by Rebecca York
He pulled the SUV onto the shoulder and picked up his cell phone. Emma listened to his conversation with his wife—she could hardly have avoided it—and was impressed with how warm and close their relationship obviously was.
Funny how it still surprised her that there were people who could make marriage work. She found it reassuring, even if she herself hadn’t yet managed the feat. She’d long since stopped getting involved with complete jerks and losers, but it occurred to her that she’d gone to the opposite extreme by dating men so dull and lacking in passion that they bored her to tears.
Maybe, someday, she’d find a middle ground….
“All set.” Shane dropped his cell phone into a cup holder, pulled back onto the road and headed out of town.
Exhausted, Emma slumped in her seat and, without meaning to, fell asleep. When she woke, Shane had pulled up in front of a Days Inn.
“You’re about three blocks from the inner harbor,” he said. “There are lots of places there to shop, if you need to replace your clothes and stuff.”
“Thanks, yes, I will have to,” Emma replied.
“This hotel isn’t the most expensive around, but it isn’t cheap.” He cleared his throat. “Do you have enough money for the bill?”
“I have a credit card.”
He shook his head. “Don’t use it. Caldwell could track you if you do.”
She checked her wallet. “I’ve got two hundred in cash.”
“That ought to do it.”
She turned in her seat to look at him directly. “I don’t know how to thank you. I’d never have—”
Shane shook his head. “We’re square. You helped me out by sharing your information about the Refuge.”
They weren’t square. He’d saved her life. “I’m truly grateful.”
Emma watched him drive away, then staggered into the hotel lobby.
She wondered if they were going to let her in looking like a refugee from a third-world country.
THE ROUGH-LOOKING MAN had been sitting in the corner of the biker bar for the past hour, nursing a beer and trying not to breathe too deeply. The place smelled like a men’s room, with an overlay of booze and cigarette smoke.
Not his kind of scene. But in his two days’ growth of beard, uncombed hair and leather jacket, he figured he blended in okay—except for his lack of tattoos and piercings.
A biker with a picture of a cobra decorating his arm swaggered by and propped himself against the bar, allowing room for his beer belly.
“Hey, Snake,” one of his buddies called out.
“Yo,” the cobra guy answered.
That’s what I need, the observer thought. A colorful name. A handle. He could call himself…Trailblazer. Yeah, Trailblazer would do just fine.
Scanning the crowd at the bar, he shook his head in disgust. It wasn’t yet noon, but the place was already full of guys who drank their breakfast. Finally, when he’d had enough of the toxic gas that passed for air, he decided it was time to make his move.
Bellying up to the bar, he ordered another beer. When it came, he took a sip, then turned to the man next to him—a young punk named Butch McCard, the leader of the biker gang and a regular patron of the bar.
“I hear you ran into a little trouble last night,” he said to McCard.
McCard’s eyes sharpened on him momentarily. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Trouble in Ten Oaks Cemetery,” Trailblazer clarified.
McCard’s head snapped around. “Keep your nose out of that.”
“What if I can help you?”
“How?”
“How about the name of the bastard who broke up your private party?”
Trailblazer kept his face impassive when McCard grabbed his shirt and demanded, “What the hell do you know about it?”
Trailblazer cautiously shrugged off the offending hand. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Nicholas Vickers.”
“Who is he?”
Jeez, McCard really was a moron. Patiently, he explained, “He’s the guy who crashed your party.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He sleeps during the day. He sleeps real sound, so you should be able to fix him good without him ever knowing.” Seeing the look of interest in McCard’s eyes, Trailblazer held out a slip of paper. “You want his address?”
A hammy hand snatched the paper from him. It was almost comical watching the bleary-eyed McCard try to read the address.
“Hey, dude, thanks,” the biker said. “What’s your name?”
“Trailblazer.”
“You want to come with us, Blaze?”
“Naw. Just get him for me.”
As McCard strode over to one of his buddies, Trail-blazer slipped from the bar and into the morning sunshine, whistling.
NICK STIRRED in his sleep. He was dreaming about a time long ago, when the wife of the Duke of Monmouth had given the cut direct to the wife of the Baron of Bridgewater. The little drama had been the talk of the ton for half the social season. He had shaken his head at the gossip, at a society that had nothing more important to focus on than who was snubbing whom.
Suddenly, in the way of dreams, he was somewhere else. It was 1850, and he had taken up residence at a castle outside St.-Paul-de-Vence. He had traveled all through Europe, trying to escape the boredom of his life, looking for some purpose and meaning. Finally, he thought he’d found it—a man who called himself the Master and who promised his followers untold wisdom. He was captivated by the Master’s charisma and his idealism so he joined his enclave.
One night, peasants from the region attacked the castle. Without wondering why they would do such a thing, Nick joined in the defense—and got shot in the stomach.
The pain was excruciating, and he knew the wound meant certain death.
“Kill me now. Put an end to it,” he begged the Master.
“I may be able to save you,” his mentor replied.
“How?”
“How is not important. What matters is, if you survive the process, you will no longer be human. You will be like me. You will live forever. I believe it to be an excellent trade-off, but you must make the decision for yourself.”
Barely coherent, in agony from the pain in his gut, his reply came in gasped bursts. “Yes. Do it, please.”
The Master sat on the side of the bed and bent toward him, and he felt the first shiver of fear. He had no idea what was about to happen, only a vague sense that, afterward, nothing would ever be the same again. Yet any protest he might have uttered stayed locked in his throat. He did not want to die.
He cried out as he felt the Master’s sharp teeth fasten on his neck. And he cried out again as he felt the blood being drawn out of him. Terror shuddered through him but was quickly dispelled by an overwhelming sense of peace and well-being that seemed to invade his mind. The feeling was accompanied by the Master’s voice, though he heard no one speaking aloud.
“Rest,” the voice said to him. “You will be well soon. Just rest….”
Again, Nick tossed in his sleep, shaking his head against the pillow and muttering, “No…don’t… God, no…”
As if he had been granted temporary mercy, the scene changed. And suddenly he was in another place, another time.
A pine forest, deep and dark and shrouded in mist. Through the mist, a woman walked toward him, holding out her arms. A wind blew through the trees, and her hair and her white gown billowed out behind her. Jeanette, he thought at first. Then he saw the blond hair and knew it was not she but another woman. The woman whose name he didn’t know but who had been haunting his sleep for so many nights.
“Who are you?” he asked her.
She smiled. “We’ll meet soon.”
“No,” he said. “Leave me while you can.”
“Let me be with you.”
“No!” He gave a near-violent shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
For a charged moment, neither of them moved. Then, before he could back away,
she closed the distance between them and wrapped him in her embrace. Her female scent enveloped him, and the contact of her body pressed to his set up an unbearable ache inside him. When she raised her lips to his, he was lost.
The first touch of his mouth on hers set off sparks that should have set the pine forest ablaze. Heat crackled through him, heat and longing such as he hadn’t felt in decades, almost unbearable in its intensity. He knew it was the same for her because she made a small, shocked sound deep in her throat.
That sound was his undoing. That and the soft caress of her lips against his. They were so sweet and yielding, and at the same time so charged with wild, unvarnished need. Her need kindled his own. He forgot the rules he’d set to govern his life. Forgot about morality and honor. His only reality was the yielding woman he held in his arms.
Gathering her closer, he moved his lips over hers, then sighed in relief as she opened for him. Her mouth was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. And as he pressed her breasts against his chest, he felt the frantic beating of her heart. Or maybe it was his own heartbeat that he felt. He could no longer tell.
Some rational part of his mind was still issuing warnings. This must stop. He must break away from her before it was too late. But his mouth continued to devour hers, and instead of letting her go, he shifted her in his arms so that he could cup one soft breast. His fingers stroked the hardened tip, wringing a sob of pleasure from her. She pressed against him, silently demanding more, and he gladly gave it.
Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to a table that had materialized out of the mist. He lay her upon it, then began unbuttoning the front of her gown, his shaking fingers clumsy as he undid each button.
Pushing the fabric aside, he looked at her breasts. They were lovely and rounded, the nipples a soft pink and beautifully puckered for him. He slid his fingers back and forth across those tight buds, feeling his whole body go rigid.
He wanted to plunge deep inside her again and again until he found release. And he wanted more—the ultimate joining for the creature he had become. The slits at the sides of his mouth ached with an intensity he had rarely felt. Even when his fangs slid out, the pain didn’t go away.
He wanted her blood with a shattering urgency. He felt he would go mad if he didn’t taste that part of her.
Tipping her head back, he stroked his tongue against the slender column of her throat. Then he pressed his fangs against her pale skin.
“I want you inside me,” she said. “And I want the rest of it, too.”
He raised his head and stared down at her. “How do you know about the rest of it?”
She only smiled at him.
Her willingness seemed to bring him partially to his senses. “No, I can’t…”
“Do it,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Are you afraid?” she challenged.
He didn’t know the answer. And while he hesitated, the woman evaporated, leaving his arms empty—and his body hot and heavy with unfulfilled need.
Nick clawed his way out of sleep and lay panting on the bed. Bloody hell. It had all been so vivid…so real. Was the woman a fantasy—something his mind had conjured because he’d been so long abstinent?
Or was she real? And if she was…where was she?
EMMA WOKE disoriented. She had been in the arms of her fantasy lover, Nicholas Vickers. And then he had vanished into thin air. His face was so clear in her mind. Dark, brooding, his eyes deep set, his nose a Roman blade, his jaw square and firm. And his mouth…
Dear Lord, his mouth… It was positively wicked—those deliciously sensual lips tantalizing her skin, that expert tongue exploring her mouth and drawing trails down her neck and across her breasts, and those fine, white teeth, nipping and gently biting and…and something else. Something more about his teeth. Something she didn’t want to think about.
She reached out with one hand, sliding it over the cool sheet beside her. She was alone.
Well, of course she was. The man had appeared in her dreams only because she had been focused on him when she went to sleep.
She stretched, still slightly disoriented. The mattress beneath her was soft, the sheets crisp. They gave off a clean, fresh smell as she moved, rustling them. The blackout blinds at the windows kept all but a slim shaft of light around the edges from filtering through the window.
Without lifting her head from the pillow, she turned to the right and focused on the lighted face of the clock on the bedside table. Ten-thirty! She’d thought she would toss and turn all night and get up early, but she’d slept for a good ten hours.
She had work to do. Every moment she left her sister at the Refuge was a moment too long. She’d debated briefly with herself last night about calling the cops, but she’d quickly decided against it. Margaret hadn’t been kidnapped. If she were questioned, she’d say she was at the Refuge of her own free will, as would anyone else the police might ask.
Emma took a hot shower, then got dressed, glad that she’d washed her underwear the night before. It was still a little damp, so she used the hair dryer on it. Dressed in last night’s clothes, she took the elevator down to see what she could do about supplementing her wardrobe in the gift shop.
She had just purchased a Charm City T-shirt and was about to step into the lobby when she saw a man approach the front desk. Her blood ran cold when she realized who he was—Mort Frazier, one of the guys from Damien Caldwell’s inner circle.
As she stood behind a display rack of scarves near the shop entrance, she watched Frazier approach the desk, which was only a short distance away.
“Can you give me Ms. Birmingham’s room number?” he asked the desk clerk politely.
The clerk pulled an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not allowed to give out that information. You can call her on the house phone.”
Frazier grimaced. “I know you’re following the rules, but I’m her brother. I don’t want to call ahead. She doesn’t know I’m in town, and I was hoping to surprise her.”
The clerk hesitated.
“Please. She’ll love opening her door and seeing me.”
Emma waited with her heart pounding.
The clerk looked over her shoulder to make sure nobody on the staff was watching her, then she leaned forward and whispered the room number.
So much for privacy rules. Emma clenched her fists, wishing she had the time to get the woman fired. But then, as Frazier strode to the elevator, she realized that the clerk might have done her a favor. Without her room number, Frazier probably would have waited in the lobby for her to appear. This way, she had a chance to escape before he figured out that she wasn’t in her room.
As soon as the elevator doors closed behind him, Emma slipped out the hotel’s front entrance and walked rapidly in the direction Alex Shane had said led toward the inner harbor.
She had followed Shane’s advice and not used her credit card when she’d booked the room the previous night, but it hadn’t occurred to her to use a false name. Had Caldwell’s men called a bunch of hotels looking for her? Or did they have some other, secret source of information?
No matter how they’d found her, she’d made a lucky escape. Still, she kept looking over her shoulder as she walked to Light Street, where she found the harbor, restaurants and all kinds of attractions for tourists. At an ATM in a shopping pavilion, she withdrew the daily maximum allowable amount from her account, then she made for the exit. Thinking hard, planning her next move, she crossed the street to the Ramada Renaissance hotel, where she booked a shuttle to BWI Airport, alternating between the lobby and the ladies’ room until it arrived.
At the airport, she went to the first rental car company she came to and used her credit card to pay for a vehicle. She had no choice; car rental companies required the use of a credit card, and she required the use of a car. Still, her nerves were jumping until she was on the road again.
She watched the rearview mirror as much as the road ahead until she was well aw
ay from BWI.
At a drugstore in a little town called Elkridge, she consulted a phone book, then called the closest gun shop and found out that, in Maryland, since she wasn’t under twenty-one or suffering from a mental disorder, she could walk in and buy a gun without a waiting period. An hour later, she had a Sig Sauer P210 tucked into the compartment of her driver’s door. Again she used her credit card. Then she cleared out of the area, heading south, toward D.C.
The risk was worth it. With the weapon beside her, she felt a lot more secure.
Her next stop was at a Wal-Mart. She didn’t want to show up at Nicholas Vickers’s house to ask for help with her clothes looking as if they’d been run through a boot camp obstacle course. She bought clean jeans, a couple of T-shirts, tennis shoes, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. After changing in the ladies’ room and brushing her teeth, she felt more like herself. And much more secure about making a decent impression.
Storm clouds were gathering in the west as she consulted the detailed street map she’d picked up in Wal-Mart. With Vickers’s address still imprinted on her brain, she quickly saw that she’d been closer to his place in Elkridge. She plotted a circuitous route that would take her northwest, and headed for the private detective’s home.
It was a long drive, over an hour, and as the sky grew darker and more ominous, so did Emma’s thoughts. An odd sense of fate seemed to be drawing her forward, toward Nicholas Vickers. As if she were seeking him out not merely because he was a private investigator and Damien Caldwell loathed him, but because of her dreams and fantasies as well. As if she and Vickers really did have some intuitive connection, the way she and Marg did—or used to before Damien Caldwell sucked all the autonomy out of Margaret’s brain.
All day she’d been focused on getting away from Caldwell’s goons and getting to Nicholas Vickers. As her thoughts turned to her twin, she held back tears. Gritting her teeth, she blinked to clear her vision.
She had no time for tears. She had to help her sister. And finding Nicholas Vickers was her best option. She hoped.
