by Juliet Lyons
I step backward, and his arms drop from my waist. “Catherine?”
Even though I’ve never seen or even heard of what’s in my life essence, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.
I fold my arms across my chest, at once all too aware of wearing only a rumpled bra and yoga pants. “Did you ask me to bite you so you could see it?” I ask, my voice rising in anger.
His brow knits. “No. Maybe. I wanted you to do it. I wasn’t thinking.”
The flames of joy that flared at being able to express myself are smothered by the knowledge he’s seen the most shameful part of me. I can’t look him in the eye. Imagine, Ronin McDermott having the moral high ground. If I wasn’t so quietly devastated, it’d be funny.
“I suppose you’ve been dying to know since I left that voice message. Well, now you know.”
He closes the distance between us and grabs me by the shoulders. “I just want to understand you, Catherine,” he says, eyes flashing. “I want to know you, but you won’t let me in.”
“Won’t let you control me, you mean,” I hiss.
He plays the part well; I’ll give him that. As he stares down at me, his mouth hanging open, I almost believe he’s not the manipulative creature I know for certain he’s always been.
“You’re not a killer, Catherine. No matter what mistakes you’ve made in the past. Is this why you’re still holding a grudge? Because I took away your chance at becoming human? Do you want to die? Is that it?”
I break away, grabbing handfuls of my curls and tugging on them manically. I must look like Bertha Mason from Jane Eyre as I begin to pace up and down the room in front of him. “It isn’t that I want to die, Ronin,” I say, letting go of my hair and clenching my fists so tightly my knuckles turn white. “I should have died. I deserve to.”
To my horror, my voice breaks. Tears blur my vision and Ronin laughs. He actually laughs.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” I say, ready to launch myself across the room.
I glare at him. He shakes his head, shoulders rattling with mirth.
“I said stop it.”
He holds up a hand. “I’m sorry, Catherine, but you have to admit it’s sort of funny.”
That does it. I fling myself at him, slapping him hard across his left cheek. “You really are the most heartless bastard on earth, aren’t you?”
He stops laughing and dives on me. It happens so fast I barely know I’m moving. One second, I’m standing, and the next, I’m lying on the sofa with Ronin on top of me, my arms pinned to the cushion above my head.
“Look at me,” he says, his voice a low growl.
His strength renders me powerless. I glare at him through eyes narrowed to slits.
“You do not deserve to die. You never did. You’re here on this earth because you’re extraordinary, and I’m not sorry that my biting you took away your pitiful wish to wither away into an early grave. That would have been the tragedy. Whatever happened is over. Do you know how I cope with my past?”
“By shagging anything that moves?”
He ignores the remark and continues, “By forgetting about the person I was yesterday and concentrating on who I am today.”
“Why, thank you, Oprah,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’ve been waiting almost two hundred years to hear a speech like that. If my hands weren’t being held down, I’d give you a round of applause.”
His jaw clenches. “You really are an uptight bitch, aren’t you?”
“I was extraordinary a moment ago,” I say, eyes wide. “Though forgive me if the words mean so little, coming from a self-absorbed rake like yourself.”
Suddenly, our old tension has returned. His chest heaves, his gaze drilling into me like a laser. He releases my hands, and no sooner has he done so than I’m knotting them into his hair and pulling him down on top of me. Our mouths open so wide it brings a whole new level of meaning to the phrase sucking face.
He pauses midkiss, leaning back on his haunches to tear off his suit jacket. As he does, my hands fly to the buckle of his belt, my fingers working the clasp until I manage to yank it through the loops and tear it off with a flourish. He unzips his fly and twists the button open, pushing his pants over his hips so his cock springs out. I gulp. It’s even more beautiful than I remember and, like the rest of him, a work of art—long, thick, protruding proudly from an explosion of wiry, red hair.
“Does your friend next door have one of these?” he asks in gravelly tones, looking between me and his penis, its tip glistening with beads of moisture.
Innocently, I retort, “Who?”
He grins, taking one of my hands in his and placing it onto his shaft, wrapping my fingers around the velvety stiffness. “Feel it,” he murmurs through half-closed lids. “Feel what you do to me.”
His hand falls away as I begin stroking the silky ridges. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, his eyes closing. Strange how pleasure and pain so frequently bear the same aesthetics. I slide my hand along his erection, my body thrumming with need.
“Now, I’ll watch you come,” I say. My voice sounds as if it belongs to someone else. I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt like this—vulnerable and in control at the same time. Utterly without conscience.
He tips his head back, his chest rising and falling in time with my pumping. I stare, fascinated by this man, this creature who strikes fear into the cold hearts of vampires all over London, who at this moment is little more than a slave to my touch.
His breathing grows labored, his eyes screwed tightly shut. “Catherine,” he moans through gritted teeth. “Keep going.”
As if I could stop.
When I sense he’s at the brink, his groans coming in short, sharp spurts, I lean forward and gently grasp his balls. His eyes pop open, a strangled gasp erupting from his throat, his body shuddering violently as he comes, spurting hot juices all over me and the sofa. He remains suspended in this glorious pose—hips jerking, head flung back, an expression of pure ecstasy etched into the exquisite lines of his face—until the storm subsides and he flops forward on top of me, his head buried in my neck, his body still quietly heaving from climax.
“There,” I say, my voice muffled by the weight of his body, “now we’re even. I didn’t want you leaving here thinking I owed you.”
He chuckles, the vibration making my teeth rattle. “You’re in a constant state of denial, do you know that?” he whispers, placing a gentle kiss in the hollow beneath my ear. “Last time, in my office, you insinuated that you only kissed me for paying off that client of yours, and now here, half-naked in your apartment… Tell me, do you always pay people in sexual favors?”
“With a man like you, it’s the only way,” I retort.
He smiles, pressing a violent kiss into my cheek before clambering off me. I sit up and grab a cushion, holding it across my breasts as he makes a long, deliberate show of pulling up his trousers and zipping his fly.
Tucking his shirt into the waistband, he says, “When you’ve stopped wallowing in the past, give me a call.”
For once, I don’t know what to say, my head a jumble of conflicting emotions. I’m still angry at him for making me bite him, horrified by what he must have seen, but also I don’t want him to leave. I want him to stay here and take me to bed.
He picks his jacket and belt off the floor, dressing himself with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. I wonder how many times he has worn that look after a sexual encounter.
When he’s finished with the belt and shrugged into his jacket, he bounds across the room and begins rummaging around on the table by the window.
I scrunch up my face. “If you’re looking for your morals, I’m sorry to say I think they’re long gone.”
“Aha!” he says, lifting a pen. He snatches up an envelope and writes something on the back before holding it up triumphantly. “This is
my private address.” In the bright light of the window, he is suffused in a golden glow. With his handsome face and copper hair, he looks more angel than demon. “I’m going to leave it here. When you’re ready to admit you want me more than you’ve ever wanted anyone, you can come and find me. Then we’ll finish what we started today.”
He drops the envelope and appears before me, trailing fingers up my bare arm. I use every ounce of willpower I possess to stop myself from lunging for him. He leans down, his lips moving against my hair, the sensation of his warm breath on my face making me tingle all over. “I’ll make you come a thousand times over before I’m done with you,” he whispers.
I swallow heavily, closing my eyes against a blistering wave of desire.
When I open them, the door is slamming shut and he is gone.
Chapter 10
Ronin
Roger Devine’s massive apartment block is a lot harder to break into than Catherine’s.
This time there’s a concierge, a bored-looking, gray-haired gentleman who is sitting at the front desk reading a newspaper. I pretend to examine the large notice board in the lobby while I size him up.
The old duck doesn’t miss a trick, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you waiting for someone?” he asks, folding his newspaper and peering over the reception desk. There’s a military bearing to his posture, his blue eyes sharp behind his bifocal glasses.
Unlike the nosy lady in Catherine’s building, I get the sense that this guy is no pushover. I wait a few seconds until a smart-looking couple have drifted through the exit behind the main desk and approach him, holding his gaze, my pupils dilating as I seize control of his mind.
“We’ve just had a conversation about number thirty-seven,” I say, as the familiar electrical current passes between us. “You recognize me as Mr. Devine’s brother. I’m here to collect some of his things and have just explained that I’ve lost his key. You’re going to give me the spare and let me go up. You are sorry for my loss.”
I step back, breaking the connection. The security guard shivers before reaching into a drawer beside him.
“Here you go,” he says, pulling a silver key from a loop. “Number thirty-seven.”
I smile graciously, taking it from his outstretched hand. “Thank you so much.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. His blue eyes are no longer quite as sharp.
I nod sadly. “Thank you. Roger always spoke so highly of the staff here.”
The man frowns as if wracking his brains. Clearly Roger wasn’t the friendly sort. Time to make my exit.
Occasionally, if a human possesses a strong enough mind, a glamour can be patchy. My guess is that this gentleman will spend the rest of today wondering if he had a blackout of some sort. It happens.
The man hits a button beneath the desk and the door to the staircase buzzes open. I glide through confidently, hoping there will be some sort of signage on the other side, telling me what floor number thirty-seven is on.
A man with messy, brown hair pushing a buggy emerges from an elevator.
“Excuse me, which floor is thirty-seven?”
“Eighth,” he replies, buzzing himself out into reception.
Easy peasy.
It’s only in the elevator on my way up to Roger Devine’s apartment that I finally allow myself the luxury of thinking about my sexually charged encounter with Catherine. Even though I just climaxed all over her sofa, I’m ready for her again, my cock and balls tingling as I remember soft hands caressing me, the warmth of her tongue in my mouth. It doesn’t help to be utterly smothered in her scent either. I’m so intoxicated I feel as if I dived in and swam in her.
I sigh, turning toward the metal walls and knocking my forehead against the cold steel. She was one hundred percent right when she accused me of asking her to bite me so I could see her life essence. Though I enjoyed every second she spent sucking on my neck, I’d wanted to be able to glimpse the ghosts of her past firsthand.
I certainly got more than I bargained for there. She’d killed a man. Violently.
I half close my eyes, recalling the sequence of dark events hidden inside her mind. I’m not sure if I’m more disturbed by the murder or by the handsome blond youth spinning her around in his arms. He’d been her lover, that much was clear. The life essence doesn’t just relay events like a television—you become that person, feeling their emotions, walking in their footsteps. Catherine loved that young man with all her heart.
Jealousy stabs my chest. But what had happened to him? After his part, it switched to a dark room, a fire crackling in the hearth, and a middle-aged man asleep in a threadbare chair. His head was tipped back in slumber, his grubby feet resting on a three-legged stool as she hit him repeatedly with a poker she grabbed from beside the fire.
She struck him so violently and with such force that he never regained consciousness, and the whole time she was beating him, she was utterly without remorse. The darkness faded into another grim scene, this time a cell with iron bars across a window, the nauseating stench of human feces, a shriek of rats as they scurried underfoot. A lock rattled and a door opened. Anastasia appeared, pale and ghostly in the shadowy light of the cell, wearing a red velvet cape.
The rest, as they say, is history.
I remember her words back at the apartment. I should have died. I deserve to. Does she still carry the burden of guilt after all these years? Craving a human life so she can finally shuffle off the mortal coil? I know vampires who would do anything to get a second chance at normalcy, but with Catherine, I don’t buy it. That’s why I’d laughed so hard during her melodramatic speech. There’s more to this than some misguided desire to right the wrongs of the past, and whether she cares to admit it or not, she doesn’t hate me. No one could give and receive sexual pleasure like that if they did. No, there is some deep-rooted fear she’s projecting onto me, and I’d bet my immortality it has everything to do with the man she killed.
I mean, I’m a catch. What other explanation is there?
As the elevator doors slide open and I step out into a cream-painted hall, I decide that from now on, I’m going to behave like the perfect gentleman—because she will show up at my apartment. It’s only a matter of time. A shiver of anticipation zigzags through me. I just hope it’s sooner rather than later, because if there is one thing I’m certain of, it’s that no other woman will do.
Outside number thirty-seven, I remove the key from my trouser pocket and slip it into the lock. A lemony smell—like bleach and cleaning fluids—hits me as I push open the door and step into a large, rectangular living space. Like so many other London apartments, it’s open plan, the lounge separated from the kitchen by a long counter. In one half of the room, a widescreen TV hangs on a wall opposite a large sofa, a huge pair of glass sliding doors leading out onto the balcony. Another door leads off from the lounge, probably to the bedrooms. Aside from an empty fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and the cushions on the sofa, the place is empty. I have a feeling that wherever Esme’s diamond necklace ended up, it isn’t here.
Crossing the room, I move swiftly into the bedroom. Like the rest of the place, it’s almost bare, the crisp linen sheets on the bed the only sign that someone once lived here. I wrench open the door to the bathroom, finding yet another empty space. I’m just about to slam it shut when I hear footsteps approaching the main door to the apartment. I freeze as a key clicks into the lock and the handle turns. The thump of a heartbeat tells me it’s human.
Well, isn’t this awkward?
I whip open the bedroom door and clear my throat as a woman in a black fur coat struts into the lounge. Her hair is so blond it’s almost white, her face heavily made up. Suddenly, I remember the old Facebook photo on Roger’s profile: add a strip of pink sunblock and some Ray-Bans and presto—it’s her in the flesh.
Her eyes widen, but other than this, she doesn’t app
ear at all disturbed to see a tall, red-haired man wandering around her dead boyfriend’s apartment.
“Oh,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Are you the estate agent?”
“An estate agent?” I repeat incredulously.
Maybe it’s time to update my wardrobe.
“Yes,” she snips. “From Carter-Mayhew? You’re valuing Roger’s place.”
I shove my hands into my pockets, frowning. What would work better in the interests of my investigation? The truth or lies?
“I’m Inspector Derren Browne from the Metropolitan Police,” I say smoothly.
Lies it is, then.
Her lip curls at one corner. “Derren Brown? Isn’t he a magician or something?”
Shit. I knew that name rolled off the tongue too easily.
“No, that’s Derren Brown. My surname has an E on the end.”
She shrugs. I could probably tell her I’m Santa Claus and she wouldn’t bat an eyelid.
With some people, figuring out what’s going on inside their heads is as easy as breathing. This woman is one of those people. She is so simple to read, there’s practically a set of instructions printed on her forehead.
That’s not to say I can actually read minds—far from it. Body language and posture tell me everything I need to know. For example, right this very second, the way she’s toying with her bag indicates she has money worries. She’s anxious too, her eyes lacking focus as they dart around the room. I’d hazard a guess she has a meeting of some sort today, either with a bank manager or a loan shark, to discuss the situation.
“I thought the police didn’t need any further information,” she mutters, snatching an impatient glance at the gold watch on her wrist.
“We’ve been wanting to ask more about Mr. Devine’s employers, Baverstock & Marshall,” I say, scanning her face for any sign of recognition.
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh. Shall we sit down?”
I nod, perching on the end of the sofa. Roger’s girlfriend stays standing. I get the impression she might be a bit of a control freak.
