Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)

by Maitland, Piper

  Down in the street, a woman began screaming. Caro scooted off the bed and peered out the window. The woman squirmed away from a man. He pulled her back, slapped her to the ground, then dragged her across the pavement into an alley.

  “We really should call the police,” Caro whispered.

  “I doubt they’d respond.” Jude sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his shoes and socks. Jagged red lines ran across both heels.

  “Tell me again why those Bulgarians tried to kill you,” she said.

  He fell back onto the bed. “It’s a dreary story. Haven’t you heard enough for one night?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  He gazed up at the ceiling. “Right after my article was published, a burly, redheaded fellow showed up at my lab. Said he was a headhunter for a London pharmaceutical company. But he seemed dodgy. Rough and unpolished. He offered two million dollars if I’d sell my research.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I didn’t want money. My research wasn’t for sale. But the redheaded man wouldn’t leave. He stood beside the mouse cages, watching them spin in their wheels. Then he said, ‘I suffer from the same condition as your mice.’ Before I could answer, he shot across the room and knocked me into an instrument tray. Everything clattered to the floor—forceps, scalpels, clamps. He started choking me. From the corner of my eye, I saw a scalpel. I grabbed it. Somehow I pushed it into the guy’s carotid artery. That’s the big artery in—”

  “I know what it is.”

  “The scalpel jutted out of the guy’s throat,” Jude said. “I assumed he was dead. Black, tarry blood streamed down his shirt. He yanked out the scalpel and threw it to the floor. Then he ran away. I rang the police immediately. I scraped tissue from the scalpel and put it under the microscope. It was full of stem cells. I compared this to samples I’d taken from the aggressive mice.”

  “They were the same?”

  “Eerily similar.” He paused. “The next evening, I was working late. The redheaded man returned to the lab with the two Bulgarians. They held me down. Cut my Achilles tendons. They took the mice and set my lab on fire.”

  He shut his eyes, as if trying to decide how much more to reveal. “The orthopedic surgeons at York District Hospital stitched me back together. My girlfriend was hysterical. She was horrified about the mice. She loathed the time I spent at the lab. I assumed that she was overwrought because she’d just found out that she was pregnant. But she was at the end of her tether because of my work habits. The moment she walked into my hospital room, I knew she wouldn’t stick around.”

  That bitch, Caro thought. She didn’t want to pry, but Jude hadn’t mentioned the girlfriend’s name and she was curious. All right, more than curious. “What was her name?” she asked.

  “Vanessa.” He paused. “Lady Vanessa. She owns an antique shop.”

  Lady. That figured. “Was she beautiful?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “She wanted to know if I’d walk again. The doctors didn’t know. The police were convinced that my attackers would return and finish me off. They posted a guard outside my door. The big redheaded vampire crushed the guard’s neck and sneaked into my room. My stepmother was sitting beside my bed. She pulled out a snub-nosed pistol and shot the vampire.”

  “Did she kill him?”

  “No.” His voice sounded clear and firm, not asking for pity. “The next day, I was moved to a clinic in Zürich—under an assumed name, of course. I asked Vanessa to come. She wouldn’t leave York.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “It took seven months of physical therapy before I was able to walk again.”

  “You were courageous.” Caro paused. “What happened to the baby?”

  “She had an abortion.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Her fists tightened around the blankets. Those horrible men had taken everything—his work, his country, his love. His unborn baby.

  “I was a mess, inside and out. Casts on both ankles. Crutches. I drank myself into a stupor. I was a sot. When I was able to walk again, I left Zürich and began a lurid cycle of drifting from town to town. Drinking at night, researching vampirism during the day. I separated myth from fact. I kept track of industry news. Other biochemists were murdered—one in Paris, three in the Netherlands. Their Achilles tendons had been severed as well. When your uncle contacted me, I thought he had information.”

  She was barely listening. All she could think about was the child he’d lost. “Do you still love Vanessa?” She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It just popped out.”

  “We were too different. It couldn’t have worked.”

  “Have there been others? After her?”

  “Some. Nothing lasting.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “My focus was survival, not romance. Most of the time I was drinking.”

  Caro nodded. The night they’d met, he’d hit the wine bottles pretty hard. But so had she.

  “Since all this happened I’ve learned how to survive,” he said. “It’s a hard way to live. When I step into a restaurant or hotel, I’m memorizing faces, watching body language. I’m always looking over my shoulder. I used to be trusting. But that part of me is dead.”

  He tilted his head. “You’re the first person I’ve told. I hope I haven’t burdened you.”

  “Not one bit.”

  “It’s a tremendous relief to talk about it.”

  Caro swallowed. This was not the time to pressure him, but she still had questions. “How did you find me today?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I lost your taxi. I parked my car and walked down Bulgarian Boulevard. I was just about to give up, then I saw your hair.” He raised himself up. “Do you have a hat?”

  “A what?”

  “You’ll need a hat to cover your hair.”

  “Why? Am I a wreck?” She tucked her hair behind her ears. She still hadn’t bought a brush.

  “No, but it’s distinct. You’ll need to change your appearance.”

  She leaned over the side of the bed, fumbled inside the duffel bag, and pulled out the knit hat. “I’ve got this.”

  “It looks small. Will your hair fit?”

  “Of course.” She spread the yarn apart with her fingers, then pulled the hat over her head.

  “Tomorrow I’ll find a chemist and buy hair dye,” he said.

  “Buy a brush and some garlic while you’re at it.” She stifled a yawn. Then she undressed under the sheets and pushed her face into the pillow.

  CHAPTER 21

  During the night, Caro felt him pull a blanket over her shoulders and tuck the edges around her chin. She rolled over and fell into the old dream where she was being chased by the wild dogs. One leaped up, bit her arm, and dragged her into the trunk of the brown Dacia. Inside, the dead woman was waiting, her eyes glowing like Jude’s mice, torn fingernails scritching as she crawled forward, her wide-open mouth revealing sharp, bone-white teeth.

  Caro woke up clawing the air. Her hands flew to her neck and grazed the edges of the throbbing wound. Spasms whirled through her body, and she almost climaxed.

  Jude leaped out of his bed and hurried to her side. In the moonlight, his T-shirt glowed with a white radiance, the fabric stretched over his wide shoulders. He gazed down at her with a helpless expression.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Shall I turn on the light?” he asked. “Or would you like whiskey?”

  She shook her head and snuggled into the covers.

  “You don’t seem fine.” His hand brushed against her shoulder. “You’re burning up.”

  And she was. She was on fire—not from illness but from sexual longing. His lips were plump and moist, and she wanted to feel them pressing against her mouth.

  If I don’t kiss him now, if I let this moment pass, I’ll never forgive myself, she thought. She wound her arms tightly around his neck and drew him against her into the warm blankets. His shirt felt cool against her cheek. He smelled of spring rain and freshly ironed linen. Familiar, comforting scents, with a h
int of a man’s smell, sweat and leather.

  She felt the rise and fall of his chest, the pressure of his long legs. A slant of light fell across the bed, shining on his square chin. Dark stubble ran down his neck. She wanted to put her fingertip into the cleft. Instead, she dropped her gaze and took in the whole expanse of him beneath the sheet.

  He smiled down at her. She lay very still, looking up into his eyes. The sheets rustled as he raised his hand and traced his finger over her bottom lip. “I enjoyed our kiss last night.”

  “Me, too.”

  “May I kiss you again?”

  She answered by leaning forward. Her tongue flitted past his lips, searching for his, flicking playfully at first, then more urgently. He made a soft humming noise and pulled her against his chest. He was stiff as alder wood.

  She stroked him gently, feeling him rise. His hands slid along her ribs, up to her breasts. He cupped them in his hands, squeezing them together, his rough knuckles grazing her skin. Then he broke the kiss and pulled back.

  “Are you sure you want this?” he whispered. In the faint light, she thought she saw his pupils dilate.

  “Yes.” Her hands fluttered over him like wild birds. A sweet spasm pulsed through her belly as she imagined him inside her.

  “This will change everything,” he whispered.

  “It better.”

  He lowered his lips to her nipple, and it stiffened. He gently took it between his teeth, and she tipped back her head. He traced his tongue over her breast, over her ribs, to her flat belly. She felt his breath through the lace of her thong. His tongue moved up the length of her body and stopped on her mouth. The kiss set off another wave of earthquakes inside her.

  She wanted to see him, taste him. He inhaled sharply when her fingers circled him. Two words pulsed inside her head like a heartbeat: I want. I want. I want.

  She withdrew her hand and swirled her fingertips lightly over his stomach, then angled down to his hips. His buttocks felt hard, the flesh slightly cool. She traced each cheek, then moved her palms upward, over his shoulders to his neck.

  Her neck began to throb, the wounds pulsing, sending long, pleasurable spasms downward. He sucked her lip and dropped his hand between her legs, the weight of his hand pushing against the thin lace.

  “Make love to me now,” she said.

  “Let’s take it slowly. This is our first time. I want to remember everything.”

  She wanted to remember everything, too: his breath stirring her hair, the faint scratch of his chest hair on her breasts, the pressure of his hands on her waist. He tugged at the delicate lace and pulled it down over her hip bones. He kissed her midriff, then his mouth moved to her other hip while his fingers slowly edged down the lace, down her legs, removing the thong completely and laying her bare before him.

  Cool air broke over her skin. She shivered. Her breath came in quick pants as his hands caressed her and shudders rippled through her.

  No sooner had the climax ended than another swept forward, great swells that left her weak and trembly. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. He continued caressing her until another peak began to rise. His finger flicked over her most tender spot, sending her into another deep wave of blinding-white pleasure. Her breath came in ragged bursts as the orgasm rose to a crescendo and receded, moving further and further away.

  More, she thought. I want more. I want him with every ounce of my being.

  He moved on top of her, nudging her legs apart. He bit his lip and sheathed himself deep within her. He moved with unbearable slowness, until a shivery warmth ran through her like water, pouring from the deepest part of herself into him.

  He made an incoherent sound, then cupped her bottom and lifted her hips toward him. She surged forward, meeting each thrust eagerly, her fingers gripping his tight buttocks. He was pumping so hard, beads of perspiration dropped from the loose strands of his hair. She shut her eyes and floated toward a whirlpool, into a shadowy cone where pleasure spun in an unbroken circle. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she felt him move with her into the swirling dark.

  CHAPTER 22

  ASHTON HOUSE

  BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND

  Wilkerson stood on the lawn outside Ashton House, listening to his tutor explain the procedure of clay shooting—only this was laser shooting. Not the same thing at all. Wilkerson tapped his boot furiously and waited for the teacher to get on with it so he could have lunch in the Oak Room.

  “Pull!” the tutor called.

  A beat late, Wilkerson lifted the disabled shotgun and squeezed the trigger. A pop sounded. But nothing happened. Either the infrared beam had missed the clay or it wasn’t functioning. Wilkerson had been missing them all morning, and he was ready to throw down the gun and walk away. But he couldn’t. He needed proper lessons, because next weekend he was going to a clay shoot in Yorkshire; one of Cynthia’s friends from the horsey-foxy set was hosting the event, and he wanted to seem knowledgeable, clued-up about the sport. At least he was dressed for the occasion: a green waistcoat, corduroy trousers, thick ear mufflers, orange safety glasses, and Wellingtons.

  “Don’t watch the clay,” said the tutor, “or it will beat you.”

  “I wasn’t looking,” Wilkerson insisted.

  “Put your left foot forward a bit. Now, look over to the old skeet house. Find an imaginary pickup point.”

  “Pickup point?” Wilkerson asked.

  “The place where you first see the whole clay,” the tutor said, and went on to explain the muzzle hold point, stance, and break point. Wilkerson tugged at his tweed cap. The sun hit the front of the white mansion and glinted on the bay windows. Yok-Seng stood off to the side, talking on his mobile phone in hushed tones.

  “Let’s try again, shall we?” the tutor said, but Wilkerson turned to stare at the bodyguard.

  Yok-Seng held the phone aloft. The high, nasal voice of Mr. Underwood streamed out.

  “Underwood is calling,” Yok-Seng said. “He says it is urgent.”

  Wilkerson sighed and heaved the gun into the tutor’s hands; he walked over to Yok-Seng and snatched the phone. “I’m in the middle of a shooting lesson. It better be important, Mr. Underwood.”

  “Miss Clifford has gone missing, sir.”

  Wilkerson cursed.

  “I’m afraid that’s not all, sir. She’s killed Teo.”

  “How can one little girl cause so much trouble?” Wilkerson stared toward the Chiltern Hills. “Shall I call in the Zubas? Is that what you want? Because you’ve left me no choice. How am I supposed to find her now?”

  “If I might make a suggestion, sir. Miss Clifford is being sought by the Kardzhali police. A witness claims she killed Teo. He took photographs.”

  “Get to the point, Mr. Underwood,” Wilkerson snapped.

  “The point is, sir, she’s a murder suspect in Bulgaria. I could make a few phone calls, and she’d be a suspect in the Dowell girl’s death.”

  “That’s ludicrous,” Wilkerson said. “She’s not a suspect.”

  “Not yet. A contact at the Observer has unearthed articles about the murder of Miss Clifford’s mother. The reporter plans to write a feature article, revealing how Miss Clifford went to live with a hotshot archaeologist in Oxford. Now he’s been murdered. The article will suggest that Miss Clifford went temporarily insane and murdered her flatmate.”

  “It won’t work. She wasn’t even there when the girl was killed.”

  “The time of death is questionable, sir. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Miss Clifford killed the flatmate and staged it to look like a break-in.”

  “The Yard will never believe that.” Wilkerson stared up into the trees. “Besides, Moose left God knows how much evidence.”

  “Not to worry, sir. Moose will never be implicated. He’s too slippery.”

  “Caroline doesn’t have a criminal record. Perhaps if she had a history of violence. Women don’t kill each other unless a man is involved.”

  “I could find a man, sir.”<
br />
  “And leave another dangling thread?” Wilkerson scowled.

  “I’m merely thinking of options,” Mr. Underwood said.

  “Do you still have contacts at MI5?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve spoken to them. Their agents are in Sofia.”

  “All right, go ahead,” said Wilkerson. “It better work or I’ll know who to blame.”

  CHAPTER 23

  MOMCHILGRAD, BULGARIA

  Morning sunshine zigzagged into the room, stinging Caro’s eyes. She pulled the sheet over her head, stirring up the salty musk of last night’s lovemaking. As she bent her toes, a delicious tingle floated up her legs into the center of her chest. Just thinking about Jude sent jolts of pure pleasure through her body. A powerful current had run between them, a pitch-perfect balance of positive and negative charges, pulling her into a place where thoughts were vanquished. All her life she’d waited for the perfect lover, someone who would take her beyond the moves of ordinary sex and sweep her into a pulse-pounding dance. Had she found him? Or was she projecting her strong feelings?

  She shivered and lowered the sheet. What was the point of fantasizing when the object of her lust was just across the room, sleeping in the other twin bed? Her smile dimmed as she sat up and blinked in the harsh light.

  Jude’s bed was empty. Not a trace of him remained in the hotel room. His keys, leather coat, and backpack were missing. Her pulse sped up, thumping painfully against her ribs. He hadn’t seemed the type to run away. Maybe he’d panicked and left her alone in this dying town. If so, she’d have to solve the remaining anagrams and try to interpret them and continue on by herself. In the old days, her uncle had left clues in order, creating a logical pattern for her treasure hunts. Until proven otherwise, she assumed that Meteora was the first stop on her journey.

  Her pulse throbbed in her neck, and she gingerly touched the bite marks. Her skin blazed as if she was running a fever, but she couldn’t worry about that. She didn’t want to be caught in Momchilgrad after dark. She’d wait an hour. If Jude didn’t return, she’d leave the hotel, buy a map, and study the terrain between southern Bulgaria and Greece. Then she’d hire a car to take her near the border, hike to the nearest town, and make her way to Meteora.