by Nancy Gideon
Midnight Temptation
by
Nancy Gideon
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-680-2
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-662-8
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 1994 by Nancy Gideon
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by Pinnacle Books in 1994
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Couple kissing (manipulated) © Maxfx | Dreamstime.com
Père Lachaise Cemetery (manipulated) © Bensliman Hassan | Dreamstime.com
Rose (manipulated) © Jaguarwoman Designs
:Etmn:01:
Dedication
For Brenda Chin:
How fabulous to work with you on
the resurrection of these first three books!
Welcome to ImaJinn!
Chapter One
A SLEEK SHADOW slipped between rocks strewn along the gorge bottom. Sure of foot and just as fleet, the woodland creature made no noise; at least none discernible to the average ear. But to the figure crouched low amid the heather, the animal’s passing was heralded by a definite pattern of sound. The soft panting breaths, the steady beckoning of its heartbeat. All the invitation the stalker needed.
Closer the smaller predator came, unaware that the hunter in search of its nightly prey was about to be the hunted. And without warning, an agility that could evade the talons of a hawk failed before a more unexpected attack.
Snatched up from the ground and all hopes of escape, the creature squirmed in desperation, then, realizing the futility of its struggle, merely hung limp, its heart pounding, its eyes glassy with terror. And the soothing words of its captor did nothing to lessen its fear.
“It’s all right. I won’t harm you.”
Nicole Radouix held the trembling fox gently, stroking it with a hand both cautious and admiring. How soft its fur, how frantic its respiration. Beneath the silky coat, she could feel the frightened pitter-patter of the animal’s pulse, and that beat as much as the creature’s warmth charmed her into a mesmerized study.
Though she’d caught the fox on a whim, just to see if she could, now that she had it clasped close enough to experience its panic, she couldn’t make herself release it. Instinct she didn’t understand rose strong and sharp within her. Her restraining hand tightened about the delicate rib cage until it felt as though the animal’s wild and fragile heart was fluttering in her palm. Sensation stirred, making her own breaths come in quick succession. The fox would have understood the basic urges spiking through her. So would any hunter of the weak and less nimble.
Power. Control. Satisfaction.
Hunger.
But these feelings weren’t normal for a girl of seventeen, and even as she recognized them, Nicole grew afraid.
Mon Dieu! What was she thinking!
Carefully, appalled that she was ready to hurt such a glorious creature, she lowered the fox to the ground and opened her hands. For a moment, the animal stood frozen in uncertainty.
“Go now,” she urged. “You’re free.”
The sound of her voice was all it took to send the fox running. There was a brief flash of dull red color before it darted between the rocks to safety. It realized, as Nicole refused to, how close it had come to dying.
Nicole stood with eyes closed, drawing in deep breaths of the twilight air. Its crispness flushed the strange darkness of her mood and eased her aroused senses into a more relaxed state. It had happened again, that loss of reason to foreign urgency. She didn’t know what to do.
She couldn’t approach her respectable parents with the news that she was helplessly drawn by the desire to kill. They would think her mad. She, herself, was beginning to believe it, for surely it wasn’t normal for the human senses to be so razor-sharp and honed to the lure of a heartbeat.
Suddenly agitated to the point of tears, Nicole began to run. She knew there was no way to escape what lay within her, but she’d found there was safety among her own kind. When surrounded by the peasants and the pleasant visitors to their village, her acuity was muted by the confusion of many making her feel as average as any of them. Only when alone did isolation provoke her passions into their unnatural state. And here, in this small community, where roads ran through ploughed fields, and houses of grey stone with pale sea-green doors and roofs muffled by moss seemed asleep even until the noon hour, silence and solitude were too often her companions. And with them came the awareness of what awoke inside her.
In darkness, the streets of Grez were empty of the artists who posed their easels each day behind the row of little houses, capturing the serene beauty of the river Loing and the brooding Fontainebleau forest that bordered the horizon. Many of the cottages had been converted into studios. During the summer months they were packed with painters and musicians who came to soak up the stillness. Many of them were English like her mother, and all of them were a delight to a lonely young girl who’d been no farther from her home than the stands of mammoth oak, beech, and Norway pine. She’d never seen the cities they spoke of. Their words made enticing pictures upon an impressionable mind, until she begged to be allowed to visit at least Paris, which was only forty-some miles to the north. But her parents opposed it adamantly. What could she find in Paris that they didn’t provide her with here, was their consistent argument. She had an enviable education via an extensive library. She had the frivolous artists to converse with and the local peasant families to care for. And she was greatly loved within the elegant walls of her father’s chateau. What more could she wish for?
How to explain? How would they ever understand that she needed the noise, the distraction, the crowds to hide in, fearing if left to her own devices much longer, something terrible was going to occur.
She raced along the quiet streets. Sounds of merriment wafted out from behind the closed cottage doors and from the inns that stood side by side with farm buildings. But those excluding sounds did nothing to lessen her sense of separation. So she hurried on toward the home she was raised in, to the family who was devoted to her, hoping that among them, she could find peace. And perhaps on this night, she could find as well the courage to confront them with the truth.
The chateau was some distance from the village, nestled back against the fringe of forest. Its plain stone walls warmed like the sand by the sea in sunlight and its pink brick loggias up above glowed blood red when caught by the setting sun. A spacious home made up of Italian-style terraces, a high French roofline, huge chimneys and a courtyard surrounded by arcades and galleries, a study of grace and strength
combined, much like the man who’d designed it to be a pleasing blend of Classic and Renaissance. Within, brick walls hung with tapestries and works of art but held no mirrors to reflect back the scene of wealthy elegance. Within, Nicole would find relief from what troubled her soul.
She was breathing hard when at last she approached the entry door. Unwilling to startle those inside with her rather wild appearance, she took a moment to smooth her skirts and to catch up the long trails of ebony hair that escaped the coil behind her head, hoping the respite would lessen the flush in her cheeks and the panic in her eyes. Before she could move forward, that great door opened and two figures appeared there in silhouette against the light burning bright within. She recognized them immediately as her parents, and their pose as one of intimate conversation. They stood close together, too involved in one of their many secrets to notice her among the shadows, so she waited and she listened, unashamed. How else would she ever learn of anything that went on within their secluded walls?
“Must you go out tonight?” her mother murmured from where she’d burrowed against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and her voice caught with an edge of strain.
Very gently, her father’s hand stroked down the spill of her hair, hair once as dark as her daughter’s but now shot attractively with premature strands of silver. His words were as soothing as his caress. “I must, little one, not by choice but from necessity. I needn’t explain these things to you, my love. You know I would rather spend the evening with you.”
“Then stay.” Her fingers curled in the folds of his coat, as desperate in effect as the snag in her voice. If moved by either plea, he didn’t show it.
Instead, he told her, “I love you, Bella. I will not be long,” and he began to untangle himself from her grasp. Before he was completely freed, she reached up to clasp his face between her hands, pulling him down for a scorching kiss. The exchange didn’t embarrass their daughter as she watched from the concealing shadows, for they were always candid in their displays of affection. A very loving couple, at least in Nicole’s romantic mind. Some were puzzled by the bond they shared. Her mother was English, and at one and forty, still a fine-looking woman. But the man she’d married was obviously of the upper classes, wealthy, cosmopolitan and handsome enough to have any woman of rank he desired. And he’d chosen the daughter of a London physician. A woman who looked old enough to be his mother. He appeared more Nicole’s contemporary, with his unlined features and easy grace. But it was ever apparent that the woman he’d married was the woman he adored. Nicole had always believed that true, in spite of whispers she’d heard that said opposite.
It was rumored that during his many absences from home, the beautiful Louis Radouix spent his time courting a string of young peasant women who fell easy prey to his cultured charm.
They were just ignorant, Nicole told herself as she staunchly defended her family. Rural minds couldn’t comprehend the kind of man her father was. They mistook the innocent captivation of his smile for calculated seduction and his acts of generosity for ones of scheming intent. Had they ever seen her father the way he was now, tenderly framing her mother’s face within his palms, they wouldn’t cast doubt upon his devotion. Had they ever seen them together, playfully rolling about on the sofa while lost to laughter, or him with his auburn head pillowed upon her lap, murmuring how lucky he was to have her with him, they wouldn’t be so quick to gossip that he was bored with her charms. A man as enchanting and mysterious as Louis Radouix was bound to stir up talk. His secluded way of life bred whispering. Even his own daughter, left in the dark about much of his doings, found herself inventing colorful scenarios to explain what he would not. Their lives were wreathed in secrets only man and wife were privy to, so no wonder curiosity flourished and blossomed into maligning murmurs and speculation.
Questions about where her father spent his daylight hours never led to any answers. Nicole learned at a young age to merely accept that he was gone and to be glad for his return. When she was a child, she liked to imagine that he was a spy, sometimes for her mother’s native England, sometimes for Italy, the country of his birth. He was suave and furtive enough to be cast into that role. But when he was home, he was her loving father, quick to take her up for a tight embrace, always ready with a delightful story about faraway places he’d visited in his youth. He was the buffer to her mother’s sheltering.
Had Arabella had her way, Nicole would never step foot outside the surrounding walls of the chateau. Such terrible panic lit her mother’s eyes whenever she was a trifle late in returning home. A shadow of unmistakable fear crossed her competent features whenever she heard of a stranger asking about the reclusive owners of the pink-tinged chateau. Something to do with their rapid flight from England in the year before Nicole’s birth. It was somehow connected to the vague responses she got whenever she asked about the past. Arabella lived like a cautious fugitive and would have kept her daughter smotheringly close had her husband not eased the girl away, gently admonishing, “Let her be free, my love. You watch too close. You worry too much. Let her enjoy life.”
So naturally it was her father she thought of when it became apparent she could no longer contain her troubles. He would listen and he would have some solution at hand, while her mother would undoubtedly lock her in her room and dispose of the key. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t love her. Not at all. She was a most pampered child. But there had always been an edge of caution to her mother’s attention, the feel that she was being carefully observed. Perhaps it was because Arabella was English and the English were notoriously prim and watchful of their children. Nicole wasn’t about to give her cause to hold any tighter rein than she already did.
So she waited in the darkness until her parents shared one last long kiss. Then Louis stepped back and her mother let him go. Though intent upon following him, Nicole saw the look of helpless despair etching Arabella’s features as her mother turned back inside the house. Saw but didn’t understand the cause of her misery. It perplexed her for only a moment, then Nicole focused upon her own problems as she scurried silently after her father.
Only a thin slice of a moon hung overhead. Nicole was hard-pressed not to lose the dark-garbed figure moving amongst the shadows of the wood. As she followed, she kept a careful distance, working on what she would say to him, working up the needed bravery to speak the words. She’d begin with the dreams, dreams both freeing and frightening. Then she’d tell him of her unusual strength and perceptions. Lastly and most disturbingly, she would have to confess her developing taste for raw foods. Because he loved her so, he would not be dismayed. He would not turn from her in horror. Or at least, that was what she hoped as she goaded herself on. She was concentrating on this task when he stepped into a small leafy copse where the scent of pine was sharp and sweet and night sounds made a subtle music. He stopped there, head turning slowly as if in search of something. Before she could approach him, she noticed his stance stiffening, then she, too, saw they were not alone.
A woman emerged from the far hedge of pine. She was cloaked for discretion, and the way she came straight toward him told Nicole that this was no chance meeting. Nicole stood, as frozen as the fox had been, paralyzed by what she was sure she was about to witness. The destruction of her secure world.
Louis waited until the woman reached him. Neither spoke. Slowly he unfurled the hood of her cloak to reveal features as youthful as her own. His fingers worked the fastenings, and the length of coarse wool fell about her feet. Then he began to undo the strings of her peasant blouse, loosening the fabric so that it fell away from the soft white glow of her skin. With a murmur of something too low for Nicole to hear, he bent his head, his mouth moving in a seducing sweep along the young woman’s uplifted features, trailing down to the exposed arch of her throat. The woman moaned, a sound rich in rapture.
Nicole clapped her hands over her mouth to contain her cry of distress and outrage. How could he! H
ow could he leave her mother, his wife, to rendezvous with this unworthy creature? How could he so betray she who loved him? How could he so callously destroy her faith in him, her admiration for him, with this illicit moonlit tryst?
She must have made some unconscious sound of protest, for suddenly his burnished head jerked up and the woman in his arms gave a sharp cry akin to pain. Nicole tried to meld back into the shadows, but in her haste and upset, her movements were clumsy and the snap of underbrush gave her away. Her father spun in her direction and for one brief horrifically clear moment, Nicole saw him as he really was. He was no womanizer out to chase a local skirt. He was no coldhearted cheat ready to break the trust of the woman who’d wed him. What he was much worse.
For in that chill ribbon of moonlight, Nicole saw all too plainly the sightless glaze of the woman’s eyes and the smear of crimson at her torn throat. A crimson that liberally stained her father’s mouth and the sharp teeth he’d bared in a monstrous snarl.
She ran. There was no room for anything in her mind save wild thoughts of flight. She surged through the darkness, losing the path, losing her way in her heedless panic until she heard him behind her.
“Nicole!”
With a sob, she raced onward, feeling the limbs of unseen trees yank at her free-flowing hair, and brambles rip at her ankles. Breath came in labored gasps as she staggered through the night, plunging ahead while her senses strained behind for sounds of pursuit. She heard nothing. Seeing the lights ahead as beacons of salvation, she burst out of the forest in a mad scramble across the yard. Inarticulate sounds escaped her. For on this night, she must surely have gone mad to have pictured such a scene.
The familiar sight and welcome of the inside of her home went by in an unrecognizable blur as Nicole bolted for the stairway rising up majestically through the structure’s center. She stumbled upon the carpeted steps and was continuing on all fours when one of her elbows was caught from below. She gave a fearful cry, afraid to look behind her.
