by Nina Mason
“When are you going back?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
He disentangled himself and sat up, propping himself against the wooden headboard. He looked grim, which worried her. What was he going to say?
He sat there an impossibly long moment staring at his hands as he wrestled within himself. Finally, without looking at her, he said, “There are things I need to tell you.”
Her stomach clenched. Oh, dear. Nothing good could follow such an ominous statement. Was he dumping her? It would be just her luck to be kicked to the curb the minute she finally fell in love with someone.
“It’s to do with the election,” he began with a cautious tone. “I’m having second thoughts.”
“But—you’ve already announced your intention to run.”
“Aye, which is the bugger of it.”
“You’ve changed your mind? Since yesterday?”
“Aye, well. To tell the truth, I’ve had my doubts all along.”
“Doubts about what?”
“Meddling in the affairs of the human world. Putting myself in the public eye. Don’t get me wrong. I want to be more engaged, but not at the risk of everything I hold dear.”
Guilt sent tiny barbed tentacles through her body. “Callum, I only encouraged you because I wanted you to be happy.”
“I was happy.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Says the pot to the kettle.”
He was right. She wasn’t happy. Happy people were settled and she was always chasing an ideal, running away from a threat, or challenging the status quo. At some level, she knew happiness came from within, but she had no idea where it might be hiding among the shadows of her psyche.
“My father won’t like it if you withdraw.”
“He might if he knew my other reason.”
She looked up at him. “What other reason?”
“I’m being blackmailed. By that bastard Sinclair. He says he’ll release some damaging photos to the media if I don’t withdraw from the race.”
She blinked at him, startled. That he was being blackmailed was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Then, fear set in. “What kind of pictures does Sinclair have of you?”
“They’re not of me; they’re of your father.”
The chime of surprise rapidly crescendoed into a booming chord of horror. “With another woman, I presume.”
Callum’s eyebrows shot up. “You know about your father’s philandering?”
“I’d have to be deaf not to. As seldom as I was at home, I still heard my share of rows about his bits of stuff on the side.”
“I see,” he said crisply.
“What does Sinclair plan to do with these pictures?”
“Sell them to the newspapers—unless I drop out of the race.”
She took a minute to consult her conscience before turning to look him dead in the eye. “Don’t drop out of the race to protect my father. He’s already done enough harm with his indiscretions.”
“If I drop out of the race, it won’t be solely to protect your father’s reputation, though he is the leader of my party, philanderer or not.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulder, pulled her against him, and kissed the top of her head. The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. “Callum, can I ask you something?”
“Aye, of course.”
“What makes men cheat?”
Taking a breath, he tightened his hold on her, which assuaged her inner turmoil some. “Truthfully, I think most men—most people—cheat because there’s some lack inside. So they spend their lives trying to fill up the deficit with something outside themselves—drugs, alcohol, sex, or love, which is like a euphoric high for chronic cheaters. And when the high wears off, they jump into another bed for a new fix.”
“Is that why you think my father cheats?—because he’s got a hole inside?”
“Aye,” he said, kissing her part. “And it’s got nothing to do with your mother or you and everything to do with his own unhealed psychic wounds.”
She could see that. Maybe for the first time in her life, she could almost perceive her father as a fallible human being instead of a faultless authority figure to be feared, appeased, and rebelled against. It was a liberating realization that made her feel as if she’d finally stepped across the threshold into adulthood.
She nuzzled against his chest and held him tighter, grateful he was there. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.”
A long silence descended before she mustered the courage to say what she’d wanted to tell him before hearing the news about her father. “I want this to work, Callum. Truly I do. But I need to do more with my life, be more in this world, than just your mistress.”
He let her go and drew back until he could look her in the eye. Embarrassed by her tears, she dashed them away.
“Vanessa,” he said, looking into her soul, “have I ever tried to stop you from doing what you wanted?”
“Well, no.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Her lip trembled, infuriating her as much as her inarticulateness. “I wish I knew.”
* * * *
It was now early morning and Callum lay awake, his mind uneasy. Vanessa was beside him, curled against his body, her head resting on his chest as he stroked her hair. His reason told him not to push too hard. His heart, however, craved assurances.
He bent to kiss her brow, unable to resist expressing his need of her in some small way. Fire needed air, but air did not need fire. She’d made that crystal clear from the outset.
The knife of longing twisted in his gut. Would she ever grow to love him? Was she even capable of falling in love? And what about his own feelings? Were they real or did he only want her so much because he couldn’t have her?
They laid there in silence until he could bear it no longer. If he was willing to accommodate her contradictory Aquarian nature, she’d have to put up with his Leonine traits as well.
“I have tried, lass. To be the way you want me to be—to give you your freedom and all. But, well, the thing is, I can only be what I am.”
“Oh?” She met his gaze. “And what’s that?”
“A lion.”
She ran her hand across his chest. He cradled her skull in his big hand and pressed his lips to her forehead. The hand on his chest moved to his jaw and stroked his sandpaper stubble.
He bit back the urge to pin her down. Better to revel in the moment and keep his feelings unsaid. He stroked her face. “Come here and give me a kiss.”
No need to ask twice. The next moment, she was on top of him with her lips pressing his as she stroked his jaw. He captured her hand, holding it to his face as he deepened the kiss. He’d had her several times that night already, but it wasn’t enough. When it came to his butterfly, there was no such thing as enough.
Releasing her hand, he ran both of his down her body, reveling in the silky warmth of her skin. He cupped her buttocks, holding her against him as he rocked his hips to let her feel his hardness.
“Again?” she asked with a smile.
“Oh, aye. Again and again, until all the seas gang dry.”
They made love with a vengeance and when it was over, she dozed off while he continued to hold her. Blinding sunlight streamed through the bedroom window and, except for the rattle and hum of the air-conditioner, the house was quiet.
So were his thoughts, remarkably enough. He lay there, soaking in the sunshine while enjoying her closeness, her familiar scent, the cheerful birdsong outside, and generally feeling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Then, suddenly and without mercy, reality crashed through his blissful bubble like a wrecking ball. There was Armstrong to deal with and Duncan and Alasdair Sinclair. And he should probably call Lord Bentley to let him know about the threat. Vanessa might be ready to throw her adulterous father to the
tabloid jackals, but he wasn’t. Not without at least attempting to find another way.
And there was Vanessa. What would she do now that her employer had been turned? Surely, she wouldn’t continue the charade of being a paranormal investigator. But would she return to Britain? If he had his druthers, she’d come back to Scotland with him—as his wife. Not that she’d agree. Madam Butterfly valued her freedom above her heart—and above him. She’d made that plain from the outset. Why hadn’t he listened?
He shook his head to clear it. There wasn’t time to dwell on their star-crossed relationship when he had far more pressing matters to attend to this morning. Slipping his arm out from under her, he climbed out of bed, pulled on his trousers, and padded out of the bedroom.
Beau Armstrong was still on the sofa, still covered with the throw, but awake.
“How do you feel this morning?” Callum asked with genuine concern.
“I’ve been better,” Armstrong complained. “The spot where ya’ll bit me feels like spit on a hot griddle.”
“That will pass.”
“When?”
“In a few more days.” Callum shrugged. “Give or take.”
“Lucky me.”
Callum fought the urge to roll his eyes. The transformation was painful, but far from agonizing. Armstrong needed to buck up. “Look on the bright side, eh? At least you’re not dead. Or in Avalon.”
“I almost wish I were,” Armstrong muttered, eyes closing. “Dead, I mean. What am I going to tell my wife? And my kids?”
Sudden spite narrowed Callum’s eyes. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you took up with another woman.”
“It wasn’t like that, I swear.” Armstrong pushed up on his elbows and gave Callum a look that radiated sincerity. “It was business. Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me. I was a perfect gentleman, even after she came onto me.”
Jealousy dragged its sharp green claws across Callum’s heart. Though she’d not been herself at the time, that didn’t make it any easier to stomach the idea of her making advances toward Armstrong or any other man.
“Besides the bite, how do you feel?”
“Thirsty enough to drink from the toilet. And horny enough to hump your leg.”
“That’s the bloodlust. Until you’re strong enough to hunt, you’re going to have it so bad you’ll think you’re losing your mind.”
“Oh, joy,” Armstrong returned, closing his eyes. “I can’t wait.”
Fed up, Callum started to walk away. “Let me know when you’re done moaning, so I can share a few things you ought to know about your new lifestyle.”
“Wait. I’m done. Tell me.”
Turning back, Callum took the chair he’d pulled over last night. “First, I have a question for you. What are your plans for your business and Vanessa?”
Armstrong lay back down with a sigh and draped his forearm over his brow. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Aye, well. Don’t put it off too long, eh? I can’t hang around indefinitely.”
“How long are you planning to stay?” Vanessa asked from the hallway.
Callum glanced her way, noting the pink kimono and black stockings. He wanted her again rather badly and hoped she’d be up for another go when he’d finished with Armstrong.
“Would you be a love and get the poor sod some ice to put on the bite?”
“Of course,” she said, changing direction.
She went through a swinging door he assumed led into the kitchen. The sounds that followed confirmed his guess. The breaking seal of a freezer, the clatter of ice, and the thud of a cupboard door.
A few moments later, she returned with a plastic bag filled with broken cubes and handed it over the back of the couch to Armstrong, who pressed it against the wound on his neck.
Callum waited until she met his gaze before offering her his most charming smile. “Would coffee be too much trouble?”
“Not at all,” she replied with a smile that warmed his cockles. “I’ll just go and put some on.”
He watched her return to the kitchen, gaze glued to her curvaceous arse, thoughts leaping forward to bedding her again.
“It’s mighty decent of you to hang around to show me the ropes,” Armstrong said.
Callum pulled himself back to the moment. “Aye, though my motives are selfish ones. Over the next few days, you’re going to want to fuck something so badly you’ll think you’ve lost your senses. I’m not about to leave you here alone with my Nessa.” With a grin, he added, “So, it’s either stay to keep an eye on you or cut off your cock.”
Armstrong paled. “In that case, I’m even more grateful you’ve elected to hang around.”
The word “elected” gave Callum a qualm. He needed to make his mind up about the campaign. The longer he delayed, the harder withdrawing would become.
Vanessa came back into the room, announced the coffee was on, and went down the hall toward the bedroom. The urge to follow her twitched in Callum’s groin. God, how he’d missed her. More than he ever thought he could miss a lass.
“So tell me,” Armstrong said, regaining his attention, “besides the cravings for blood and sex, what else is there to being a vampire?”
“We’re not vampires.”
“We drink blood, which makes us vampires in my book.”
“I’m not interested in your book. You’re an Avalonian drone, a subject—or, rather slave—of Queen Morgan Le Fay. If she finds out you exist, you’ll likely be executed—if you’re lucky.”
Armstrong went white and licked his lips. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what’s the unlucky alternative?”
“Enslavement and sexual servitude. Though she’s also fond of torture and castration.”
Callum proceeded to explain the castes of drones and their duties, after which Armstrong remarked, “I could think of worse things than being a boy toy to a horde of beautiful faeries.”
“Trust me,” Callum said, shuddering as the memories of his enslavement and torture washed over him, “being a sex slave gets old bloody quick.”
Vanessa reappeared and threw a worried glance toward the men. “Beau, please tell me you’re not considering feeding on humans. I was a vegetarian and an animal rights activist before I was turned, and I don’t think I could bear it if I knew you were preying on people.”
Armstrong sat up and looked her way. “No offense, sweetheart, but you should have thought about that last night. Before you took off my clothes and started sucking my blood.”
Vanessa’s face turned a deep shade of crimson. “What happened last night wasn’t my fault,” she insisted. “I was under the power of the bloodlust.”
Callum wanted to say the degree of fault was debatable, but held his tongue. He wanted to fuck the lass, not pick a fight.
When Vanessa disappeared through the swinging door, Armstrong turned back to Callum. “Can I feed on both?”
“Aye, as long as you’re discreet. If you start feeding on random strangers, you’ll have to erase their memories. You don’t want word getting back to Queen Morgan that there’s an unaccounted-for drone running around the Hitherworld. She’s not particularly bright, but she’ll connect the dots soon enough. And my life depends on her believing I’m dead.”
Vanessa came back in with a tray holding three steaming mugs. “If you adopt the animal way,” she said as she approached, “you can assimilate as much as you want. See your kids, keep your business, lead a normal life, blend in.”
“Personally, I’m against too much assimilation.” Callum rubbed his morning-whiskered chin. That was one of the reasons he was uncomfortable with his decision about Parliament. “But I don’t have a family. Perhaps I’d feel differently if I did.”
As Vanessa held the tray between the two men, Armstrong sat up, took one of the mugs, and looked at Callum. “Can drones reproduce with human women?”
“Aye. We’re extremely
fertile, so be careful where you stick your cock, eh? We don’t need a lot of half-breeds running about the Hitherworld drawing the attention of Queen Morgan and Lord Morfryn.”
Armstrong arched a dark eyebrow. “Lord Morfryn? Oberon’s evil twin?”
“Aye,” Callum said, claiming a mug. “He’s the dark overlord to which all the denizens of the Thitherworld must pay a tithe every seven years.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
Callum sipped his coffee, savoring the rich flavor and aroma, as his gaze followed Vanessa down the hall. If he didn’t hurry, she’d be dressed before he got there. Not that he couldn’t take her clothes off again, but still.
Rising from his chair, he grinned down at Armstrong. “Anything else you care to know?”
“When can I go home?”
“Right after I do,” Callum returned noncommittally. He was hoping to convince Armstrong over the next few days to simply disappear into the shadows of New Orleans. He’d read him while they talked and knew the man’s marriage wasn’t a happy one. Maybe this was a good excuse to walk away from it. The last thing a drone needed was a wife who wouldn’t put out.
Callum retrieved his suitcase from the porch and headed back into the bedroom. To his dismay, Vanessa wasn’t there. The sound of running water told him she was in the bathroom. Leaving her to her toilette, he set his suitcase on the bed, opened it up, and took out a fresh set of clothes and the zippered leather pouch containing his razor and toothbrush.
The water shut off and a few moments later, Vanessa appeared in the doorway, still in the kimono.
“How’s Beau?”
“Well enough.”
Callum laid out his fresh clothes—jeans and a black T-shirt—and began to remove last night’s trousers.
“Do you think it’s safe to leave him alone for a while?”
“Why?” Now naked, Callum sat on the bed, hoping she’d take the hint and join him.
She didn’t. Instead, she said, “I thought we’d go over to Napoleon House so you can check out that chap I told you about.”
“I suppose it would be all right,” he said, hiding his disappointment behind a smile. “As long as we’re not gone too long.”
