by Jackie Ivie
“I’m looking for errors.”
“Errors? They thoroughly research every point. At least I think they do. For the sake of argument, let’s just say they do. Everything on the History Channel is thoroughly researched before they air it. That’s a good way to stay out of litigious law issues, you know.”
“They still get some things wrong.”
“And you would know this…how?”
Sasha set her teeth. “Because I lived some of it.”
“Oh. Right. I forgot. The vampire thing. You’re immortal, too, then? Lived through some of history’s most poignant moments? How much history are we talking, anyway?”
“I don’t want to talk about me.” If he studied body language, he’d know she didn’t want to re-live one moment of the beating and raping and killing of her family. Or the ancient Slav vampire who’d saved her, by cursing her to this. It was in every line of her taut frame.
“Of course not. It’s always what you want. Never what Doctor Findlay wants or needs. I don’t know why I ask. It must be hidden masochistic tendencies that started manifesting the moment I entered this dream-state. That’s it.”
He’d ticked off points on his fingers again, but only used three this time. Sasha moved her gaze up the immaculate shirtfront, perfectly shaped features, looked into what were warm light blue eyes, and felt her entire body react with the most horrid jerk. There wasn’t any way to hide it. She was caught. Netted. Getting reeled in. There was nothing she could do about any of it. Certainty filled her. It was complete clarity.
I love him.
But love had a price. She now knew why she’d turned him, making him fully her mate. And also why she wasn’t admitting to it. Not yet, anyway.
“This is one spectacular dream. I really do have to admit that.” He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth containing little spiked canines.
“Stuart…”
“You don’t have to kill him, you know,” he informed her.
“Who?”
He gave her another smile involving little lines about his eyes. The man had a spectacular smile, too. Even with the fangs.
“Cunningham. You don’t.”
“It’s my job and it pays well.”
He broke eye contact to look about and then whistled. “You don’t look to need money.”
“Exactly.”
“What if I told you I had a trust fund approaching 40 million. Gaining interest as we speak. Would that be enough?”
Sasha pressed a key on the remote. Large numbers filled the screen from her bank accounts. She touched another key and her recent deposit flashed across the bottom.
“And these are…?”
“My account balances. In eighteen different countries.
“And the two million dollars? That’s the fee for this assignment?”
“Actually, it’s in Euros,” she informed him.
He whistled again. “Is that the going rate?”
She shrugged. “Depends on complication and access.”
“Of course it does.”
“How much did you pay for the prince?” she asked.
She’d been wrong. They weren’t light blue. They were cold-as-ice blue. And glaring at her with the one emotion she knew too well: shock.
CHAPTER SIX
Shit . It made perfect sense. It did. Finally.
Stuart pressed his thumb and forefinger into the space atop his nose, feeling the pulse point pounding on his finger pads. He was on the verge of a headache, a large one. This wasn’t a dream. It was a psychotic breakdown, it had been triggered by his conscience, and that was just another example of his Irish bad luck; most of which he’d addressed in a study of physical manifestations on the psyche for his doctorate dissertation. In extreme cases of trauma, the mind could conjure anything. Even gorgeous women, capable of turning his body inside-out; jet-set lifestyles only the rich and famous pursued; and claims of vampirism tossed in for good measure.
He’d gone insane. But to have proof that having the time of his life with a woman of his dreams really was a figment of his imagination…well. That was complete punishment. He should’ve known. Chinese philosopher Confucius had said it hundreds of years ago: Before a man embarks on vengeance, he needs to dig two graves. Stuart had pondered it but didn’t care. He’d wanted revenge and so he’d gone and found it. And now he had this penance to contend with.
“Are you going to tell me?”
Stuart pulled the hand away and regarded his dream woman. She’d moved closer. Or something. She’d also changed. Somehow. Or he’d been completely self-absorbed. Again.
She had her mass of charcoal-shaded hair wrapped into a sleek French Twist, little black onyx studs gracing each earlobe, and those womanly curves filled out another tiny black cocktail dress, slit to mid-thigh, and all of it ended with another pair of killer heels. All of it in black satin. He wasn’t complaining. He’d never seen or been near anything so inherently sexy. She obviously liked to dress in black. Come to think of it…everything in his new wardrobe was black, too.
“Well?”
“Tell you what?” he replied finally.
“How much did you pay for the assassination of Prince Ada Majin?”
“How do you know I did?”
Ridiculous. And not remotely fair. He’d just admitted it was his own brain playing out this entire episode, and he still had to make explanations? If there was any logic and justice in there, he was missing it.
“Your assassin told me.”
“Really? Did you kill him?”
“Of course.”
“Torture him, too?”
“He wasn’t forthcoming with information.”
Her red lips were moving, saying words that were horrid, and all Stuart could think about was kissing them, and what would happen the moment he did. He had to force his gaze from contemplation of them back to the big screen in order to answer.
“Well, that does explain why he hasn’t contacted me for the final payment.”
“You paid too much, didn’t you?”
“The down payment was five million. Moved via wire transfer to an account that was immediately drained and then closed. I know. I checked. He never sent me information on where to send the final five. And just why don’t you already know this?”
“He was experienced. And good. No wonder he charged so much.”
“So much? It was a complicated hit. He told me so.”
“There were only five guards. They would’ve been easy.”
Stuart looked sidelong at her, and back to the black and white view of WWII-era tanks rolling across the screen. “How would you know?”
“Prince Ada Majin was my hit. Your man stole him. For that, he paid with his life. I had the same planned for you.”
“What stopped you?”
“That’s a question I’ve been asking myself since we met, Doctor Stuart Emerson Findlay…the Third.”
Her voice drew out each of his names, lingering on them as if they tasted of chocolate or something even better. Stuart gulped and watched her move, sliding effortlessly from her chair and onto a position atop his thighs. He supposed she’d shove her fingers through his hair next, and started hoping for it. The jet angled into a descent, taking the situation out of his hands, and in the next moment he was attached to those red lips, sucking a kiss into play that would lead to much more. The intercom sparking to life with Vaughn’s voice ruined it.
“Good morning. It’s four-twenty-one a.m. in beautiful Nice, France. We’ll be touching down at Cote d’Azur International Airport in ten minutes. From there, it’s a short forty minute drive along the equally beautiful coast of the French Riviera. It’s a shame we’re so early nobody will get to see the exquisite view, but there you go. Right on time. As specified.”
The intercom buzzed off, and the plane angled even farther, placing his dream woman fully into his arms.
“Why won’t we see it?”
Stuart asked it amid kisses, and if she wanted to arr
ive looking crisp and perfect she should probably stop running her fingernails along the shadow stripes in his black shirt. She was creating a friction of sensation, and he wasn’t remotely immune. That’s when he decided that if he’d earned insanity and got stuck in this dreamscape, it wasn’t a bad way to go, after all. Except…maybe the History Channel stuff.
The plane touched down with a tap that showed off her pilot’s skill, and the moment he opened his eyes he saw she was back in her chair, swaying one crossed leg at him.
“You closed your eyes.”
“Uh…I had something in them.” He hadn’t conquered the defensive tone in his voice, yet, either.
“You’re afraid of flying?”
“Never. I just get air-sick.”
“Really? When?”
She was right. He hadn’t felt one queasy episode. Not one. Come to think of it, he’d never felt better. Even the gouges she’d put in his flesh earlier were gone. Not one scrape mark. No cut. No scab. Just perfect skin. Healed, without one scar.
“It isn’t the flying that bothers me as much as the landings. You could’ve stayed over here and helped, you know.”
“You’re a bit…impatient.”
“I’m impatient? Look who’s talking. Come back over here. I’ll show you impatient.”
She shook her head. She shook her head no? That wasn’t a good sign if he was stuck in this for life.
“Later. I’ve got to blend in with the crowd now.”
“You? Blend in? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m very good at my job, Stuart.”
“Of course you are. Vampires are very good at all sorts of things, aren’t they?”
She smiled and there wasn’t a hint of a fang in sight on perfectly aligned, white teeth. She could put his dental hygiene regimen to shame. Stuart blinked.
“We’ve got eternity for that, Darling. We just have to be inside our suite before the sun comes up. Sunlight does awful things to us.”
She just called me Darling. Me. Stuart Findlay. Resident nerd . Stuart didn’t think he was still sitting. It felt more like floating. Nothing else sank in.
“Awful?”
She nodded, stood, and then he had to start talking like an idiot.
“Well, I do get the most horrid rashes. Not to mention freckles. You don’t want to see a Findlay with freckles. And there’s the matter of UV rays. I always wear a pair of the strongest sunglasses to protect my sight.”
“You’re not going to number these on your fingers again, are you?”
He was just about to do that but stopped himself.
“We’re checked through security, and I’ve got your passports ready.”
It wasn’t the intercom this time. Her man was announcing it, as he opened the door and pulled a flight bag down from somewhere in the cabinet behind him.
“He’s got my passport?” Stuart didn’t know why he asked. It was instantaneous reaction. And stupid.
“Here you go…Mister Marvin Leon Ebonovski. That’s odd. We seem to be off on the height.”
The man glanced up at Stuart as he handed him the passport. Stuart took it and looked at his picture smiling out at him bearing that ridiculous name. Apparently he hailed from Minnesota now. It also stated he was six foot three. He supposed he could stoop if required.
“And here’s yours…Miss Mary Sue Grimshaw.”
Stuart snorted. She glanced across and up at him as Vaughn pulled at the door.
“You saying something with that look, Mr. Ebonovski?” she asked.
“Not a chance, Miss Mary Sue. But just wait until we reach our suite. Then, I’m going to be saying plenty. I guarantee it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Can I ask you another question, Mister Ebonovski?.”
“Oh please.” Stuart pulled the passport out, glanced at it, and then re-inserted it into his breast pocket. “Call me Marvin.”
He winked and watched her jerk in place. That pretty much got his world re-righted, especially as she tipped her glance away for the barest moment and he could’ve sworn a blush touched her cheeks. She looked young, unworldly, and innocent, which was insanity at its finest. Or he needed his glasses.
“Very well…Marvin.”
The way she said it made the name sexy and erotic, full of illicit meaning. It also got a lurch from his frame, damn her, anyway. She was ensconced on the opposite seat of a stretch limo, putting her well out of reach. He couldn’t move his eyes as she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, giving him a spectacular view of lengthy limbs and shadowy recesses. The limo ride was too short for what his body ratcheted into desiring. Way too short.
Perhaps they stocked his brand of Scotch. That would be a treat. Stuart scooted onto his haunches on the floor to search the liquor cabinet. Empty.
“What are you craving?”
A shiver went up his spine. He ignored it. He couldn’t answer anything about craving because it started and ended with her. Only her. His entire dream world was beginning to revolve around her. The certainty grew the longer they drove, with nothing to look at besides her . The ride was supposed to be forty minutes. Even in the pre-dawn, he could’ve looked out at the view, instead of the siren calling to him from the other side of the car. But no. They’d blocked the windows with black pleated shades, pulled down and locked into position. And behind that was black glass. He remembered that from when they’d entered it.
This is ridiculous, Stuart .
“I’m looking for Scotch Whiskey. Glen-Livet if you have it,” he answered.
“I don’t.”
Stuart was back in his own seat, feeling the soft black leather seat curve about his frame, and ignoring how every bit of him seemed to click into awareness at her tone. He cleared his throat and tried for a nonchalant tone. He should’ve just answered her damn question, rather than playing a game of who’s sexier. Because he was definitely losing.
“Pity.” The word wasn’t nonchalant. He sounded breathless.
“You can’t drink it anymore, anyway.”
She shrugged. After saying words that ruined his life, she shrugged? That wasn’t fair. But nothing about this seemed fair. He couldn’t wake and he just kept getting deeper. Stuart tapped at the little button on the end of his armrest. He didn’t know what it did, until the hushed beep sound of an intercom interrupted the space.
“Yes?”
It was Vaughn. Sounding amused. Stuart was beginning to wonder if he ever sounded serious.
“Are we there yet?” Great. Now he sounded like he was about eight.
“Thirteen more miles, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
Stuart lifted his finger and the electric sound in the air stopped. Thirteen. Of course it would be thirteen. An unlucky number. Unlucky. What a joke. He’d been unlucky since his parents had died in a car crash, leaving him orphaned with one little sister and a very large trust fund everyone envied. As if money was a panacea for all ills and could cure anything.
He’d rather focus on the mundane. The physical. Items such as this suit. He guessed it was made of superfine wool, pinstriped with a darker toned shadow. His shirt was a match to the dark shade, with tonal stripes. She liked black and she liked stripes. Hmm… His trousers were solid black, however. They were also tight around each thigh, defining things he’d never put on display before. Stuart went back to examining his cuffs. The shirt had a monogram on each cuff. His. SEF .
“Why did you do it?”
Stuart looked up from contemplation of the platinum-wrapped onyx cufflinks that seemed to match her ear studs. She’d taken some of her hair down, or her French Twist was slipping, and she had one stiletto dangling off her toes.
“You don’t want to know,” he answered.
“Try me.”
“Well, I definitely don’t want to say.”
“Stuart.”
She lingered on his name, making it drip with longing. He jumped. His heart kicked into motion within his chest. He moved his hands and rubbe
d the palms along his legs.
“Shouldn’t you already know this?”
“How?”
“Since I’m imagining all this, I shouldn’t have to delve into things that I don’t want to. Simple.”
“You still think you’re dreaming?”
“Hell no. I went right past that to full psychotic break-down. That’s what I think this is.”
A little smile touched her lips, his heart kicked him again, and Stuart gulped.
“I’m flattered,” she replied finally.
“What?”
“No one has ever told me I’m dream-worthy before.”
“That’s because you’re too busy killing them. They can’t get it out.”
Her smile faded. Her lips set and she glared at him. All of which was the normal reaction he got from women. He hoped that didn’t mean the dream was fading. He wanted to enter the casino in Monte Carlo with her on his arm. And she had promised him time alone in the suite, too.
”Why did you do it, Stuart?”
“I don’t have to answer you.”
“Yes. You do.”
Arrogant. The woman was amazingly arrogant. And thirteen miles had never taken so long.
“Now, Stuart.”
“I forgot the question,” he answered.
“You paid ten million to assassinate a man and I want to know why. Why, Stuart?”
“Five million. And I still don’t have to tell you.”
“Stuart.”
Jeez. She drew out his name exactly like the senior trustee used to…back before he’d turned twenty-one. Back then he’d had to go before the board for any expenditure beyond the norm.
“You are worse than my trustees. I want you to know that.” He hadn’t felt this ill-at-ease since he’d had to ask for fourteen thousand to pay for the damage his fraternity had caused during the stripper party. That hadn’t been pretty. And he wasn’t saying any of that.
“Now.”
“All right. Fine. You want to know? Listen up, then. Because I am never saying any of this again.”
“I’m waiting.”
She acted like it was nothing when it was ripping his guts apart. Stuart moved his vision to the black drapes to one side of him and squinted, bringing Rebecca to mind.
