by Rebecca York
“Nevertheless, I thank you.” He paused briefly, then said, “The problem is, I don’t know how they found me. Or even know how they figured out who crashed their graveside party. I didn’t exactly leave them a calling card.”
“You think somebody told them who you were and where you live?”
“Like who?” he shot back. His gaze was riveted to her face, as if he honestly expected her to know the answer.
She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
His eyes narrowed, and he studied her a moment longer. She had the strange feeling that he was weighing her fate in the balance. Then, abruptly, his whole demeanor changed—for the better. “You need to eat,” he said, sitting down beside her on the bed and picking up a mug from the nightstand.
He handed it to her, and she pushed herself into a sitting position before taking it from him. The mug held warm chicken soup. Canned. But then, how many guys would go to the trouble of making chicken soup from scratch, or even know how to do it? That had certainly been beyond her mother’s skills.
She took a few sips under his watchful gaze. When the mug was half-empty, she said, “That’s enough for now.”
He lifted the mug from her hands and set it on the bedside table, but he didn’t stand up or give any indication that he was ready to leave.
She looked at him, and he returned the look, their gazes holding for a long silent moment. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and stroked her hair, his fingers trailing across her cheek, then down her neck. His touch was like a magic wand, instantly relaxing her.
Yet even in her weakened state, she felt the under-current of arousal between them, and his expression told her that she wasn’t the only one caught in the web of sensuality. What shocked her, though, was the look of aching longing in his eyes. Had any man ever looked at her that way? To her own mind, she was the one who always wanted too much—or, at least, wanted more than the men she’d known had been able or willing to give. That she had such an effect on this particular man—this near-stranger—was amazing to her. It also gave her an unexpected feeling of power combined with vulnerability.
For the first time in years, she felt her defenses crumbling. She wanted to open herself to Nicholas Vickers in ways that she knew were dangerous. Almost certainly, she would end up hurt, heartbroken. But she didn’t want to stop. She wanted…so much.
“I love your accent,” she whispered. “You’re from England, right?”
“We covered this ground yesterday,” he replied with a faint smile.
“Did we? I don’t remember.”
“You were a little woozy. Yes, I’m from England. But I thought I’d gotten rid of my accent.”
“Almost, but not quite. It’s sexy.” Before her rational self could take over, she said, “Would you please…”
“What?”
“I’d like you to lie down with me.”
His entire body went rigid, his features stiffening into a mask. Afraid he’d been offended by her forwardness, she rushed on. “There’s something I have to find out about…about us. I hadn’t met you until yesterday, but I dreamed about you.”
He remained rock-still, but his gaze was hotly intense, locked with hers. “Why?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She took her lip between her teeth. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I mean, there’s been the thing Margaret, my sister, and I have between us because we’re twins—not telepathy or anything like that. Just a sort of sixth sense about each other. But I’ve never had any imaginary friends or had dreams about somebody I never met, then found out he was—” her voice trailed off to a whisper “—that he was real.”
Swallowing embarrassment, ignoring her fear of being hurt in a way she’d never been hurt before, she said, “I have to know. I just have to find out if kissing you for real is the same as it was in the dream.” And before she could change her mind, she cupped her hand around the back of his neck and tugged him toward her.
ASTONISHED beyond speech, Nicholas resisted the gentle pressure of Emma’s hand pulling him toward her. He prided himself on being able to control his feelings. Such control had been hard-won, a matter of survival. But he’d been holding back for so long that he barely remembered how it felt to reveal all of himself to another person.
Except in the dreams. His subconscious self had held back nothing in those erotic encounters with Emma. He knew all the intense passion of which he was capable had been fully revealed.
And she was asking him to repeat the experience, for real.
Of course, she didn’t know that he, too, had experienced the dreams. He very deliberately hadn’t told her. He didn’t know how it had happened, hadn’t known such a thing was even possible. But having had a preview of what lovemaking with Emma would be like, he simply didn’t have it in him to resist.
Just for a moment, he told himself, letting her draw him toward her. Just one kiss…
His lips met hers, softly, sweetly. But within the space of a heartbeat, the balance shifted. The kiss went from sweet to steamy in seconds. And it was better than any dream he’d ever had. Richer, full of textures and layers that begged to be explored.
He was good at kissing, a connoisseur, having had a very long time to practice the art form. He applied himself wholly to sharing his experience with Emma. He dipped his tongue into her mouth, sliding it sensu ally against hers. He nibbled and sucked on her full lower lip. He widened his mouth to cover hers completely, angling his head for the deepest possible contact—and she gave it to him, surrendering her mouth to his totally.
Yet he wanted more. So much more.
Something was drawing him to this woman, something he didn’t understand. He’d met her only yesterday, yet he felt as though he had known her for months…years. Her mouth was familiar to him, moving hungrily against his. The sounds of her arousal—small, low, throaty noises—were ones he’d heard before. And it all felt so completely right.
When she fumbled for his hand and brought it to her breast, he made a strangled sound, wave after wave of heat washing through him. He held the soft, supple mound, his fingers stroking the hardened tip. Blood pounded in his head and in his loins, and it felt wonderful and…dangerous.
Far too dangerous.
Breaking the kiss, he removed his tingling hand from her breast.
“Don’t stop,” she protested, her breath coming hard and fast.
He didn’t even attempt to keep his voice steady. “This cannot be good for you. For God’s sake, a bullet went through your body only yesterday. You need to heal.”
She answered with a small nod, and he breathed out a sigh of both relief and acute disappointment. Both sentiments, however, were short-lived.
“Then lie down with me,” she said. “I’ll heal much better if you hold me close.”
He would have liked nothing better. But one of them had to think rationally, and it seemed he had been elected.
“That would not be a good idea,” he said, hearing the thickness in his own voice.
“I know you won’t do anything I don’t like.”
He laughed. “Trouble is, you’ve made it very clear what you’d like.”
A blush reddened her cheeks. “Because you’ve woven a spell around me.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Is that what you really think?”
She gave a small shrug. “It’s like Damien Caldwell. He wove a spell over a lot of people, my sister included.”
A bolt of anger flashed through him. “I’ll thank you not to compare me to that bastard.”
“I just meant…” She hesitated, then started again. “I’m sorry. I know you’re different.”
“How?” he asked. “Tell me how you know that.”
“Caldwell wants to hurt people, to control them,” she whispered. “I know you mean me no harm.”
Nick wasn’t so sure that was true, but he kept the observation to himself. While he was deciding what to say, she reached for his hand and tugged. “Please. I want to feel you ne
xt to me.”
“I told you, that isn’t a good idea,” he answered.
“You want to,” she murmured.
“We can’t always have what we want.” Still, he thought, getting closer to her might be useful. Maybe he could get some information out of her. He hesitated, knowing very well that he was rationalizing.
The hell with it, he thought, kicking off his shoes, then settling down beside her on the bed.
“I’d rather have you under the covers,” she said softly.
He turned his head toward her. “I think it’s safer if I stay topside.”
She gave a small sigh.
It had been a long time since he’d lain in bed with a woman. As bad an idea as he knew it was, he wanted to enjoy it for a little while. Then he’d ask his questions. When she closed her eyes, he did, too. An instant later, they snapped open at the feel of her fingers slipping under his shirt and her small hand flattening against his chest.
If her action hadn’t already jolted him back to reality, her next words would have.
“Tell me what happened between you and Caldwell.”
He pushed up on one elbow and looked down at her. “And just how do you know that anything happened between us?”
“I sneaked into his office and went through some of the papers in his filing cabinets.”
“You what?” Aghast, Nick gaped at her. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”
She looked defiant. “I had to. I was looking for something I could use against him—anything that might help me get my sister away from that place. I found a file on you.”
“Bloody hell!”
“He hates you,” Emma continued. “And you obviously hate him. What happened?”
He didn’t owe her any explanations, but the inexplicable bond between them compelled him to answer her question, made him want to share everything with her. He wanted to tell her, in a way he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone anything in a very long while.
“I was one of the Master’s followers,” he said flatly.
She sucked in a sharp breath.
“It ended badly.”
“You were…one of his inner circle?” she pressed.
He felt his face contort. “Yes. It makes me sick to think about it now, but, yes, I was one of the men he trusted.”
Emma laid a hand over his. “He messes with people’s minds. He messed with yours. Just thank God you got away.”
Nick answered with a tight nod. “Yes, he was always a persuasive bastard. But at that time he treated his inner circle more like equals—not as he does now, at the Refuge.”
“You weren’t at the Refuge?” she asked in surprise.
“No. He’s gathered groups of people around him in many different places. He stays until things get too dangerous—until, for instance, someone with power and influence raises a fuss about a missing daughter or son, or something like that. Then he clears out, goes someplace else and starts over. When I met him, he lived in France.”
“So…” She shifted under the covers, burrowing closer to him. “How did you happen to meet him?”
“At a party in Cannes. A long time ago, I was one of the…beautiful people.”
She gave him a puzzled frown. “You were a Hollywood producer or something?”
Nick laughed. “No, my father was a duke.”
Her jaw actually dropped. “You’re kidding!”
“Afraid not.”
“What’s your family name?”
He gave her one of the lines he’d been using for years when he talked about his background. “Since I’m an embarrassment to my family, I’d rather keep that to myself.”
“An embarrassment? Why?”
“Well, in their social circles, one doesn’t brag about a son who works as a private detective. One prays that no one finds out.”
“Oh. But that’s so unfair!”
“In any case,” he continued, “I was the third son, not first in line to inherit the title. But I had plenty of money, and I was never going to have to work for a living. I was…well, quite frankly, shallow. I spent my time traveling and going to parties. I heard about Caldwell from a friend, and I thought he sounded intriguing. So I asked for an invitation to a ball I knew he’d be attending.”
Nick didn’t describe the glittering occasion, with the hall illuminated by huge candlelit chandeliers and the men and women dressed in silks and satins. He let her form her own picture of the event, which he thought probably resembled a presidential inauguration gala or an Oscar-night party filled with movie stars decked out for the red carpet.
Smiling to himself despite the pain the memories evoked, he continued. “I got into a conversation with Caldwell at the ball. His ideas sounded intelligent. He made me believe that he cared about my welfare. And I thought I could learn from him. I moved into his—” Nick stopped on the verge of saying “castle” and instead said, “estate. While I was there, I fell in love with one of the women he had gathered around him.”
“And she loved you?” Emma asked quietly.
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I thought so.”
“Then it’s very different from the way he operates now. At the Refuge, nobody gets involved with anyone but him.”
Nick gave a harsh laugh. “I suspect I have a good deal to do with his having adopted that policy. Jeanette did return my feelings, but then she changed. She became enthralled with the Master, and I couldn’t get through to her anymore, though I tried. Caldwell didn’t like my persistence. So to make his point, he used Jeanette in one of his midnight ceremonies. Do you know what that means?”
Beside him, Emma’s body had gone rigid. “He killed her?” she breathed.
“Yes.”
She looked at him, her huge blue eyes wide and full of sadness. “You didn’t know about the ceremonies before that?”
He had known. In the months after Caldwell had made him a vampire, he had taken part in some of the fun and games. He had been brought up to see himself as superior to ninety-nine percent of the world’s population. And with his new vampiric values—which was to say, viewing mortals as little more than food—he had thought of the women Caldwell killed as necessary sacrifices. A shame they had to die, but, well, c’est la vie.
Jeanette had opened his eyes to the truth. She’d been so sweet, so innocent, so idealistic. And she’d been the low-born daughter of a shipping merchant, a nobody, not a woman he likely would have met, much less loved, if he’d remained at home in England.
When the Master had begun to focus on her, Nick had been horrified. He had known what would happen, and he was powerless to prevent it. In the end, he was forced to stand by and watch her be corrupted. And as he’d observed the Master at work, seducing the woman he loved, preparing her for the final sacrifice, he’d begun to see his own life, his own ethics and morals, quite differently.
When the Master killed Jeanette, Nick had gone mad and fought his former mentor. Caldwell had won. He’d drained Nick of blood and left him for dead. But he’d miscalculated. Nick recalled the agony of lying on the stone floor of the castle dungeon, so weak he could barely open his eyelids. But he hadn’t been entirely gone. When one of the slaves had come to take his body away, he’d drawn enough blood from the man to revive himself and escape.
There was no way he could tell the details of that sordid story to Emma. And no way he could explain his radical transformation to her.
All at once, he felt trapped in a conversation that he should never have started. He’d climbed into bed with her intending to pump her for information about Caldwell and the Refuge, and he’d ended up saying too much about himself—and thinking too much about his own repellent past. Big mistake.
Emma was staring at him, still waiting for his answer to her question. A lie sprang into his mind, but he found he couldn’t get it past his lips. And since he couldn’t tell her the truth, either, he took the coward’s way out. He used his powers on her again, making her eyelids flutter closed.
> Really, he was doing her a favor, he told himself. She needed to rest.
When she lay back against the pillow, he felt some of the tightness in his chest ease. She had asked him to lie in bed with her, and now that she was sleeping, he allowed himself the luxury of holding her in his arms, stroking his lips against her cheek, then her neck.
His whole body throbbed. He wanted to tip her head back and sink his fangs into her. Because he had tasted her blood when he had healed her wound, he already knew how sweet she would be.
He clenched his jaw to stop himself from doing what he knew he’d regret. She had already lost blood, and her body needed time to make more. Drinking from her would be a crime. But the need for her made the slits that sheathed his fangs ache. And the erection straining against the front of his jeans made him want to rip them off, wake Emma and make wild, passionate love to her.
He knew that if he took that fateful step, there would be no going back. He would want more. For a vampire, sex without the drawing of blood was like sex without orgasm—pleasurable, a way to feel close to another person, but not truly satisfying. With someone he wanted deeply, as he wanted Emma, it would be supremely frustrating to stop short of what his vampiric nature drove him to crave.
He knew intuitively that if he started with Emma, he’d want more. He wanted to come inside her and, as he did, to sink his teeth into her flesh and drink from her. And doing so would be the beginning of the end. Because he couldn’t tell her what he was. Nor could he make love to her over and over, each time blocking her memory of what happened at the end. More than that, he couldn’t drink from her repeatedly without threatening her life.
So their relationship would end as all the others he’d tried to have had ended, with him back where he’d started—utterly alone.
Nick allowed himself a few more minutes of torture, holding Emma in his arms. Finally, when he felt as though he would explode if he didn’t sink his teeth into her slender neck, he climbed out of bed, settled the covers around her again and picked up the shoes he had discarded.
Going downstairs to his closet, he changed into clean jeans and a T-shirt, then hopped into his Mercedes and headed to the grocery store. Emma would need more food when she awoke.
