by Колин Глисон
Oh.
He bit her there, in the soft side of her belly, just above her hip, and Narcise jolted as pleasure shot to her quim in a hot, soft swell, then burst into a spiral of release. Her breathing went out of control and her world turned dark and red, pounding and rising, her center throbbing and pulsing as warmth and release surged through her.
“So you like that?” he said, his voice deep and filled with delight.
Then he—Giordan—was over her, one hand moving up under the lace to cover the top of her breast, smoothing his palm rhythmically over the needy tip of her nipple, and the other sliding up beneath her skirt, behind the black satin triangle between her legs.
His lips moved over the soft, delicate skin of her torso’s edge, sipping and gently sucking at the new wounds there. Her belly shivered and trembled, and when his fingers found her swollen quim, slick and full, she closed her eyes and breathed long and deep. The pleasure and need rose again immediately at his touch, and she could picture his long, elegant fingers as they explored, stroking her back to a new peak.
“Yes,” she murmured, arching into his hand, but he pulled back, teasing his fingers along the inside of her thigh, then up and away to look down at her. She was aware of his weight bearing down on her, solid and comfortable, one solid leg between hers, the other alongside the outside of her thigh.
“Kiss me,” he said, his hands now covering her shoulders through the flimsy lace. “Narcise.” His eyes bored into her, penetrating the haze of her pleasure, and she recognized the need, a vulnerability there—not so very different from what hers had been.
A rush of warmth, of certainty and desire, spread through her.
She cupped his warm face, sliding her hands along his jaw, felt the faint tremors deep beneath her fingers, the beginning of stubble on the very bottom of his chin. Her thumbs crept up along the sides of his face, her fingertips in the thick curls around his neck.
His gaze never wavered, dark and heavy on her, drilling deep into her soul. Deep into her damaged, warped, damned soul. Her heart shifted, shuddered and broke open.
He’d given her back so much: herself, her freedom, her body.
When she pulled, guiding him down, he lowered his face to hers. He murmured her name against her mouth, then their lips met gently, fusing together without hurry.
Giordan sank onto her, gathering her close as he shifted to go deeper, delved into her with soft lips and sleek tongue, still scented and flavored with the essence of her own lifeblood. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, such relief and emotion swelling strong inside her, bursting to come out from this unfamiliar intimacy.
The kiss turned from a sweet proclamation of tenderness, then to something fierce and hungry. Their tongues clashed and stroked, delved deep and furious, their lips catching on fangs and scraping tender skin. Little surges of blood mingled with the kiss, mixing with their breath, tasting sweet and thick as their bodies slid and bumped against each other. His fingers moved between them, pulling at the buttons of his breeches, the back of his hand sliding teasingly against her swollen center.
Narcise helped him, blind but efficient, and heard the soft scatter of the buttons as they flung beyond the rug to the floor. Quick and furious now, her skirt was flipped up and aside, his breeches and drawers yanked away until the heat of him lay against her thigh.
“Giordan,” she pleaded, spreading herself up and against him freely, wantonly, and she heard his great gust of relief as he found the hot, sleek place between her legs.
They both gasped when he filled her with one sharp movement, and then there was no longer time for play. He seemed to have run out of patience and teasing, for no sooner had he slid deep than he was moving again, harder and faster, bending forward to nip at her mouth, to slick up another taste of her as her hips moved to meet his rhythm.
The rug burned into her buttocks and Narcise felt her hair caught beneath her shoulders, but that discomfort was lost in the hot, driving pleasure that she suddenly reached in an explosion of pleasure, grasping it just before he did. He made a low noise, strangled and deep, and thrust deep and hard one last time, then buried his face in her hair and collapsed into her arms.
Narcise closed her eyes, her body still shuddering pleasantly, rippling from her center out to each finger and toe, remembering what it was like to feel happy, and complete after this…and not dark and damaged and used.
His lips moved against her neck, saying something she couldn’t hear, but the gentle movement sent delicious little shivers along her shoulder and she smoothed her hands all along his back.
The curling, rootlike ridges of the Devil’s Mark bumped beneath her fingertips on one side, and she felt the faint pulsing therein. She wondered if he’d done something to anger Lucifer, or if his Mark was always full and throbbing like that.
Hers rose and fell depending upon her mood and that of the demon who’d put it there, and right now, now that she was sated with pleasure, it was hardly a twinge over her shoulder blade.
Giordan—he was no longer merely Cale to her—shifted and pulled away, his hands sleek and smooth as they moved down over her throat and shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind my saying that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “But you’re also the strongest. Here.” He rested his fingers over her heart. His eyes burned dark and steady as he looked down at her, his lips, those perfect ones that she’d learned so well from her sketching, were full and glistened a bit.
She shifted and he eased back farther, helping her to sit up.
“Narcise,” he began, covering her with his eyes, determination in his jaw.
She knew what he was going to say, and she stopped him with a finger over his lips. “Don’t ask me to stay. I can’t—”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said, easing away from her fingers. A note of annoyance colored his tone. “I was going to say, I think it’s important to keep this from your brother.”
“Why—and how? He ordered me to seduce you—he’ll smell you all over me,” she began, confused and yet relieved that he wasn’t going to try to convince her to stay.
Giordan was nodding. “I know. But why? To see if it would work? To see if we have an attachment?” He frowned and Narcise was surprised when a wave of affection swept her at the sight of the furrow between his brows. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to touch him again, everywhere, in fact…to lie next to him in a soft, luxurious bed, naked and sated, and to hear him talk. He must have noticed the heat in her eyes, for he paused and, eyes narrowing with desire, he bent forward to kiss her.
Another sweet brushing of lips, but then she slipped her tongue out and there was still the essence of blood on him, and the kiss became deeper and more thorough. She curved an arm around him, sliding it along the curve of his bicep as a tingle began to grow inside her again.
When he pulled away, it was with obvious reluctance. His brown-blue eyes, ringed with black, now glowed with fire again. But then he blinked and it eased into seriousness. “I don’t trust anything about him, or anything he does,” Giordan continued. “But it seems as if he is trying to push us together. And if he wants that, then there’s a reason to benefit him. I think it would be best if you went back alone, and I’ll be along shortly. He’ll know you did what he bid, but he doesn’t need to know that we…well, that it was like this.”
His voice dipped low and sent another pang deep in her belly.
Narcise leaned forward to capture his lips again, sliding seductively against his mouth, her hand flat on his chest. “Very well,” she said, and left.
Giordan took his time returning to the parlor, partly to allow Narcise to make her appearance first, and partly because, aside of getting new clothing, he had things to attend to.
Narcise might think she was returning with her brother tonight, but that wasn’t going to happen. He’d take care of Moldavi himself, and then attend to Belial and his hostage in the carriage. Voss and Eddersley would help, and after that, they’d all
go back to Moldavi’s residence.
Then all of the child hostages would be free, as would Narcise.
Giordan slid a stake into the inside pocket of his coat. A different weapon than what he used on the streets—then it had been a slender but wicked blade that slid between ribs like butter—but they were both used in the same way.
He was waylaid by a question from one of his footmen, and then Suzette, who’d been entertained by one of Giordan’s male vintages, caught him in the corridor to ask when he might plan another party. “I was hoping for a rooftop ball,” she suggested with a smile. “During the full moon would be perfect.”
Giordan smiled. “Very soon, ma cherie. Perhaps within a week.” He could introduce Narcise to his friends, and he imagined that she’d enjoy the fresh air.
He excused himself as quickly as he could and returned to the private parlor at last.
The first thing he noted was that Narcise wasn’t there. He frowned; she’d had ample time to return. Then, when he scanned the chamber and realized that Moldavi was absent as well, his stomach plummeted and a rush of anger stopped him cold.
“Where are they?” he asked Eddersley, who’d paused to look at him as if he were mad.
“The Moldavis? They left. Perhaps a quarter of an hour past.”
Giordan rushed out of the parlor, knowing it was futile, that they’d already gone…but somehow hoping that he was wrong.
But he wasn’t. Outside, beneath the swath of stars and sliver of moon, he found one of his grooms and demanded to know where the Moldavi carriage was.
When the groom explained that it had left some time earlier, and that, oui, the mademoiselle was with her brother, and, no, she was not in distress, she was walking of her own volition, Giordan stepped back and whirled away. His heart pounded violently and he knew his eyes were burning red and gold, fairly flaming with rage.
He had a terrible, sinking feeling that he’d never see Narcise again.
9
It was more than three weeks after Narcise seduced him that Giordan received word from Cezar Moldavi.
At first, he had no concerns about the silence. Playing the game he and Narcise had agreed upon, he waited for two days before contacting Moldavi again, under the guise this time of formalizing the details of the spice ship. When there was no response to that dangling carrot of business investment and money, Giordan was concerned, but not terribly so.
Perhaps Moldavi had been called out of town again.
He attempted to visit as Monsieur David again for Narcise’s painting lesson, at least in order to see her, and ensure himself that she was well. When he was turned away from the door with the explanation that mademoiselle was no longer interested in lessons, Giordan had that awful sinking feeling again.
What did that mean?
Another attempt to deliver fabric as an elderly merchant as he’d done once before was also foiled when he was advised that no one was in residence to see him.
Thus Giordan spent the next two weeks in varying stages of fear, fury and loathing. The helplessness was the worst. Was she alive? Was she dead? Was she here in Paris? Had she been fencing? Winning or losing?
He made personal calls three times after that, and each time he was turned away with vague explanations that the master was gone.
He began to plot with Eddersley how he might gain entrance to Moldavi’s lair through the catacombs, sneaking in through the rear.
He paid Mingo handsomely to debase himself and attempt to seduce any or all of Moldavi’s servants regardless of how homely they were when they visited the market, providing his own steward with enough funds to pay for an entire ship in order to incent tongues to wagging. The only information he was able to glean was that the mademoiselle was cloistered in her private apartments and had hardly been seen for more than a week. However, she had had no visitors at all.
“But she is well?” he demanded, his fangs flashing, his hand pressing his valet and steward’s chest against the wall.
Mingo’s eyes widened and he nodded. “So far as I can ascertain, she is well, sir.”
Giordan remembered himself and released his servant, turning away with trembling hands and a stomach that gnawed with emptiness. I should have forced her to stay with me. I shouldn’t have let her leave.
At last, he received a response to the five messages he’d sent, and the three he’d left in person. It was absurdly mundane: I would be honored by your presence this evening. Moldavi.
He had four stakes secreted on him when he entered Moldavi’s stronghold, and was determined to use at least one of them before he left. As he’d anticipated, three of them were discovered by the butler when he was offered entrance at the street level. But the fourth one remained tucked in the underside of his loose shirtsleeve.
Whatever he’d expected, Giordan had not anticipated the beaming, cordial host who greeted him as he entered the spacious, well-appointed parlor they’d used previously.
“I’m so terribly sorry for the confusion,” Moldavi said, gesturing to a pair of chairs pulled up cozily next to a piecrust table.
As always, he was dressed formally in well-tailored clothing: a snowy-white shirt, brocade waistcoat, knee breeches and stockings. Instead of the wigs currently in fashion, Moldavi wore his hair combed neatly over his face and ears, and his wide-jawed face was clean-shaven. Several rings winked on his fingers as he gestured with his speech. “I understand you’ve been attempting to reach me. It was terribly rude of me not to provide an explanation for my sudden departure, and that of my sister, from your engagement a few weeks ago. I was called away on an emergency, and quite frankly, I was too distracted to even think to send you an explanation or apology.”
Giordan accepted the speech in silence, eyeing the man thoughtfully, but he did not take one of the offered seats. He’s lying as easily as the Seine in its bed. And there was a different air about him tonight, one of anticipation, perhaps, or nervous energy.
“And Narcise—I’m afraid the servants didn’t quite understand. I would certainly have allowed you to call on her in my absence…but apparently, that was not made clear to them.” Moldavi, also still standing, opened a small cupboard, peered at the cluster of bottles within and selected one. He examined the label, then returned it with a tsk, clinking around until he chose a second one. “Ah. Perfect,” he said in satisfaction. “I do hope you like it,” he added, glancing at Giordan.
“I wasn’t offended that you left my gathering as much as I was concerned,” Giordan offered as his host poured two glasses at the sideboard. The titillating scent of fresh blood mingled with liquor filled the room. He wondered uncomfortably from where the blood had come. “After all, that night I had been the recipient of an unexpected gift,” he said. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to thank you.”
“Indeed. I do hope you enjoyed it,” Moldavi said, handing his guest one of the glasses, brushing his fingers as he did so. “In all honesty, I wasn’t certain if it would be to your liking. In fact, I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t.” The other man’s eyes fastened meaningfully on his and for the first time, Giordan saw something there besides cunning and intelligence.
Admiration.
Fascination.
Desire.
He recognized it and nearly stepped back, his stomach twisting unpleasantly, shock and comprehension rendering him silent. All at once, the dark memories rushed to the fore-front of his mind—the grasping hands in the alleys, the smell of men, the humiliation and pain.
Giordan shook the images away and speared Moldavi with his own flat gaze. “As a matter of fact, that evening was very much to my liking,” he replied so that his position couldn’t be misunderstood. “Where is she?”
All pretense had dropped; they were man to man, staring at each other, no longer hiding anything.
“She’s gone,” Moldavi said.
“I want to see her.”
Moldavi shrugged. “She has no desire to see you.”
“You’re lying,” Gior
dan replied with confidence. “She’s in love with me.” He knew it for a fact; he never doubted it, for though she hadn’t said the words, she had proven it when she kissed him.
She’d kissed him more than once, more than in the heat of passion, more than when he’d asked it of her. She’d kissed him with love and tenderness, and freely. He had no doubt of her feelings for him, and every bit of confidence in her brother’s attempt to manipulate.
“And, to my dismay, you’re in love with her,” Moldavi said. He pulled something from his pocket. “You hid it very well. I wasn’t certain at all, for you seemed immune. I had hoped—” He shook his head, pressing his lips together in dismay as he cut off his own words. “This is what confirmed it for me.”
He held a long, slender gold chain with a single feather dangling from it. The one Giordan had removed from Narcise and tossed to the floor of his parlor the night she’d seduced him.
Moldavi’s smile was a bit crooked. “If you didn’t love her, you wouldn’t have noticed or cared. Nor,” he added, “would you have visited her disguised as Monsieur David.”
Giordan couldn’t keep his eyes from flickering in surprise. “You knew of that?”
His host’s lips twisted in reluctant admiration. “Not at first. You fooled everyone. Not until after I found this—” he gestured with the feather “—and began to suspect. But when I went into her chamber and scented you in there…” His voice trailed off, his eyes settling heavily on him. “I’ve become quite familiar with your scent.”
Giordan kept his face blank despite the increasingly uncomfortable churning in his belly. He was emotionless, feeling not even the animosity or affront he should. He tried to picture how Dimitri would respond in this situation: cold and lethal. But Dimitri had not lived through what Giordan had.
“I suppose I could consider myself flattered, but I do not,” he replied coldly. “You understand, I have interest in only one member of the Moldavi family.”
