by Lori Devoti
Harry tensed, but before he could move, a blade left Rodrigue’s grip and flew toward the bar owner. It landed flat on the sparse grass. “I cannot bring back your father, or”—he nodded toward Lindsey—“ her mother, but when I am at fault, I repair what I can. Your Lindsey is safe.” He stood still for a moment, his gaze wandering over the river and back to the hill at their left where Ste. Genevieve lay. “Your friend, the traitor, is well too.”
Then, without another word, he left.
Harry stared down at the dagger. His dagger which, if he were to believe what the vampire had insinuated, had tasted Marie Jean’s blood.
It was all Harry had ever wanted, and now he would gladly bring the undead bitch back to life if by doing so he could save Lindsey too.
He picked up the blade and threw it with every bit of power he could muster toward the river. It landed in the Mississippi, making not even a plop of sound as it did.
“What is a dhamphir?”
Startled, he looked down. Lindsey’s blue eyes stared up at him. They were tired and barely open—but they were open. She was alive. He wanted to stand up and scream, gather her in his arms and spin in circles, but he could see the uncertainty in her gaze, knew while she might have survived her trip in the river, her journey wasn’t over, not yet. And his part in her life going forward was doubtful at best.
“Half human. Half vampire.”
“Do you drink blood?”
He shook his head.
“Have fangs?”
Another shake. His body itched to pull her closer, to press his lips against hers.
“Have you killed anyone?”
He hesitated. This answer wasn’t as simple. “No humans.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, and his heart stilled.
Finally, she opened them. “You knew, didn’t you?”
About Marie Jean, she meant.
He had, and he knew he had to tell her about it, had to tell her everything. He opened his mouth, ready to confess all, ready to walk away if she wanted him to.
She held up a finger and pressed it against his open mouth. “One more question.”
He waited, his gut clenching. She was going to tell him to go away.
“How long are you going to wait before you kiss me?”
Tension flowed from his body.
He curled his arms, bringing her close to his body. “Not long at all.”
-o0o-
About the Author
Lori Devoti is the author of urban fantasy, contemporary and paranormal romance. To learn more about her fiction, visit her web site, http://www.loridevoti.com, or her fan page on Facebook, http://www.facebook.com/LoriDevotiAuthor. Email her at [email protected]
Or visit her page at Amazon: http://tiny.cc/LoriAmazon
Other Titles by Lori Devoti
-Paranormal Romance-
Unbound
Guardian’s Keep
Wild Hunt
Dark Crusade
The Hellhound King
Zombie Moon
Trust Me
The Witch Thief
Enemy Vampire (coming soon)
-Contemporary Romance-
Love is All Around
Love is All You Need
-Urban Fantasy-
Amazon Queen
Amazon Ink
-Short Stories-
Captured
Lured
Zombie Midnight
Lost
Found
When Gargoyles Fly
-Novellas-
The Vampire Who Stole Christmas
One Soul to Share
Acknowledgements
Special thanks to Sharon Stogner and Laura Drewry for reading and sharing their thoughts on Trust Me. Your input was invaluable.
Looking For More Vampires?
Check out Crave the Night, an anthology of dark and dangerous desires, by paranormal romance authors: Michele Hauf, Sharon Ashwood, Patti O’Shea and Lori Devoti.
This collection of never-before-published novellas features paranormal pairings romance readers will pine for. Vampires, demons, werewolves, faeries and even a mermaid will satisfy the darkest of cravings.
Crave the Night will be available mid-October at major online retailers in digital and trade paperback format.
Sample from Jackie Ivie’s Series, the Vampire Assassins League
CHAPTER ONE, Knight after Night
‘Rules are made to be…broken.’
Jolie looked up from Sir Walter Scott’s printed words to face the speaker and got empty space. There wasn’t anyone from her vantage point all the way to the next hall, where giggling interspersed the whispers from an amorous couple. She took her time scanning polished floor shadowed by bookcases and long, wood-hewn tables with accompanying high-backed chairs that made everyone who sat in them look puny and insignificant. Old gilded candelabra hung in rows, defining the space, pegged with little lights they’d dimmed for now. Actually, Jolie didn’t think they ever lit the bulbs. No need. Long, florescent lights hovered over most tables, creating oasis of space. There wasn’t anything to see. Nothing. It was her imagination. It had to be. Even if the breath behind the whisper felt like it tickled her ear. Jolie brushed at her lobe defensively. The voice had been masculine. Cultured. Carrying a hint of brogue. Softly spoken. And it started a trickle of reaction along her neck.
She sighed, listened to how the sound got captured in the echo-ridden library, and then went back to studying words on paper. Literary works usually held her spellbound, poring over meaning, absorbing inference. That wasn’t happening now, since she was missing sleep and hiding from her amorous roommate’s activities. Sir Scott should’ve written less of romance. And she still had the entire tome to finish memorizing—
“You ignoring me, lass?”
Jolie’s head snapped up, her eyes went wide, and her breath stopped. She was afraid her heart joined it. Massive male reclined in the high backed chair opposite her, making that particular one look small and effeminate, from little more than the work of holding him.
“I—”
Jolie didn’t have an answer so she just let her voice stop. She went back to her book and practiced ignoring the interloper. It wasn’t easy. He had to be the most handsome thing she’d ever imagined. Attired in what looked like a kilt but had more material to it since he’d tossed a bit of it over one shoulder. That was worn over a linen shirt with ruffles down the front, and a black vest matching the shade and shine of his hair. Even with all that, she reminded herself - he was just a man. And he was annoying her. Like every other male she’d met lately; all of them single-minded and lustful. She was sick of it. Although…she stole another peek at this one and watched him catch her gesture and acknowledge it with a dip of his chin. She jerked her attention back to the page and suffered a blush.
“You from across the pond?” he asked.
She tried reading another line without seeing it.
“I’m fair certain of it. East coast?”
Ignoring him wasn’t working. She was going to have to give this one words. “I’m studying. And you’re interrupting,” she answered in a cool tone.
“I’ll go farther inland. Great-lakes area? Chicago?”
“You have a problem hearing?”
“Verra well. I’ll try west coast?” He prompted it, leaning forward to rest his elbows atop the massive length of wood in the table, making that structure look like so much kindling. Lighting from overhead put shadows to his features, carving them into sharp relief; highlighting coal black hair, lush lashes of the same shade, perfectly chiseled jaw and cheeks…full lips, and liquid silver eyes.
Huge shoulders and arms were encased in that perfectly ironed shirt and vest, and it looked cut and sewn to his exact proportions when he wasn’t flexing. Fitting him without causing a ripped seam had to be a tailor’s worst nightmare. And it was beginning to be hers that she couldn’t keep her glance from straying to him. She returned it to the page.
; “I’m studying.” Jolie enunciated each word again.
“Why?”
She sighed hard enough to ruffle the pages in front of her. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Tests.”
“It’s not a test. It’s a quiz.”
“Vague difference. Little reason.”
“Look. I just got a scholarship. I earned it. And now I’m proving why. So if you don’t mind, I’ve work to do.”
She turned her attention back to the book, finding it hard to concentrate when she had an enticing, exciting male breathing in rhythm with her. Jolie frowned slightly as she read the same paragraph three times and failed to comprehend it.
“How much work?”
He’d leaned closer and put both palms together to lean atop his index fingers; studying her. And damn her for peeking and knowing that much.
“Enough.”
“Have supper with me.”
Jolie’s breath caught and then escaped with measured precise timing. That way he’d never know. “It’s way past time for supper,” she told him, turning a page she hadn’t read.
“Somewhere in the world…’tis supper.”
“You’re starting to annoy me.”
“Only starting? You’ve a vast reservoir of patience. And an odd accent I canna’ place. Canadian?”
“Alaskan. Now…if you’ll excuse me?”
“Alaska. Hmm. I’ve na’ been there yet. However, if I’d known you were there…”
He let it trail off, hinting at something her skin recognized. That sent a rivulet of goose bumps all over her. And then he made it immeasurably worse with a large enough sigh it ruffled her page. “All of which is mere words when I await your every whim.”
“What?”
“We’ll start with supper.”
“Oh. No.”
“Why na’?”
“I don’t go to supper with strangers.”
“Thoran Alexander MacKettryck.”
She didn’t hear the scrape of the chair but he was on his feet, making her crane her head to see him. He bowed and gestured with one hand, making a movement akin to what the professor of medieval studies was always affecting. Only on this man, it looked genuine and graceful. With his other hand he pushed back on what looked like a short sword strapped to his hip while the hilt of another peeked from behind a shoulder. She blinked and moved her eyes and then swallowed to still the nervousness.
“Your parents named you Thorn? How apt.”
“Thor…an.” He replied, splitting it in two.
“Interesting.”
“And you are…Jolie Amber Pritchard. We are now introduced.”
“H-h-how do you know my name?”
The stammer was as genuine as the shock. It worsened as he reached and put both hands on the table top in order to lean forward, looming over her and sending massive, man-size shadow everywhere. They should have crafted these tables as wide as they were long. She had it decided before his sword sheath clanked against it.
“It’s written on your page. Legibly. Easy to read. Even upside down.”
Jolie snapped her notebook shut. “What…do you want?”
“Sup. With you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“The entire world is hungry. For one thing or another. They thirst. They hunger. They crave. Wine. Entertainment. Knowledge. Sometimes for the mundane work of sustenance. And sometimes for lust.”
“You can forget the lust part. Don’t make me call security.” She’d had about enough of Scot machismo. Even if it was wrapped up in masculine perfection and breathing all over her from his vantage.
He smiled. “Would it help if I told you I’m a gentleman?”
“No.” She replied and lifted her chin slightly.
“How about my…lineage?”
“I’m American. We don’t do lineage.”
He smiled without show of teeth. Sadly. Almost melancholic. It made her heart skip a full beat before it returned with a painful pulse.
“Thoran Alexander MacKettryck, Sixth Duke of Kettryck, Earl of Umber, Chieftain and laird of the aforementioned as well as the baronetcies of Ulster and Little Dee. At last count.”
Jolie was stunned. There wasn’t much way to hide it. He sounded immensely rich. Snobbish. And she already knew he was arrogant.
“Most ladies leap at an offer to sup with me.”
“I’m certain they do.”
“I’ll drive.”
“You’re arrogant. Egotistical. And conceited.”
“So?”
“Big-headed. Pretentious. Haughty. Vain.”
“I agree with vain. Go on. I can wait.”
“I really need to get back to studying. I’m not hungry. You need to leave. Now.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Swollen-headed. Pompous. Uh…arrogant. Conceited.”
“You’re repeating.”
“I’m serious…what is your title?”
“Call me Thoran.”
“That’s it. I’m calling security.” Jolie fumbled for her pocketed cell phone and thumbed through listings without looking. Stopped. Glanced down to check before pushing the button.
“I doona’ think so.”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t want them to get injured.”
Jolie met his look for countless seconds, gauging his boast. He’d gone right past defying description. He also looked like what he said was fact. Not supposition. Not boastful. Actual fact. The hand resting on a knife hilt only emphasized it. Jolie moved her thumb away from the call button. He looked like he already knew it.
“Does this mean you’ll accept my invite?”
“No. It means I’m leaving.”
He regarded her without expression. “In that event, I’ll escort you.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
“How does one get rid of you, Thoran?”
“One doesn’t.”
“That’s insane.”
“Add that to the descriptions you’ve already used. Come. I’ve the perfect spot for a light sup. And then…dancing.”
“I’m not dancing with you.”
“Ah—.” He held a finger up. “You dinna’ say sup.”
“Very well. I’m not supping with you, either.”
They were gaining some notice. Shushing noise came limping through the halls and around the bookcases toward them.
“See there? You’re going to get me tossed out.”
“Arguing gets you that. I’m merely attempting an escort.”
“I don’t need an escort, Thoran Alexander…whatever your name is.”
“MacKettryk,” he supplied.
Jolie’s lips tightened. “I’m walking to my room. It’s not that far. I’ve done it multiple times. Safely.”
“You doona’ want to do that. Your roommate has na’ finished with Kelvin yet.”
Jolie stopped assembling her books into a pile, carefully placing all five of them in order; largest on bottom, notebook on top. She looked back up at him and narrowed her eyes. It didn’t mute him much.
“How…do you know about that?”
“I ken lots of things.”
“How?”
His eyes shifted slightly up and to the left before returning his gaze to her, showing the obvious sign of lying. Jolie knew that even before taking from Psychology 101.
“Cameras. Throughout the buildings.”
“Right.” Jolie said it under her breath. She scooted her chair back, preparatory to standing. It made a satisfying scrape noise on the polished tile floor. “Don’t you have anyone else to bother?”
“Maybe later.”
“Why me? You’ve probably got legions of women who’d love to sup with you.”
“You called to me. I answered.”
“Of all the—”
He interrupted her. “A thought winging through the night. Straight to me.”
“Oh. Brother.”
S
he dead-panned both words. He looked slightly taken-aback. Then he smiled again, that same sad-type smile.
“I was bored, Jolie-lass. You were, too. Admit it.”
“No.”
“Then fight it and pretend otherwise. I’ll still take you to sup. And dancing.”
“I can’t go. Not to sup. And definitely not dancing.” She also couldn’t halt the breathless anticipatory note of her voice. She could barely believe the sound of it.
“The night’s young. You can do whatever you want. I’ll make certain of it.”
“What about my studying?”
“I’ll quote it to you. Word-for-word. While you eat.”
“You’ll…quote it?”
“Aye. From any tome you wish to name.”
Jolie had come up against arrogance before but this was ridiculous. The man had the physique of a jock, the manners of a barbarian, and the looks of a god – along the lines of Greek mythology gods. It wasn’t believable he’d actually memorized passages of literary works.
“How?”
“With my voice. Come. I ken just the place to start our evening.” He stood back from the table, making it groan with the loss of weight. “Do you have a cloak?”
“A cloak? Uh…no. Hoodie.” Jolie giggled, caught it with a hand and then flushed at the ramifications. She giggled?
“What is a hoodie?”
“A jacket that goes over the head. Like this.”
She demonstrated, pulling the garment over her head and arms and once it was down, yanking her hair out, where it sparked against the fleece lining. That was her fault. She hadn’t braided her hair, she hadn’t found conditioner, and that just made it impossible to control. It wasn’t until she looked up that she realized six-and-a-half feet of man stood right in front of her, breathing along with her as if he hadn’t just raced around the table, or vaulted over it, or somehow moved that quickly without affecting him at all. And without making one hint of noise.
“Hmm… Interesting. I see this hoodie takes the place of several items of clothing. A cloak. Shawl. Hat. Sweater. Muff for your hands. For ease. Efficiency.”
“You don’t get out much, do you?”
