Hunting Daylight (9781101619032)

by Maitland, Piper

  I smiled. “True.”

  “But you’re slow and methodical. You think you’ll fly apart at the seams if you fall in love with a reckless man. But he’s exactly what you need.”

  “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  “Uh-huh. Like I said, when will be a good time?”

  “When people aren’t dying.”

  Gillian waved her hand. “If your problems went away, you’d think of a hundred more. And you want to know why? Because your heart was broken, and it hurt so goddamn bad. You’ll never open yourself to that kind of pain.”

  I stared, awestruck. She stared back, her brown eyes gleaming with intelligence, as if she’d seen through my bullshit. “Are you sure you’re not psychic?” I asked.

  She smiled. “A good lawyer understands human nature. I learned everything I know from Granny Delacroix. She used to say that you can’t control love any more than you can control a hen that’s laying an egg. It happens when it’s ready, not when you’re ready.” She lifted a bag. “Enough girl talk. Help me get ready for my trip.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Raphael

  MATTERHORN GOTTHARD RAILWAY

  TÄSCH, SWITZERLAND

  An hour after sunset, Raphael carried his dog onto the red train that led to Zermatt. He walked past a group of Asian tourists, found an empty seat in the rear compartment, and lifted Arrapato onto his lap. Both of them stared out the window, watching the tracks fall off into darkness.

  Raphael had never been to Switzerland in daylight, but he smelled the coldness blowing off the mountains. He’d chosen a circuitous route from Amsterdam, changing vehicles every two hundred kilometers, but he felt as if he’d forgotten something.

  Arrapato looked up at him, ears trembling, and Raphael knew the dog wanted to bite him. “You’ve never been like this,” he said.

  Arrapato looked away in disgust.

  “I should have named you Diabolique,” Raphael whispered. “You scratched that bedroom door on purpose. You didn’t want me to make love to Caro.”

  The dog glanced back and tilted his head.

  “Just say it, Arrapato. You think I’m bad for her.”

  The dog scraped his paw over his muzzle. Raphael imagined dozens of canine thoughts spinning up, curled like a watch spring.

  “You think I’m a ladies’ man, don’t you?”

  Arrapato gave him a contemptuous look.

  Raphael shrugged. A vampire could be defined as blood and bone and testosterone—and stem cells. The term man-whore could apply to many. But not him. Not anymore. “I’ve reformed. You know this, Arrapato.”

  Not that it mattered. He and Caro hadn’t spent more than two seconds alone since that sunny night in Longyearbyen, when he’d told her about Jude’s ring. He’d wanted to give her time to absorb the news, and to give himself a chance to control his emotions. He remembered how she’d stared up at him, her lips stained with her own blood, pewter lights shining through the blue in her eyes. An ache had spread through his loins. He’d wanted to climb on top of her, moving one inch at a time, sinking his weight on her thighs and breasts, feeling her warmth float away from her skin like sunlight on a peach.

  She’d closed her mind before he could see how she’d really felt. Or maybe she’d felt nothing.

  He bent closer to the dog. “I’m going to tell Caro how I feel. That I love her.”

  Arrapato snorted, as if to say, I double-dog dare you.

  CHAPTER 19

  Caro

  MONT CERVIN PALACE

  ZERMATT, SWITZERLAND

  I’d calmed down by the time Arrapato and Raphael arrived that evening. Then Gillian and Fielding worked me over. They wanted to take Vivi shopping. “I’ve got it worked out,” Gillian said. “We’ll dress up like tourists and blend in.” She opened a bag, pulling out fanny packs, baseball caps, and baggy fleece shirts printed with the Swiss flag.

  I finally relented.

  Vivi couldn’t stop grinning. She flung her arms around me. “Later, Mom.”

  Gillian punched my shoulder. “See? Wasn’t that easy?”

  Raphael and I went downstairs to the restaurant. The dinner hour was winding down in the Grill le Cervin. We had the place to ourselves, except for three middle-aged women who were eating dessert.

  A waiter led us over a red Persian rug, past empty tables where beige napkins were fanned out like starfish. An open grill stood at one end of the room, giving off the smell of charbroiled fish and beef. After we were seated, I kept rearranging the salt and pepper shakers.

  “I feel safe in Zermatt,” I said, then shifted my fork an inch to the left.

  “That makes one of us.”

  I lifted the pepper shaker. “Will Vivi be all right with Gillian and Fielding?”

  “Yes,” he said, watching my hands.

  I put down the shaker.

  A waiter in a crisp white shirt and a black vest took our orders—rare chateaubriand for Raphael, cress soup and grilled prawns for me.

  Raphael leaned back in his chair. “We should come back at Christmas. The porter told me that lights are strung on the balconies and in the trees.”

  I pushed my water glass directly over the tip of my knife. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

  “So are you.” He rose from his chair, leaned across the table, and kissed me. I was so surprised, I pursed my lips, as if I were about to take a breath before plunging into icy blue water. His tongue gently stroked mine. I was dimly aware of the amused murmurs from the middle-aged women. Then I felt him pull me into a dark place. His pulse was all around me, like a strummed violin. A shiver raced between my legs.

  Oh, no, I thought. Not here.

  Before I climaxed, Raphael broke the kiss and sat down. He smoothed his hand over the front of his shirt; I could feel the middle-aged ladies watching. I breathed in and out. I was caught somewhere between extreme arousal and anger. I rearranged my spoon and knife.

  Then I felt him inside my head. Mia cara, look at me.

  Dammit, why did you do that?

  You know. Because of what happened in Longyearbyen. I can’t stop thinking about it. I can smell you on my hands. Your smell is inside me. I’m crazed. I thought…I thought if we were in a public place, I would keep my hands to myself.

  I lifted my chin, narrowing my eyes for an instant. But you didn’t.

  Are you attracted to me at all, mia cara?

  You’re giving me a headache. Does the gift shop sell aspirin?

  He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. I’ll buy you a gift shop. I’ll buy you an aspirin factory.

  We stared at each other. His lips twitched at the edges, as if he were trying not to smile. I couldn’t hold my mouth still, either. We burst into laughter.

  His hand slid across the table, and he touched my fingers. Let’s go upstairs, mia cara. Let’s start over again.

  It was tempting. I couldn’t remember a time I’d been completely alone with Raphael, because we were always surrounded by chauffeurs, butlers, and guards. And Vivi had always been with us. When she was younger, she’d crawled all over us, begging to be tickled or tossed in the air.

  I shook my head.

  He sat straight up, and I heard my ears pop; I knew he’d gotten out of my mind. Thank God. I lifted my wineglass and took a long drink.

  The waiter brought my soup. I arranged my napkin in my lap, taking my time, brushing my fingers over the rough linen, knowing that Raphael was watching. I wanted to do something naughty, but I looked Amish in my black sweater set. So I undid the top four buttons on my cardigan, then leaned over my soup bowl, giving him a full view of my cleavage.

  Raphael’s eyebrow went up, and then he smiled.

  I finished my wine and ordered another glass. I am not much of a drinker, and I could almost hear the alcohol fizzing inside my bloodstream. I wanted to see if I could tempt Raphael to lose his composure, the way he’d almost made me lose mine. So I slipped off my right shoe. The tablecloth wasn’t long enough for my nefarious plan,
but what the hell. I lifted my spoon and dipped it into the soup. At the same time, I brushed my toes over Raphael’s leg.

  He drew in a breath.

  I slid my foot under his pants leg and drew a squiggly line on his ankle.

  “You are wicked,” he said.

  “And depraved,” I said, then slid the spoon into my mouth.

  He dabbed a napkin on his upper lip. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  “You started it.” Actually, I was a little surprised at myself. I’d never acted inappropriately in a restaurant or any public place; I mean, really. Look at all the trouble I was in. It had to be the wine, right? Yes, definitely. It wasn’t because of my dirty dreams or the memory of that night in Longyearbyen.

  I glanced around the restaurant. The middle-aged women had gone, and a busboy was piling dishes into a plastic tub. I raised the spoon and slowly licked off a thin layer of soup.

  Raphael lowered his napkin. “We’re supposed to do a blitz attack on Dr. Walpole tonight. Now, I don’t think I’ll be able to go.”

  I withdrew my foot. Raphael looked disappointed. I dipped my spoon into the bowl again, then drew lazy circles in the broth. Then I lifted the spoon and slowly fit it into my mouth. Then I repeated the process.

  “Oh, this is so good,” I whispered.

  “Caro.” His voice held a desperate edge.

  “Yes, darling?” I said sweetly. I lifted my foot, slid it between his thighs, and pressed my sole against his crotch. I felt something hard and thick.

  He blinked.

  “There’s something sensual about soup,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

  “There’s an art to eating soup. You have to thrust the spoon into the broth, pushing it all the way into the bowl. Like this.” I demonstrated. “See? You put it in and pull it out.”

  The whole time I’d talked, I was kneading his crotch with my toes.

  He exhaled so hard, ripples moved across the surface of the soup. Two spots of color bloomed in his cheeks, and a pulse throbbed in his neck.

  “Your heart is beating so fast,” I said.

  “Make it beat faster.” He slipped his hands under the table and grabbed my ankle. He pulled my foot against him. His lips parted, and a little burst of air came out.

  I lowered my spoon, watching his face.

  “Mia cara, please. I’m begging you. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Raphael, do you want to take me to bed?” I whispered, trying to look innocent.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to make love to me?”

  “God, yes. Caro, please. I can’t wait…another…second.”

  The waiter returned and set down a sizzling platter of buttered prawns. I repressed a smile. Oh, I was going to have fun with the textures and layers of these crustaceans.

  The waiter put down Raphael’s plate. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” Raphael said, keeping his hands under the tablecloth. He didn’t speak until the waiter left.

  “We should stop,” he said.

  “You’re holding my foot. I’m not holding yours.”

  His pupils dilated. I knew he was trying to look into my mind.

  Okay, this could be entertaining. I took a huge gulp of wine and set down my glass. Then I picked up my fork and scraped it over the prawns. When he slipped into my head, I was ready.

  Raphael, I want to feel you inside me. I want you to enter my deepest places. I want to taste you—

  I forgot what I was thinking when he wrapped his hand around my foot and began moving his thumb in a circle. He lifted his other hand to his mouth and wet his fingers.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.” He lowered his hand and ran his fingers between my toes.

  I barely had time to gasp before the orgasm roared through me. I felt like I’d been hit by a wave, sucked down by a current, water rushing over my thighs and hips and breasts, all of my secret places. Oh, it felt so…

  Another wave pulled me under. My pulse crashed in my ears. I gasped. My fork clattered against the table. When it was over, I couldn’t get my breath. Perspiration skidded down my neck.

  He was smiling. I’d underestimated him; I’d thought that I could reduce him to a quivering puddle. And just look what happened. “You ought to be ashamed,” I said.

  “Yes, but I’m not.” He winked.

  When we walked into our suite, Vivi had not yet returned. The rooms were dark and empty. Arrapato’s tags rattled as he trotted around us in tight circles, a blue squeak toy gripped in his jaws. As I switched on lamps, I found a note from Vivi. She’d returned to our room and couldn’t find me. She was having dinner with Gillian and Fielding, and the guards were still with them.

  I remembered the joy on her face when she’d seen the goats. It didn’t take much to make her happy. She needed more of those moments.

  “What happened to you in the restaurant?” Raphael said. “Were you toying with me? Or were you attracted?”

  “Both.”

  “Mia cara.” He pulled me into his arms. I leaned against him, brushing my head against his chin. A hot rush moved through me, like a flame burning holes in paper. A small vestige of sanity took hold. Don’t do it, Caro, I warned myself. He’s not good for me. I’m not good for him. Besides, if Vivi walked in, how would I explain?

  He leaned in to kiss me, and I stepped back. “Just don’t. Please.”

  “We can get another suite.” He eased forward.

  “While you’re at it, get me another life. One without murderers or prophecies.”

  He lifted my hair, bunching it around my chin. “Let me take you away from all that. Just for one night.”

  Only one? That was the real problem. His fingers threaded in my hair, grazing across my cheek. I could barely draw in a breath. Some part of me knew how it would feel to make love with Raphael, because of that night in Longyearbyen. But my dreams had been explicit and colorful, large and fraught with meaning, like one of my favorite paintings in the Louvre, Veronese’s Wedding at Cana. Instead of water into wine, the transformation would be widow into wanton woman.

  “That’s a lot of words starting with W, mia cara,” Raphael said.

  “You just can’t stop reading my mind,” I said, straightening his lapel. “Let me spare you the trouble. I’m thinking about more W words. Wail. Withered. Wallis Warfield Simpson Windsor.”

  “I love your mind.” He moved closer. “I’ve been dreaming about you. Vivid dreams. Every night. Something is changing between us. Can’t you feel it?”

  Yes, I felt it.

  “You’re dreaming about me, too,” he said. I moved back, tilting my head. He’d really been dreaming about me? Just thinking about that made me tingle. I wanted to finish what we’d started, but not until we were completely alone. I needed to cool the air between us and focus his attention elsewhere.

  “I thought of another W word,” I said. “Walpole. Let’s find him.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Caro

  Raphael tucked Arrapato under his jacket, and we walked out of the hotel, into the cool night air, past cafés and shops that blazed with light. Dr. Walpole lived just beyond St. Mauritius Church on Kirchstrasse, so we headed in that direction, trailed by our guard. He was a stocky man, each shoulder the size of a country ham.

  As I moved down the crowded Bahnhofstrasse, my plaid bag thumped against my hips. I rarely left it because it contained the things that I needed to control my uncontrollable life. Illegal passports, breath spray, hairpins, pocket calendar, euros.

  Then I thought about Vivi. This small separation felt like a huge step. An optimistic one.

  Raphael brushed up against me, gripping Arrapato. “It’s chilly tonight. Are you warm?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or the dog. I slid my hand into the pocket of a white down jacket. I’d changed into tight jeans, and I’d tucked the legs into my red boots. Gillian woul
d approve of this outfit. Just thinking about her made me worry. She was taking a huge risk. Even if vampires didn’t attack her, she could be jailed and deported for using an illegal passport.

  “Gillian is an attorney,” Raphael said. “She knows the law. And she wants to help us.”

  I glanced up at him.

  “I know you’re frightened for her. But you cannot control everything and everyone.”

  “And you’re a master at sweet-talk.”

  He handed Arrapato to the bodyguard, then led me around the back of St. Mauritius Church, toward a black iron fence, and we turned into the Mountaineers’ Cemetery. Flowers lay beneath many of the headstones, and candles flickered in the distance.

  I glanced at my watch. The second hand had stopped. I tapped the dial, and the hand swept around once and stopped again.

  “Look at these inscriptions, mia cara.”

  I lifted a strand of hair out of my eyes. This was just like Raphael to deviate from a planned excursion and go on a nighttime cemetery tour. I paused beside a weathered slab. Arthur Emory had died in 1963, while climbing the Weisshorn. Next to him, A.K. Wilson, age twenty-six, had perished on the Riffelhorn in 1865. I walked past a stone that read, Be Not Afraid.

  My vision blurred. I felt disoriented, as if I’d stepped into a place where time malfunctioned. I wiped my eyes as I walked past a tall gray stone. A red pickax was propped against it, next to a bouquet of white edelweiss blossoms. The epitaph read, “I Chose to Climb.”

  “We all have choices,” Raphael said.

  “And every choice has a risk,” I said. “I’m not ready to—”

  He silenced me with a kiss. I felt pieces of myself scatter into the chilly night air. The front of my jacket made a whispery sound as I pressed against him. Then he drew back.