His stare was hypnotic. Otherworldly. Extraordinary . . . just like the rest of him.
His head lowered. "Sleep. I shall probably come to you before breakfast."
"What about you? Do you sleep?" "Yes." When she glanced at the other side of the bed, he murmured, "Not here tonight. Worry not."
"Then where?""Worry not." He left suddenly, disappearing into the darkness. Left alone in the candlelight, she felt as though she were floating on the vast bed, at sea in what was both a luscious dream and a horrid nightmare.
4
Claire woke up when she heard the shower go on. Pushing herself off the pillows, she put her feet to the floor and decided to do some exploring while Michael was busy. Picking up the candle, she walked in the direction of the desk. Or at least where she thought the damn thing was.
Her shin found it first, banging into a stout leg. With a curse, she bent over and rubbed at what was no doubt going to be a hell of a bruise. Damn candles. Moving more carefully, she felt around for the chair he had sat in and lowered the mostly useless light at what he'd been working on.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
It was a portrait of her. A stunningly deft and frankly sensual portrait of her staring straight out of the page. Except he never looked at her. How did he know— "Step away from that, please," Michael said from the bathroom.
"It's beautiful." She leaned farther over the table, taking in a wealth of different drawings, all of which looked very modern in execution. Which surprised her. "They're all beautiful."
There were forests and flowers that were distorted. Vistas of the Leedses' house and grounds that were surreal. Depictions of the rooms inside the mansion that were all a little off, but still visually arresting. That he was a modernist was a shock, given how formally he spoke and his old-fashioned manners—
With a chill, she looked back at the drawing of her. It was a classic portrait. With classic realism.
His other work wasn't a style, was it. The depictions were skewed because he hadn't seen what he was drawing in over fifty years. It was all from a memory that hadn't been refreshed for decades.
She picked up the portrait. It was lovingly executed, carefully rendered. A tribute to her.
"I wish you wouldn't look at any of that," he said, right into her ear.
She gasped and wheeled around. As her heart settled, she thought, damn, he smelled good. "Why don't you want me to see it?"
"It's private."
There was a pause as something occurred to her. "Did you draw the other women?"
"You should go back to bed."
"Did you?"
"No.""
That was a relief. For reasons she didn't enjoy. "Why not?"
"They did not. . . please my eye." Without thinking, she asked, "Were you with any of them? Did you have sex with them?"
He'd left the shower on and the raining water on marble filled the silence.
"Tell me.""No." "You said you won't have sex with me. Is it because you aren't. . . able to be with humans?"
"It is a matter of honor."
"So vampires. . . have sex? I mean, you can, right?" Okay, why was she going down this road? Shut up, Claire—
"I am capable of arousal. And I can . . . take myself to conclusion."
She had to close her eyes as she pictured him on the bed gloriously naked, his hair let loose all around him. She saw one of those long lean hands wrapped around himself, stroking up and down his shaft until he arched off the mattress and—
She heard him inhale sharply and he said, "Why does that entice you?"
Jesus, his senses were acute. And how could it not? Although it wasn't as if he needed to know the ins and outs of her arousal. "Have you ever been with a woman?"
His lowered head went back and forth. "Most of them have been terrified of me and rightfully so. They have shrunk back from me. Especially as I. . . fed from them."
She tried to imagine what it would be like to only have contact with people who thought you were horrific. No wonder he was so self-contained and ashamed.
"Those who didn't find me . . . repugnant," he said, "those who got used to my presence, who would not have denied me . . . I found that I lacked the will. I did not find them comely."
"You have never kissed someone?" "No. Now answer the question I asked. Why does the idea of me . . . relieving the ache arouse you?"
"Because I would like to . . ." Watch. "I think you must look beautiful when you do that. I think you . . . are beautiful."
He gasped. When there was nothing but shower sounds for a long while, she said, "I'm sorry if I shocked you."
"You find me pleasing to your eye?"
"Yes."
"Truly?" he whispered. "Yes." "I am blessed." The chains rolled across the floor as he turned away and walked back to the bathroom.
"Michael?"
The metal links just kept going. She went over to the bed and sat at the end of it, holding the candle with both her palms as he took his time. When the water was switched off and he finally came out from the bathroom, she said, "I'd like a shower, too."
"Avail yourself." The water came back on as if he'd willed it. "I assure you of your privacy."
She went into the bathroom and put the candle on the counter. The air was warm and moist from his shower, scented with milled soap and his dark spices. Dropping her robe and her underwear, she stepped under the spray, the water pouring over her body and soaking into her hair and cleansing her skin.
She was appalled by the lack of compassion he'd received over the last five decades. By the cruelty that his only companions were stolen for him, their rights violated so that he could survive. By his imprisonment that had persisted and would continue unless he was freed. By the fact that he didn't even know he was beautiful.
She hated that he had lived alone for all his life. Getting out of the shower, she dried off, put the robe back on, and tucked her panties and her bra in the pocket.
When she was out in the bedroom, she said, "Michael, where are you?"
She went farther into the room. "Michael?""I am at the desk.""Will you turn on some lights?"Candles flared instantly. "Thank you." She stared at him as he shuffled to hide what he'd been drawing. "I am taking you with me," she said.
His head lifted and for once so did his eyes. God, they were amazing the way they glowed. "I beg your pardon?"
"When Fletcher comes for me, I'm going to make it so you get out." Most likely by beaning the butler with the very candleholder in her hands. "I'm going to take care of him."
"No!" Michael jumped to his feet. "You must not interfere. You shall leave as you came, without violence."
"The hell I will. This is wrong. All of it. It's wrong for the women and for you and it's your mother's fault. Fletcher's, too."
And would that she could take things to their right and proper conclusion. That woman and her thug butler needed to be put behind bars: Claire didn't care how old they were. Unfortunately, turning them into the police because they'd kept a vampire chained in the basement wasn't exactly what you wanted to lead with when you were trying to have one of Caldwell's most prominent citizens arrested.
That would be one hell of a hard sell. So freeing him was the best course.
"I cannot let you resist," he said."Don't you want to get out of here?" "They will hurt you." His eyes were grave. "I would rather be imprisoned herein for all my days than have you harmed."
She thought about Fletcher's uncanny strength given his age. And the fact that he and Miss Leeds had been stealing women for fifty years and getting away with it. If Claire disappeared because they killed her, it would be a pain to justify, but bodies could be dealt with. Sure, her assistant knew where she'd gone, but Miss Leeds and Fletcher were no doubt smooth enough to play dumb. Plus they had Claire's car keys and the signed will. They could get rid of the car and maintain Claire had come and left and whatever bad things had happened had nothing to do with them.
Man . . . she was surprised they
'd picked her, for no other reason than her personality was so assertive. Then again, she'd been pretty damn ladylike around Miss Leeds. And she was an acceptable target, she supposed: a single woman traveling alone on the last, rowdy weekend of the summer.
Clearly, they had an M.O. that had worked for five decades. And they were going to protect themselves. By force, according to Michael's fear.
She was going to need help getting him out. Maybe she could have him—no, he probably wasn't going to be the kind of backup she needed, given the head fuck that had been done on him. Damn .. . she was going to have to come back for him and she knew who to bring. She had friends in law enforcement, the kind who would be willing to put their badges in the drawer and leave their guns on their hips. The kind who could take care of a messy scene.
The kind who could take care of Fletcher while she took care of Michael.
She was coming back for him. "No," Michael said. "You will not remember. You cannot come back."
A fresh wave of anger hit. That he could obviously read her mind didn't piss her off as much as the idea that he'd prevent her from helping him—even if it was because he wanted to protect her. "The hell I won't remember."
"I shall take your memories—" "No, you won't." She put her hands on her hips. "Because you're going to swear on your honor, right here, right now, that you won't."
She knew she had him because she sensed there was nothing he would deny her. And she had absolute faith that if he promised he would leave her memories alone, he would.
"Swear to it." When he stayed quiet, she pushed her wet hair back. "This needs to stop. It isn't right on so many levels and this time your mother picked the wrong bitch to throw down here with you. You are getting out and I'm going to spring you."
The smile he gave her was wistful, just a little lift to his mouth. "You are a fighter."
"Yes. Always. And sometimes I'm a whole army. Now give me your word."
He looked around the room with yearning in his face, his eyes intent as if he were trying to see through the stone walls and the earth up to the sky that was so far away. "I have not known fresh air in . . . a long time."
"Let me help you. Give me your word." His eyes shifted over to her. They were such kind, intelligent, warm eyes. The sort of eyes you would want in a lover.
Claire stopped herself because being his Good Samaritan did not include sleeping with him. Although . . . what a night that would be. His big body was no doubt capable of—
Stop it. "Michael? Your word. Now."
He dropped his head. "I promise."
"What. What do you promise." The lawyer in her had to nail down the specifics.
"That I shall leave you intact." "Not good enough. Intact could mean physically or mentally. Say to me, 'Claire, I will not take your memories of me or this experience from you.'"
"Claire . . . what a lovely name.""Don't stall. And look at me as you say it." After a moment, his eyes rose to hers and he didn't blink or look away. "Claire, I will not take your memories of me or what transpires from you."
""Good." She went over to the bed and lay on top of the velvet duvet. As she arranged the lapels of the robe, he sank down into the chair.
"You look exhausted," she said to his back. "Why don't you come lie down? This bed is more than big enough for the both of us."
He braced his arms against his thighs. "That would not be appropriate."
"Why?" All the candles dimmed. "Sleep. I will come to you later."
"Michael? Michael?" Abruptly, a wave of exhaustion came over her. As she blacked out, she had a fleeting thought that it was because he had willed it so.
Claire woke up in total darkness, with the sense that he was looming over her. She was in the bed, as if he'd tucked her between the sheets.
"Michael?" When he didn't say anything, she asked, "Is it time for you to . . . ?"
"Not yet." He said no more and still did not move, so she whispered, "What is it?"
"Did you mean it?" "About getting you out?""No. When you asked me if I would . . . lay beside you?' "Yes." She heard him take a deep breath. "Then may I. . . join you?"
"Yes."
She moved the sheets, making room as the mattress dipped low under the great weight of him. But instead of getting in, he stayed on top of the duvet.
"Aren't you cold?" she said. "Come inside." The hesitation didn't surprise her. The fact that he lifted the blankets did. "I will retain my robe."
The bed moved as he shifted and the sound of the chains chilled her, reminding her they were both trapped. But then she smelled dark spices and could only think of holding him. Easing herself over, she touched his arm. When he jerked then settled, she was aware she had decided to be with him.
"Have you had many lovers?" he asked. So he knew what she wanted, too. And she had a feeling he had come to her because he was seeking it as well. Still, she wasn't sure how to answer the question without making him feel insecure.
"Have you?" he prompted. "A few. Not many." She'd been much more interested in winning at the negotiation table than sex.
"Your first time, what was it like? Were you scared?""No.""Oh." "I wanted to get it over with. I was twenty-three. I started late."
"Is that late?" he murmured. "How old are you now?" "Thirty-two." "How many." Now, there was a masculine demand in his voice, an edge. And she liked the contrast with his essentially gentle disposition.
"Only three.""Did they . . . please you?""Sometimes.""When was the last time?" The words came fast and low. He was jealous and it shouldn't have pleased her, but it did. She wanted him to feel possessive, because she wanted to have him.
"A year ago." He exhaled as if relieved, and in the silence that followed, she became curious. "And when was the last time you . . . relieved yourself?"
He cleared his throat and she was damn sure he was blushing. "In the shower."
"Just now?" she asked with surprise. "It was hours ago. Or at least it feels that way." He coughed a little. "After I came to you—well, during the time that I came to you, I became . . . needful. To resist, I had to leave you and that is why I didn't finish you properly. I was afraid I would . . . touch you."
"What if I wanted that?""I will not have sex with you." She sat up on her elbow. "Light a candle. I need to see your face while we talk like this."
Candles flared on both sides of the bed. He was on his back, his lids closed, his red and black hair a great sea of waves over the white pillows.
"Why won't you look at me?" she asked. "Damn it, Michael. Look at me."
"I look at you all the time. When the lights are off, I watch you. I stare at you."
"So meet me in the eye now.""I cannot.""Why?""It hurts." Claire ran her hand up his arm. The muscles underneath strained, his biceps thick and well defined, his triceps cut.
"It shouldn't hurt to look at a person," she said.
"It is too close for me."
She stayed silent for a moment. "Michael, I'm going to kiss you. Now." When she heard the demand in her voice she throttled back a little. She didn't want to force him. "That is, if it's okay with you? You can absolutely say no."
She could feel his body tremble, the subtle quakes transmitted through the mattress. "I want you to. Until I think I will suffocate from the wanting. But then you know that, don't you. You know that's why I came to you."
"Yes, I do."
He laughed a little. "That is why I am as needful of you as I am. You see everything about me and you are unafraid. And you are the only one who has ever thought of getting me out."
She moved over to him and those burning blue eyes shifted to hers.
"Raise your head," she told him. When he did, she reached out and freed his hair from the leather tie. Splaying it out fully, she marveled at the glory and the weight and the incredible colors. Then she made eye contact and started to lower her mouth to his.
His lids pulled back, his stare bursting.She stopped. "Why are you frightened?" she asked, smoothing his widow's peak.
/> He shook his head impatiently. "Just kiss me.""Tell me why.""What if you don't like me?" "I will. I do." To reassure him, she dipped her head down and pressed her lips to his softly: then she stroked over his mouth. God, he was velvet. And warmth. And anxious heat.
Especially as he groaned. The sound was all male and all about sex and her body responded by going loose between her legs.
To get his mouth parted, she licked at him, becoming lost in the sensation of soft on soft, breath on breath. When he opened up, she pressed inside, meeting the hard polish of his front teeth, then sinking in. She stroked his tongue and felt his chest rise sharply.
Worried that she'd gone too far, too fast, she pulled back. "Do you want to stop—"
The growl came out of nowhere. And he moved so fast, she couldn't track him.
The room spun as he flipped her over onto her back and then straddled her, a huge male animal who didn't frighten her in the slightest. He leaned down, the weight of his chest compressing hers, his legs bracketing her hips. He was breathing hard as he put their faces together, his eyes positively glowing.
"I need more," he demanded. "Do that more. Harder. Now."
Claire recovered quickly and lifted her head off the pillow, fusing their mouths. He pushed back, forcing her down, deepening the contact. And he learned fast. In a slick penetration, his tongue shot into her mouth and she surged under him.
With his legs straddling her, she couldn't feel his erection. And she wanted that, needed that.
She yanked her mouth away from his. "Put yourself between my legs. Lie between my thighs."
He lifted up and looked down at their bodies; then he used his knee to part her and fused them together.
"Oh, God," Claire moaned as he gasped. His arousal was hot and hard through the thin layers of silk they wore. And he was massive.
"Tell me what to do," he said. "Tell me . . ." She raised her knees up and tilted her pelvis, cradling him into her sex. "Rub yourself against me. Your hips. Move them."
He did until they were both panting and groaning and his head was buried in her neck. The silk was a conductor, an enhancement, hardly any barrier at all. And maybe because of their circumstances, because this was like a fantasy, Claire let herself go, giving herself permission for once just to feel. She didn't think of anything but the contours of his body against her own and the way his surging motion was absorbed by her core and the incredible smell of him and the heat of the sex.
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