IMMORTAL BAD BOYS
By
Rebecca York, Rosemary Laurey & Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
Contents
Night Ecstacy
by Rebecca York
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Velvet Night
by Rosemary Laurey
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Midnight Court
by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
New York Times Bestselling Author
REBECCA YORK
Rosemary Laurey
Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
When it comes to pleasure, these guys can go on forever…
IMMORTAL
BAD BOYS
IMMORTAL
BAD BOYS
Rebecca York
(As written by Ruth Glick)
Rosemary Laurey
Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
So many bad boys; so little time. Unless of course, you have all the time in the world. Curl up under the covers with a trio of bad boys who know how to please. After all, they've had a long time to practice…
IMORTAL BAD BOYS
NIGHT ECSTASY
By New York Times Bestselling Author Rebecca York
New Orleans is the perfect place for Londoner Jules DeMario. It's a city pulsing with every sort of forbidden pleasure—anything a three-hundred-year-old vampire desires. Yet each encounter is a pale imitation of the grand passion he craves. And then he meets artist Taylor Lawson. Feeling stuck in her work as a painter, Taylor has come to the French Quarter looking for an escort to show her the seamy side of New Orleans, something to open her to new ideas. But it's the aura of danger surrounding Jules that intrigues her. And as their relationship becomes more intimate and erotic, it's not just Taylor's creativity that finds stimulation…
VELVET NIGHT
By Rosemary Laurey
Police officer Vickie Anderson has come deep into the mountains of Virginia looking for a little peace and solitude. What she gets instead is sexy Pete Falcon. Every bit of the cop in her says she shouldn't invite the stranger in. But the woman in her can't help responding to his black leather jacket, hard body, and almost feral combination of sex and danger. For Pete, Vickie stirs a hunger that is beyond anything she can possibly understand—one he both desires and fears. Keeping Vickie safe from the threat hiding in the Virginia woods is going to be tough, but protecting her from his own deepening desires may be impossible…
MIDNIGHT COURT
By Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
A creature of the night, Christopher Dante is as cynical as he is handsome, and as lustful as any man. He's accepted an invitation to Lord Rothchilde's infamous Midnight Court, a secretive gathering of debauchery and greed. There resides temptation. He has no defenses against the enchanting, innocent, unearthly beauty of Lord Rothchilde's future bride, but his jealous former lover, Elizabeth Rothchilde, will do anything to keep Dante safe from a fate he cannot foresee. In this Midnight Court, both Dante and Elizabeth will have to risk their hearts in order to survive…
Cover design by Kristine V. Mills-Noble
Cover illustration © Danilo
BRAVA
KENSINGTON
PRINTED IN U.S.A.
ISBN 0-7582-0621-6
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 2004 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
"Night Ecstasy" copyright © 2004 by Ruth Glick
"Velvet Night" copyright © 2004 by Rosemary Laurey
"Midnight Court" copyright © 2004 by Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
ISBN 0-7582-0621-6
First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: September 2004
Printed in the United States of America
NIGHT ECSTASY
Rebecca York
Chapter One
^ »
Jules DeMario was a creature of the night, in a city where night was king.
From the shadows under a wrought-iron balcony, he watched the boisterous crowd parading up and down Bourbon Street, the pulsing heart of New Orleans.
It was early in the week. Only Tuesday. But every night was party night in the French Quarter, where no annoying laws barred carrying an alcoholic beverage on the street.
And no traffic marred the scene. In the evening, Bourbon Street became a pedestrian playground where music blared from the bars and jazz clubs, mingling with the raunchy conversation of the crowd that flowed like a great, living beast past bars, strip joints and boutiques selling everything from cheap souvenirs and condoms to voodoo hexes.
As on many nights, Jules was drawn to this throbbing mix of humanity, where the crush of warm bodies sent his superhuman senses humming.
Three hundred years ago, in London where he had been born, he would have been dressed in a waistcoat, linen shirt and breeches. But he'd watched social standards reach new lows over the centuries. Tonight he wore well-washed jeans and a dark T-shirt, the perfect outfit for blending into the crowd.
Once his dark hair had been long enough to tie neatly at the back of his neck. Now it scraped his collar and covered the tops of his ears. A little long by modern business standards. But then, he didn't have to report to an office any morning.
Shouts from a few doors down drew his attention. A man on a wrought-iron balcony was tossing newly minted faux "doubloons" and cheap necklaces to the rowdy crowd below, including a woman who had taken off her T-shirt and bra to attract the attention of the guy with the largesse. The sight of her breasts gave Jules an unwanted sexual jolt. Turning quickly away, he headed for the quieter sections of the French Quarter, searching for prey now, his eyes and ears and nose leading him to the perfect victim fifty feet down a narrow alley.
The drunk was sprawled on the pavement, his breath gin-soaked, his jaw slack.
Jules bent over him, cradling the man's head on his arm almost tenderly as he flexed the neck upward and sank sharp white fangs into warm flesh. The man's eyes fluttered, and he put up a feeble fight. Jules quickly quelled the protest with the mind-numbing fog that he cast over his victims like a cloak of amnesia.
He drew perhaps a quarter pint of blood, the alcohol content sending a pleasant buzz to his brain.
He had discovered long ago that there was no need to kill in order to sustain his own existence. He had learned to be judicious. To take what he needed and spare the donor's life.
Standing again, he pulled out a fine linen handkerchief and wiped the traces of red from his mouth. The blood had slaked his hunger. But he craved something else as well—the sexual gratification that
only an erotic relationship with a woman could give him. A mutually satisfying relationship where he gave his partner pleasure and in turn fed off that pleasure.
But sexual desire was a two-edged sword. No liaison could last long for him. Unless he wanted to destroy his partner's life, he had to let her go. Knowing the beginning of a love affair was always the prelude to the end had made him strive to postpone the need.
Still, the thought of sexual satisfaction heated the stolen blood flowing through his veins. He sped up his pace, trying to put that craving out of his mind, as he strode toward the comfortable house he had bought at the edge of the Quarter.
It was three stories, the windows on the upper floor sealed against the light so that he could sleep during the day in safety. A block from home, however, he crossed a street where some of the prostitutes in the area liked to hang out. Most of them were either with customers or had gone home for the night.
But one woman was still leaning against the wall of a house. As he came down the block, she straightened her shoulders and stepped toward him. Her heels were high. Her skirt barely covered her hips. Her knit top was low cut and so thin that he could see every detail of her breasts. She was young—barely out of her teens, and he thought of telling her to get off the streets before it was too late. But he knew he'd be wasting his breath.
"Hello, handsome," she purred, giving him what she probably thought was a seductive smile. "Are you in the mood for some fun?"
He wanted to say no. But it seemed he had reached the limit of his ability to exist on blood alone.
"I might be," he said, taking a step toward her.
Once he'd shown some interest, she wasn't going to let him get away. On the darkened street, she moved her hand down, pressing it against the fly of his jeans. He knew she would feel no erection. That wasn't the way he functioned. Before the change from man to vampire, his penis had been the center of his sexual satisfaction. But his responses were different now.
He lifted her hand away, then followed her into the narrow passageway between two houses.
"The way I get turned on is to touch you," he murmured, his hands sliding over her breasts, lifting and shaping them.
He stroked his thumbs over the nipples, back and forth, urging a response from her, knowing that she usually kept herself detached from the men she serviced. But he also knew he had the power to drag her into a web of sensuality. His mind reached out to hers, bending her to his will. And as he felt her respond to him, he lowered his head, teasing himself by nipping at the tender place where her neck met her shoulder.
He stoked her response, his own carnal excitement rising to meet hers as he sank his teeth into her flesh. He felt it through his whole body, a blissful tingling that increased when he began to draw blood from her.
One hand slid downward to the juncture of her legs, pressing against her clit through the thin fabric of her skirt and panties, stroking in a way that he knew would bring her to orgasm.
It had been so long since he had done this that he had to fight a wave of dizziness. He wanted to go on and on, drawing the sensuality and the life fluid from her. But when she climaxed, he ruthlessly cut off his own gratification, leaving her panting and limp, her shoulders pressing back against the wall.
"What happened?" she moaned. "What did you do to me, honey?"
"You met a customer who made it as good for you as it was for him," he answered easily, even as he sent her soothing mental commands. "But you will forget what we did. You will forget me. You will only remember that you did very well tonight." Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a hundred-dollar bill and folded it into her hand.
Then he left her and walked rapidly toward home, thinking that he needed more than what a prostitute was able to give him. He needed a lover who could meet him as a mental equal.
Only a few miles away, Taylor Lawson moved restlessly through the little jewel of a Victorian house that she had rented in the Garden District.
It was beautifully furnished. And she'd fallen in love with it instantly. She'd taken that as a good omen. But that was the only piece of luck she'd encountered since coming to the Crescent City.
With a sigh, she stepped into the artist's studio that she'd set up in one of the bedrooms. As she looked at the partially finished canvas on the easel, she grimaced.
Over the past few months, her work had gone stale. Just like her relationship with her once and former lover, Howard Cumberland.
She'd known for months that he was the wrong man for her, but he'd clung to the dying relationship like a mountain climber scrabbling with his fingernails at the edge of a cliff. The only way she'd been able to cut things off was to move far away—from San Francisco to New Orleans.
She felt a wonderful sense of freedom here. At least in her personal life. But artistically, nothing had changed. She was only plowing old ground. She could still turn out paintings that would sell for thousands of dollars in exclusive galleries. But it wasn't satisfying to her. She needed new inspiration. She needed to take her art in an unexplored direction, if she could only figure where to go.
Turning from the easel, she looked at the paintings she'd hung on the walls. They were some of her best work. One was a scene on the beach at Carmel, where she and another lover, Richard Lampton, had gone when they were first in love. They were walking on the beach, naked. Hand in hand, two people totally enthralled with each other.
Next to it was a self-portrait she'd done the night she and Charles Bingham had first met. Her red hair was like fire around her head. Her green eyes were wild with excitement. And her lips had the look of a woman who had just been thoroughly kissed.
So what did these pictures say about her? That she needed a man for inspiration? That she worked best in the first flush of a new relationship? She hated to think that was the case. She wanted to believe that her own inner resources could sustain her interest in her painting. But if that were true, why was she feeling so restless and uncreative?
Leaving the studio, she went back to the bedroom and pulled out the slip of paper that her friend, Evelyn Bromley, had given her when they'd talked about New Orleans. Evelyn had met an extraordinary man down here. Someone she thought Taylor would like. But she wouldn't give out any details. She'd just said to call him.
Taylor might be bold in her artistic subject matter. But like most creative people, she was an introvert. She hated calling strangers. But as she held the paper in her hand, she made a decision. At worst, he'd turn her down. Or they'd meet and wouldn't hit it off. But why be negative? Perhaps he'd be the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Chapter Two
« ^ »
Jules woke the next evening and stretched in his comfortable, four-poster bed. According to legend, a vampire slept in his coffin. But that was just superstitious nonsense, as far as he was concerned.
He'd discovered long ago that any place that was sealed away from the light would do very nicely.
His bedroom was filled with beautifully restored eighteenth-century English antiques. They always gave him a sense of comfort when he woke, because they reminded him of how far he'd come—from the slums of London.
Since then, he had lived all over England—from Kent to Cornwall to Northumberland. And in many countries of the world. But he'd never stayed in one place for very long. Then in the twentieth century, out of curiosity, he'd read some of the books of Anne Rice and decided that New Orleans sounded like a wonderful place for a vampire.
He'd been here ever since. Despite Rice's literary claims, he hadn't run into any others of his kind here. In fact, he'd met very few men like himself—and no women.
His stepfather, John Randolph, the vampire who had saved his life by turning him, had kept his own background hidden. Probably he would have eventually shared his secrets. But he had been killed by a mob almost three hundred years ago, leaving Jules very much alone. With no contacts like himself, the best he could do was read all the books he could find on the subject of the undead. A
nd most of that was hog-wash.
Now he climbed out of bed and dragged in a deep breath. Breathing didn't keep him alive, but it did help him think clearly because it oxygenated his brain.
After taking a quick shower and brushing his teeth, he pulled on a fresh T-shirt and jeans before unlocking the tight-fitting door to his room.
Padding barefoot into the kitchen, he leaned over the automatic coffeemaker, drinking in the aroma of a fresh-brewed, rich Cajun blend. Just the smell was wonderful. But over the years he'd trained his body to handle tiny quantities of food, and a little coffee was one of his chief gastronomic pleasures.
Mug in hand, he wandered out to the courtyard at the side of the house and sat in the dim glow from the tiny lights decorating two potted ficus trees. Then he checked his answering service.
The only message was from a woman named Taylor Lawson who cleared her throat before saying:
"I really don't like making calls to strangers. But my friend Evelyn Bromley suggested that I get in touch with you. I'm new in town, and she thought you'd be a good person to show me around."
She followed the observation with a phone number.
He listened again, jotting down the number. The low, throaty voice was very appealing. And he had fond memories of Evelyn. She'd been an intelligent and sensual woman. A good match for him. But his relationship with her had ended like all the others. Usually when a love affair was over, he was able to erase the memory of the liaison from his partner's mind. Evelyn had been too strong-willed for that. He'd only been able to alter her memories slightly.
That was five years ago. And she hadn't sent anyone else to him.
Taylor Lawson must be special. And her voice was a turn-on.
So he called the number.
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