Blood Sin (2)

by Marie Treanor

  She said, “We’ll leave tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Eight

  It wasn’t a cold night. In fact, after Scotland, the New York weather was pleasantly balmy. But sitting still for so long seemed to freeze up Josh’s bones. He wanted to get out of the car and jog back to his own apartment for a soak in the tub and a shot of the excellent Scotch he’d brought home with him. Despite the gangland street fights that had broken out across the city the other evening, he was sure this neighborhood would be safe enough on foot. But he was damned if he’d leave before the detective showed up.

  Josh checked his watch again, then eased himself out of the car and began to stroll along the sidewalk. In the apartment building on the other side of the road, Dante’s lights were still on. Josh had been watching his apartment for the last two evenings, without seeing anything more interesting than the odd familiar visitor, or the senator leaving to step into his car to go to some function or other. But he could see no harm in provoking him a little.

  Josh had a double plan: either to find the sword himself, or badger Dante into returning it with whatever pretense the senator cared to make about recovering it from fictitious villains. Although he was aware that some, including Elizabeth Silk, would call his determination obsession, it didn’t stop him. He needed this keepsake of his father.

  Josh crossed the road, darting nimbly between passing, hooting cars, and strolled into Dante’s building. The man on duty in the hall lost his supercilious expression almost immediately and goggled at Josh. “Could you see if Senator Dante’s in?” Josh asked amiably. “I’m Josh Alexander.”

  The man pulled himself together enough to make the call and a second later was ushering Josh into the elevator. “Straight to the top, sir.”

  Josh nodded and smiled again as the doors closed. He’d have to sign autographs on the way out.

  The senator was alone and appeared delighted to welcome him. Josh had never been in this apartment before and guessed by the bare, unlived-in look that the senator wasn’t here much either. Blatantly, Josh looked about him for signs of the sword or the old coat it had been wrapped in. Not surprisingly, there weren’t any.

  “I was just wondering,” Josh said, “if there was news of the sword?” The only point they’d agreed on was not to involve the police. For one thing, neither of them wanted to advertise their treasures, and for another, they were both well aware that in this particular crime, Dante’s reach went well beyond that of the Scottish police.

  “None, I’m afraid to say,” Dante replied, walking toward a cabinet on which stood a crystal decanter and four clean glasses. “Or of my goblet. But did you hear about poor Bill Cartwright?”

  Josh frowned, waving away the drink the senator was silently offering while he poured one for himself. “Bill? Your antiques guy? What about him?”

  “He was mugged in Scotland—died of his injuries.”

  “Shit,” Josh said, sitting in the stiff leather armchair and trying to work out what that meant. “Shit, that was bad luck.”

  “Scares the hell out of me,” Dante said heavily, taking the seat opposite him. “I know these things can happen to anybody in any city, but don’t you think the timing’s a little . . . strange?”

  Josh closed his mouth. “You think it had something to do with the theft?” He sounded too incredulous, but he didn’t much care. He was damned sure Dante had taken the sword. But the theft itself seemed almost honorable compared to the crime of trying to blame it on your tragically dead friend. He’d expected Dante to blame an entirely fictitious thief. Although if it meant the return of the sword . . .

  “It strikes me he was keeping bad company.” Dante sipped his drink and set it down on the polished table beside him. “Bill was in financial trouble, you know. I think to solve his problems, he might have made a deal with some unsavory people and then stolen from you and me upon their order. Something went wrong when he tried to deliver, and they killed him, taking the sword and goblet with them.”

  Uneasily, Josh regarded the strong, open face opposite, and almost believed. Dante was frowning with anxiety, a hint of shame in his piercing blue eyes for thinking and passing on such suspicions. Unhappiness lurked around the lines of his thinned mouth. Either the senator was genuine, or he was a bloody good actor.

  Josh already knew he was a bloody good actor.

  “I suppose you have more evidence than conjecture?” he said.

  Dante inclined his head. “I have. Although it’s not conclusive.”

  “Care to share?”

  Dante smiled slightly. “Actually, no, Josh, I wouldn’t. But I haven’t given up on this. I’ll let you know at once if I discover your sword. You know how bad I feel about such a thing happening in my house.”

  “Yes, I believe I do,” Josh said ambiguously. He stood up. “Surprised you’re still in New York,” he observed. “I thought you’d have gone straight back to Washington.”

  “I’ve got a few things to attend to here first. Keep in touch, Josh.”

  Josh nodded, deliberately turning away before the senator could offer to shake hands. He doubted he’d ever forgive Dante, either for the trick on Elizabeth or for stealing the sword. Not unless the bastard gave it back.

  Josh descended in the elevator, signed the doorman’s autograph, and headed outside. A man sheltering in the doorway said, “Evening, Mr. Alexander.”

  “Ah. Good evening,” Josh returned politely. He glanced about him to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “He’s up there now. I need to know every visitor he has, and everywhere he goes.”

  “Yes, sir. You said.”

  “Thanks,” Josh muttered with a nod, and strode on toward his car.

  Elizabeth didn’t think she’d sleep at all on the long transatlantic flight. With Saloman at her side, she needed all her wits about her all the time. And in any case, sitting so close to him that they almost touched, she felt a constant zing of electricity, keeping her in a permanent state of excitement. But somehow, the hum of the engines and sheer tiredness must have gotten to her, for she woke from one of those light, dreaming half dozes to feel the slow, powerful beat of his heart under her arm.

  Her cheek lay on cool silk over hard flesh. She’d fallen against him as she slept, her head tucked under his neck, her arm across his chest. How long had she been like this? It didn’t matter; she should straighten immediately and apologize. . . . Except it felt so good. She could allow herself this moment of secret happiness. If he thought she was asleep, she could soak up his familiar, distinctive scent, the hard strength of his lean, muscled body, the sheer joy of being close to him.

  His hand stroked her hair, settling on her nape, and pleasant little tingles ran through her head and down her spine. She opened her eyes, drinking in the sight of him, even if all she could see was his shirt buttons and the long, pale hand resting in his lap.

  I could get used to this. Oh, but I could . . .

  It wasn’t just the present moment that caused the upsurge of yearning. It was being in his company so long. He’d stayed in her flat since their encounter on the beach. She’d slept in her own bedroom while he played music and watched television, and even used her laptop in the living room. She’d maintained the distance between them so well that he made no effort to join her.

  And the next day, when she’d come home from work after negotiating with Richard for early leave, he’d still been there. Since she had no idea what to say to him, the silences were long, and yet gradually they’d ceased to be uncomfortable and talk had begun to flow naturally, talk of things that had nothing to do with vampires or swords or ruling the world.

  For long periods, he’d lain on the sofa with his eyes closed, and she had the impression he was communicating telepathically. She didn’t ask who with. She didn’t want to know.

  She realized it was dangerous falling into this . . . comfort with him, but she had hoped that so long as she maintained the physical distance, perhaps she’d survive taking this risk.


  And now she’d let that slip too. His hand moved over her hair and settled on her back, lightly holding her. As if he cared. As if she still meant more than the love of a moment in a very long life.

  She closed her eyes. Why do I need to believe that? Many women must have lived and died loving Saloman. I wonder how many he actually noticed. Will he care when I die?

  Appalled by the direction of her thoughts, she sat up, mumbling, “Sorry.” His hand slid away. Fortunately, the stewardess passed, offering drinks, and by the time her orange juice was delivered, she was able to look him in the eye again. She could even stretch out her legs and say with appreciation, “First class is good.”

  “Glad to help,” he said, a hint of humor gleaming in his dark eyes. To all intents and purposes he’d existed for only a few months in the modern world, and yet nothing seemed to faze him. Not high-powered business or transatlantic flights. He looked completely at home.

  She sipped her juice, watching him over the rim of her glass and counting the times she’d ever seen him disconcerted.

  Once. Only once, when she’d thrown down the stake with which she’d meant to kill him and kissed him instead. It had lasted only an instant, but she treasured it as much as the fierce, urgent loving that had come after.

  Heat began to spread through her body. Before it could reach her face and betray her, she said with a hint of desperation, “Is this really the first time you’ve been to America?”

  “Since I awakened, yes. I’m sure your hunter friends have told you that is the case.” He spoke in Romanian, no doubt in consideration of his fellow passengers, who could conceivably overhear.

  She wondered if he knew the hunters “lost” him for long periods. But of course he did. It was entirely deliberate, to give his “character” of Adam Simon a head start. Elizabeth ignored the twinge of guilt about not yet telling them about his new identity. She had a feeling Simon was the business connection of Saloman’s that Mihaela was pursuing, and she should have saved her friend the trouble by just informing her outright that Simon was Saloman.

  This weird double-loyalty thing worked only if she and Saloman stayed apart. Otherwise she was always betraying somebody. So she went on the attack. “They told me the North American vampires don’t acknowledge you. Is that another reason for going there?”

  “Of course,” he said serenely.

  She set her glass on the table and cast him a dubious look. “You’re not going to start a war here, are you?”

  “I rarely start wars.”

  “I hear one is under way already.”

  Saloman shrugged elegantly. “A foolish little skirmish with too much collateral damage. I visit and I reason.”

  “Is that what happened in Spain?”

  “There are always some who don’t listen to reason.”

  “Are you expecting the American vampires to listen?”

  “Eventually.” He smiled, a faint curl of the lip that vanished almost as soon as it formed. “It’s not so easy to tell me to fuck off when I’m actually right in front of them.”

  In spite of herself, Elizabeth gave a little crow of laughter. “Is that what they say to you?”

  “Dear Travis,” Saloman said fondly. “I’m looking forward to making his acquaintance.”

  Elizabeth wandered around the spacious blue and gold suite, touching the backs of chairs, the polished wood of the stylish tables, the thick fabric of the curtains framing the full-length windows. She’d never stayed in such a luxurious hotel in her life.

  But there was only one bed.

  “It’s yours,” Saloman said, as the door clicked shut behind the departing porter, and she swung around to face him, almost guiltily. “I don’t sleep.”

  “I wish you’d stop reading my mind,” she said ruefully.

  “In this case, I was only reading your face.”

  As he walked toward her, she turned her gaze to the window, drinking in the stunning view of Central Park’s dark greenery below, and beyond it, the famous New York skyline, lit up against the night.

  “This is amazing,” she murmured. “I don’t know whether I should thank you for this luxury or scold you for however you managed to afford it.”

  “Neither is necessary. Why don’t you sleep?”

  “I might have a quick shower in this extraordinarily beautiful bathroom first.”

  Although the shower wasn’t quite as quick as she’d intended, it served the purpose of making her genuinely sleepy. Emerging from the steam in her nightdress—the elegant one—with the hotel bathrobe clutched in front of her like a shield, she padded quickly through to the bedroom and slid between the cool sheets of the huge bed.

  Through the open door, she could see Saloman moving along the windows of the living area, touching the glass. He seemed to be murmuring to himself, as if talking on his phone. But he wasn’t.

  Intrigued, she watched him until he moved out of her sight. Again, she heard the murmuring without being able to make out the words. Then he strolled into the bedroom, and she was struck all over again by his overwhelming presence, large, solid, and almost ridiculously sexy. She loved the way he moved inside his dark jeans, the subtle, catlike sway of his hips that seemed to speak straight to her own loins. His handsome face wore an expression of serious concentration, made all the more appealing by the lock of raven hair that fell forward over his cheek and forehead.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, curious.

  “Making us safe,” he said unexpectedly. “Adding a few more secure locks to the windows and doors.”

  Unease twisted through her surprise. “You’re afraid?” she said, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice.

  His lip twitched. “I’m cautious. I’m alone in a city where a large number of vampires want me gone, and together might be capable of making it happen.”

  Fear surged so fast it felt like panic. She’d gotten into the habit of thinking him invincible, invulnerable. But he wasn’t. Saloman could die all over again.

  “Why did you come here?” she demanded, hearing the anguish in her own voice. “If the risk is so great—”

  “It’s worth the risk. I’m prepared and you’re protected. Nothing will harm you.” He moved toward her and a fresh, quite different panic gripped her.

  “I’m not frightened for me,” she objected, and he smiled. Her heart turned over, for his whole face had softened as she remembered it in her most intimate dreams. The way he’d looked in his palace in Budapest, in her bed the night before they parted. And she realized she hadn’t seen him as unguarded since they’d met again. As if he’d grown harder and colder without her.

  He sat down on the bed, and, swamped with memory and a sudden rush of lust, she found it difficult to breathe.

  “Why is it,” he wondered, “that your anxiety moves me more than another woman’s most passionate seduction?”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Because you know how rotten I am at seduction.”

  Something flamed in his black eyes. “I’m willing to let you try again. Just for the practice.”

  “You think I need practice so badly?”

  “No, but I do.”

  She swallowed, trying not to drown in his eyes, in her own need. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you have.” He leaned toward her and her heart seemed to stop. He reached out and touched the pulse beating at the base of her throat. “I’ve set out to seduce you, and yet been the one seduced. I’ve set out to kill you, and been seduced again.” His fingers trailed around her neck to the vein at the side, where they softly, sensuously massaged. “It never felt like losing, but I know it happened.”

  She swallowed. “It never seemed that way to me.”

  “How did it seem to you, Elizabeth? That you tamed a monster? Or resisted temptation?”

  His gaze followed his fingers, and with wicked excitement, she recognized the hunger in his eyes. It was more than sexual. He wanted her blood. The monster was far from tamed,
and God help her, the fear of him only fed her own hunger.

  “That I shouldn’t love you and did,” she whispered. That my soul dies when we’re apart.

  As if he heard her silent thought, his gaze shifted back to her face, and the bloodlust slowly died, leaving his eyes black and opaque. Yet still she was afraid to move. He could always move faster.

  He said softly, “We’re not so far apart, you and I. And we’re here together.” His hand slid free of hers to stroke the hair back from her forehead. “Sleep. And then we’ll do what we came to do.”

  It was dark in the bedroom when Elizabeth woke, because although it was midmorning, the curtains were closed. She rose and pulled them back, letting in the New York sunshine and the amazing view. She couldn’t help smiling. Turning, she padded through the rest of the suite in search of Saloman to share it with her, but she was alone.

  With a sigh, she went back to the bedroom to finish unpacking and get dressed. She was distractedly brushing her hair in front of the mirror when Saloman entered without warning. He wore a smart business suit and a snow-white silk shirt, open at the neck, and although his hair was loosely confined behind his head, he still managed to look just a little bit wild and dangerous. His beauty made her throat ache.

  He walked across the room to stand behind her chair, and met her gaze in the mirror.

  “You do have a reflection,” she said faintly. “I never noticed before.”

  “Of course I do. Bram Stoker wasn’t right about everything.”

  “It’s a myth I’ve heard from several sources,” she said defensively.

  Abruptly, his figure disappeared and she jerked her head in alarm to see him standing several feet to the left.

  “Speed of movement,” he observed. “If I move fast enough, you might think I still stood behind you and had no reflection.”

  Elizabeth closed her mouth. “What a pity I couldn’t use that in my thesis. What’s with the suit? Going to see the bank manager?”