Relentless: A Cyn and Raphael Novella (Vampires in America 11.5)

by D. B. Reynolds

  Cyn had reviewed the potential rental properties along with Juro, Jared, and Raphael’s daylight security chief, Steve Sipes. Unlike Raphael’s North American trips, this one would be an all-hands-on-deck adventure. Jared and Juro would both be accompanying him. If Cyn had needed any more evidence that this trip was dangerous, that would have convinced her.

  She was wide awake, and more than a little wired, when the sun finally set on the night of their departure. She’d spent a good part of the morning at the office of her grandmother’s personal attorney. It was Cyn’s lawyer’s office, too, in that it was a huge partnership, with every possible type of law represented. But this morning’s visit had been all about signing documents and pretending the people present had something in common. Her father had been there. Her grandfather, too. But since they’d already seen each other at the funeral only a few days before, they really didn’t have much more to say. A dutiful hug for her grandfather, a nod for her father, and she’d pulled up a chair alongside the others around a conference table big enough to have done a vampire council meeting proud. Thank God for the endless number of lawyers who’d been present to serve as buffers.

  Cyn hadn’t gone alone. Robbie Shields had been with her. He was her usual daytime bodyguard, but he was also her friend. And she’d needed one of those. It had been one of the rare times when she’d wished Raphael could be with her during daylight.

  Raphael had known about the scheduled meeting, and he’d kept tabs on her while he slept—something very few vampires were powerful enough to do, and even those few couldn’t match his ability—which was why he reached for her the moment he woke. And why Cyn was lying next to him in her usual spot, even though she hadn’t slept at all.

  RAPHAEL GATHERED her in, simply holding her close, breathing in the scent and warmth of her presence. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

  She stirred enough to ask, “What for?”

  “That I couldn’t be there for you.”

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t spying the whole time.”

  He heard the smile in her voice, and heard, also, the effort it took. “Someone has to keep an eye on you,” he said lightly, going along with the pretense.

  “The meeting was mostly pro forma. The family trust dictates most of her estate, but there were some . . .” Her voice hitched with emotion. “. . . personal bequests.”

  “For you?”

  She nodded, her face rubbing against his shoulder. “All of her jewelry. Every bit of it. Even the heirloom pieces that have been in the family for generations.”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re her only grandchild. Whom else would she give them to?”

  “My dad? I mean, it’s always possible he’ll marry some young thing who will pop out a permanent siphon on the family fortune.”

  “What a lovely way to refer to the birth of a child, lubimaya.”

  “Call me cynical. He’s probably been snipped anyway. Harold Leighton doesn’t leave things to chance.” She rubbed at his chest with one finger. “I was supposed to call her, so we could get together. She said she had some things for me. Maybe she’d have told me then, that she was sick.”

  “Maybe,” he agreed, although he doubted it. He knew Cyn did, too. But if she needed to believe it, if it eased her pain, then, he’d believe it, too.

  “I need to finish packing,” she said finally. “It would be easier if I knew how long we’ll be staying.”

  “That depends on Quinn Kavanagh.”

  “I know better than that. This has more to do with the French vampires than with Quinn.”

  Raphael shrugged. “I didn’t start this war. Mathilde did, and she paid the price. I fought her honorably, though she didn’t deserve it, and her death was just. But her people won’t let it go.”

  “Hey, you’ll get no argument from me. I want them all dead for what they did to you.”

  He kissed her forehead. His avenging angel. Though she’d certainly argue over the “angel.” “Whatever our motives, the trip will also serve as a distraction for Quinn’s arrival. He’s flying to London tonight, then to Dublin and Kildare. He’s using one of Lucas’s jets, which should minimize any problems.”

  “Unless someone thinks that you and Lucas are both in Europe and does something stupid here.”

  “That’s possible. Although, since Lucas won’t be gone, he’ll be able to shut down any stupidity with his usual violent efficiency.”

  Her laugh, as light as it was, warmed his cold heart.

  “Okay,” she said. “You ready to rock and roll?”

  “Not yet. Kiss me.”

  She lifted her face when he shifted to lean over her. He kissed her gently at first, brushing his lips over hers, drawing her closer as her arms went around his neck, finally taking her mouth in a long, luxurious kiss. “I love you, my Cyn.”

  “I love you, too, fang boy. Now let’s go visit fucking France.”

  Chapter Eight

  Paris, France

  RAPHAEL’S ARRIVAL in Paris was an event, a spectacle to rival the biggest movie star. There were bright lights and paparazzi, along with a whole phalanx of security people, vampire and human. Hell, there was even a fucking red carpet. Ordinary humans—travelers, workers, agents—stopped to stare, snapping pictures with their cell phones. Speculation was rampant about who he might be.

  Cyn played her part, hanging onto Raphael’s side, dressed like an action movie star in tight leathers and bristling with far more weapons than usual. As least, the visible ones. She fought the urge to drag Raphael back to the plane, or straight into the limo. She could already feel the gun sights lining up on him from every raised surface within a one-mile radius. With the right weapon, a talented sniper could make that shot, or better. Death could come out of nowhere.

  Raphael had wanted to make a splash. After all, the main purpose of this trip was to draw attention away from what was happening in Ireland. But that wasn’t all of it, because nothing was ever that simple with Raphael. He was furious at the attack on his estate and was using this visit as a giant “fuck you” to his enemies. It was a blatant challenge. Here I am. Fight me or crawl back to whatever hole you came from.

  Cyn understood his reasons. But she still couldn’t stop scanning the surrounding buildings—every rooftop, every open stairway. Hell, even the windows on the terminal building, though she knew they were way too thick to fire an accurate shot through. And then, there was the noise—the jet engines winding down, the rumble of trucks and equipment. Hell, even the idling engines of what seemed like an entire fleet of limos and SUVs. If the noise was distracting for her, it had to be hell for the vampire security team, with their super hearing. How could they do their jobs?

  Not for the first time since they’d walked down the stairs from the plane, she edged in front of Raphael and felt his hand immediately wrap around her hip and pull her back to his side. If there hadn’t been so much fucking noise, she’d probably have been able to hear him growl.

  A camera lens glinted in the lights far overhead. Her gaze shot to the rooftop of the terminal. Someone was up there with a long lens. If a camera could be up there, why not a gun?

  “Fuck,” she swore, then shot her gaze around, looking for Juro. When she found him, he was giving her the same look she was aiming at him. It was time to end this damn circus, whether Raphael liked it or not.

  Raphael’s vampire guard closed in and began moving with purpose, herding him toward the closest thing to safety on this fucking runway, which was one of the heavy limos. He could have stopped them if he’d wanted. No one pushed Raphael where he didn’t want to go. But he’d clearly seen reason at last, or maybe he’d just decided the spectacle had served its purpose.

  Cyn stayed close to him, one hand looped into the belt of his black jeans, the other on the butt of her weapon. When they reached the vehicle
, Raphael acted before she could stop him, putting his hands on her hips and pushing her ahead of him into the back seat. She twisted to protest, but caught sight of Juro and his brother standing between Raphael and the crowds, covering him with their combined bulk. She settled for grabbing hold of Raphael’s leather jacket and pulling him in to sit next to her, breathing a heavy sigh of relief when the door closed, and blessed silence filled the air.

  She held her breath, waiting, as his gaze turned her way, silver sparks exploding like fireworks in the depths of his black eyes. But instead of growling at her for trying to protect him, he pulled her across the seat and into his arms . . . and started laughing.

  Cyn punched his shoulder. “Stop that,” she snarled, and was rewarded with a kiss. It was long and wet, with lots of tongue, and it almost made her forget why she was so angry at him. Almost. “What was that?” she finally asked, still somewhat breathless. Raphael’s kisses were as potent as he was.

  He hooked her around the neck and kissed the top of her head. “That, my Cyn,” he said smugly, “was a statement of intent.”

  She blew out a breath as she shrugged out of her jacket. “I know we talked about making a splash, but did you know it would be that bad?”

  He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been much of a distraction if we’d snuck into town.”

  “I hate this.”

  “I know.” His arm dropped down around her shoulders.

  “What happens next?”

  “We’ll go to the house and get settled in, just as they’ll expect.”

  She gave him a knowing look. “You’re enjoying this.”

  “It’s a change of pace,” he said offhandedly.

  “What? Life hasn’t been challenging enough for you lately, with Europeans coming out of the woodwork trying to kill you and everyone else? I like this shit, and even I’m sick of it. I want a vacation.”

  “Well, we are in France.”

  “Ha ha. Not a working vacation. A real vacation, where no one tries to kill you or me, or anyone we love.” She felt tears pressing against her eyes and lowered her head, so he wouldn’t see. No such luck. Raphael didn’t need to see her tears, he could smell them. He also knew her well enough to understand that she wasn’t only talking about him.

  Putting both arms around her, he pulled her into an embrace and started making shushing sounds. Cyn didn’t fight it. Being held by Raphael, being loved by him, was like . . . being tossed like a rag in a hurricane and, suddenly, you’re pulled to safety. Like wandering the terrifying dark all alone and out of nowhere there’s light—warm, and bright, and yours. His love was deep and powerful and absolute. Cyn was a strong person. She knew that about herself and never doubted it. She could be reckless, but only with her own safety, never that of others. She mourned her grandmother, but she would survive. It was the natural order of life.

  But because she understood herself, because she was honest with herself, she knew that the one loss she’d never survive, the loss she wouldn’t want to survive, was Raphael. If he walked away from her, or if the unthinkable happened and he died . . .

  “Stop,” Raphael ordered, pulling her hair sharply to get her attention.

  She sat up, feeling disoriented, lost in the nightmare of her own thoughts. “Stop what?”

  “Cyn. Lubimaya. Do you have so little faith in me?”

  She stared at him. “Of course not! What are you talking about?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe it was too soon for this. Your grandmother’s death—”

  “We didn’t have a choice,” she said, with a touch of bitterness. Sometimes, it seemed as if they never had a choice. Life just kept tossing shit at them. “You said it yourself, the Europeans will keep throwing bombs at us until we shut them down, one way or the other.”

  “You could have stayed home.”

  She glared at him. “Now you’re just being mean.”

  He smiled slightly. “For the record, my Cyn, nothing but death would ever take me away from you, and I’ve no intention of dying.”

  “Intention—”

  “I know better than most how capricious life can be. But some things are unequivocal. My love for you is one of those things. Talk to Juro, he’ll tell you. I’m much more cooperative with my security these days, precisely because I understand that it’s not only me they’re protecting. It’s you. I’m not leaving you. Ever. Get used to it.”

  He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, and finally her mouth, holding her tightly enough that she could almost believe he’d never let go. And he never said a word about the tears she knew he’d tasted on her skin.

  She licked his lips and held on a moment longer. And then she pulled her shit together and got on with it, just as she’d always done.

  “So, when’s my shopping trip?”

  CYN STROLLED DOWN the crowded Paris street, her right hand hooked around Robbie’s muscled arm. The weather was cold, and there were signs of a recent snowfall, but the skies were clear. It was perfect winter shopping weather, but she was ready to quit. They’d been shopping for hours already, had covered both Rue St. Honoré, and Rue Faubourg St. Honoré, walking from end to end and stopping to spend lots of money on the way. They’d accumulated so many bags and boxes that Robbie had insisted on dumping them in the trunk of the limo. Carrying all that “crap,” as he put it, was a security risk. Not because someone might steal the bags, but because it hampered his ability to “fucking move” if someone came at them.

  Cyn had laughed gaily, like the airhead she was pretending to be, then insisted they had to at least set foot on the Champs-Élysées, because they were in Paris! Robbie had rolled his eyes, as much at her acting as the idea of walking down another crowded Parisian street.

  “You’re not being a very cooperative bodyguard,” she teased. “I might have to find another.”

  “Feel free,” he grumbled, although he smiled at her when he said it. There was no way in hell he’d ever trust her safety to someone else, and no way in hell she’d ever trust someone else in his place. “How come Raphael never has to do this shopping shit?” he complained.

  She laughed again, a real laugh this time. “Do we still have spies?”

  “Yup.”

  “You think they’ve seen enough?”

  He stopped and leaned in to speak directly into her ear. “Please God, tell me you mean that. You’re not just toying with me, are you, Cyn?”

  She played the airhead again, laughing. “We have to get back, Rob. It’s nearly sunset and Raphael wants me there when he wakes up,” she said, loudly enough to be heard by their watchers.

  Robbie made a show of using his cell phone to call for their car. And then together they walked back the way they’d come, until traffic thinned enough for the limo get through.

  Once in the car, Cyn leaned into the cushioned seat and put her feet up on the bench seat opposite her. “Why the hell did I wear these boots?” she groaned.

  “Because you were more concerned with image than practicality,” Robbie supplied helpfully, propping up his own, much larger feet in their comfortable boots.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I wasn’t trying to, babe. You think it was enough?”

  “Let’s hope so. If not, we’ll have to work out something else. Even I can only shop so much.”

  Robbie put a hand to his chest, pretending shock. “I’m speechless.”

  “Oh, give it a rest and take me home. I need a nap.”

  “Someone’s cranky.”

  “Someone’s armed.”

  “Yo,” Robbie called to their driver. “Let’s speed this up. The lady’s tired.”

  The driver, who was one of Sipes’s people from Malibu, snorted a laugh and hit the gas.

  CYN SAT ON THE arm of Raphael’s chair, leaning against him . . . or m
aybe “draped over him” was the better description. One of her legs was bent at the knee, with Raphael’s big hand gripping her thigh possessively. Her elbow was propped on his shoulder, and her face was so close to his that she could have licked his cheek without moving. It was a pose that she liked to call, “He’s mine and don’t even think about touching him.” And it was reinforced by the 9mm Glock she wore openly in a shoulder holster that had been specially designed to accommodate her breasts; by a second 9mm tucked against her back in the waistband of her skin-tight pants; and by the small, but deadly sharp, blade carried in a custom-made sheath built into her right boot.

  When it came to self-defense, Cyn didn’t cut any corners. And when it came to defending Raphael, every fucking corner was blown to hell.

  Raphael was “holding court” in the biggest room of their very large rented villa, a room designed to hold cocktail parties for the rich and famous. They had big rooms in Malibu, too, but Raphael never held court in any of those. He didn’t rule a kingdom, he ran a successful business. He attended way too many meetings, but he never sat on a throne and forced his people to kiss his ass or his boots.

  But, once again, they were putting on a show, reinforcing an image of Raphael that conformed to the way the old-time European vamps conducted their affairs. They held court, because they ruled countries where kings and queens had held sway for hundreds—hell, sometimes thousands—of years. Raphael had come to his full power in the New World, where business—money—was the only king.