Savina seemed to have lost her appetite, for she’d left a perfectly nice piece of honey-drizzled cheese settled on a hunk of baguette for the last few minutes. “I’d give anything to find out my father was still alive,” she said quietly, lifting her wine. “And I’m certain Macey would too. Are you certain—”
“No.” This time, the fury didn’t subside right away, but barreled along to the tips of his fingers as they crushed a delicate slice of apple.
“Whatever she thinks she knows about you—about what you’ve done, about how many people you’ve saved, the way you’ve sacrificed your life—would only be strengthened if she could see you. Get to know you. Her image of you is only a murky memory. How much more would she love and respect you, and your shared legacy, if you came back into her life.”
Max couldn’t quite define the emotions that swamped him, but whatever they were, he didn’t like them. They made him feel hot and empty and ill and angry. Savina didn’t understand anything. She had no right to say these things to him, to make these judgments.
“I can only surmise,” she continued, “you feel that by cutting her out of your life—and you out of hers—you’ll somehow protect her? And somehow make up for what happened with your wife.”
He rose from the table so abruptly the tray shifted and rattled. “That’s enough,” he exploded from behind clenched teeth as he loomed over her. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t need a damned lecture from the daughter of the man who ultimately caused what happened to Felicia.” Max stared down at her, his hands fisted on the table, fingernails digging into his skin.
To his surprise, she began to blink—rapidly, suddenly—and he saw that her eyes glistened. Ah…fuck.
“My father,” she whispered unsteadily, “might not have been the most responsible of men, but he did not betray the Venators. And I’m going to prove it when we get to Crenshaw.” Though she was tearing up, she held his gaze defiantly.
Max’s teeth were gritted so hard he felt something painful shoot along the inside of his jaw. “No one would like that better than I,” he said tightly. “Because if I ever had the chance to meet the person who actually did steal that chest, it would take him—or her—a long, painful week to die.”
She glared up at him for a few more beats, then made an aggravated gesture. “Sit back down, why don’t you then, Max. Now that we’ve got that cleared up and realized we want the same damn thing, we might as well get good and drunk in honor of our messed up lives. You’ve been wooing that brandy like there’s a chaperone watching. Maybe it’s time to really turn on the charm.” She smiled a little crookedly and lifted her own glass, filled more than halfway with bloodred wine.
Now it was his turn to blink—but not with fury. That was…interesting. Every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she surprised him. And she looked as if she might be well on her way to tipsiness anyway. That was her second generous glass of wine.
Before he realized what he was doing, he sank back down onto the red-velvet bench seat. Savina was already pouring him more brandy, and when she finished, she lifted her own drink and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses and he took her suggestion, downing the brandy without hesitation. And then, to his surprise, Max realized he was hungry too, and those figs looked as if they’d be excellent with honey on a piece of cheese.
He ate more than a few pieces, drank more than a few fingers of Armagnac, and managed to avoid any topics that would infuriate him or cause her to tear up (for Christ’s sake) or tell him how he should be feeling.
They were in the middle of a discussion about whether to use a silver-tipped ash stake or merely a very pointed one (he was a proponent of the former, and Savina wanted to know why, when plain wood worked just as well) when she paused and looked at him.
“Uh…right here,” she said, and tapped the corner of her mouth.
Max looked at her, his entire body coming to a standstill, his breath suddenly trapped in his lungs. Surely she didn’t mean for him to kiss her there…did she?
“Max,” she said again, touching the corner of her wide mouth. Its dusky rose hue was a little darker now from the red wine, and he’d been watching it move for quite long enough now. And thinking about it. Or, rather, trying not to think about it.
“I…what?” he managed to say, aware that his pulse was galloping and his mind was a little muzzy…just a little.
Savina sighed and shook her head, and suddenly she was moving across the table toward him, her balancing hand narrowly missing the honey pot. With a rush of the sensual scent always clinging to her skin and hair, she reached out and swiped the corner of his mouth with her thumb. The movement was quick and firm, and then she thumped back down into her seat, wiping said thumb on her napkin. “There. That’s better. You had a little blob of honey on your mustache, and I couldn’t concentrate on our conversation for looking at it.”
“Right,” was all Max could say. He was still shell-shocked, because for a minute there, he really thought she was going to lay one on him. Plant a luscious kiss right on his mouth…
“What were you saying?” he said when he realized she was looking at him expectantly. And that it seemed several minutes had passed since she lurched over the table at him.
“I was just wondering if you were feeling the effects of the brandy enough for me to ask you a question.”
He was definitely feeling the effects of something. “What?” he asked without thinking, then immediately knew he’d regret it. What the hell was wrong with him tonight?
The last bit of levity evaporated from her expression, and Savina sat back in her seat. She looked at him with those almond-shaped eyes, her hair even more loose and sagging than it had been earlier, her smooth, oval face and arched brows adding to the picture of exotic beauty. Surely her cheekbones could cut ice, and her lashes were so thick and dark she looked as if she were wearing black liner around her eyes. His breath caught a little, then went on somewhat steadily.
“Tell me about Felicia.”
It must have been the brandy combined with the lulling rhythm of the train that stanched Max’s reaction. Instead of bristling and roaring, he merely lifted his glass to taste the brandy—just a sip this time.
His companion seemed to take that as an invitation to press on. “What was she like? What sort of woman was she to have attracted and captured the great Max Denton?” Savina’s lips quirked in a wry smile as she settled back onto her bench seat. “You were rather young, too, when you married, weren’t you?”
“Eighteen. We were eighteen, and she was…” Blond and blue-eyed, delicate and ethereal in her beauty. She loved books, and she loved music, and most of all, she loved children. She told him she wanted a houseful of them. She loved to laugh and to dance around with Max even when he was tired and heartsick over the violence of his life.
Violence she never understood until she experienced it herself.
Max’s vision had gone blurry and his throat hurt when he swallowed. Felicia.I’m so sorry.
“Not drunk enough, I guess,” Savina said softly. “I’m sorry, Max. I know you loved her very much.”
He nodded. He managed that, at least. And then he even forced out a few words. “She never fully understood…my life. How could she? I didn’t truly understand it when we first met either. It was…I was young. But I never should have…” He couldn’t believe he was saying these things—things he’d never said to anyone before.
Savina reached across the table and closed her small, firm hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I had no business marrying her. She wasn’t…she didn’t…” How could he explain that Felicia had been light and fresh—a stark foil, a refuge from the darkness of violence and evil and duty—and that he’d selfishly dragged her into that world? And destroyed her in the process.
He sucked in a deep breath. “If anything happens to Macey…” He shook his head, the rest of his sentence left
unsaid.
CHAPTER 6
~ Deceit ~
The moment Max motored up the drive of Crenshaw Hall, he realized there were vampires in the vicinity. The back of his neck became cold and prickly in that telltale chill that portended the proximity of undead.
Other than that, one wouldn’t think of Crenshaw Hall as anything other than a quintessential English country manor house. The building sat on a large expanse of neatly clipped grass framed by stands of trees that rolled into small hillocks and, further away, a dense forest. There appeared to be an orchard of some sort to the west of the house, the trees currently studded with blossoms beginning to lose their petals. Near the house were geometrically shaped herb and flower gardens, graceful pathways, angular hedges, rose and peony bushes spilling over low stone walls, arbors decorated by ivy, and even a gazebo tucked near the edge of the lawn.
A gravel drive swept up to the manor house, curled around into a semi-circle, then split off toward the stables and garages. The latter were clearly a recent and necessary addition to the homestead, and as Max navigated the sleek black Model T to a halt, a young man emerged from the garage and dashed over to offer assistance.
Though he’d utterly refused to be mute, Max had agreed to wear a galabiyyah, the loose, traditional Egyptian robe, as well as a fez. His beard and mustache had grown in fairly quickly, and Savina had insisted he let them fill in more of his face than was stylish, then crop all of it short and close. When looking at his reflection, he had to admit Savina was right: with his tightly curling black hair, swarthy skin, and full facial hair, he looked like he’d descended from the pharaohs himself.
He was to wear sunglasses when outside, and once they arrived, he could dispense with the galabiyyah and wear a tailored suit. Max had also been ordered to don round, blue-tinted spectacles when they were inside.
“Your eyes,” she’d told him. “They’re too angry—and intelligent. They’ll give you away in an instant.”
Angry was hardly the word to describe his current emotion.
Irate. Disgusted. Impatient. Violent.
And now…mildly surprised to learn that either Rastingard had arrived early, or perhaps had sent along some of his undead minions to clear the way—so to speak.
Along with that new bit of information, all Max could think about since his conversation with Savina on the train was what if something happened to Macey? What if they found her? What if he’d taken too long to get here, what if Rastingard already had the letter, what if they’d already broken the code?
Damn it all. How had the vampires managed to intercept that letter in the first place? What if they had already sent someone to get her?
And what in the hell had Bell been thinking to even be sending and receiving correspondence about Macey? Did he want to lead the damned vampires to her?
Before leaving Rome, Max had words with the man about the unnecessary risk—low, dark, angry ones—telling him precisely how he felt about putting his daughter’s whereabouts—coded or not, with precautions or not, via a circuitous trail or not—on paper.
But Bell, true to his character, age, and position, did not back down. “She’s eighteen, Max. Anytime now, she’ll be called as a Venator—and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. She will have to make her own decision about accepting the legacy, just as you did. Just as Victoria and Catherine and the other women did. Yes, the letter was intercepted, but it’ll take Rastingard weeks to break the code—if he even can. And the letter itself was mailed via four different locations, in a different envelope at each stage, so its origins are untraceable. They can’t find her, Max. We’re not fools, you know. And meanwhile, Macey is safely in—”
“Don’t.” Max held up an imperative hand and turned away. “By God, don’t say another bloody damned word, Bell. I don’t want to know anything. I don’t even want to know what fucking continent she’s on, or who she’s with or—”
“Max, I don’t know if anyone has told you this lately, but you’re an ass.” Bell wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked just as disgusted and angry as Max himself felt.
And then he’d left. Walked out of the room and left Max to brood—that is, punch a few things, do a little target practice with his crossbow, and then stalk off the rest of his mad by taking a midnight run around the Colosseum.
Too damn bad there weren’t any vampires lurking in the moonlight.
And then, to add to his mad, there was Savina Eleiasa.
Nellito’s daughter. In control of this entire situation and entirely too…compelling. Yes, that was the word. Compelling.
And clearly she was too damn intelligent herself to be fooled for long about anything, and definitely too bossy for Max’s taste. Not that he had any real issue with a self-assured female—after all, he was descended from a whole slew of powerful women, including Victoria Gardella.
But Savina wasn’t a Venator, and her father had been the one to steal Hannever’s Chest, which had a number of Venator secrets in it—including photographs of Felicia, as well as of Max’s safe house in London.
Less than a month later, Felicia was killed.
Max shoved away the thought, though the image was rarely absent from his mind on any given day anyway. And the horrors certainly lived in his dreams at night, often waking him.
Which had happened only two nights ago. Loudly enough to disturb his traveling companion.
His lips twisted grimly at the memory as he climbed out of the car, his boots crunching on the gravel as he walked around to open the other door for Savina. His mistress—in the most innocent sense of the word—and the celebrated Miss Sabrina Ellison, Adventure Photographer.
Her photographs had ostensibly appeared in National Geographic magazine, as well as LIFE and even The London Times. Apparently, she specialized in taking pictures of difficult to reach and dangerous locations—such as in the middle of a street during the running of the bulls in Madrid. And from a perilous location at the top of Sacre Coeur in Paris. And—this one had surprised him the most—from the wing of an airborne biplane. He’d been hard-pressed to conceal his shock when he learned it wasn’t merely a cover; she’d actually taken the photos herself.
Savina ducked to keep from catching her befeathered hat on the automobile roof and stepped out of the car in a swirl of furs, jewels, and silk. Her dark, exotic eyes—incidentally, not shielded by sunglasses—sparkled with humor as they swept over Max, clearly enjoying the subservient role to which he’d been relegated.
For Macey, he reminded himself firmly—just as he had done when he woke two nights ago in London to find Savina struggling to help ease him out of the nightmare. Even now, he had to grit his teeth at the memory.
“Max,” she was whispering urgently. “Max, wake up.”
He became aware of his surroundings, dragging himself from the horror of the dream before he opened his eyes…and then had a moment where he debated between sliding back into the ugly nightmare—which at least he was familiar with—and waking up face-to-face with Savina Eleiasa.
In that brief moment of closed eyes and utter awareness, he drew in that spicy, floral scent that went straight to his middle, stabbing him with pleasure. At the same time, he sensed the warmth of her nearness burning into his bare skin…and a tickling sensation that could only be her glossy, ink-black hair as it brushed over his bicep. Then, he realized she had seen and heard him thrashing around, crying out—and from the dampness on his face, he’d possibly even been sobbing.
Dammit to bloody hell.
“Max?” She was still whispering, still touching him.
He didn’t have to open his eyes to remember the wide, sensual shape of her lips and the hint of delicate collarbone and throat exposed by the neckline of her frocks. He imagined what her hair would look like, all loose and falling around her shoulders.
Perhaps if he just stilled, steadied his breathing, and appeared to slide back into sleep she would leave him alone. Silently return to the hotel room next to his. Then he wouldn’t h
ave to face her concern or her pity or—anything else.
But the scent, the warmth, the touch remained and at last he was required to open his eyes.
It was even worse than he’d imagined.
Savina was there, much too close, settled on the edge of his bed in a pool of white cotton and lace—how the hell had she gotten into his room anyway?—looking down at him. Though the only illumination was from the streetlights below and an anemic moon, he could make out enough of her features to see an arrested expression: wide eyes, parted lips, lifted brows, the shadowy arch of one high cheekbone. The mass of hair, spilling like black water over her shoulders and onto his arm. The deep vee of her nightgown, white against her smooth, scented skin. The curve of her narrow shoulder, the long line of her throat.
Even in the dimness, he saw—sensed—pity. Shock, too, perhaps. And he couldn’t bear it.
Max wasn’t thinking clearly. He realized that later…much later. But at the moment…he had no thought but to change the subject, so to speak.
To touch. To exorcise, and to experiment and…oh, dammit, to feel.
He reached for her, his callused hand gliding over her silky skin, up along her bare arm. Vaguely aware of her stilling, stiffening—but not pulling away—Max tugged her toward him: firmly, so that she was off-balance a little. So that one hand landed on the center of his bare chest, while he held the other wrist, drawing it to his side as he curled a hand around the back of her head.
In the recesses of his mind, he was prepared for her to pull away—and perhaps that would have been best after all.
It definitely would have been best.
But she didn’t. Savina gave a dusky gasp of surprise just before he found her mouth…but she didn’t resist.
And what a mouth. Softer than he’d imagined. Warm, sensual, sweet…responsive. Max lost all thought as he slid into the heat of her, half-rising onto an elbow so he could pull Savina closer, kiss her more deeply. She tasted hot and spicy, smelled like heaven, and was sleek and smooth and curvy. Her weight against him was insubstantial, yet it burned into his belly, arm, the side of his hip.
Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 104
