten the front of her dress
together. Then she ran through her loosened hair quickly with an engraved bone comb she found by the
sink. She came out of the bathroom with her chin held high and her eyes narrowed.
He hadn't put his coat back on. He was standing by the window in his white sweater with bowed
head, tense, waiting. Without lifting his head, he gestured to a length of dark velvet laid over the back
of a chair.
"You might want to put that on over your dress."
It was a full-length cloak, very rich and soft, with a hood. Elena pulled the heavy material around
her shoulders. But she was not mollified by the gift; she noticed that Stefan hadn't come any closer to
her, or even looked at her while speaking.
Deliberately, she invaded his territorial space, pulling the cloak more tightly about her and feeling,
even at that moment, a sensual appreciation of the way the folds fell about her, trailing behind her on
the floor. She walked up to him and made an examination of the heavy mahogany dresser by the
window.
On it lay a wicked-looking dagger with an ivory hilt and a beautiful agate cup mounted in silver.
There were also a golden sphere with some sort of dial set into it and several loose gold coins.
She picked up one of the coins, partly because it was interesting and partly because she knew it
would upset him to see her handling his things. "What's this?"
It was a moment before he answered. Then he said:
"A gold florin. A Florentine coin."
"And what's this?"
"A German pendant watch. Late fifteenth century," he said distractedly. He added, "Elena – "
She reached for a small iron coffer with a hinged lid. "What about this? Does it open?"
"No." He had the reflexes of a cat; his hand slapped over the coffer, holding the lid down. "That's
private," he said, the strain obvious in his voice.
She noticed that his hand made contact only with the curving iron lid and not with her flesh. She
lifted her fingers, and he drew back at once.
Suddenly, her anger was too great to hold in any longer. "Careful," she said savagely. "Don't touch