Masters of Seduction: Books 1-4: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Lara Adrian

  Rosamund’s heart beat furiously against her ribs. Gone was the male’s gaze. Oh yes! His head was between her trembling thighs now. She lifted her hips in anticipation.

  “You say this as though it would be the easiest task in the world,” answered Eva. “One cannot turn a tuft of esparto grass into a rock rose no matter the efforts.”

  “She is tall and slender, and has beautiful eyes.”

  “Indeed,” Eva conceded. “Like the golden desert sands. But her face and teeth, hair and posture…”

  Rosamund gasped as the man ran his nose along the seam of her sex. Why couldn’t they go away? These stupid, silly Nephilim? Their opinions meant nothing to her. All she wanted was this male. His mouth on her. His tongue inside her.

  “Rosamund, you must wake!” called the second female, more urgently this time. “Constance is on her way. There is to be an announcement.”

  Rosamund drove her fingers into thick, soft hair in response. Yes! Yes! Right there, male, she urged, squeezing his scalp. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her heat as he nuzzled his way to her swelling clitoris.

  The sound of a doorknob rattling entered her consciousness, but she pushed it away. It was the click of a lock being breached that truly yanked her from the rising pleasure, cutting into her dream like a guillotine to the neck. She came awake with a start, eyes flying open, body jackknifing upward into a sitting position. Breathing heavy, she glanced around, blinked. It was pitch black in her little anteroom—the space she’d claimed when she arrived in the Harem nearly one year ago. The space that was all hers. Every other Nephilim in residence lived in shared accommodations—very gratefully and happily. But Rosamund had wanted to be alone.

  No. She’d needed to be alone.

  “Rosamund, Constance will give you a week in the kitchens if you’re not in attendance,” Eva persisted, inching the door open.

  Panic seized Rosamund. She couldn’t have them see her. Not like this. “I’m up,” she called, scrambling off her pallet and rushing to the door. She pressed herself against it, blocking their entrance. “I’m up. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  There was a momentary pause, then a sigh. “All right,” Eva said. “We will see you in the courtyard. And Rosamund?”

  “Yes?” she said with a touch of irritation she wasn’t quite awake enough to hide. Sleep still clung to her mind. Wet heat still claimed everything south of her navel.

  “Good morning to you,” the female called.

  Oh great Goddess, it had been, Rosamund thought with a groan as she listened to the females’ retreating footsteps. Or could have been. She heaved a sigh and let her head fall back against the wood. She was truly dying to know how her dream ended. She’d been having it nearly every night of her three hundred and sixty one nights in the Harem. And each time, the intensity grew, the need intensified. Granted, she could never see the male’s face clearly, but she knew it was Roger. The human man she’d met and fallen for three months before she’d been called to the Harem. The human man who believed she was away on a yearlong animal research trip in the Australian bush.

  The human man who had held her in his arms the night before she left and sworn that he would wait for her forever. But Rosamund knew forever was a relative term—and that waiting wasn’t easy for anyone. Normally a letter from him came once a week, forwarded from a post office box in Sydney. But in the past couple of months she’d received nothing at all.

  Her heart squeezed as she pushed away from the door. Just four more days, she reminded herself, setting about lighting the three lamps that lined her tiny bookcase and clothing rack. Four more days until she was back in San Francisco, back to Roger—back to creating the life, the home, the family, she’d always dreamt of having.

  With quick, seasoned hands, she performed her daily routine. Tying down her breasts and padding her middle. Applying powders to her face to make her appear sallow and tired, and oils to her long, pale blond hair to make it appear unwashed. And the one last accompaniment that was a guarantee to her continued success—the one she’d had made before leaving San Francisco nearly a year ago—a dental prosthetic that made her teeth look almost rotten.

  After slipping on the large pumpkin-colored day robe, she made a quick inventory of her appearance in the cracked half mirror. She looked as she did every day. A younger version of the witch who’d sold Snow White her poisoned apple. She heaved a great sigh of relief. Perfect. No male on Earth would choose her over the stunning Nephilim females of the Harem.

  After turning off the lights, Rosamund exited her converted closet and headed down the flagstone hallway toward the courtyard. A cool, salty breeze from the sea nearly five miles south lapped over her heated skin. She groaned at the sensation. Would Roger come to her again tonight? Would he finally take her to completion? Or was he to ever torment her until she returned to him?

  Sand surrounded the sumptuous Moroccan palace that had been the Harem of the Nephilim, and neutral ground to both Nephilim and Incubi, for centuries. But inside its sandstone walls, lush, fragrant gardens and pools carved out of rock reined. As Rosamund came into the courtyard, brilliant sunlight assaulting her vision, she saw that one of those pools was occupied. Ten or so Nephilim were swimming and splashing about, naked and bronzed and laughing gaily. Rosamund felt a pang of envy, of loneliness, in her heart. It was the same every day. Relaxing in the sun or the pools, dining on all sorts of lovely concoctions as the eunuchs fanned their heated skin. Friendships were being created out of leisure and decadence, and a shared understanding that being called up to the Harem by the Three was a great honor. One almost every female hoped would end in a full womb and a healthy baby.

  Rosamund heard her name being called and turned to see Eva waving at her. The young and very beautiful redhead was standing with a group of three Nephilim who were gazing up at a marble statue of Demeter, the goddess of fertility. The statue was positioned on a small raised dais to the right of the rock pool. Rosamund hunched her shoulders and started forward in a slow, awkward manner befitting someone with an ever-present backache. As usual, a few females glanced her way and offered her a tight smile. Though they would never admit to it, they didn’t like having her around. Not just because she didn’t fit in with them socially, but because everything in the Harem was beautiful and seductive and immortal. And she reminded them that outside these walls ugliness and pain and mortality existed.

  “I like that color on you, Rosamund,” Eva said, unconsciously running her hand over the silk skirt of her lovely, formfitting blue takchita.

  Rosamund smiled. “Thank you.”

  Facing the rotten teeth up close, the beautiful Nephilim blanched and turned away—just in time to see an attractive older female with thick dark hair knotted at the top of her head walk into the courtyard and over to the dais. She was flanked by two eunuchs, who wore serious expressions and little else. She climbed the four steps, stood in the center of the dais and called to the group of thirty, “Good morning, Nephilim.”

  Laughter died down and chatter ceased as every female turned to give the woman her attention.

  “For the next two nights, we welcome a most honored guest.” Her black eyes glittered with excitement and a broad smile curved her full lips. “The Incubus I speak of has not been to our Harem in nearly five years.”

  A few startled gasps rent the desert air. It was unheard of for an Incubus to go longer than a few months without visiting the Harem. Unless they were bonded to a female, of course. Though they could engage in sex elsewhere, pull their power elsewhere, the Harem was purported to give an Incubus the ultimate power surge.

  “He is of most ancient blood,” Constance continued. “And a strong, decided personality.” Her black eyes moved over the crowd. “I have been told that unlike most of his Incubi brethren, there will be little preamble. No introductions. No voicing your interest. He will simply look on each of you and make his decision.”

  How strange, Rosamund mused. Not that there was a great deal
of chit chat between an Incubus and the Nephilim he wished to bed. But a touch of hands, a few words spoken, eye contact—these were always utilized. Except when it came to her, of course. Incubi didn’t even notice her, much less try and touch her.

  “Who is it, Constance?” a Nephilim named Anya called out from the edge of the rock pool. “Do not keep us in suspense.”

  The woman’s chin lifted a fraction, and Rosamund noticed that her hands trembled slightly at her sides. “Scarus Vipera.”

  A wave of excited whispers moved on the air, through the crowd. Rosamund glanced from female to female. They were smiling, eyes wide and eager.

  “The Master of the House of Vipera himself,” Constance went on, her voice taking on a husky quality. “It would be a great honor to carry his seed.” Her eyes once again moved over the crowd. “I suggest you prepare yourselves. He will be here at sundown.”

  Rosamund watched as the woman and the two eunuchs moved down the dais steps and left the same way they’d come. Oh yes. She would prepare herself. Most carefully.

  “I wonder who he will choose for his first night,” called a petite, pale-eyed Nephilim who was climbing out of the pool.

  “I hope it’s me,” replied her friend, who was still in the water, her large breasts bouncing on the surface.

  The petite woman toweled off her wet, naked skin. “I hear tell he is the most handsome of all the Incubi.”

  “I hear he is the most dangerous,” called Eva, who was still standing beside Rosamund.

  “Barbaric is what I was told,” replied the woman in the pool. “And stoic.”

  A tall, stunning Nephilim reclining on one of the outdoor chaises laughed. “And I hear he is the most shameless.”

  “Whatever do you mean by that, Cleo?” the petite woman asked, wrapping the towel around herself.

  The woman’s light blue eyes, expertly lined in kohl, flashed with heat. “Just that he cares little for modesty in his bed.”

  Feminine giggles and trills of anticipation erupted from the women. They could hardly wait to meet this male, lie beneath him. Rosamund didn’t blame them. Once upon a time, she too had been excited to come to the Harem and be taken by one of the handsome and virile Incubi of the nine Houses. But that was before she’d met Roger. Before she’d realized that she wanted to give herself and her womb—and her heart—to one male.

  Leaving the gaiety and plans for dress and hair and scent behind, Rosamund headed out of the courtyard and back to her room. She didn’t know Master Scarus Vipera, had never seen him, and didn’t expect even a glance her way when he walked the line of exquisitely painted and perfumed Nephilim this eve. But she would take no chances. She would prepare herself, as Constance had suggested. Make herself even more hideous than usual.

  Four days.

  That was all she had left until she was back in Roger’s capable and comforting arms.

  It was the ancient clause—the one she had found after getting her call from the Three, the one no Nephilim had ever spoken of. Yes, a Nephilim remained at the Harem until she bore one child. In exchange, she was granted immortality for that time. But if she was not chosen by an Incubus in one year’s time, she must leave. Rosamund wondered if the Three believed that an Incubus could tell that a female wasn’t good stock, couldn’t produce a healthy babe.

  Whatever the reason for the clause, she was grateful.

  In just four days, she would be on her way home. To America. To her tiny apartment over the veterinary clinic. To Roger. To a chance for a real life, a future, and the family she had always wanted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Scarus Vipera, Master of the House of Vipera, was growing weaker by the day.

  He needed sex.

  Power-rich sex.

  But not just any female would do. If he was to gain back his strength, he needed one of the Immortal Nephilim of the Harem.

  He exited his private plane and moved down the steps toward the waiting limousine. The heat of the desert clime invaded his custom gray suit and attacked the skin, muscles and bones beneath. He despised the weakness spreading unchecked inside of him. Despised that it forced him to revisit the place that had, only five years ago, caused him both stunning pleasure and the deepest pain.

  Walking out those ancient doors framed in the finest gold, he’d sworn never to return. He would find his pleasure, his power, his repast, elsewhere. He would forget. About the Nephilim who’d birthed his son—his only child—then run away. He’d forget how he’d bonded with the boy. Watched as his mother nursed him. Oh, he’d been a strong little male. Scarus should’ve seen how the Nephilim was doting on him, how she’d held him all through the night as though she hated to be parted from him. It wasn’t something he’d ever seen before. Normally, if the child was male the Nephilim would be only too happy to be rid of it. But not Daya. She’d taken the boy and run, both of them meeting with an accident just two days later.

  The pain that had swarmed Scarus like a thousand angry wasps was both surprising and debilitating. He hadn’t been able to forget, and had lost any good nature that he’d been blessed with. Barking orders at his servants, not attending any celebrations or holidays with his family, refusing to meet with the Masters of the other Houses. He could not care for what was happening outside his palazzo in Ravello. Whether it was how the Sovereign was closing in on the end of his reign and had not been seen in far too long. Or how Devil Gravori believed that the Three were destroying all human/Incubus pregnancies to ensure that the Succubi remained extinct. He only cared about staying alive and strong for his House, and for all of those within it who relied on him.

  As he approached the sleek black car, whose doors carried the Vipera House sigil of a coiled serpent, the desert wind whipped around him. To regain his strength he needed the power of the Harem.

  With a clipped nod to the chauffeur who held the door ajar, Scarus slipped inside the limousine. Already seated and tending bar was his Watchman, Fausto. The male was a distant cousin, which was evident in his dark features. Most of the Vipera line was blond, light-eyed and built like a Viking, all thanks to those Norman knights who came to Italy and settled in as mercenaries.

  “A drink, Master Vipera?” he asked, his black eyes glittering with humor.

  Scarus settled into the backseat and took out his Blackberry. “No. Grazie.”

  “They have a very good Brunello.”

  “Enjoy it.” He frowned as he read a text from his art advisor. They’d lost the van Dongen. He returned the text with a five million dollar bump. He wasn’t losing the Rockwell, too. He enjoyed how those humorous depictions of everyday American life mocked him from the walls of his home.

  “I think you should have a drink, sir.”

  Scarus glanced up from his phone and uttered through gritted teeth, “C'e un problema, Fausto?”

  The man took a healthy swallow as they raced toward the coming sunset. “No problem. I just know this will not be easy for you.”

  The splinter that had resided in Scarus’s heart for the past five years twisted. “You know nothing.”

  “Bene, bene.” The male shrugged. “But I could carry the burden for you. At least for one of the nights.”

  “How generous,” Scarus replied dryly. “But weren’t you at the Harem only a few weeks ago?”

  “Sì,” Fausto said with a wicked grin and an incline of the head. “But I would happily fall on my sword for you, sir.”

  A twitch of amusement curved Scarus’s lips. “I appreciate the sacrifice, Fausto. But I must feed. You and your overworked sword will stay in town.”

  The male laughed. “Molto buono, Master Vipera. You know I am at your service.”

  The buzz of his Blackberry shifted Scarus’s gaze. A slow, satisfied grin moved over his features as he read. The Rockwell was his.

  “We have arrived, Scarus,” Fausto announced as the car whisked past the open gates and down a stone drive. “Do you wish me to take in your things?”

  “No. The eunuchs will see
to it.”

  The sun was a giant ball of orange fire in the sky as Scarus unfolded from the back of the gleaming car. Once again, heat surged into him. But it wasn’t from the desert winds or the anticipation of settling himself between a pair of willing and wet thighs. It was the kind that spoke of torture and grief and soul-deep pain. His head lifted and he eased the sunglasses from his eyes. Acres of the most stunning Arabic architecture in the world stared back at him, beckoning. Come in. You know you wish to take what we so willingly give. But beware, we also take.

  Scarus turned and motioned to the driver, who was opening the trunk for one of the Harem eunuchs. “When you’re done here, drive my servant back into town. I will call when I need you again.”

  The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  The tie at Scarus’s neck pressed hard against his Adam’s apple, but he ignored it. Just as he ignored the weakness spreading like wildfire through his blood. He moved up the steps just as the doors opened and a woman with dark hair and a nervous smile emerged. She was dressed in a dark purple takchita, the typical dress of the Harem. The modest of the Harem, that is. As some Nephilim chose to be bare at all times.

  “Benvenuto, Master Vipera,” she said, using his native language. “My name is Constance. What a pleasure to have you here.”

  “Where is Anacia?” he inquired.

  “Anacia left the Harem three years ago. I am Head Female now.”

  He gave the woman a nod. He didn’t require further information about the female who had been here when Daya birthed their child. In fact, he wanted no personal connection whatsoever. Nothing that endeavored to tempt his heart from the cage it resided in.

  “Please follow me,” she said graciously. “I trust your trip was a pleasant one.”

  “It was acceptable.” As he walked into the compound beside her, he asked, “Am I the only guest?”

  “Of course. As requested, Master.”

  As always, the Harem was startlingly beautiful with its zelij-covered walls, colorful tiles, fountains, lush gardens, and polished cedar ceilings. Every carved wooden doorway one walked through brought on another visual treasure, and the air…it was heavily scented with spices and warmed sand and oiled skin. Scarus felt the muscle between his legs pulse with desire and hunger. He needed to feed. And he knew that once he was within a few feet of the Nephilim he would no longer be thinking clearly. No longer be hyperaware of his vow to not create another life. His House, all the Vipera line, had the gift of knowing when a female, Nephilim or human, was fertile, and he would use that gift tonight as he choose his first meal.