by Juliet Lyons
“I heard a man’s voice, deep with a Scottish accent, like the man looking for Peter the other day, and then I heard screams. At first I thought it might be that cat of yours, but cats don’t make those kinds of noises.”
I begin to tap the toe of my sneaker on the carpet. “What kind of noises do you think they were, then, if it wasn’t the cat?”
She crosses herself. “That is between you and God, but if there is a ménage à trois situation happening under this roof, then don’t think I won’t be informing the building manager.”
“A ménage a trois?” I repeat incredulously. “A ménage a bloody trois?” I unfold my arms, clenching my fists by my sides. “Why don’t I do you a favor and let you in on the truth for once?”
The triumphant gleam fades from her eyes, replaced by a look of fear. She takes a tiny step backward.
“That Scottish man you met the other day isn’t a man at all. He’s a demon. An ancient, smoking-hot, womanizing creep who happens to be so fantastic in bed it’s impossible to stop thinking about him. He told you he was Peter’s boyfriend so he could break into my apartment. And Peter—well, Peter is just your average, typically lovely man. It’s too bad kissing him sent me running into the arms of London’s biggest rake. So yes, those were screams you heard. That was me enjoying one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had. I haven’t experienced too many of those in my lifetime, if you must know, so forgive me for shouting the house down in ecstasy. There, are you happy now? Are you still planning to call the building manager?”
It’s then I notice that Mrs. Colangelo is no longer looking at me. Instead, her black eyes gawk at the space above my shoulder. I spin around and my heart plummets into my shoes. Peter stands at the bottom of the stairs, his hair messy, glasses slightly askew, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Oh my God.
He glances between me and Mrs. Colangelo, pushing his glasses up his nose, his cheeks flushed. “I was just heading out to buy some milk.” He motions to nowhere in particular before clearing his throat and nodding to each of us. “Good evening to you both.”
He strides past, disappearing down the stairs.
“Oh no. No, no, no,” I cry, gripping my head in my hands. “How long was he standing there?”
Mrs. Colangelo purses her lips, shaking her head. “Long enough to hear most of it. Maybe you’ll think twice in future before airing your dirty linen in public.”
My nostrils flare, my utter mortification replaced by rage. “If you weren’t such a nosy old bag, I wouldn’t have had to air anything.”
She tuts her tongue. “Have more respect for your elders, young lady.”
For the first time in a long while, I let my fangs drop from my gums in anger, pulling my lips back into a snarl. Mrs. Colangelo lets out a strangled shriek.
“I’m almost two hundred years old,” I hiss. “So maybe you should heed your own advice.”
She backs into her apartment, pointing a trembling finger at my mouth. “I knew it,” she says. “I knew it from the first time we met.” Then she slams the door in my face.
I guess that’s me crossed off her Christmas card list.
I take off down the hallway, hoping to catch up with Peter. Though what can I say, really? Sorry for telling Mrs. Colangelo the truth? There are some situations in life that are impossible to wriggle out of, and overheard conversations is right up there with sending texts to the wrong person and driving into the back of someone’s car.
Outside on the street, Peter is nowhere to be seen, his scent lost on the chilly breeze. I walk out anyway, down past the Starbucks on the corner, wondering if maybe I’ll see him sitting in the window, nursing a cappuccino along with his bruised ego. Then I remember him saying he hates these places, that capitalism is destroying the world. Yes, I’ve upset one of the good guys.
It isn’t long before I start blaming Ronin. If he’d never been at my apartment in the first place, none of this would have ever happened. Once again, he’s waltzed into my life and pissed all over it.
As if some strange force has come over me, I turn midstride and begin walking along the street in the other direction. My feet know where I’m heading before I do.
16 Kensington Place, SW1.
By the time my head catches up, it’s too late. I’m ducking into a dark side street and taking off through the back alleys, using a speed I forgot I possessed to close the gap between me and the man I loathe. It isn’t until I emerge onto the affluent street of Kensington Place that I wonder what I’ll do if the fuckwit isn’t home.
Or if a woman answers the door.
I stand in the shadows opposite number sixteen. Behind me is a private garden fenced off from the public by green iron railings. Tall shrubbery shields its interior from view. The houses on this street are worth millions. Odd though, I always had Ronin pegged as a penthouse overlooking the Thames sort of guy, not a smart, five-story town house in a residential area.
I step out from the safety of the overhanging trees into the golden gleam of a streetlamp. Cars line the street on either side—Porsches, Jaguars, Mercedes—their windows beginning to mist in the chilly air. There isn’t a cloud in the sky this evening, and the full moon casts the street in an eerie, silver glow.
Ronin’s place is exactly like the rest of the houses on his road—white stucco fronted with a large portico supported by huge ivory columns. These places always remind me of Wendy Darling’s house in Peter Pan. It’s hard to believe I was around before they were even built.
I hesitate on the pavement for a few seconds, wondering if maybe I should cut my losses and head back to Hackney. But then I picture Peter’s pale face at the end of the hall and Mrs. Colangelo’s narrowed eyes, and I remind myself this is all because of Ronin McDermott.
No, I’m not leaving. One way or another, this ends tonight.
With fresh determination, I march across the street, wishing I were wearing a pair of killer heels instead of my running shoes. In flats, I’ll barely reach the bastard’s chest.
I leap up the ivory steps and hammer my fist so hard on the polished front door I almost leave a dent.
The door flies open, Ronin appearing behind it, and just like that, my anger melts to lust.
“You came,” he says in a low voice, the artificial light of the hallway surrounding him like a halo. An angel of death.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. All I can do is stare. He’s not wearing his usual suit; instead, he’s dressed in a pair of dark-blue jeans that hug his muscular thighs and long legs, with a thin, gray sweater that serves only to accentuate the bulging outline of his muscles. His copper hair is messy, curling over his forehead and ears, his blue gaze smoldering. I stare past him into the fancy hallway, crystal chandeliers lighting its length. Whatever I was expecting, it isn’t this.
I stick my chin in the air, trying to compensate for being a foot shorter than him in my flats. “Yes, I came. Now, are you going to invite me in, or will we be having sex on the doorstep?”
He cocks a brow, a faint smile twisting the corners of his lips before stepping aside. “I think you at least deserve the hallway,” he says in a tone that sends a lick of heat straight to my core. “Maybe even the stairs if you behave yourself.”
I strut past him into the house, trying to ignore the dizzying waves of desire pounding through my veins. I make a point of not letting my gaze wander to the staircase.
I pause at the end of the passageway, taking in the fresh flowers on the hallway table, a hint of lemony furniture polish lingering on the air. The door to my left is open, and inside I glimpse a long, oatmeal-colored sofa, a polished oak floor, a stack of kindling next to the open fire. It looks like a scene from Homes & Gardens magazine.
“Isn’t this all a bit metrosexual for the likes of you?”
He cocks his head to one side and folds his arms, his bi
ceps bulging through the thin material of his sweater. “What were you expecting? A shrine to Satan? That’s upstairs.”
I swallow a smile, running my fingers along the smooth edge of the narrow table. “I just thought it would be an extension of your office. You know, black leather, maybe some red velvet drapes.”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Can I get you a drink?”
My jaw drops. What the hell is he playing at by being nice? “Okay,” I mutter.
“I’ll lead the way.” Without taking his eyes from mine, he closes the front door and brushes past me, his fingers skimming my elbow as he passes. Despite the thickness of my sweatshirt, his touch burns as if it’s pressing into my bare skin.
“The kitchen is through here,” he says, motioning toward the back of the house.
I follow him past the stairs, into a massive kitchen lined with brushed-steel appliances and shiny, black cupboards. A long oak table sits in the middle of the room, two benches on either side.
“This is more like it,” I murmur, though this room is immaculately clean too. “You must have one hell of a cleaning lady,” I say, admiring a white-tiled floor so shiny I can see my reflection in it.
“I do. Her name is Flavia.”
A pang of utterly ridiculous jealousy worms its way into my gut. I find myself wondering what she looks like.
Ronin pulls out two crystal tumblers from a cupboard and sets them on the oak table. “Flavia is a grandmother of five and plays lawn bowls on the weekend,” he says, as if reading my mind. “I try not to bang my cleaning ladies if I can help it.”
I humph. “Yeah, because you’re so big on self-restraint.”
Grinning, he pulls out a crystal decanter, glugging an inch of brown liquid into each of the glasses. “I’m glad you came, Catherine,” he says, pushing the stopper back into the bottle and handing me a glass. “To be honest, I thought you were going to burn the piece of paper with my address on it as soon as I left.”
I take the drink and tip the contents down my throat in one go, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “Is that so?”
He takes a long sip from his glass, his knitted brows making his eyes seem a thousand times more intense. “Aye, it is.”
A silence falls between us, the only noise being the hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the gold watch on Ronin’s wrist.
This is all wrong. Usually we’re either fighting or kissing—there’s never an in-between. Why isn’t he diving on me? Or saying something awful?
I set the empty glass onto the table with more force than necessary, hoping the noise will shatter the weird tension between us.
When it doesn’t, I motion to his jeans, my gaze lingering on the bulge at his crotch. “Well, I’m here for sex, so let’s have it. Hadn’t you better take those off?”
Ronin glances between me and his trousers and back again. He takes another sip of scotch before putting his glass down next to mine. “I thought maybe we could break the pattern this time. Talk.”
“Talk? You want to talk?”
He nods, jaw clenched, his eyes an unearthly shade of sky blue beneath the spotlights in the ceiling.
“Oh, I get it,” I say, plucking at my hoodie. “It’s the outfit.” In a fit of boldness, I lift the gray sweatshirt over my head and toss it aside, my breasts concealed only by the shiny, pink camisole I’ve been wearing since my shower this morning. “There, problem solved.”
His eyes flash, but he merely frowns, staring at the heap of gray material on the kitchen floor. “You really think I care what you’re wearing?”
“Men are visual creatures.”
“I’m not a man.”
“Vampires too.”
“I’m not a vampire, not in the traditional sense.”
I sigh. “Whatever, Ronin, either we’re doing this, or we’re not.”
His gaze flicks back to my face. “I think that might be the first time you actually called me by my name.”
I narrow my eyes. What game is he playing? “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?” I kick off my running shoes, sinking even lower to the ground in my bare feet. When my fingers begin to work the button on my jeans, Ronin cuts the distance between us, wrapping his large hand around my wrist to stop me.
Using his index finger and thumb, he lifts my chin, compelling me to meet his gaze. “As much as I’d love to fuck your brains out on the kitchen table, Catherine, I’d like us to have a civilized conversation first.”
I jerk from his grasp. “Why? So you can wriggle your way into my head just a tiny bit more? I’m afraid I can’t let that happen. No, this is about sex, the way it’s always been between us. I came here tonight because, thanks to you, I’ve upset a decent guy and exposed myself as a vampire to the neighbors. A half-decent shag is the least you can offer. But if you’re going to get frigid on me, I’ll leave.”
He grips my chin, more forcefully this time, leaning down so our faces are just inches apart. “This isn’t you,” he growls. “When will you accept that I never meant to hurt you, Catherine? You’re damaging yourself, hanging on to the past like this, hating me. You need to move on. We both do.”
Blood begins to pound in my ears, the room blurring as sudden panic floods my body. I try to wrench myself from his grip, but it’s impossible. I shut my eyes instead. I cannot allow another man to tell me what to think or do. I just can’t.
Then Ronin releases me and does something entirely unimaginable. He pulls me toward him and wraps strong arms around me, cocooning me in a nest of muscle and warmth, his chin resting on top of my head. His scent, a delicious blend of fresh linen, leather, and woodsmoke, sends a wave of calm rushing over me. “I’m not him, Catherine. Whatever it is he did to you, I’m not him.”
His words break the spell. I shove him away, hard. “Don’t go there,” I warn.
“Someone has to,” he murmurs.
Tears pricking my eyes, I dash from the room, back up the hallway, to the front of the house. But before I can reach for the door handle, Ronin is there, blocking my path with his broad-shouldered frame.
“Move,” I order him.
He shakes his head. “Not happening.”
I shove him hard, my palms flat against his torso. I try not to let my fingertips linger on the ripple of abs, taut and hard beneath his cashmere sweater. He doesn’t budge an inch.
For the second time today, I expose my fangs. “Get out of my way. If you don’t move, I swear I’ll spill so much of your evil, black blood in this hallway, Flavia won’t play lawn bowls for a month, she’ll be working so hard to clean it up.”
Ronin lifts his chin in defiance. “Knock yourself out.”
I swallow back tears, almost two centuries’ worth of pain bubbling up inside me like a hot spring. “I fucking hate you,” I hiss, balling my hands into fists and pummeling on his chest in fury.
He grabs my wrists, clasping them together with a single hand. “Catherine, you don’t hate me any more than I hate you.”
Then, before I can say another word, he’s spinning me around and pressing me to the wall, fastening his lips to mine. His hands fist my hair as he opens my mouth, his delicious body rubbing me in all the right places.
Not for one second do I try to fight him off. Instead, I wrap my legs around his thighs, caressing his warm tongue with mine, tiny whimpers of pleasure escaping my throat as his hard length pulses against my aching core. I feel as if I’m drowning—as if he’s a raging flood pounding through my veins, robbing me of everything that’s mine, and claiming it for his own. For the first time in years, I don’t care.
When we finally break apart, I say in ragged breaths, “Take me. Any way you want.”
He flashes a wicked smile, his voice crackling with lust. “I’ll promise you one thing, Catherine Adair—it’s going to be far better than half-decent.”
Gazing into hi
s bottomless, blue eyes, I don’t doubt it for a second.
Chapter 12
Ronin
My acting-like-a-perfect-gentleman routine had been going well—fix her a drink, engage her in conversation, and try not to touch her. Then she had to go and ruin everything by tearing off her top. Now I’m kissing her as if my immortal life depends on it, my cock so hard in my pants it’s about to burst from the front of my jeans, my hands all over her soft, feminine curves.
She wants this, a delighted voice in my head keeps saying. She begged for it.
Despite my body’s obvious joy, however, a tiny part of me is disappointed. I wanted us to talk things over, step away from our age-old grudge match—be us for a change.
Alas, it’s not to be. We’re back to where we started—raw, aggressive fucking. Not that I can complain when her legs are wrapped around me, her core rubbing the bulging hard-on through my jeans, fingers knotted into my hair.
I break away, trailing fervent kisses along her jaw, palming her breasts through the thin satin camisole.
“For God’s sake, take it off,” she urges.
Needing no further encouragement, I rip off the offending article, leaving the two halves to drop, discarded onto the floor while I gape openmouthed at her beautiful, full breasts.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my thumbs around her tight nipples. “Your tits are amazing.”
She narrows her eyes. “That top was La Perla, you idiot.”
I quirk a brow, lifting my gaze. In the soft light of the hall, her eyes are the color of autumn leaves. “I’ll buy you another one,” I say, my voice low.
I duck my head and take one of her nipples in my mouth, flicking it gently with my tongue and sliding a hand down over her smooth, flat tummy to unbutton her jeans.
When she groans deep in her throat, my craving reaches fever pitch. I want to be inside her in every way imaginable. As if reading my mind, she unwraps her legs from my waist and drops onto the floor, her nipple sliding from between my lips on the way down.
