Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Colleen Gleason

  Before he quite realized it, he had his arms full of her, and they were tangled on the bed, beneath and around the sheets, body lined to body, mouth tasting mouth. He was naked, half-covered by the bedclothes, she was wrapped in flimsy cotton and lace. Her hair caught around his shoulders and clung to his sweat-damp skin, heavy and strong. She sighed and shivered and touched him…touched him, her fingers brushing his neck, tunneling into his hair, her lips meeting his, slipping and sliding and tasting.

  And then all at once, he realized what he was doing. Christ Almighty.

  His eyes bolted open, and then, terrified, slammed closed as he retreated into one last moment of sensuality. His heart rammed, his body thrummed. He was trapped.

  And then, knowing no other way to escape, no other way to explain this mortifying, absurd, terrifying lapse, he gently pulled away from those delicious, satisfying lips and soft, curvy body. And lied.

  “Mmm…Fe…licia…” He made certain the syllables came out like a soft sigh, but intelligible enough that Savina would understand them…that they would explain his actions, excuse his presumption. “Feli…cia…”

  Savina stilled. He swore he heard a soft laugh, or maybe it was a choked curse—Max couldn’t tell, for his ears were filled with a roaring—and she pulled away.

  Still in character, though his body was leaping and hot and alive, and his mind couldn’t have been more fully awake, Max sighed and rolled over in his sleep.

  When he heard the door close behind her, his eyes bolted open once more to stare at the ceiling.

  Bell was right. He was most definitely an ass.

  CHAPTER 7

  ~ Invitation ~

  Savina was no slouch when it came to hiding her feelings. She was, after all, nothing more than an actress when in her persona as Miss Sabrina Ellison, Adventure Photographer. Since she’d been playing that role off and on as necessary for a variety of reasons during the last four years, it was second nature to her to hide behind the facade of her character.

  Which explained how she was able to face Max Denton the morning after the kiss with neither a blush nor an averted gaze.

  But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a hot tingle inside the lowest part of her belly when she remembered the whole debacle. How incredibly hard and muscular he was, how powerful and warm his body felt beneath her, how sensual and provoking his kisses were. It was a searing, hot tingle that splintered into embarrassment and aggravation when she remembered how he’d called her Felicia.

  He thought he’d been kissing his dead wife. The one he’d been calling out for in his nightmare only moments before.

  If Savina hadn’t had the window of her hotel room open to the unusually pleasant, clear London night, she wouldn’t have heard Max and wouldn’t have been stirred to try and comfort him.

  She should have known better. He wasn’t a man who needed comforting, no matter what tragedy had befallen him. Their midnight conversation on the train had been awkward and fraught with tension, clearly due to his internal battle. Then, her heart had broken for him.

  Last night, her heart had broken further at the sight of him in the throes of hell. It had shivered with lust…and then it turned pragmatically to reality as she returned to her room in a rush of mortification.

  And Savina hadn’t slept a wink after. Apparently, neither had he, for moments after thrusting off her blankets—which had suddenly become too hot and cloying as she relived the passionate kiss—she heard Max’s door open and close firmly. Bolting from the bed, she dashed to crack open her own and was just in time to see him striding down the corridor, crossbow in hand, quiver over his shoulder.

  Though she was still damp and flushed, smarting with embarrassment, Savina couldn’t keep from admiring the way he walked, the way he held himself, the confidence and certainty exuding from him. All those muscles… She drew in a long breath. Only moments before, she’d been splayed across the smooth slabs of his pectorals and gripping one of his rock-hard biceps. She’d seen a flash of hip and flank bathed in moonlight, and through the twisted sheets, she’d felt…well, all of him. Every inch.

  Visiting the Consilium as an adolescent, she’d always been infatuated by Max—the Venator Golden Boy with his dark good looks, rakish smile (which seemed to have disappeared for good ten years ago), and lethal body. He was five years older, just learning about his family legacy, and back then he had hardly noticed Savina. Then he went off to London to hunt vampires, where he met and married Felicia. Savina hadn’t seen him for years.

  Now, as a woman—with the thoughts and experiences of a woman who’d been in intimate situations in the past—Savina realized it would be impossible not to fall for him. What hot-blooded female wouldn’t? Max was more mature, more powerful, more experienced…and, unfortunately, more damaged.

  Fortunately for her, Savina was practical and pragmatic if nothing else. She’d be in close quarters with Max Denton for a few more days and then they’d go their separate ways. And if they happened to have an opportunity to kiss again…well, she certainly wouldn’t complain. She wasn’t completely inexperienced with men, and she certainly enjoyed their company. Why not continue to enjoy his, if the opportunity arose?

  As long as he knew precisely whom he was kissing.

  Now, he opened the door of their motorcar and she brushed past him as she stepped onto the gravel drive at Crenshaw Hall, hardly giving the man a glance. Nevertheless, she was aware that his nostrils flared a little as if drawing in a scent on the air—her perfume, perhaps? It was a unique concoction of rose oil and cardamom, and she had to admit it suited her perfectly. She also noticed his attention lingering near her silk-stockinged ankles as she climbed out of the vehicle. Miss Sabrina Ellison ignored the notice of her servant and companion, but Savina Eleiasa smiled inside.

  As per their agreement, reluctant though he was, Max remained silent and as close to subservient as he was physically capable of being as Savina climbed the steps to the beige brick mansion. She gave him a short order in Egyptian—which he didn’t speak, but pretended to understand—and rapped on the front door.

  The massive door—easily twelve feet tall and banded with bronze and copper hardware—opened to reveal a quintessential English butler: tall, slender, very erect, emotionless. Beyond him, she caught a glimpse of the grand foyer, two sweeping staircases, and a glittering chandelier. The interior was relatively dim due to heavily draped windows and a number of large trees growing near the house.

  “Good afternoon. I have met Mr. Purcell several times and he has always spoken of the beauty of his grand estate. As you will see,” she said, offering her card to the butler, “I am a photographer of some note, and I’ve been traveling about the countryside. I’d like to have permission to set up my equipment to take some photographs of the grounds and perhaps the exterior of the architecture.”

  The butler tilted his head in a brief bow, peered at her card and then replied, “I shall deliver this to Mr. Purcell. Please follow me.”

  She made a convincing squeak of surprise. “Do you mean to say that Mr. Purcell is currently in residence? Why, how serendipitous.” Despite her light words, Savina felt a chilly foreboding settle over her as she stepped over the threshold. The place was silent as a—well, it was creepily silent.

  “And…er…your companion?” The butler lifted his brows as he glanced at Max, who was leaning against the side of the shiny black motorcar looking very irritated beneath his fez and brown-tinted sunglasses.

  “Oh, Aziz? He doesn’t speak any English, but he’s quite useful when it comes to setting up my equipment.” She breezily dismissed the idea of inviting him in as she swept into the foyer.

  Moments later, she was settled in the front parlor. Two windows shaded by a massive oak tree were open, allowing a fresh summer breeze to bring a trace of warmth to the otherwise cool, staid room.

  Savina’s heart was thudding a little faster than usual, a little harder than it should, and she drew in a deep breath. This was it. She’d be
putting herself into the most dangerous, vulnerable position she’d ever experienced. First by befriending a leader of the Tutela and then by seducing a powerful vampire. Once in the bedroom, she was on her own.

  Suddenly, she was ridiculously grateful Max Denton had been the one to accompany her on this mission—for more than one reason.

  Because if everything went well, within a day or two she would be able to prove her father’s innocence once and for all. Then Max Denton would be eating crow over his derisive comments—and he’d know for sure who’d betrayed the Venators and led the vampires to his wife.

  I’ve been waiting for this chance for too long. Ever since she got past the shock of what her father had been accused of doing and had begun her own investigation into the matter. All that work, all that planning, all those risky moments building her faux career were about to pay off here at Crenshaw Hall.

  Surely it wouldn’t take more than forty-eight hours to gain Alexander Purcell’s trust. That was the first part—and for her, the most important part. Savina was certain Purcell was the key to her father’s innocence.

  And then…Well, surely when it came down to it, she wouldn’t have to actually truly seduce Rastingard. Just…become intimately acquainted. Savina subdued a shudder at the thought of cold, white, skeletal hands on her skin…and the odd sensation of a vampire’s mouth, with a cold upper lip and a warm lower one.

  Nevertheless, she had come prepared. She was the great-granddaughter of Hannever, the medical genius who’d saved Victoria Gardella’s life, and she’d been raised with the legends of the Venators.

  At that moment, her host appeared, striding into the parlor. His lush brown hair was combed back, gleaming with thick pomade. “Miss Ellison! What a wonderful, completely pleasant surprise. I could hardly credit it when Barrington delivered your calling card.”

  “Mr. Purcell, I am so sorry to have arrived uninvited and unannounced,” she said, rising to her feet. “I had no idea you would be in residence at this time; I was under the impression you meant to spend the summer in the French Riviera.”

  She allowed him to take her hands, with his dry, cool fingers, and noted with satisfaction that—even in the informal setting of his own home, even while garbed only in a shirt and trousers instead of properly dressed in a jacket and tie—Purcell was wearing an unusual kid-leather glove on his right hand. The creamy nut-brown leather was soft and well worn, very supple, and it covered the lower third of his hand from thumb joint to halfway along his wrist.

  To prove what she’d come to believe—that it was Alexander Purcell and not Nellito who’d stolen his father’s chest from the Venators—she’d have to entice him to remove that glove. Then she would see what he’d been hiding beneath it for years.

  “Not at all, Miss Ellison!” Purcell was saying as he led her back to a seat on a settee, where he could sit next to her. “I’m honored you believe Crenshaw is worth the attention of your artistic eye.”

  “You are too kind, Mr. Purcell. I truly don’t want to upset your household—I merely hoped to arrange for some photographs of your grounds. We have been doing a brief tour of the countryside and only lately have come from the Cotswolds. The cottages there are so lovely, and the narrow lanes are almost like tunnels. I took dozens of photographs there, and could have taken dozens more.” Savina allowed her eyes to sparkle with enthusiasm.

  But Purcell eased back a little, as if to put some space between them, and his gaze sharpened. “We?”

  “Oh, Papa is so old-fashioned, he would never allow me to travel about as I like without a bodyguard, of course. But Aziz is not a problem,” she said, meeting Purcell’s eyes meaningfully. “He doesn’t understand much English, and he certainly doesn’t have any interest in how…or with whom…I spend my time…” Savina let her voice trail off as she held her host’s gaze, then looked away modestly. “Papa trusts him with me because, well…” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “There was an accident when he was younger, and he was injured…and the result? Well, suffice to say Papa knows my virtue is safe with Aziz, at least.” She chuckled lightly and settled back into the corner of the settee, pretending to adjust the hem of her frock. “But he is quite useful when it comes to slogging over hill and dale with my equipment, and he’s a fairly good driver.”

  Purcell’s gaze had warmed considerably since that pronouncement. “Right then. You’ll stay here for at least a few days, won’t you, Miss Ellison? It will give you ample time to become familiar with the grounds, and see it at different times of day…and night.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t impose,” she replied. “You’re not expecting guests, and—”

  “But it so happens I am! You have merely arrived before the others—who will be getting here tomorrow. As I said, this is quite a happy situation, for I host an annual house party for Midsummer.” He was leaning toward her once more. “And tomorrow night, on Midsummer’s Eve, we have a bonfire and outdoor ball at midnight. Do say you’ll stay at least until then.”

  “I would be delighted,” she said warmly. “I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time getting to know each other.” Her smile was the essence of innocence, but her eyes held his just a little longer than necessary.

  “I cannot think of anything I would rather do, Miss Ellison. Perhaps, if you aren’t too tired, you might join me for a picnic later? Just the two of us? I can show you some particularly beautiful locations on the estate.”

  “A picnic? Why, that would be lovely. But I don’t wish to disrupt your plans for the day.”

  “Not at all. I have meetings with my secretary and valet today—so many things to do before the ball tomorrow—but I will look forward to dining with you. Just the two of us.” He smiled warmly and Savina returned the smile with a matching one. “And I do hope you don’t mind…I have a penchant for eating al fresco under the moonlight. Shall we say…at sunset?”

  That was when she realized Purcell had been turned undead.

  CHAPTER 8

  ~ Pivot ~

  “An accident when he was younger”?

  Max gritted his teeth as he pretended to examine a brightly colored flower (it was yellow in real life, but the lenses of his de rigueur sunglasses made it an ugly shade of shite) on the front side of the house. Voices wafting through an open window had drawn his attention and he casually made his way closer so he could hear the conversation between Savina and, presumably, Purcell.

  As he drew nearer the house, Max paid attention to his innate sensor. How many vampires would he get to stake?

  “My virtue is safe with Aziz, at least,” Savina was saying, as if to drive home the point that he was less than a man—and that Purcell was an excellent candidate to test the bounds of her virtue. Her voice turned husky, and he could imagine the way her eyelids dropped suggestively as she gave her host a sidewise glance.

  Could she be any more obvious?

  But that was precisely why they were here, he reminded himself. So she could worm her way into Purcell’s trust, which would, hopefully, enable her to get close enough to the skittish Rastingard to get his key. Max had to admit if he’d previously had the opportunity, he would have staked first, asked questions later…and he hadn’t known Rastingard wore the key on his person. So he did owe Savina that much credit.

  It wasn’t an unintelligent thing for Rastingard to do, actually, he admitted. The vampire knew if he were staked, then poof!—away would go any access to his secret papers. Presumably, there were safeguards in place to protect or even destroy them should someone attempt to open the safe without a key—just as there had been unique safeguards on the Hannever Chest.

  My father did not betray the Venators.

  Max shook his head, then chased away a honeybee that seemed intrigued by the tassel on his fez. Savina might be intelligent, brave, logical, and ridiculously beautiful—which was why he found it silly for her to lay it on so thick with Purcell—but she was also delusional. All evidence pointed to Nellito being the culprit behind the theft of the
chest. After all, it had belonged to his grandfather. He probably thought it was his due.

  What the hell does she think she’s going to find in Rastingard’s papers that will exonerate Nellito? A letter stating he was innocent?

  If Nellito’s body hadn’t been found so badly burned from a house fire, the evidence would have proved him guilty beyond a doubt. No one could avoid at least one of the protections that had been set upon the chest by Wayren and Estevan: the moment an unauthorized person tried to remove it from its large, sturdy stand, an explosion of a flesh-burning chemical would sear into his or her face, arms, and any other exposed skin. Not only would it be painful, but it would scar the person for life, and most likely blind the culprit. Aside from that, if someone who didn’t know the combination attempted to actually open the chest once it was liberated from its moorings, the inside would self-combust and all information would be destroyed.

  As for the undead—none of them could hope to touch the small box anyway, for it was encased in a silver binding that was created from the same mine as the vis bulla—the holy strength amulet each Venator was given after slaying his or her first vampire. The vis bulla was a tiny silver cross worn pierced through the skin to allow its power to be absorbed by the Venator.

  Max turned his attention back to the conversation still wafting through the window just above his head. The back of his neck prickled and that was when he realized Purcell was now a vampire.

  Well, well. Very interesting. It shouldn’t change much, except…Max frowned. Now Savina was flirting with a man she had no idea was an undead.

  He’d love nothing better than to vault through the open window, his fingers curled around a stake…then to thrust it into Purcell’s heart. But tomorrow would be soon enough, and then he’d face Rastingard for the first time. And it would also be the last.