Samson's Lovely Mortal

by Tina Folsom

  Samson loved drawing ever since he was little boy. He’d had a privileged upbringing in one of the finest households in England. His parents had been patrons of the arts and had encouraged him even as a little boy to follow his passions.

  He’d always thought he’d be an artist when he grew up, but unfortunately his father made some unwise investments, and suddenly the family had been penniless. What could a young man with an artistic education do to make money? Nothing. His only chance was to scrape together what he could and get onto a ship to the New World. There were reports that enterprising young men could make a fortune in America, and he’d had nothing to lose.

  Leaving his parents behind was heartbreaking, but Samson hoped to return a wealthy man to take care of them the way they’d taken care of him when he was a child. He never thought that the last time he’d see them was when they waved goodbye to him as he boarded the ship.

  Without any skills to speak of, he found it hard to find employment until the bored wife of a British officer hired him as a tutor to instruct her children. It wasn’t the only thing she expected him to do. Whenever her husband was away she would sneak into Samson’s chambers and request his sexual services. As a relatively inexperienced young man, he appreciated the instructions in the carnal arts the woman was willing to provide him with. He was an outstanding student.

  With a very healthy sexual appetite, there seemed nothing wrong with what he was doing. Somehow word spread among the bored wives of the area, and offers of employment started flooding in. Suddenly everybody wanted their children instructed in the arts—and their sexual needs met at night.

  He’d had no qualms about it, and he’d finally had choices. Until one day, when suddenly there was only one choice left in his life, only one more decision to be made. Her name was Elizabeth …

  The day he realized he was in love with her, the rain came and finally cooled the muggy air. Samson opened the door to the stable to get both himself and his horse out of the downpour.

  He shook the water out of his hair as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the barn. A faint whimper made him spin around. There, huddled in the corner was Elizabeth, the seventeen-year-old beautiful daughter of his latest employer.

  “Elizabeth. What are you doing out here in this weather?”

  He let go of the horse’s reins and walked to her. When she looked up at him, he realized she was crying. Instinctively he knelt down and pulled her into his arms.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Samson,” she wailed. “I am to be married in a fortnight!”

  No! Not Elizabeth; not the woman he wanted for himself.

  “Who said that?”

  “Father announced it today. He’s chosen Fitzwilliam Herman for me. Samson, please help me, I can’t marry that man. He’s old, he’s ugly, he smells. I don’t like him.”

  He stroked her flaxen hair, then put his hand under her chin to make her look at him. Her eyes were puffy, swollen from the tears she must have been shedding for hours.

  “Elizabeth, do you trust me?”

  She nodded.

  “I know this is not like you would have imagined this day. And this is not the right place for it.” He glanced around the stable. “But I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t let you marry Herman. Because I love you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “And I won’t allow it. Please marry me. We’ll go away tonight. We’ll hide. We’ll find a place where we can be together.”

  Her answer was immediate. “Oh, yes, Samson. Take me away from here.”

  And then he kissed her. For the first time he kissed the woman he’d secretly been pining after for months. The woman he was hopelessly in love with. Hopelessly, because he knew her parents would never approve of him. All this didn’t matter now—action was required. Losing her to another man was not an option.

  Her lips were soft and sweet. His Elizabeth was pure, decent—not like the many married women who sought his bed.

  “We’ll leave tonight. Pack only what we can take on a horse. I’ll be waiting for you here at midnight. Be careful,” he cautioned her. “Tell no one.”

  He kissed her again, unable to get enough of her sweet taste.

  “I’ll be here.”

  She went to the door of the barn and turned back once more. “I love you.”

  The hours until midnight seemed longer than they should be. Samson was nervous. What if she’d changed her mind? Going away with him, a penniless man without prospects couldn’t be what a rich heiress like her would want.

  When the bell of the nearby church chimed out the twelve strokes of midnight, he was ready to go back to his chamber. Elizabeth wouldn’t come. She would be sleeping in her warm bed, crying maybe, but she’d stay and do what her parents wanted.

  A sound made him turn. She was covered in a dark cloak, a small satchel in her hand. Elizabeth. She was his. Samson pulled her into his embrace and kissed her. Her lips erased all his doubts. Their future was uncertain, but his life was perfect. The woman he loved was prepared to give up everything to be with him.

  The horses were saddled and ready. They only rode for an hour before they were attacked. Three men fell upon them, coming out of nowhere. It happened so fast, there was no time for escape.

  Samson’s horse fell first, its throat ripped open. He hadn’t even seen the blow or what had struck it. By the time he freed himself from his horse in order not to be squashed underneath its body, he heard Elizabeth’s horrified screams.

  What he saw couldn’t be happening. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t possible! One of the men drank from her throat. Her blood. His teeth were lodged in her throat.

  Samson fought the other two, but he had no chance. He couldn’t get to her, couldn’t help her. He’d promised her to keep her safe. He’d failed.

  If he couldn’t save her, he’d die avenging her. With more ferocity than he ever knew he possessed, he fought, clawed, and bit.

  He felt fangs dig into his arm, felt the blood drain from him. Still, he didn’t give up. He threw a last look at Elizabeth’s dead body, then bit the man’s ear off and spit it out. The taste of the attacker’s blood in his mouth was metallic. It was the last thing he remembered.

  He woke in a shed the next day. How he’d gotten there, he truly didn’t know.

  To his surprise, the wounds the men had inflicted on him were gone, but when he opened the door and a ray of sunshine touched his arm, the burning sensation made him flinch and pull back.

  It was the moment when he knew he’d been condemned to a life as a vampire; nothing else made sense.

  One of the bad guys.

  Punished for his sins of adultery and debauchery.

  Beyond redemption.

  Samson finished his drawing. He’d used his drawing skills over the years mostly to convey information to his associates in order to help them apprehend dangerous individuals. His art had gone by the wayside, but drawing Delilah reminded him of what he loved doing. She was the perfect muse. He looked at his sleeping beauty and planted small kisses on her neck and shoulders. His eyes glanced at the clock: the sun would rise in a few minutes.

  “I have to go, sweetness,” he whispered to her, but she didn’t wake. He tucked his drawing pad away on his desk.

  Samson collected his bathrobe and dressed, then slowly left his bedroom. Normally he slept in his bed with the shades drawn, but since she was here, he couldn’t risk her finding certain things strange when she woke up. For once, he would be hard—if not impossible!—to wake once he was asleep. And if she dared open the blinds to let the sun in, his skin would fry.

  He quietly went downstairs. He’d built a safe room in the back of the house behind the garage, where he stayed during emergencies. The room was equipped with everything he needed: enough blood to last him several days, a bed, and communication equipment.

  Samson locked the door from the inside and let himself fall onto the bed. He quickly sent a text message to Carl to notify him of where
he was, and to Oliver to instruct him to take care of Delilah for the day. He ignored Ricky’s message that he needed to speak to him. It could wait. Then his head hit the pillow, and sleep claimed him.

  NINE

  In steady drops, the blood dripped from her fingers.

  Drip, drop.

  A small puddle formed on the tile floor. Somebody was watching her, but she was unable to lift her head. Instead she kept staring at her hand.

  Drip, drop.

  A dark head of hair flitted in her peripheral vision. It bent over her hand. She couldn’t see the face, but she heard him inhale sharply. Sniffing her hand?

  She tried to pull it back, but felt paralyzed. She saw the pink tongue before she felt it … licking her. Licking the blood off her hand. Tingling pleasantly.

  Delilah opened her eyes in a start and let out a few sharp breaths.

  Another weird dream.

  She pushed it away to make space for more delightful memories.

  Snuggling back into the sheets, she soaked in his scent, all male and sexy. Samson was gone as he’d said, but she could still feel his skin on hers, taste him, smell him. She’d never had a night like the last one.

  Without regret she’d given control over to him, a complete stranger, and had enjoyed every second of it. In fact, it had been liberating not to have to take charge, but to let herself fall. He’d caught her every time.

  She sat up and looked around the room. Dark blinds obstructed the view out the windows, and in addition heavy drapes hung on each side of them. Delilah smiled. Somebody was not a morning person.

  She leapt out of bed and pulled up one of the blinds. It was bright outside. She turned her head and checked the antique clock on the mantle: Eleven thirty? How could she have slept till eleven thirty? The fact that she’d had wild and passionate sex with Samson most of the night—at least a half dozen times—probably had something to do with it.

  She’d obviously needed the sleep to recover. Just as well that, as an independent contractor, she could pretty much set her own hours. She’d just have to work a little later tonight to make up for it.

  In a hurry, Delilah headed for the bathroom and stepped into the shower. Even as she took the soap and lathered her skin, she couldn’t stop thinking of the events of the previous night. It all felt so surreal! She’d never met a man who could be so passionate and at the same time so tender—and completely and utterly insatiable. She’d felt his hunger and had developed her own craving for him very quickly.

  She’d never laughed so much with a man in bed and had discovered how playful he really was. While she knew exactly what he liked in bed, what turned him on, and what drove him absolutely wild, she still had no idea who he was or what he did. He’d told her that he had business meetings all day, so she assumed he was some sort of corporate manager or director. Not that it mattered. As long as he had no wife coming out of the woodworks, she didn’t care what he did.

  Delilah knew she shouldn’t snoop, but once she’d dried off and wrapped herself into his robe, she figured a little exploration couldn’t hurt. If he’d left her alone in his house, surely he didn’t have any skeletons in the closet he didn’t want her to find. Samson had practically invited her to make herself at home. And that was exactly what she was going to do.

  What better way to make oneself at home than to open a few drawers and cupboards? If he didn’t want something to be found, it would probably be under lock and key anyway. No harm done then. Having justified her actions sufficiently to herself, she strolled through his bedroom.

  His generous walk-in closet was filled with the typical wardrobe a man of means would have, except for his choice of color. Where most man would have gray, navy blue, and brown suits, most of Samson’s pants and shirts were black. Delilah ran her hand over the neatly stacked t-shirts. She was sure he looked utterly sexy in black. With a sigh she closed the closet doors.

  The bedside tables released no important information. There were novels and books on art. Nothing really revealed anything about him. She glanced at the small wooden bureau in one corner of the room. Writing utensils, old books, and a pad of paper were strewn upon it.

  Delilah moved the pad to look at the book covers when a sheet of paper slid out of what she recognized as a drawing pad. Fascinated, she pulled it out completely. It was a drawing of a woman, a naked woman in bed. She blinked—and recognized herself. While she’d slept, he’d drawn her!

  The picture was beautiful. She knew she wasn’t as beautiful as he’d drawn her. He’d completely glossed over her slightly chubby hips and the extra pounds she carried on her belly. And no way were her thighs this slim. But the woman in the picture was clearly herself, yet he’d drawn her beautiful and perfect. Was this how Samson saw her? Or how he wanted her to be?

  A twinge of insecurity hit her. Did he draw all women he slept with? She wasn’t naïve enough to think she was the only one. A look through the pad revealed no other pictures. Maybe he discarded them when he was done with a woman. It was better not to think of it.

  Delilah placed the drawing back where she’d found it and turned. Her gaze locked on the painting she’d admired the night before. A picture flashed in front of her eyes. A boy with dark hair drawing on a white piece of paper, then lifting it and handing it to an elegant lady he called “Mama.” The mirage disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

  Delilah shook her head. She definitely hadn’t had enough sleep. But she couldn’t dilly dally any longer.

  When she was finally dressed, she walked down the stairs. The smell of coffee permeated the house, and she followed the scent into the kitchen. Had he come home? Instinctively she felt guilty for having snooped around his bedroom.

  “Samson?” she called out as she entered.

  The person standing in front of the sink turned to her. It was the same young man who Samson had sent with the flowers and the invitation to the theater, Oliver.

  “Good morning, Miss Sheridan.”

  She swallowed her disappointment and smiled at him. “Please call me Delilah.”

  He nodded and gave her a shy smile. “I made coffee for you. Cream, sugar?”

  “Just milk, thank you, Oliver.” Delilah gratefully took the mug he handed her and sat down at the kitchen island. She sipped the hot coffee and looked at him. He was in his early twenties and seemed to be completely at ease with his role. Was he used to looking after Samson’s lovers? The thought of other women having been in her place made her feel uncomfortable.

  “How long have you been working for Samson?” She needed to find out whether she was just one of many. Now that she thought of it, he was too smooth in his behavior for last night to be an exception.

  “Three years. He’s a good boss.”

  If Oliver had been working for him for that long, he would certainly know about any other women. But how could she find out without being too obvious?

  “Carl told me what happened last night outside the theater. You were lucky you were with Mr. Woodford.”

  “He shouldn’t have taken such a risk. The guy had a gun.” She still shuddered at the thought of Samson putting himself in danger.

  “He can take care of himself. You were never in danger.” He seemed certain even though he hadn’t been at the scene.

  “But he could have gotten hurt.” Delilah still had a hard time getting the image out of her mind.

  Oliver smiled. “You like him.”

  Heat suffused her cheeks, and she hid her face in her coffee mug. “He’s a very nice man.” Instead of milking him for information, Oliver had gotten information out of her. This was obviously not working the way she’d planned it.

  “So, do you take care of Mr. Woodford’s personal affairs?”

  Oliver gave her a strange look, then smiled again. “I’m his personal assistant and driver, and today I’ll be your bodyguard.”

  “Are you also Samson’s bodyguard?”

  “He doesn’t need one. But don’t be concerned, I’m fully trained
. I’ll protect you.”

  “Do you normally protect women for Samson?” She took another sip from her coffee and tried to look casual while inside, she was nearly bursting with what felt close to dread, anticipating the answer to her question.

  “There are no other women in Mr. Woodford’s life.”

  Either he was extremely loyal and secretive, or he was speaking the truth. She tried to read his face, but couldn’t tell if he had lied or not.

  “He likes you. He wouldn’t have asked me to protect you if he didn’t.”

  Delilah didn’t know how to answer. She felt embarrassed at how transparent she seemed to be.

  “Would you like to eat something? Carl went shopping last night.”

  Oliver crossed to the fridge and opened it. It was filled from top to bottom with food.

  “Maybe just some fruit.” She should eat something; she’d barely had any dinner the night before, and it was already lunch time. “And some bread with jam.” Suddenly Delilah felt famished.

  “Eggs, bacon?”

  “I shouldn’t. Too many calories.” She waved him off. Like she needed another few pounds on her hips.

  “I’m sure you’ll burn them off in no time.” As soon as he said it, she gave him a startled look. Did everybody know what she’d done all night? Obviously Carl knew, and he’d told Oliver.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I just thought you’re so slim anyway, you won’t put on any weight,” he stammered, all of a sudden completely nervous. “You won’t tell Mr. Woodford, will you?”

  Was he afraid of his boss?

  “Why would I? How about those eggs then, and a few strips of bacon, huh?” She smiled at him to put him at ease again.

  “Thank you.” He gave her a grateful look and started cooking her breakfast. “Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut.”

  “No harm done.” But maybe now she could find out more about Samson. He owed her. “Tell me a little bit about him.”

  Oliver hesitated. “Mr. Woodford is a very private man.”

  “I see.” It seemed he would remain tightlipped about his employer.