“Cousin Elizabeth,” he said, letting his eyes do the laughing. “How wonderful to meet you at last. Thank you,” he added to the receptionist, taking the envelope from her nerveless fingers, before ushering “Cousin Elizabeth” away from the desk—and into the waiting huddle of his bodyguard and press secretary.
Josh took care of their objections before they were uttered with one peremptory wave of the hand, and an extra glare for Mark, who felt orders he didn’t like shouldn’t apply to him. With reluctance as well as a look of wounded outrage, Mark fell back too.
“What can I do for you, Cousin?” Josh inquired, smiling, when they had a couple of feet of space.
For the first time, she looked slightly flummoxed. A hint of color tinged her pale cheeks. “We are actually cousins,” she said apologetically. “Very distant, but still related. I’ve been trying to talk to you for months—so have my friends—but your people never let us near you, even by phone.”
“Sorry,” Josh said easily. “I’m afraid I get a lot of crank calls and letters. Sometimes genuine ones get blocked with them.”
Of course, he still had no way of judging which category she belonged in, and her quick, sardonic smile acknowledged it.
“I understand,” she said. “Do you know your family tree? Our nearest common ancestor is Harry Alexander, whose son Daniel emigrated to America in the late nineteenth century. Harry’s daughter married Robert Silk and stayed in Scotland.”
“Good old Harry,” Josh said, but he felt the smile fading from his lips. Cousin Elizabeth Silk had surprised him again. Either she’d done a lot of homework—which made her rather more dangerous than an opportunistic fan—or she really was a distant cousin. “That’s a long way back.”
“Oh, it goes a lot further, which is what I want to talk to you about. Do you have a few minutes?”
Hell, she was beautiful, and in the sort of way he didn’t see every day. She’d worked hard to get to him. She deserved a treat, and after all the difficulties of filming on location under the Scottish weather, so did he. For her beautiful hair and her seductive voice, to say nothing of whatever delights lay hidden beneath her nondescript jeans and jacket, he was prepared to risk it.
“Sure,” he said, indicating the elevator, outside which his entourage still lurked, watching them with suspicion. “My schedule is clear. Come on up.”
Color flooded her face. She knew exactly what he meant, and the quick flash of indignation in her dark hazel eyes told him he’d made a rare misjudgment. Nevertheless, her gaze remained steady.
“That’s not necessary,” she said icily. “If we could just sit there . . .” She indicated a nearby sofa in the reception area, with a low table and newspapers. “. . . I’ll only take ten minutes of your time.”
Josh made a fast recovery. Employing the boyish, slightly rueful grin that had worked for him since childhood, he spread his hands. “I can’t be here at all for more than two minutes, or the place gets invaded by press. They’re probably already on their way. I understand your concern, but acquit me of dishonorable designs! I was only looking for a bit of privacy.”
Her gaze fell away, as if she was ashamed, and he knew she’d bought it. Which was a relief, because having started this, whatever it was, he rather wanted to see where it led.
“Of course,” she muttered. “I forgot. The life of a film star can’t be easy.”
“It has compensations. Tell you what, we could go out for dinner and talk. You pick the restaurant. Preferably somewhere small and discreet where we won’t attract attention.”
A faint smile returned to her eyes. “All right.”
She was delightful. There was no mad dash to change for dinner, to repair her makeup—she didn’t appear to be wearing any, so far as Josh could tell—or even to comb her hair. She simply walked with him, Mark, and Fenstein the bodyguard, out of the hotel by the discreet side exit and into a cab, which she directed.
Edinburgh was a small city, and it wasn’t far to her chosen restaurant. Downhill from the fashionable central part of the city into slightly dingier territory. The driver knew the place she named and dropped them off at the door.
Elizabeth didn’t even blink when Mark entered the restaurant with them, spoke quietly with the manager, and handed over the bribe that would facilitate a fast exit around the back if the press got wind of Josh’s presence here.
“This is nice,” Josh said genuinely, looking around him when they were seated. “Homey.”
“The food is wonderful,” Elizabeth said, just a little too enthusiastically. As if she understood he was used to more fashionable and expensive haunts and didn’t want to be ashamed of the best place she knew.
“You’ve been here before?” he asked easily.
“A couple of times with a work colleague.”
“What do you do?”
“I teach at St. Andrews University. On a temporary contract. I’ve just finished my PhD, waiting for the verdict.”
Ah, she was an academic. He should have guessed sooner, for her appearance gave it away—a little unworldly and scatty, uncaring of her appearance, since her mind, no doubt, lingered in higher planes of learning. He wondered what the hell she made of Psychics, despite its commercial success.
But damn, she was a lot prettier than any of the academics he’d ever encountered before. And a lot cooler than most of the women who blatantly sought him out with feeble excuses and downright lies. Her smile was friendly when she met his curious gaze, but no more than that. If she hadn’t been kicking up a fuss at the hotel for him he’d never have believed that she was remotely interested in him. A bit lowering for the ego, perhaps, but for some reason it made her all the more intriguing.
He couldn’t make up his mind about her age. She might have been as young as twenty-three or -four, or ten years older.
He waited until he’d ordered wine before asking, “What’s your thesis on?”
“Historical superstitions,” Elizabeth said. There was the smallest pause before she added, “Which is part of what I need to talk to you about.”
“Yes? My father would have been more help to you there. He had more superstitions than the rest of us put together.”
“Really? What kind of superstitions?”
“All kinds,” Josh said. He gave the quick, affectionate grin that the poignant memory of his father always inspired. “My dad was a great guy. A bit eccentric, perhaps, but where’s the harm in giving free rein to your imagination?”
“None. Isn’t that how you earn your living?”
Surprised, Josh laughed. “I suppose so.” The waiter appeared at his side, and while he went through the required ritual of tasting the wine, which was pretty good, considering, he took another quick, appraising look around the restaurant. It was quiet, being midweek, and they had been obligingly placed at the back, near the kitchen entrance, with an empty table between them and the nearest patrons, none of whom were paying him any attention. They wouldn’t easily be overheard either. She’d picked just the right place, and Josh warmed to her all over again. A buzz of excitement began to flow through his body at the prospect not just of dinner with this intriguing woman, but the far greater intimacies that would inevitably follow.
Josh kept up a flow of light conversation until their starters arrived, telling her amusing anecdotes about traveling and filming. Many of his jokes were against himself and it was quite fun to watch Elizabeth thaw and warm to his self-deprecation. It wasn’t entirely assumed either. In truth Josh still found the whole stardom thing funny. Emily, his wife, had helped keep his feet on the ground when he was younger, and now that she was dead, he couldn’t seem to take anything else very seriously, even the catapulting-to-megastardom status that had come with the success of Psychics. But he still got a kick out of surprising the enigmatic Elizabeth.
“So,” he said over their starters, “what in particular did you want to talk about? Family or superstition?”
“Both.”
“Fantastic.
Have I inherited a haunted castle in Scotland?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Not to my knowledge.” She took a forkful of her lemon risotto and appeared to savor it before she added, “In fact, what you have inherited, you won’t want. We have another common ancestor, far older than Harry Alexander. A seventeenth-century Hungarian lady called Tsigana.”
“Interesting,” Josh allowed. He let the creamy sauce melt on his tongue and swallowed. “Wow, this pasta is good!”
But Elizabeth wasn’t distracted. “Have you heard of her? Tsigana?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“She was very . . . colorful, let’s say. In fact, she murdered someone.”
“They can’t touch us for it, can they?” Josh asked in mock alarm.
“It depends on who you mean by ‘they.’ ”
Warning prickles in his neck caused Josh to lay down his fork and pick up his wineglass. He gazed at her over the rim. “Go on.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Someone does still want revenge for that killing. And he’s taking it out on Tsigana’s descendants.”
Oh, damnation. Mad as a coot. Josh sipped his wine and set down his glass. “Are the police dealing with this lunatic?” Are they dealing with you?
“Not the police exactly. But other authorities are trying to stop him, yes. In fact, I sort of represent this authority.”
Josh didn’t frown. On the contrary, he kept his face smooth, offering no clues as to his true thoughts. “Some sort of intelligence service?” he hazarded.
“Sort of,” Elizabeth said doubtfully, making the corner of his mouth twitch. He hadn’t expected doubt so much as self-important boasting. “The point is, this organization has been trying to reach you for several months to warn you and to offer protection. When I saw your press conference announced, I thought this was my last chance to see you in person and pass that warning on before you went home.”
“Well, thanks,” Josh said, allowing a twinkle back into his eyes. He was sure his original assessment was right—she wasn’t dangerous. “But I’m afraid I don’t get exactly what you’re warning me about. Some madman who dislikes me because I’m descended from your Hungarian lady?”
“Um, yes.” She sounded apologetic.
“Doesn’t he dislike you too, then?”
Elizabeth smiled into her wine. “We’ve had our run-ins,” she said, and drank a little.
Now, what the hell did that mean? “Okay.” Curiously, Josh watched her lower the glass. “I’ll keep my eyes open for the lunatic. Thanks for the warning.”
“Thanks for pretending you mean it,” Elizabeth countered, and Josh let out a surprised laugh. Crazy or not, she was still rather delightful. “There’s more,” she added before he could get his hopes up too far. “And this is the difficult bit, because I have to make you realize the threat is real and lethal. You said your father was superstitious—do you share any of his beliefs? For example, do you believe in the existence of vampires?”
Josh sighed. “Nope. Nor werewolves, goblins, zombies, demons, or even bad luck.” He shifted in his seat and now only good manners prevented him from looking at his watch. He’d plead tiredness and skip dessert. Damn it, he really wanted to get laid, and she was so deliciously layable. . . .
“Taxi for Mr. Alexander,” she said with a quick, wry smile, surprising him all over again. Clearly, there was nothing wrong with her observational skills. “It’s all right,” she soothed. “I’m not insane. A year ago, I didn’t believe in any of these things either, but some of them, at least, are real. There is a vampire out there—a very strong and ruthless one—picking off all Tsigana’s living descendants. And those of the other conspirators in his murder. Not only for revenge, but because they, you and I, carry the blood of his killers, and that blood gives him a kind of mystical power.”
“If Tsigana killed him,” Josh interjected, seeking an easy victory through reason, “how come he’s still running around?”
“He was . . . awakened. By accident.” Her eyes flickered away and back, as if she’d briefly lost courage and then recovered it. “His name is Saloman.”
Saloman? Where had he heard that name before? Unimportant. “Okay.” He sat back to let the waiter take his plate. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
Elizabeth regarded him ruefully. “No, you won’t. You don’t believe a word of it, and the worst of it is, I can’t blame you for that. Just be watchful. I should tell you that two fellow descendants of ours have died in the last six months, probably at his hands. But at least you have bodyguards and people to look out for you.” Again came those warning prickles, but he didn’t have time to work out whether they came from her or from her warning, for she was speaking again. “Josh?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me you won’t throw away that letter I tried to leave at the hotel. It’s got the phone numbers of people who can help you if you’re ever in need of it. One of them is mine. The other is for an international organization that deals with threats like this. The one I mentioned earlier. You should contact them, let them protect you.”
Josh rubbed one finger across his lips. He wanted to be honest and tell her he’d throw the letter out as soon as he got back to the hotel. Tell her to fuck off because she wasn’t the easy-if-eccentric lay he’d believed her to be when they first spoke. But he could never quite shake off the courtesy that formed the foundation of his nature. Nor could he lie, he acknowledged with regret, even to a stranger.
Josh sighed and touched his breast pocket, where he’d stashed the letter. It still rustled. “I promise.”
Chapter Two
Returning to the hotel alone hadn’t been in Josh’s original plan, but he supposed, as he shut his bedroom door, that it could have been a worse evening. Once the crazy talk had been gotten out of the way, he’d rather enjoyed Elizabeth’s company. She was intelligent and humorous and happy to listen to his stories. He’d even told her a bit about Emily, and she hadn’t pried or annoyed him with outpourings of false sympathy. On the contrary, he’d felt she understood grief and he’d picked up a wave of quiet, sincere compassion. He should have asked her about her own life more, discovered where that understanding had come from, for he doubted he’d ever see her again.
Mind you, away from the crazy talk of vampires and revenge, he realized he wouldn’t actually object to seeing her again. After all, he’d accepted his father’s similar oddities and still loved him. It struck him now, throwing his jacket on his large, empty bed, that there had been a certain empathy between him and Elizabeth. Or perhaps he was imagining that because he was bored with the rich and self-seeking sirens who seemed to form the bulk of his acquaintances these days.
Smiling sourly, he walked toward the bathroom, only to be distracted by the ringing of his phone. He picked it up from the dresser and glanced at the name on the screen. Senator Dante. One didn’t ignore Senator Grayson Dante.
“Senator, hello!” he greeted him with polite enthusiasm. “How are you?”
“I’m great! In fact, I’m in Scotland!”
“Good lord. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I had some talks with the prime minister in London, and then they wheeled me up here to meet the queen at her Scottish castle—Balmoral.”
Josh whistled to show how impressed he was, and began to ease out of his shirt while Dante continued to speak.
“Anyway, I’ve rented this amazing house for the week, thought I’d throw a party here this weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Josh approved, removing Elizabeth’s letter from his shirt pocket with one hand before tossing the shirt onto the bed beside his jacket. “Is the queen coming?”
Dante laughed. He had a good laugh, which won him a lot of friends, including Josh. “I wish! No, no, but I do have a promise from your gorgeous costar of Psychics 2, so I hope you can make it.”
Josh grimaced. His gorgeous costar, Jerri Cusack, was a prize bitch and fancied the publicity of an offscreen romance to go with the onscreen
passion. Josh couldn’t face it. Staring at the letter in his hand, he said impulsively, “May I bring a guest? My Scottish cousin.”
“Of course!” Dante agreed wholeheartedly, while Josh tore open the envelope with his teeth. “I hope she’s pretty, because I have another guest I’d particularly like to impress. Do you know Adam Simon?”
“No,” Josh said without much interest. He was reading Elizabeth’s letter, a very brief and stark outline of the crazy talk in the restaurant, together with two phone numbers, one of which was her own. Josh smiled and folded the letter. Refocusing, he repeated, “Adam Simon? Who’s he?”
Josh didn’t mind Dante using his high profile to impress certain people. He was used to it and happy enough to help out a friend. It had worked both ways in the past.
“European businessman, very young and determined. Popped out of Eastern Europe a few months ago, branching out in the UK and the States. Truth be told, he’s stood on my toes a couple of times already. I need the guy onside!”
Josh laughed. “Charm offensive, is it?” he asked cynically.
“Love your understanding, Josh. Be great to see you here at the weekend! Look forward to it. I’ll send you details. Oh, and Josh, I don’t suppose you’ve brought that antique sword with you?”
Unbidden, Josh’s eyes flew to his suitcase. Uneasily, he remembered exactly why he’d brought the family heirloom, and that was to do with Dante too. He hadn’t wanted the senator “borrowing” it, or “buying” it from his people in his absence. He liked Dante, but the man had few scruples about getting his own way, and he’d wanted the sword pretty badly.
“Actually, yes,” Josh admitted. “I did bring it. But it’s still not for sale.”
Dante laughed again. “You’re a hard man, Josh! No, the reason I ask is, there’ll be some people around this weekend, experts in this field of antiquities, who could give you a proper valuation and maybe even more details of its history. If you bring it up with you, I can ask them to take a look.”
Blood Sin (2) Page 2
