by Jackie Ivie
All of this was patently ridiculous.
Beyond silly.
Simone wasn’t a teenager eyeing a crush-worthy male. She’d seen beautiful men. Maybe not to this man’s level, but still – she’d seen them. On billboards. Adverts. In clubs. She’d worked with male models in class. She’d never had a reaction like this, however. Her mouth was dry. Her wits felt scrambled. She seemed to have lost any vestige of her earlier fury. How could she rage at a movie-poster bad-boy? She felt on the verge of fawning. Anger was the far better option.
But...
Damn everything.
He had amazing blue eyes, their color akin to a dark sky lit by a full moon. They were complete overkill.
Crap.
The fawning had started. She was waxing poetic. Keeping it unspoken was the only good part. It couldn’t be just her, though. He must have this effect on everyone who came into contact with him. Or worse.
Simone quickly shifted her gaze to the darkness over his shoulder, avoiding further eye contact. It was a self-defensive move. It probably looked it. She cleared her throat. Tried to speak without a tremor. It almost worked.
“Are...you going to answer me?”
His brows rose, giving her another affectation that sent her pulse racing. She should have moved her gaze further. A lot further.
“Which time?’ he finally offered.
She gestured at the artwork behind and above her. The envelope in her hand crinkled, reminding her of its presence. She ignored it again. She was in self-preservation mode. Her entire attention was on him. Along with every defense she could bring to bear. The anger sparked into being again at his nonchalance. She was grateful.
“Ah. Yes. The painting,” he remarked.
“So...you are the responsible party?” she fired back.
“I own it, if that is your question.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Care?”
“That it’s been ruined!”
“Really? You think so?”
Her glance moved to his.
Oh, Simone. Big mistake.
He stepped toward her, as if to get a better view of the painting. Trouble was, he didn’t move his gaze from hers. A high-pitched hum started up in both ears before he halted, about an arms-length away. Faint touches of air reached her and for some reason, his breathing exactly matched hers. Oh. This was bad...and yet, incredibly exciting. Hopefully, he wouldn’t spot the trembling she struggled to control.
He flicked a glance up toward the painting behind her. Simone’s breath caught. Her heart stuttered. And then he looked back to her, his lips twitching as if he knew her response! Worst of all, she hadn’t managed to move her eyes.
Wow.
He was incredible. There wasn’t an unhandsome feature. He even had perfect lips. Full. Fairly feminine looking, except there was a distinct shadow of whiskers on his upper lip and jaw. She’d rarely beheld such a kissable mouth, and –.
Kissable?
Oh. Shit. She was losing her mind.
“A bit of tempera. Perhaps some casein,” he finally spoke up.
“What?”
“The painting you worry over. I speak of what will be needed to repair it.”
“Oh. No. No. That’s oil.”
He lifted his brows again. Simone actually swayed. This was terrible. And terribly thrilling, at the same time.
No.
It was terrible. He was a complete stranger. She didn’t fit a victim profile, but she was definitely vulnerable. She didn’t even know where she was.
“You believe so?”
He took a step nearer, closing in on personal space. She should step back. She really should. She really needed to get back on her heels, too. Simone’s head appeared to be level with his upper chest. He wasn’t just wearing a red lace collar thing. He had a large diamond stud fronting it. It twinkled with the available light. But worse was how his move had put the light on him. And this view was incredible.
Actually...the guy didn’t have a bad angle.
Anywhere.
Simone’s heart pounded within her chest, while the hum in her ears intensified. All of it foreign. Electrifying. Absolutely mad. She needed to keep her mind on facts here. The artwork. The damage. His perfidy.
Her answer.
“I think he used oil...but it needs a chemical analysis. A protein-based binder wouldn’t have the same...intensity.”
The last word hovered between them, carrying an undertone of meaning due to the breathy, husky-tone she’d used.
“Very well. Oil," he finally answered. “And pigments.”
“What?”
“If you are to repair my painting, you’ll need those.”
“Me?”
“Who else?”
“Oh, no. No. Please. I wouldn’t dare touch it. That is a priceless work of art. It needs a master.”
He shrugged. “Actually...it’s of little moment.”
His answer should have been an effective deterrent to the physical sensations she couldn’t seem to halt. It really should. Simone licked her lips, using the time to fashion a reply that might carry at least a hint of irritation.
“Little?” she finally sputtered. Oddly, she didn’t sound angered. Her tone carried interest, excitement, and all manner of emotion except ire. “You ruined a priceless piece of artwork...and call it little?”
“Very little. But, until yester-eve, I would have agreed with your evaluation.”
“You would?”
“Indeed, although you are wrong on one account. That painting is not priceless.”
“Are you insane?”
“More pragmatic,” he answered.
“Pragmatic?”
The word didn’t remotely match her tone. Her increased pulse. The quick gasps she managed to gain that he seemed to match. Exactly. Something was happening here. Something weird. A little frightening. And a lot thrilling. Perhaps she was the insane one, and that thought hadn’t occurred to her until just now.
“The painting has great value. I agree. But it is not priceless. Do you know why I say that?”
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” she admitted.
He lowered his head, coming perilously close to hers, and then he smiled, revealing brilliantly white teeth. Something was really odd. She couldn’t tell at this angle and with him blocking the light, but—?
No.
She refused to believe this. Even if the entire sequence of events was real, and she’d somehow been transported to a fairytale palace, met a dream prince so unbelievably sexy her body continually vibrated with an arousal she couldn’t deny or halt, she still wasn’t willing to add this. She didn’t care what it looked like.
He did not have fangs.
Period.
CHAPTER SIX
Merda!
He couldn’t do any better than this?
Reynaldo pressed his lips together, slicing his inner lip with canines that hadn’t obeyed. He’d made a grave mistake. He didn’t need the alarmed expression on her face for proof. And he couldn’t explain. The exhilaration was too vast. Completely incomparable. Utterly unbelievable. He couldn’t begin to describe what was happening.
She was his mate!
The one.
The ONLY.
Realization hit him the moment the sun had set. Reynaldo was instantly aware that VAL had not only located his mate, she was actually here. But he’d been a fool. He should have waited. Worked through the rampant emotions. Smashed down every reaction. And been a lot less cocksure of everything.
Accidenti!
Damning everything didn’t help. Nothing did. He’d done everything without thought. He’d risen. Tossed on clothing. Raced the halls. Spent a moment or two feigning a calm demeanor while mentally assembling a pose. Assumed both. And then things had started unraveling.
The trouble was self-control. How could he practice such a thing when he didn’t even understand it? He was a Venetian nobleman; born into a life of luxury and pri
vilege. His every whim was granted. Emotional outbursts were his nature, usually accompanied by loud commentary, effusive gestures, and volatile movements. Vampirism hadn’t changed him. If anything the passing centuries simply honed the pleasure-seeking facet of his personality. What Reynaldo wanted, he took. And he hadn’t wasted a moment of thought on it.
Yet, now...with the key to everything wondrous standing right before him, he was learning a horrid lesson. The demand for instant gratification was nigh impossible to contain and control. He was riddled with craving. Beset with need. Aflame with hunger. And somehow he had to hold all of that back?
How?
His cells had not only regenerated, they’d become fire...and she was fuel. He’d never come up against anything like this. Being with her was dangerous, standing this close was calamitous. They might as well be connected with an electrified wire.
His failure had actually started the moment he’d seen her. Reynaldo nearly burst into song, at a volume loud enough to break glass. And that was before she’d turned around! His knees had sagged. He’d locked them against the stagger. He’d never experienced the sensations flooding him...or if he had, it was long forgotten. Being near his mate was exhilarating. Intense. Incredibly stirring.
Blasts of heat shot through him, sent with firework-efficiency. His heart took direct hits; his newly restored ability to breathe was in the firing line as well. He’d discovered its dark side last night. Now, he discovered its real power.
And his cazzo?
Porca vacca!
Thrills sent vibrations right to his cock, hardening and enlarging it against the woolen slacks. He should have donned leather trousers. They would have constricted and shielded a response he failed to hold back. Not that his mate ever looked down. When she wasn’t shifting her glance to anything but him, she was affixed to his gaze.
And those times were absolutely incendiary.
He’d been told about this mating thing, but it hadn’t been enough. Somebody should have mentioned the test of strength necessary, warned of a craving that demanded succor, and informed him that he’d still fall short. His cazzo would not cease pulsing against the wool, while his fangs had elongated to piercing sharpness.
Damn everything.
He resembled a beast on the hunt, while she clearly fit the part of small fawn, trembling with indecision. He didn’t just sense wariness. Her wide eyes gave him verification. He didn’t dare do anything to startle her further.
He’d been such a coglione, too.
Only a moron would call Miss Simone Ryan plain. The woman was stunning. She had wide-set, heavily-lashed eyes of an olive-green shade. Gazing into them was mesmeric. He hadn’t even tried to resist. Her skin was pure and pristine, marred only with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Those were no flaw. They only drew his attention to her rose-shaded lips. Sumptuous. Ripe. Perfect for a kiss...
He’d had to fight the urge to do just that every time he looked at her mouth. He’d still done it. Hiding the resultant groans had been the only success.
Her hair had been covered last eve. He could guess why. Not only was it an eye-catching sable-brown color, but it reached her waist. She’d have had trouble playing her musical instrument.
Ah...
His mate had beauteous features, but there was still more.
Simone was a curvaceous female. In her current attire, it was impossible to avoid noticing. The tight skirt barely contained her rounded buttocks, while her buttoned cardigan hugged two nice-sized—
Merda!
His mind stalled in shock. Mentally describing Simone went beyond stupidity. It yanked any semblance of control right out of his hands. Every restraint he’d put into place ruptured, sending an onslaught of craving so vast, he wasn’t just fearful.
He was terrified.
And then one of his servants spoke up from the darkness behind him, saving him.
“My lord? If I could interrupt?”
Reynaldo caught the reaction as he whipped around. His muscles clenched involuntarily, but somehow - for once - he swallowed the urge to shout.
“Jacques?” His reply was hoarse, but calm. It felt like a major victory.
“Oui,” the servant answered.
“Are the rooms prepared?”
“Oui,” the servant replied again.
Reynaldo considered things for a moment. Made his decision. “Before you leave, would you escort my guest?”
“Of course. I’ll await her in the hall.”
“Um. Excuse me?”
Her voice rang out, superseding the sound of Jacques’ retreating steps. She sounded irritated. Reynaldo turned back to her. Caught the oath. She’d stepped a significant amount away from him. The space was a boon and irritation, helpful, yet frustrating at the same time. She just stood there, looking up at him with the same wariness, but now there was an edge of suspicion attached.
“What is it?” he asked, making his best effort at a gentle tone.
“Where? Exactly. Is Jacques going to escort me?”
“I have had a chamber prepared for your use.”
“My use?”
“It was a lengthy drive. Surely you would like to freshen up. Accept a repast. Perhaps...change.”
He’d tried to speak without much inflection. It didn’t work. If anything, she looked more skeptical.
“Why would I do any of that?”
”So you can play your instrument.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “My cello?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
“You want me to play the cello?”
“Yes,” he answered again.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you were invited to do so.”
“I was?”
“If I am not mistaken, you are holding the invitation as we speak,” he told her.
She lifted her hand and looked at the envelope she clutched as if seeing it for the first time. The distress and confusion on her face sent an immediate and completely foreign reaction his direction. A hefty mass filled his chest, shoving against his heart. His gut got slammed by an iron fist. The red cravat about his throat tightened to choking level. Reynaldo put a forefinger beneath it for breathing room. Swallowed hard. From across the span between them he heard her echoing swallow.
This made no sense.
He’d wanted her here. He hadn’t cared how it was accomplished. While he’d never seen Akron’s mesmeric abilities, nor had he witnessed the aftermath, it had never been an issue. He hadn’t cared. Except...now that those abilities had been used on his mate, Reynaldo felt a flash of anger. Followed by a bellyful of fury.
It wasn’t directed at Akron, either.
It was targeted at himself.
“Oh.”
Her reply was barely above a whisper. Reynaldo snarled. Clenched every muscle in his body. Gritted his teeth, slicing open another wound inside his mouth. He was forced to lift his chin and stare up at the Veronese, swallowing any trace of blood while a pink wash of color glazed his vision. He regarded the painting for uncountable moments, until the emotion subsided and the view went back to normal. And then he looked back down.
She’d opened the envelope in the interim, apparently read the invitation. The contents seemed to mollify. But what did he know? He’d thought himself a master at amour. A romantic man of refinement and taste and charm. Able to entice any being he wished with little more than a sidelong glance. His abilities were legendary. But right now, he might as well be a novice.
This mating thing was certainly a rude awakening.
“I guess...I shall see you in your music room, Count, um...Mor-sennie?”
She mispronounced it. He didn’t care. At her words, a swell of light hit him, sending him several centimeters up from the tiled floor. He immediately dropped back, but she hadn’t noticed. She still scanned the paper, then spoke again, all without looking up. And Nigel’s words were magical. Whatever the kid had written dispelled any hint of misgiving.
Simone looked young. Wholesome. And...dare he hope it?
She looked eager.
“Shall we meet in say...one hour?”
An hour?
One hour was eternity! But before he could utter a word of disagreement, she glanced up. Smiled shyly. And stole his heart.
Reynaldo didn’t recall the next moments. His entire being was soaring while he somehow managed to keep both feet on terra firma. But he must have agreed, for she turned and strode toward where Jacques awaited.
And she didn’t once look back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She was here to audition.
Nothing more.
But, oh! The unwritten implications were staggering. And her mind just kept adding in more.
“Um. Jacques?”
Simone neared a black maw of space. She’d reached the edge of her self-confidence, as well. She sounded nervous. Insecure. Hopefully, the count wasn’t listening and therefore wouldn’t know. The only plus to her exit was that she hadn’t teetered on high heels. That was a minus, too. She’d left her shoes behind. She was barefoot on cool tiles. He probably thought her a hoyden.
Hoyden?
Where had that word come from? She wasn’t prone to using outdated words, even in her thoughts. Simone shook her head to clear it. The atmosphere of the place must be rubbing off.
“Right here, Miss.”
A man loomed out of the darkness, bent his head in a deferential manner, and smiled. That was as reassuring as the envelope and card she still carried. Simone pressed it to her breast. Heard it crinkle.
Oh my.
What her host called an invitation was an experience in old-world elegance. The missive had been crafted from thick, embossed paper, accompanied with a square of vellum. Calligraphic script had been pressed into the paper, leaving impressions she could actually feel.
And every word intrigued and excited.
Count Moroseni was hiring musicians. She didn’t know how he’d heard of her, but perhaps he’d been at the ball last night. It didn’t really matter. What did was that he’d sent a car for her. Paid five hundred Euros in advance for her time – as if it had suddenly become worth that – and he offered twenty thousand more if she was the selected cellist.
