"Can you stand, chérie?"
Rising, she stifled a groan of pain and opened her mouth to tell him she was fine when he scooped her up before she could protest. "The book—I dropped it," she said, her voice thin with embarrassment as he deposited her into the chair.
"Never mind the book. Let me look at your ankle. Are you in great pain?"
She shook her head. The sharp, tearing sensation in her foot was subsiding. He removed her shoe and checked her foot and ankle. His movements were so assured and competent she decided that, somewhere in his past, he had to have had medical training. Her humiliation was melting away.
He looked relieved, but was still frowning. "I don't think it's broken." She assured him she could move it easily and the pain was nearly gone.
He sighed, l massaging her ankle. She could feel his hand, cool, yet hot. "It seems I bring you only disaster. Ill fortune seems to be following in my wake." His scowl deepened. She couldn't bear to see that dark look of his return.
"That's not true at all. To prove it, I can already stand on my ankle. See? I feel fine—great." She got to her feet. Her voice trembled though. The sensation of his touch through her nylons was making her wobbly.
He moved closer. "Do you?" he whispered. For a wild moment, she thought he would kiss her. Instead, he only sighed again softly and looked away. They were so close, Jen could smell his tantalizing scent, and nearly feel the softness of his dark honey hair against her cheek.
He's the man in my crazy dreams, she thought. I can't prove it, but I know it—he's him. There's no doubt about it. The bond between us is so strong and mysterious, just like the one with my fantasy man.
Abruptly, Dameon pulled away, breaking the trance. He started to speak but changed his mind and walked to the huge, Palladian style picture window, drawing back the sapphire, velvet curtains. He turned his back to her and faced the black, star bright sky.
Jen removed the other shoe. The room receded from her vision; she saw only Dameon. As if in a trance and feeling no pain, her feet moved on their own volition. Her internal voice of caution and propriety was drowned out by a more powerful voice—one of hungry need.
Jen put her hand on his arm, her mouth too dry to utter a sound. He faced her and pulled her roughly against him. His lips descended on hers with an urgency that left her breathless and weak kneed. She tasted the sweetness and softness of his mouth even while his kiss grew almost painfully hard and desperate. Nearly bruising her mouth.
His hands slid through the soft cascade of her hair, pulling down the pinned arrangement till it spilled over her shoulders. He withdrew his lips from hers, and his fingers traced the contours of her face, his midnight eyes burning her to the core.
He lifted a skein of her hair and pressed it to his lips. Wanting more, she pressed her body closer. She felt a cold wind rattle the glass pane and shoot through her, causing her to shiver.
In one smooth, liquid movement, he scooped her up in his arms, carried her away from chill of the window, and lowered her before the fireplace. Jen opened her eyes and the room was a swirling haze of colors. She moaned as he kissed the hollow of her throat. Her pulse leapt as his mouth burned her skin.
Jen kissed him fiercely, letting her lips find the smoothness of his neck, inhaling the deliciousness of his skin. She slid her arms around him and held on. An almost desperate feeling, as if time were running out, gripped her. She unbuttoned the snow white shirt with quick, shaking fingers. Her lips moved down the muscled breadth of his chest, down the hard length of his stomach; she felt him tremble and catch his breath.
"Oh, Jen, chérie, this is dangerous," he murmured as he stroked her hair.
"Good," was all she could manage to whisper back.
He made a strangled noise in his throat and pulled her up against his chest. Jen was taken over by some uninhibited, wild spirit. She'd never behaved like this before. She moaned and writhed as his hands caressed the narrow slenderness of her waist and back, tracing her delicate spine.
His long, elegant fingers slid around and cupped her breasts. Jen's heart crashed against her rib cage and she pressed his hands tighter. She could feel his restraint, his powerful self-control, wavering. His hands were sliding under the sleeves of her dress and tugging them down, inflaming her with a fierce desire. Her skin ached for more contact. He traced her nipples until she moaned out loud.
He trailed hot kisses down her throat to the beating pulse beneath her collarbone. She murmured his name like a mantra. Her body felt swollen and taut with desire. She hungered to feel all of him against her. To feel them blend into one sensation.
She gasped as his mouth traveled down and burned against the neckline of her dress, against the sensitive skin over her beating heart. She pressed her lower body against the solid hardness of his. The only sound in the room was their hungry, tortured breathing. Dameon's panting began to sound louder...and louder. Her ears filled with the sound as though she were caught in a wild storm. She could hear nothing but him—until suddenly she was flying backwards.
Jen fell with such savage force that she caught herself against the chair's legs. "Whaat?" she gasped. "What is it?" Shock, enormous and painful, flooded and paralyzed her senses. Her backbone throbbed, but she was scarcely aware of it.
Dameon made a choking noise halfway between a groan and a cry as he sprang unsteadily to his feet. He stumbled and slammed clumsily into the wall, his face an ashen, unrecognizable mask. Jen was shocked and quivering, unable to move. His expression frightened her, and she felt as if she were looking at a dangerous stranger. Awkwardly, she clambered to her feet to reach out to him. She pulled her dress up and covered herself.
"Dameon?" she whispered, her voice husky and sounding unlike her own. She stretched out her hands to him. His shirt gaped open and undone and his hair was mussed.
Stumbling, he backed away from her, holding his arms in front of him as if to ward her off. She was trembling and icy cold. Gooseflesh covered her arms. She tried to speak but nothing came out.
"Go—leave me." His voice was a harsh, growling rasp, barely audible through his clenched teeth. "Go. Now." He was pleading, raising his hands to shield his face. He staggered to the doorway, rigid and bowed as if under some enormous pressure, and let out an eerie, wolflike roar.
As if summoned, Calvin appeared in the doorway and coolly marched into the room, carrying a black attaché case. Swiftly, expertly, he reached out to support Dameon, who was nearly a foot taller than him. Calvin's small figure was nearly obscured by Dameon's greater size, but he was able to lead him from the room.
Jen, frozen in a state of shock, met Calvin's eyes as he glanced over his shoulder and raised one hand as if indicating she should wait. He seemed to be measuring her, and apparently concluded she would stay, before he shut the door. She found herself involuntarily shuddering as she sank into the chair. Slipping on her shoes, she closed her eyes. She couldn't have seen what she thought she saw. It had to be an optical illusion.
But it had seemed so real. Jen could have sworn she saw, for one brief moment, red glowing flames in Dameon's eyes.
It might have been only minutes before he returned, but for Jen, time was suspended indefinitely. It could have been days or years since he had left the room. He came up behind her and touched her shoulder softly. She looked up and leapt to her feet.
"You must forgive me." His voice was a hoarse whisper, and his face had returned to its formal state, though pain lines still etched his eyes. "You deserve an explanation for my extraordinary behavior."
Jen licked her dry lips and stammered, "I don't know what to say..."
"Of course," Dameon said, shaking his head. "I have a condition that requires regular medication. I try to regulate it, so that side-effects don't present themselves at inopportune moments." He paused and gave her a strained smile, creases deepening in his cheeks. "But sometimes, the unexpected happens and it causes a reaction I can't control, and then only my injections help." His voice trailed off.
> "It's all right, Dameon. I understand, or at least I want to. Have you had this…illness for long?
"Since birth," he answered quietly, avoiding her eyes. She longed to ask more, what the disease was and if there was a cure, but something unnamed restrained her.
"Well," he exhaled softly. "I wouldn't blame you if you leave and never return." He attempted a lightness in his words, but failed. The expression in his eyes was suddenly sad and old.
Jen took his hands in hers. "I do want to come back, if you'll let me. I'm not that easy to chase away." His hands were like ice as she enfolded them against her own.
Dameon lifted one of her hands and laid it briefly against his cheek. He closed his eyes as if against another flash of pain. "You are..." He stopped himself. "A kind-hearted girl, but a foolhardy one as well." Their eyes locked. She sucked in her breath. Dameon looked away. "I should take you home, chérie. You must let me drive you. Tomorrow, I will drop off your car. But, it's late now and not safe for you to drive alone."
She allowed him to wrap her into her cape, and neither spoke as they walked down another hallway Jen hadn't seen yet. They passed a marble framed mirror, and she glanced to check her appearance. She noted the tumbled down appearance of her hair and how feverishly her eyes glittered. She looked alien to herself.
For the briefest of seconds, she saw Dameon's reflection in the mirror. But then it flickered in and out like a fading TV image. She turned to get a second look, but they were too far down the hall and already near the door.
I'm losing my mind, she told herself as they walked into the enormous, immaculate and heated garage. Jen nearly gasped out loud when she saw the silver antique Rolls Royce, a Phantom III Sports Saloon. Something was teasing her mind—a memory. The car seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn't think why.
The seats inside were unbelievably soft and the interior was nearly as roomy as her entire living room. The car skimmed along the night black road, handling the unpaved surface easily. Despite the evening's turbulence, she couldn't help but enjoy the ride. The air was still, and outside, the world was unusually silent. Jen leaned back and studied the diamond bright stars. Dameon drove expertly, and never took his eyes off the road once. She found herself disappointed when they reached her driveway, unwilling for it to be over.
As he turned, he put the car in park, and looked at her without speaking. Moved by emotions she was afraid to examine too closely, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She was too intimidated to kiss him on the mouth.
"I want to see you again," she whispered recklessly over the sound of her blood beating in her ears.
Dameon was motionless for a moment before writing his phone number on a slip of paper. "Think long and hard, chérie, about seeing me again. I will understand if you choose not to call. " As she tucked the paper into her red clutch purse, he watched her, and looked as if he wanted to say something more. Instead, he stepped out of the car to open her car door. "I'll wait while you go in," he assured her.
Jen thought of inviting him in, but discarded the idea. She was sure he would turn her down. Halfway up the walk, she turned. "I will call you," she asserted earnestly, speaking with more force than normal.
He returned her wave with a partial salute before speeding off into the night.
The house was strangely noiseless. Jen couldn't hear the ticking of the clock or Cobbs. She felt bone-weary, yet too wound up to sleep or think, and the atmosphere in the house unnerved her. She felt the need to do something—anything. Slowly, she pulled out her camera case and tripod and stood debating whether she was up to a trek outside. Her mind was too unfocused. She wouldn't be able to distract herself with her camera. It only made her think of Dameon's book and Dameon himself.
In the hall mirror, she studied herself, and tried to recall just what it was that she had seen when Dameon passed by his mirror. Had she been hallucinating? First, the red lights in his eyes, then the disappearing image in the looking glass. What was going on? Why was her world suddenly turned upside down? Maybe her mother was right. Maybe Jen was out of touch with reality.
Her pale face stared back at her. Her reflection wavered momentarily. Shaken, she literally ran to the kitchen in desperate need for bright lights and hot cocoa.
Too bad she didn't have any whiskey to put in it. An old-fashioned remedy for comfort and common sense, her mother's recipe. Yawning, and feeling more settled and reassured, she left the mug unwashed in the sink, and quickly stripped off the red velvet gown. Wearing only her pink slip, she climbed beneath her quilt. She pulled the pins from her tangled hair, wishing it were his hands touching her.
The room felt stuffy and she sat up to unlatch the window—too exhausted to worry about burglars or the like crawling in. The cool air wafted in, and the stars seemed close enough to touch. Jen fell into a deep, consuming sleep.
* * * *
Dameon was awake, since sleep during the night hours was not for him. He hungered too much for too many things. The feel of her lips, the smell of her hair, the trust and tenderness in her voice. He was unhappy. She had seen too much tonight. Or, was the truth that he secretly wanted her to see, and wanted her acceptance? A craving, a hunger that he hated, rose within him. A craving as old as time, the downfall of his father and his father's ancestors, causing them to be hunted down and destroyed by the humans. Her closeness, her kisses, had triggered this hated hunger. Which had terrified him. How, for one very fleeting moment, he had longed for it, had longed for the taste of blood. Even hers.
* * * *
Tatiana smiled contentedly to herself as she reclined gracefully amidst black silk sheets, her personal trademark. Hotels were always willing to comply with her particular needs for the right price. The young man who had just departed had been a pleasant diversion. He never even knew that she had snuck a small amount of his blood. It was such a fine line between mere dining and actual transformation. Too much would result in the heavy responsibility of bringing another vampire into the world. Of course, if one drank over a certain limit, there was a corpse to be rid of. Which would most likely attract the police, who would inconveniently become interested enough to start sniffing around.
Not that she was worried about the police. She could always extract herself from unpleasant situations, but who needed the bother? Or the expense? There were two things that were sure to enrage her mother: creating a public disturbance and consequently creating too much interest in one's affairs, and spending too much money, accruing debts one couldn't pay. And Claudia enraged was a terrifying spectacle to behold.
She gave a catlike smile and stretched languorously. She was not worried. She could handle any being, including her mother. Including Dameon. Including the human female he was so entranced with. Thinking of the female made her salivate. It wasn't enough to use the young car thief to plot Dameon's future. Tatiana needed more, something juicier to satisfy her appetites. Dameon's pet human would provide her with entertainment.
* * * *
Dameon was driven. The need inside of him would not subsist. How could he be a part of her life, cursed as he was? Blighted by the legacy his father had left him with? The faces of his victims from long ago still haunted him, were part of him. He remembered as a child his mother supplying the blood, and his horror when he was old enough to understand how she obtained it. "It's not wrong!" his mother had cried and protested. "You must live, after all. The people I get the blood from are criminals and miscreants, outcasts of the world..."
She hadn't known back then that he, in some way, absorbed his victims' souls. He felt their pain, rage and loathing. No matter how monstrous or despicable the victim was in life, killing him or her was not a simple, easy process. He could never take the murders lightly. And, in some of the humans, he saw a flicker of what they could have been. Outcasts in the world who had given up all traces of humanity, but he could see the possibilities of what could have been before their souls became so diseased. Maybe that was why he felt compassion for misfits in the an
imal kingdom. Only too well he understood their plight, as a feared and hated hunter himself, and with his insight to his victims.
As he grew older, before modern alternatives were available, he’d foraged for the blood himself when the drug didn't work. Full of self-loathing that he couldn't master his hunger, he would set out at night. Night, such a beautiful, lyrical setting and time. Night also was the cover criminals used to commit their acts. A vampire could take blood without killing or transforming his victim, if he chose. Vampans did not have this choice. They must kill or transform. The criminals were often mankind's most evil offspring, creatures who committed monstrous deeds. But, still, the fear and desperation in their dying eyes was something he would not forget.
Now, there were other ways to get blood, if necessary. It was impossible, though, to ever forget what he had done, and what he was still capable of. He must stay away from her. What if he had lost control, and God forbid, given in to his cravings? He could have hurt, or even destroyed, her and that was something he could never allow to happen.
Chapter Eight
Still no word from Dameon. Jen peered listlessly out the window of her bedroom. Sunday proved to be a perversely pleasant surprise with a lemon-bright sun bursting through the chalky, gray sky, turning the landscape into a rainbow of wet, sparkling autumn colors. Saturday had been gloomy and stormy, the raining falling in dense gray sheets. Her mood had been as dark, and now the sunshine seemed to mock her. Her mind had been churning relentlessly. Maybe I should call him, she fretted, pacing around the room.
It's not like it's the end of the world. Maybe Dameon has something like diabetes, she debated with herself. Or maybe it was epilepsy. She reached for her brush and stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror. You know he has something much worse than that, taunted a tiny, ruthless voice in her head. Something unspeakable.
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 10
