by Lynsay Sands
That last thought had her heading for the house again, this time moving quickly. She appeared to be alone. But someone had brought her here. The empty dock suggested that whoever that was had left for some reason. But they hadn't just dumped her in a house in the middle of nowhere for no reason. They would certainly be back and she needed to prepare herself for that. She needed to find a weapon or a phone or something to help get her out of this situation.
Whatever this situation was, Sarita thought grimly. Considering all the negligees and skimpy swimsuits she'd found, and that they were the only form of covering available, she suspected sex had something to do with her presence here. If that was the case . . . well, Sarita had no intention of being anybody's sex slave.
Mouth tightening, she used the front doors to enter the house. The entry was a large area between the dining room and living room. She could see into both rooms from there and quickly ascertained that they were as empty as they'd appeared from outside. After a hesitation, she turned into the dining room. It held a large glass-topped table and six chairs. There was a large vase in the center of the dining table with a huge, riotous bouquet of flowers. Sarita barely gave the flowers a glance as she continued on through the large arched entrance separating the dining room from the kitchen.
The kitchen seemed the most likely place to find a better weapon, so Sarita started there and was surprised to find she didn't have to search every drawer and cupboard to obtain one. There was a wooden block on the island with a set of chef's knives in it. Long sharp knives, short sharp knives, and a cleaver were on display.
Setting the lamp on the kitchen counter, Sarita moved to the wooden block and pulled out the butcher knife. After testing the feel of it in her hand, she set it on the island and pulled out two of the steak knives as well, thinking they would be good for throwing. Jerking up the ridiculous robe and nightgown, she slid the two blades under the strap of the thong. When the strap held and wasn't dragged down by the weight of the knives, she grabbed two more and added them. They did pull a bit at the strap, but it stayed up, so she let the frothy white material fall back into place and snatched up the butcher knife again.
Okay, she was armed. Now what? Find a place to hide where she could ambush her captor on his return? Or--
Phone! Sarita thought suddenly, and clucked her tongue with irritation as she recalled her earlier intention to find one. A quick glance around the kitchen didn't reveal a phone, so she moved back through the dining room to the living room, but a survey of that room proved there wasn't one there either.
Fingers crossed, she used the door from the living room to slip into the office and walked to the desk. Sarita wasn't terribly surprised not to find one there either. It had been a bit much to hope for, she supposed. Kidnapped and left alone with weapons and a phone? Not likely. She was lucky the knives were even available, or that she'd been left alone, Sarita thought and frowned. Really, what kind of kidnapper kidnapped you and then left you alone with weapons so readily available? You'd think he would have cleared out anything and everything she might use to defend herself. Unless whoever it was hadn't expected her to wake up so soon from whatever drug they'd given her, she thought. Or perhaps they'd been unexpectedly delayed in returning. Maybe she'd got lucky and their boat had blown up.
That would be karma, Sarita thought and was smiling at the idea when she noticed the envelope leaning up against the desk lamp. Smile fading as she saw that her name was on it, she snatched it up and started to sit in the desk chair only to be pointedly reminded of the knives she'd sheathed in the strap of the thong she wore. Literally. A quick poke from a couple of the blades was enough to make her straighten and decide to remain standing.
The envelope wasn't sealed. Setting down the butcher knife, Sarita lifted the flap and pulled out the letter inside, then unfolded and read the message on the fine vellum paper.
Dear Sarita,
Your clothing was blood encrusted. Asherah cleaned you up and put you to bed.
Sarita sagged against the desk as those first words sent memories washing over her. Dr. Dressler's lab. The poor man cut in half. Dr. Dressler and the woman arriving. Blood splashing over her as that poor immortal tried to scream and--Immortals? Bio-engineered nanos? Her head spun briefly as everything Dressler had told her washed back into her mind, and then she recalled the shot he'd given her in the neck.
"Bastard," she muttered with a disgust that was directed at herself as much as him. While it seemed obvious he was a scumbag, she should have been more alert. She should have noticed the movement when he'd reached out to inject her, and she should have batted his hand away or something.
Taking a deep breath, she counted to three and reminded herself that she wasn't Wonder Woman. No one was. She did the best she could and regret was a waste of energy that could be directed toward more useful endeavors.
"Right," she muttered. "Let's get on with it."
Raising the letter, she started again.
Dear Sarita,
Your clothes were blood encrusted and ruined. Asherah cleaned you up and put you to bed.
It occurred to me once you'd lost consciousness that I didn't explain the importance of your being a life mate. From what I can gather it appears a life mate is chosen by the nanos in their host, and are rare creatures that the immortal cannot read or control, and can live happily with throughout his or her life. They are also few and far between. Some immortals apparently wait centuries or even millennia to find theirs. While some have been fortunate enough to find one, lose them, and later, usually much later, find another, there are other immortals who never find even one life mate. So life mates are valued more than anything else in an immortal's life.
It seems immortals--like gibbons or wolves--mate for life. Not because of any moral standard, but quite simply because another mate would not satisfy their needs. What I've been told is that life mates suit each other in every way, and that life mate sex is like no other--powerful and overwhelming to the point where both parties faint or pass out at the end. I suspect that the nanos must cause this by releasing a rush of the relevant hormones.
I also understand that life mates find each other irresistible, and in fact often spend weeks or even months in bed on first meeting. I tell you this so that you know there is no reason to believe I will think less of you if you find yourself doing the same thing, or even let the man bed you on your first meeting. I expect that.
Sarita snorted at the comment. She didn't give a crap what a whackjob like Dressler thought of her. She'd sleep with whoever she wanted whenever she wanted. Although, frankly, she wasn't a one-night-stand kind of gal or one likely to "drop trou" on first meeting someone either. Sarita's father had been an old-fashioned type of man; he'd also been overprotective and insisted on meeting every male she'd ever dated. She knew without a doubt that he'd given every one of them the "hell hath no fury like a father whose baby has been groped by some horny teen" speech, quickly followed by the "I have a big backyard to bury you in" speech. She was lucky she'd got laid at all.
Shaking her head, Sarita turned her attention back to the letter, quickly finding where she'd left off.
"Yada yada first meeting," she murmured as she found the spot.
Now, do not be alarmed. You are in the home my wife and I first inhabited on moving to Venezuela. We lived there for a year as we waited for our house on the island to be built. I had it renovated and updated some months ago in anticipation of this eventuality. I hope you find it comfortable and to your liking.
Everything there has been supplied for your use.
The refrigerator and cupboards in the kitchen are stocked full of food and will be refilled as necessary. The wine rack in the dining room is full of vintages I thought you might enjoy.
Sarita's mouth tightened. It was sounding like he expected she would be there for a very long time. He had another think coming.
You have met your life mate, although it was long enough ago that you may not recall. Apparently you were thirteen when
you first entered his restaurant in Caracas. He recognized that you were his life mate, but was gentleman enough not to claim you while so young. Instead, he decided to let you live your life and grow up first and put a private detective on your tail who, for the last fifteen years, has fed him monthly reports on your life.
"What?" Sarita gasped with dismay. Thirteen? That's how old she was when her mother died. It was also when she and her father had moved to Canada. She tried to think of any restaurants they'd visited here in Venezuela before moving to Canada, but it had been fifteen years. Besides, with the trauma of what had happened to her mother, that year was kind of a blur in her memory anyway.
Sighing, she glanced back to the letter, reading the part about this life mate's deciding to let her live her life and grow up. Big of him, she thought with disgust. As if she didn't have a say in it? As for putting a private detective on her tail for the last fifteen years . . . well, that was just creepy. Stalkerish even. But just because Dressler said it, didn't mean it was true. Not once in fifteen years had she noticed anyone tailing her around town or anything, and she was a cop, trained to observe things.
Sarita frowned briefly, but then continued on with the letter. "Yada yada, reports on your life . . . there it is."
His name is Domitian Argenis. He is below.
"Below what?" Sarita muttered, and then read the next line.
I left the refrigerator downstairs stocked with blood for him.
For your own safety, I suggest you wait for him to wake up, feed him at least four bags of blood, and ensure he understands that you are not responsible for his being chained to the table, and that you are a victim and as helpless as he--
"Helpless my ass," Sarita growled.
--before you unchain him.
Good luck. I expect to learn a lot from your stay at my home away from home.
Dr. Dressler
"Before I unchain him?" she muttered with disbelief. Some poor guy was chained in the basement? At least she assumed he was in the basement. "El Doctor" had said he was below and then mentioned a refrigerator in the basement, so she was guessing below was the basement.
"But where the hell is the basement?" Sarita muttered, scowling at the letter for not adding that bit of information. She hadn't seen stairs anywhere in her tour of the house.
Dropping the letter, Sarita started around the desk, thinking she'd have to go through the house again. But she paused as she noticed a bookshelf at an angle in the opposite corner of the room. The edge of it was out an inch or so past the shelf next to it.
Eyes narrowing, Sarita walked over to the bookshelves, grasped the side of the one sticking out and pulled.
"Eureka," she murmured as the shelf swung out like a door. "Hidden doors. Just what I should have expected from Dr. Whackjob."
Stepping into the opening left behind, Sarita eyed the set of stairs leading down into darkness and scowled. "Cozy."
A glance to the wall on either side did not reveal a light switch. Feeling along the wall on either side of the door frame itself didn't either. It seemed she was expected to creep down blindly into the dark like an idiot.
Sarita stared briefly into the black hole, wondering about the man chained up down there. She wasn't buying this life mate business Dressler had written about, but she was curious to find out what this supposed life mate looked like.
With her luck, he'd be some cross-eyed drooler with a cowlick, Sarita thought and then shrugged. Whatever. It didn't matter. She wasn't interested in being some vampire's vampiress. She was curious to see him, though. But there was no way in hell that she was creeping down into that darkness without some sort of light.
Spinning away from the hidden entrance, Sarita headed back to the kitchen to search for a flashlight. But, of course, there didn't appear to be one.
Slamming the last cupboard door with an irritated bang, she hesitated, and then sighed and moved to the drawer beside the sink. Opening it, she retrieved the box of matches she'd spotted there during her search. It was one of those big boxes of wooden matches with a striking strip on the side, and it was full, she noted, opening the box.
Taking them with her, Sarita walked out to the living room. She had a vague recollection of spotting candles in here on one of her trips through and--
"Aha!" she said with triumph, hurrying to the fireplace mantel where there were four large candles in holders lined up with some sort of brass decoration in the middle as the centerpiece. Snatching up one of the candles, she returned to the office.
Setting the candleholder on the desk, Sarita quickly lit it, and then tucked a couple of extra matches between her lips just in case her candle went out. She then snatched the candleholder and her butcher knife and headed for the secret door.
The stairs were tight and steep she discovered with the first step, and Sarita caught up as much of the cloth of the nightgown as she could in the hand holding the knife and raised it above her knees. She would never admit this, but she had been known to be a bit clumsy at times, and tangling her feet in the gown and taking a fall was not something she wanted to experience.
Sarita took a couple more steps, candle held out in front of her, and squinted against the flame while trying to see beyond it. She then slowed as a scene from an old black-and-white movie she'd once seen came to mind. A lone woman in a long white nightgown descending stairs into darkness with only a candle to light her way. Meanwhile the evil Dracula waited in the darkness below, ready to pounce on her.
Yeah, good one, Sarita. The perfect thing to think of at this moment, she reprimanded herself mentally as she continued down. Her Dracula was supposed to be chained up down there, but what if he'd got loose?
Sarita quickly pushed that thought away as unhelpful and continued down. She couldn't see any more than a couple steps ahead, and didn't need old movies to help her imagine what lay ahead. Still, other scenes from movies were suddenly sliding through her mind. All of them were just different versions of that one scene in every horror movie where the stupid chick did something incredibly idiotic that got her stabbed or horribly beheaded.
That thought made Sarita stop abruptly on the stairs as she realized she really was being like that idiot broad from every horror movie. The big-haired twit with large bouncy boobs and no brains usually in something skimpy and--Cripes! She had big hair, big boobs, and was wearing a see-through negligee! She was that girl!
Nah, her hair was long, not really big. It wasn't curled to within an inch of its life and hairsprayed to death. And yeah, she had big boobs, but that was hardly her fault. They were natural not bought, and truly, her large breasts had been the bane of her existence since they'd popped out on her chest when she was thirteen. Their presence had not gone unnoticed by the boys in her school and what had followed was teasing, taunting, and attempts to cop a feel by the more skeevy of her schoolmates. They were the reason behind her first punching a male in the face. She had punched many more since then, both on and off the job, which was why her partner at work called her Rock'em Sock'em Reyes, or just RSR for short.
Sarita smiled crookedly at the thought of Jackson, her patrol partner. He was a good guy. Newly married and madly in love with his wife, he often treated her like a little sister. He was the closest thing she had to family now and just thinking of him made her straighten her shoulders. Big-boobed twit or not, she was going down there. Besides, unlike the idiot chicks in movies, she was armed with more than double Ds. She had a knife and knew how to use it. Mind you her gun would have been more reassuring, but . . . Whatever, Sarita thought as she stepped down onto a cold hard floor and paused.
She stood still for a moment, just listening, but there was no slight shuffling as someone moved in the darkness, no hiss of a vampire about to launch himself on her.
Nothing, she thought, and let go of the breath she'd been holding to suck a draft of fresh air into her eager lungs.
Okay, not so fresh, she corrected herself, wrinkling her nose at the stale, damp scent that assailed
her. The basement definitely had a moldy odor to it. Sarita shifted one bare foot along the floor and then lowered the candle until she could see that it was indeed concrete and not simply hard packed earth.
Straightening, she glanced around, hoping her eyes might have adjusted enough for her to make out something in the dark. They hadn't, though, so she shuffled forward several feet until the candlelight revealed a wall with a door in it. Releasing the hold she'd had on her gown, she reached for the doorknob.
The clank of metal on metal as the knife handle banged against the knob made her wince, but Sarita turned it and pushed the door open.
The candle flickered wildly in the draft created by the opening door. Terrified it would go out, Sarita instinctively drew it closer to her chest and raised her butcher-knife-holding-hand to try to shelter the flame. She didn't know if that helped, but after a moment the candlelight settled again and she let out the breath she'd been holding on a relieved sigh that blew the damned thing out.
"Crap!" Sarita muttered into the darkness, nearly spitting out the two matches she'd placed between her lips. Reaching up instinctively to remove them, she poked herself in the cheek with the butcher knife and was so startled she dropped the candle, holder and all. Sarita then immediately froze as the dark seemed to crowd in on her, sending a prickly sensation along her skin.
Trying to ignore it, Sarita took a deep breath and reasoned with herself. The candle had gone out and she'd dropped it and now it was dark. Not a big problem. She had matches. She'd light one, find the candle, and light it again. Boom, problem solved, she told herself.
The minute Sarita reached up with her now-empty candle hand and took one of the matches from her mouth she felt a little better. Even the match would give off light. All she had to do was strike it on something. It would light and she'd use it to find the candle. Everything would be fine, Sarita reasoned . . . except that she hadn't brought the matchbox with its striking strip on the side.
Not a problem, she told herself again, the concrete floor was rough, and she could use that. It sounded easy enough. Unfortunately, Sarita had forgotten the knives tucked into her thong. She was reminded forcefully of them when she dropped quickly into a kneeling position and the knives stabbed into her skin, her hunched position pressing her stomach against the top of them and basically forcing them into her legs.
