by Siobhan Muir
Evernight Publishing
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2012 Siobhan Muir
ISBN: 978-1-927368-58-9
Cover Artist: Jinger Heaston
Editor: Karyn White
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
Dedicated to my husband George, who once said romance was bunk, and then graciously let me prove him wrong with this story.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I have to thank the women from Embraced by Words, Morgan Kearns, Kay Phoenix, CR Moss, and Natascha Jaffa for reading through the old versions of this story. Huge thanks go to Shannan Albright for requiring me to send this to Evernight after she read the rough draft, and thanks to Karyn White for smoothing out all the writing. You make me sound great, Karyn. Thanks most of all go to my husband, George, who always cheers me on and happily offers quirky ideas whenever I get stuck in my manuscripts. I love you.
HER DEVOTED VAMPIRE
Siobhan Muir
Copyright © 2012
Chapter One
Her kidnapper turned her roughly in his arms and pinned her to the wall behind her, his hands stapling hers above her head. Her nipples grew taut against the hard planes of his chest as his deep brown eyes bored into hers, his scarred face blazing with intensity.
“You’re mine,” he growled, and excitement shivered through her at the menace in his voice. “Never forget!” She stared up at him and swooned.
“Oh, get real!”
Bridget Shanahan damn near threw her book across the expanse of comfortable chairs and black lacquered tables beyond her own, but she didn’t want to kill anyone.
As if I’d ever believe she’d sleep with a man who kidnapped her!
The book was a cheap romance she’d picked up at the corner store in an attempt to cheer herself out of the funk she’d felt all week, but the book only served to illustrate how bleak her life was as compared to the fantasy of the storyline.
What she really needed was a dark handsome knight to save her from her life.
Yeah, like I’d just trust some stranger to make life better.
A blast of damp air gusted through the doorway of Snickerdoodles, Bridget’s favorite coffee shop on the Boston Common, sending a shiver of cold down her back. The chill didn’t improve her mood, which was as gray as the early fall weather outside. Tightening her Patagonia scarf around her neck, she raised her gaze from the ridiculous book and spied her empty coffee cup.
Doesn’t that just sum up my life right now?
Some sixth sense dragged her focus from the cup to the room at large, and she noted she wasn’t the only one to look up. All the women around the room had their gazes locked on the entry, some even craning their heads to see around the potted plants and support columns to get a clear view. Wistful sighs erupted, providing an undercurrent to the soft conversations filled with words like “sexy”, “hottie”, and “handsome”. Bridget snorted with derision and sized up the recipient of their attention.
Hot excitement hit her, and she trembled.
The man in question wasn’t as tall as Bridget had expected from the reaction of the other patrons, but he emanated such raw power it was impossible not to notice him. She judged him to be about six feet tall with broad shoulders and long dark hair falling to the small of his back. That was about all she could see of him because he wore a fedora straight out of the 1930s Mafia Chicago and a black leather trench coat that brushed his ankles. His face was obscured by the hat, but she could see pale skin and a neatly trimmed dark mustache and goatee.
Bridget’s heart pounded with anticipation, and excitement made her shift in her seat as the mystery man waited patiently for his turn at the counter. When would he turn and look at her?
What is wrong with me?
Bridget shook off the odd spell as she watched the other people around the dark stranger. The girl behind the counter served the person in front of him as perfunctorily as possible in her hurry to get to him. As soon as the man in the hat stepped up to order, she was solicitous and sweet, her smile coy. Bridget inwardly rolled her eyes even as she strained to hear what he’d order, but despite the silence in the room, his voice was muffled.
I wish I could hear what he says.
She was brought up short by that thought. She wished what? Why in God’s name did she care who this guy was or what he sounded like?
Dammit, I’m just as bad as the other pathetic souls in this place!
She snorted in disgusted disbelief and jerked her attention back to her book. She fiercely told herself to read and ignore the guy in the hat and coat. She managed not to hear what he’d ordered, or where he’d sat down, but in spite of her pointed ignorance, she still heard the sigh of the counter girl as he walked away after his selection.
Bridget refused to raise her head and scan the room for him. She could keep her eyes to herself. But when someone called out “Fredrick”, she followed the herd and tracked the mysterious man as he rose from his seat three tables away with the liquid grace of a predator. She watched him with feminine appreciation, her heartbeat increasing even as her mind scoffed. When he reached the counter to claim his coffee, the server gave him a dopey smile and held the cup out to him like an offering. He smiled back at her, taking the cup, then swept the whole room with his gaze as if searching for something.
Of course he’s searching for something – where he left his stuff. Idiot.
Surprise and an odd recognition skittered through her when his gaze met hers. He had a narrow face with delicate bones giving him a beauty most men were too robust to have. Eyes as dark as the night sky were framed by long black lashes, and black brows were set close together over his straight nose. His expression held humor, and his gaze swept over her with a seductive pull. She fell into those eyes, warmth and yearning wrapping around her, promising comfort to drive away the bleakness. His lips curved into an inviting smile, and he winked, sending her heartbeat into overdrive.
Jeez, you’re desperate! She broke the eye contact. Get back to your book, or go home!
But neither choice enticed her nearly as much as the mystery man, and Bridget’s gaze kept wandering to the table. He sat facing her with his head down, reading something. Had he looked up, he would’ve caught her staring like a love-struck teenager.
The view of the top of his head did nothing to dispel the attraction. The dark hair gathered at the base of his neck in a ponytail fell smoothly over one shoulder like a silk rope. She wanted to run her hands through it or at least brush it like little girls do at slumber parties. She imagined it would feel absolutely delicious through her fingers.
That’s it! You’re going home now.
She tossed the book on the table and abruptly stood, her jaw clenched tight as she flung her coat over her shoulders. It was her favorite winter coat, creamy white with enough pockets to hide receipts, ChapStick, keys, cell phone, wallet, and the pocketknife that her brother James had given her. “Never go anywhere without a pocketknife,” he’d told her, a problematic suggestion now that the airlines were cracking down on security since 9/11.
She wrapped her scarf around her neck savagely, zipped up her coat, and grabbed her own mug to put in one of the dish bins scattered around the room. She refused to look at the man with the glorious hair when she passed right b
y his table, an unnecessary detour that pissed her off more. She caught the movement as he raised his head, but she forced herself to leave the room quickly before she sat down without invitation. What a pathetic freak she was!
The wet, cold wind banished the coffee-scented heat surrounding her, and she dreaded the long walk home; but she really didn’t have the money to waste on taxi fare. She shoved her hands in her pockets, wishing she’d remembered gloves, and realized she’d left her book on the table. Bridget closed her eyes and groaned. Was it worth going back for it and facing everyone who’d seen her storm out?
Bridget stood there on the sidewalk trying to decide what to do when she heard the door behind her open. She sighed, shaking her head.
It’s just a dime store romance. I don’t really need it. Oh, just bite your pride in the ass, and go back in there to get your book, you idiot.
Clenching her hands into fists, she whirled and slammed into the man with the black trench coat. It was like hitting a wall, albeit a warm, delicious wall that wrapped its arms around her to steady her.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry!” She rebounded, wrenching out of his grasp. “I didn’t see you.”
“So it seems.” His voice was a rich rumble. “You left this on your table.” He held up her book.
She didn’t even look at it, but into his dark eyes beneath the brim of his hat. The odd recognition flared again, and she surrendered to the seductive pull of his gaze, trying to find out why he seemed so familiar. Time froze. She had no idea how long she stood there staring at him, but he never moved or questioned her scrutiny.
Chocolate brown; they’re chocolate brown, she thought as she slowly came back to herself standing on a windy Boston street. Staring like an idiot.
“Oh. Oh! Yes, thank you. I was just going back for it.”
She snatched the book from him more roughly than she intended, but covered her embarrassment by stuffing it into her jacket pocket while she tried to find a small measure of composure. He smelled like apple spice cake and vanilla, and she desperately wanted to wrap herself up in his scents.
Desperate being the most important word.
“I’m glad I could return it to you. It appeared to be a recent purchase.”
Bridget jerked her head up in surprise. “How did you know that?”
Amusement curled his lips into a sexy smile. “The price sticker is still on the front.”
“Oh, right.” She grimaced with chagrin. “Of course.” Dimbulb! “Well, thanks again.”
Bridget retreated from him despite her body and soul screaming to stay, to explore the possibilities of color and excitement with this familiar stranger.
Familiar stranger? What’s wrong with me?
“Are you walking at this late hour?” he called from behind her.
“Yes. Thanks.” She offered no other explanation. It was none of this stranger’s business why she wanted to walk home. Or had to. She forced her reluctant feet to keep going.
“Perhaps I should walk with you.” She looked up to find him right beside her. How the hell had he done that? “It’s not safe to walk alone at night in a large city.”
She slowed her steps and considered him, a little fear trickling into her awareness. Who was this guy, and how did he move so fast or so quietly? She stopped at the corner of an alley between two buildings. The darkness sent a warning skittering up her spine, and she stepped back, trying to put a little distance between them.
“You’re absolutely right. In fact, why should I believe I’d be safe alone with you? You might be one of the ones I should be protected from. Thanks, but no.”
He laughed, and it wrapped around her like a warm scarf. “Certainly possible. You got it in one. I’m actually a nefarious criminal seeking illicit contact with a beautiful woman. Perhaps you’d let me hail you a cab.” He gestured toward the street with one gloved hand.
When did he put on gloves? “No, thanks. I’d prefer to walk.”
“I must insist, miss. If it’s about money, I’d be happy to—”
She rounded on him, her fear morphing into anger. “Please don’t patronize me. I don’t need a man to take care of me just because I’m female. I’m fully capable of getting home on my own, thank you very much. I don’t need a cab.”
“Again, I must insist. My name is Fredrick MacGregor, and upon my honor as a scholar and a gentleman, I assure you, you will be safe.” He tipped his fedora to her and burned her with a determined look. She half-expected him to click his heels together.
Bridget leveled a dubious glare at him, raising her eyebrow, but a little voice in the back of her head said ignoring his warning might be like ignoring fleeing animals and the glow of a forest fire while out hiking. Unease pattered through her body, and the alley seemed to breathe a fetid breath.
“Fine.” She could always get out somewhere other than her apartment building to throw him off. “A gentleman and a scholar, eh? What do you study?”
“A variety of things, the most recent being comparative anatomy.” Fredrick strode toward the street to flag down a cab in the infrequent traffic.
“Human anatomy?” What was there to compare?
“I compare human anatomy to that of other mammals.” The look he threw her over his shoulder was smoldering. “Particularly the bones.”
“Bones?” Bridget’s unease ramped up, and she shivered.
“You like to read romance, I see. Missing some spark in your life?”
“Just because I read romance doesn’t mean my life is missing anything.” She wished her words didn’t sound so hollow. “Everyone likes a little fantasy. I just happen to prefer romance over Star Wars.”
“No offense meant, my dear. Merely a question.” He scanned the empty street.
“A question full of implication.” Bridget tucked her hands under her armpits in hopes of warming them.
His rich laugh floated to her over the hiss of a passing car, warming her from the inside out. She hated to admit how much she liked his laughter and tried to concentrate on something else, like the scents of wet, greasy streets or damp icy wind. Somewhere a charity bell tinkled incessantly in hopes of attracting donations from the shoppers beneath the light-draped trees. The wind snuck between her neck and her scarf, and she shivered as she turned her head away from the man trying to hail a cab.
Why was he being so nice to her?
Bridget opened her mouth to ask when her eyes caught movement in the dark alley. Something about the furtive motions shot fear through her, and she froze like a deer in headlights, her heartbeat increasing with each breath.
Fredrick must have noticed her stillness because he stepped into her line of sight, blocking the alley, and leaned forward to brush her ear with his mustache. The scent of spiced apples enveloped her, and calm pushed through her fear, settling her heart.
“Stay here, and wait for me,” he whispered, then was gone.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, but she didn’t know if it was from the menace in his silent movement or the dominance in his voice. Either way, excitement zinged through her, and she squeezed her arms tighter over her chest.
Fredrick moved so fast she almost couldn’t track him. He shot away from her in frightening silence and grabbed the first one. It took her a moment to realize it was a man dressed mostly in dark clothing, but though he was larger than Fredrick, he was lifted like a rag doll and flung against a car parked on the street. He hit it hard enough to make her teeth jar, and he slid to the ground, unconscious. By then, Fredrick had already dispatched another by grabbing his collar and smacking his head against the alley wall with a heavy crunch. Bridget found her breath billowing in silver clouds as exhilaration pumped through her body. Fierce joy and an odd pride bubbled up, making her tremble. Fredrick had been completely silent and those men huge, yet he defeated them easily.
He must have some sort of Special Forces training.
She wanted to laugh in nervous delight to express her amazement and gratitude, but someone
grabbed her from behind and shoved something hard against her side as one arm snaked around her throat. The stench of wet wool and stale beer assaulted her nose.
“Fred—!” Her scream cut off as the arm tightened.
“Quiet, bitch.” The voice in her ear oozed malevolence. “You’re mine, and you better be quiet, or you’ll be sorry.”
Icy terror froze her body solid as despair cascaded through her mind. Was this how her life would end, as a statistic on the nightly news? Anger unfolded as she fought to breathe through the stench of dirty, wet wool. Who the hell did this guy think he was? What had she done to him? She’d been minding her own business, and this guy just thought he could take what he wanted from her. Her fingers curled into claws, digging into the arm around her neck.
“You will let her go.”
Fredrick’s voice drifted out of the darkness in front of them, and the arm around her throat tightened with her assailant’s surprise. Bridget gasped for breath and struggled to move his arm as something pushed deeper into her side, finally causing pain. She moaned, and her anger shifted back toward fear.
Fredrick materialized out of the darkness with the same predatory grace she’d seen in the coffee shop, and her body froze in prey-awareness. He stalked toward them with so much menace, she wondered if she would die right along with the jackass holding her. She knew nothing about Fredrick MacGregor. He could be a sociopath fighting this thug over his next victim.
Holy Mary Mother of God, she prayed, but couldn’t breathe. The blood was roaring in her ears, and little fireflies of light appeared at the edges of her vision.s
“Let her go, and I may let you live.” Fredrick’s voice was frightening, old as death and cold as a grave in the wet earth.
