He didn’t say anything, and she turned her head slightly, listening. She wanted to know where he was. “How did the other one die? Was it you who killed him?”
Raphael gave an elegant shrug. “I am Vampire, Cynthia. They betrayed me and murdered men who trusted them. Did you not say the same to Judkins?”
She gave him a bleak look. “So is this like a palace revolt or something?”
“Just so.”
“I thought your own couldn’t betray you.”
Raphael turned to regard her, his dark eyes unreadable. “I said it was unlikely, but not impossible. In any event, this is most probably not one of my own children.”
“How do you know she’s still alive?” she asked suddenly, wanting to crack his ever present cool façade. “Bait doesn’t have to be living.”
He regarded her steadily, not saying a word, but she felt the reproach all the same. She met his gaze, refusing to look away. He smiled slightly and said, “We are . . . linked, Alexandra and I, in more ways than one. I would sense her death in the instant it happened. Vampire bait does need to be living, sweet Cyn.”
Cynthia blushed, ashamed at her lack of subtlety, though she’d never admit it to him. She raised her chin defiantly. “Do you know who has Alexandra, then?”
“A suspicion, nothing more. Someone who has sworn an oath of loyalty and is now reconsidering.”
“Kind of like your buddy Albin.”
“Does it please you to know I have enemies, Cyn?”
Cynthia thought about that. “No,” she said finally, knowing it was true. “No, it doesn’t. Will you help them?”
He frowned. “Help whom?”
“I promised Judkins I’d try to help his wife and daughter. You bragged to me how fair you are to your men, how you help their families when they die for you. That man served you faithfully for ten years. He was stupid, not malicious. His family shouldn’t suffer for that. They’ve already suffered enough, and only because he made the mistake of working for you.”
“As you do.” His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying anger.
“As I do,” she agreed wearily. “So, will you give them his death benefits?”
He regarded her somberly, and then lifted one side of his mouth in a bare smile. “I will indeed, Cyn.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “If you deliver the benefits personally.”
“What? No. I don’t know these people. I don’t want—”
“Ah. So there are limits to your compassion? Or is it that you don’t want to face the result of what you wrought this evening?”
He was right. She didn’t want to look in some woman’s face and say her husband was never coming home. Didn’t want to make up a story to explain why he had died, to try and make him a hero. But maybe he was a hero. Everything he’d done had been to protect his family, misguided perhaps, but he had tried.
“Fine. I’ll do it myself,” she said, then turned away, staring out at the ocean. “Are you safe out here?” she asked, hoping he’d go back inside.
A soft scuff on the tiled balcony warned her as he drew closer, until he was standing right behind her, his mouth next to her ear. “Are you worried about me, Cyn?” He was so big his body blocked the light from his office, casting a shadow that eclipsed her own. She could feel his strength surrounding her, his breath stirring the small hairs on her neck, a hint of aftershave teasing her senses. He stood so close that if she inhaled too deeply their bodies would touch. And she would be lost.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Please?” Raphael repeated in a low voice. “Please what, Cyn?” He stroked her hair behind her ear, fingers trailing down her neck and over her shoulder, barely touching the curve of her breast before resting his hand below her waist. The slightest pressure, a mere tightening of his fingers, pulled her against him, eliminating that last tiny fraction of space that separated them. His erection was hard against her as his long fingers stroked her belly, teasing downward. A wave of need washed over her, so intense her knees almost gave way, and she swayed with the force of it, leaning her head back against his shoulder. His warm mouth bent to her neck, his tongue darting out to lick slowly along her jaw, before pausing over the steady rush of her jugular.
“No. Please,” she whispered, barely able to force out the words.
“Which is it, lovely Cyn? Is it no?” He sucked her neck gently, letting his teeth press into the skin without breaking it, and a frisson of desire made her gasp before flowing down to light a fire between her legs.
“Or is it, please?” His hands came up under her swollen breasts, cupping them, holding their weight in his broad palms, his thumbs strumming her sensitive nipples to the edge of pain. “I can smell your arousal, Cyn. I can hear the racing of your heart beneath your ribs.” His voice grew even lower, more sensuous, the words flowing from his mouth directly into her brain. He rubbed his obvious arousal along the cleft of her ass, letting her feel its hard length straining against the rough denim of his jeans. “I know you want this.”
Cynthia covered her face with her hands, almost laughing at the wretched absurdity of it. Raphael froze. She could feel the muscles of his arms tighten with anger, no longer caressing, but trapping her against his body.
“Yes, I want you. I want you until I can think of little else,” she whispered, not even trying to break away from him. “You stalk my dreams and haunt even my days when I should be free of you. Every nerve in my body is tortured with wanting you, wanting to touch you, to fuck you, to have you fill me until I scream with the delicious pain of it and beg for more.” She did laugh then, a sobbing cry of desperation.
“Then, why?” There was an edge to his voice now; she was not the only one aroused and he was not accustomed to being denied.
Because I’m terrified, she wanted to say. Terrified my own need would drown me until there was nothing left of who I am, nothing but the smell of you, the touch of you on my skin, until there was nothing but you.
She opened her eyes and turned to find his glittering black orbs staring from only inches away. Her fingers reached up to touch those sensuous lips for the first time, and she sucked in a breath, unable to bear their softness. She took a step back, wiping away cold tears as the night air flowed between their bodies again.
Raphael watched her, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring with every breath. He blinked and his eyes became only eyes once again, beautiful and dramatic, but only eyes. “You will be mine before the end, Cyn. Make no mistake about it.”
“And what will happen when you grow tired of me?” she asked softly. “Will I be discarded too, Raphael? Trapped in a pretty palace with nothing but memories? I have seen what you leave behind.” She slipped by him, almost running back to the house. His words made her stop.
“It is not what you think,” he said harshly.
Cyn turned and stared at him. “Then what is it?”
“A long story.” He walked over to her and paused to stroke her cheek with one finger. “For another night, perhaps, when you are more inclined to listen.” He pulled the sliding door open as Duncan appeared from the hallway. “Sleep well, Cyn.”
She fled without looking back.
Raphael stared at the ocean, brooding about Cyn, about Alexandra. His discarded lover? He choked back a laugh. If only it were that simple. Memory took him back to that fetid dungeon in Paris. Nothing was ever simple with Alexandra.
Chapter Twenty-one
Paris, 1793
RAPHAEL ROAMED the bowels of the prison, breathing in the scent of human suffering, the heady fragrance of terror beneath the reek of expensive perfume. The cells were filled to overflowing with the pampered aristocrats of Paris, their fine clothing now tattered and torn, their soft skin covered with filth that no amount of perfume could conceal. The women’s cell blocks were his favorite. Oh, to be sure, the men were overwhelmed w
ith rich despair, wondering if the next day would be their last, or perhaps the one after that. With every thump of the guillotine in the great courtyard, the fear soared that their own heads would be falling into the basket all too soon.
But the men, for the most part, were mewling cowards, huddling in the corners of their miserable cells, unable to believe such a fate had befallen them in the very heart of French high society. They had already surrendered their hearts and souls, if not their bodies.
But, the women! Fierce defenders of their lives and virtue, defiant until the moment the bright blade fell upon their delicate necks. Their terror was so much more vivid, their spirits so much more alive than the men, even in this hellish hole.
He walked freely through the dank halls, cloaked in shadow, in the anonymity of a forged uniform that declared him one of the victors . . . today. For the victors of today could easily become the victims of tomorrow. He’d seen empires and kings rise and fall too many times to believe anything about the human race would be permanent. The women in the cells looked up at him as he passed by, drawn to him in spite of the animal instinct that warned them to flee. He paused by a nearly empty chamber, eyeing its lone occupant. She was no longer young, but still comely, a woman of flesh which indicated wealth in this city, at this time. Her dazed eyes watched him warily as he opened the cell door.
“Have no fear, little one,” he soothed. “I will make it better.”
She fell easily under his spell, her body going slack in his arms as he bent to her fleshy neck. He grimaced at the taste of her blood, the disease tainting her life. It was all too common to find a fine woman so corrupted, infected by her own husband—a good upstanding member of society who fucked the whores on the docks, then brought their sickness home to his wife, filling her with death even as he filled her with life. Vive la revolution, he thought cynically. They deserved to be swept away by the great broom of history. He swallowed, fighting the urge to spit out the blood. The disease would not infect him and the blood nourished regardless.
From outside the cell, a young woman’s laughter caught his attention. He lifted his head, scenting the air. So familiar that sound, it tugged on his memory, calling to him . . .
He dropped the dying woman, remembering at the last moment to ease her to the ground before stepping into the corridor, his nostrils flaring. He stalked through the halls with new purpose, intent on finding the source of this disturbance, this thing that called forth a long dead emotion he could not even name.
Rounding a corner, he saw the pack of prison guards, their honest uniforms a sad imitation of his own forgery, their bodies no cleaner than the prisoners they watched over. They’d found some pitiful sport with one of the women; he’d seen it before, these scabrous street villains taking pleasure in the soft folds of a woman only a few months ago they’d never have dared even to gaze upon. They had this one backed into a corner, gathering around her like a pack of wolves. Her laughter danced over their heads and he frowned. Why would she—
One of the rapists made his move, the entire pack shifting as he made a grab for the unfortunate girl. Raphael heard a howl of pain, and the mood shifted as the guards drew back in fear, some of those closest to him, turning to run. There was blood. He could smell it, ripe and fresh. He pushed forward, the guards shrinking back from him, their faces dazed as if—
Impossible. Raphael pushed his way through the filthy pack, throwing men aside, heedless of their cries of pain, of fear. They were nothing to him. She, she was everything. She was . . . Sasha.
She stared up at him, her thick hair matted and dirty, her body reeking of the sweat and blood of too many men. The black eyes so like his own gave him a lazy glance, then sharpened in recognition, filling with disdain and something very like hatred. Her gore-filled mouth opened in a harsh laugh, revealing slender fangs.
“Well, well,” she mocked. “Look who’s come to party with us, gents. My own dear brother. Come finally to take what you lusted after all those years, Vadim?”
“Sasha!” he said, shocked as much by her words as her very existence.
“Sasha,” she mimicked cruelly. “No longer, Vadim. Such childish names are long behind me.” She shoved away the human in her arms and strode up to him, her eyes filled with anger as they took in his fine clothes and clean hands. “You left! You abandoned me to—”
“What is this, Alexandra?”
Raphael turned toward the oily voice, his lips drawing back in a snarl as a new vampire strolled into sight, his clothing as shabby and dirty as any prisoner’s, his mouth wet with blood. He grinned when he saw Raphael. “The pretty one!” he said with a bark of laughter. “Tell me, were you with our mistress when she died? I heard it was quite gruesome.” He shifted his gaze to Alexandra, calling her with a jerk of his head. She sidled closer to him, rubbing herself against his side with a whine of fear.
Raphael’s lip curled in disgust. “Alexandra,” he said sharply.
She didn’t even look at him. The vampire laughed. “She’s not yours anymore, boy.” He pulled her against him, one hand groping her breasts obscenely. “She’s all mine.” His fingers wrapped in her hair, jerking her head back to meet his gaze. “Aren’t you, sweetling?”
“Yes, Master,” she whimpered.
Raphael clenched his jaw against a rage that threatened to burn him alive. “Release her and live to see another night,” he growled, his voice a low rumble of sound.
The vampire sneered. “That’s not how this works, youngling. Our mistress is dead and you—” He sniffed in Raphael’s direction. “You are unclaimed . . . and doing well, it seems. I think a family reunion is in order.” His face hardened. “But it will be my will that rules, boy. Not yours.” He pushed Alexandra aside, drawing himself up in obvious challenge. Raphael laughed and let his power flow unfettered, relishing the other vampire’s look of shock . . . and fear.
“I think not,” Raphael said softly.
Alexandra fought him, fought for the life of her Sire who threw her into the fray in a desperate bid for his own escape, showing no concern for her safety. Raphael’s power swept over the fleeing vampire, crushing him to the ground, draining the life from him. Alexandra screamed, pounding ineffectually on Raphael’s broad back, her filthy nails reaching for his face until he finally subdued her, shielding her from her Sire’s death, claiming her for his own as the dead vampire crumbled to dust. She staggered against the wall, then slumped to the ground. Her whimpers tore at his heart as he wrapped her abused body in his cloak. He picked her up in his arms and strode down the fetid corridors into the fresh night air, unseen, unchallenged, hurrying through the violence-torn city, no longer hearing the screams of the dying or the raucous laughter of the killers.
Guilt overwhelmed him as he passed down the dark streets. He had thought her dead all these years. Had his mistress known Alexandra lived? Had she kept that from him? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but Alexandra. She was with him again, and he would save her this time. He would save her for all eternity.
Chapter Twenty-two
CYNTHIA DRAGGED her ass out of the Land Rover, wondering if she had the energy to make it up the stairs to her third floor bedroom. The guest bedroom on the second floor had a perfectly comfortable bed. For that matter, the couch in the beach room was looking pretty damn comfortable too. She slid her key card through the reader and pushed open the heavy door, letting it go as she stumbled through.
An unexpected thump sounded from upstairs and she looked up sharply, her hand going out to catch the door before it could slam shut and announce her arrival. “Oh, give me a break,” she muttered.
She lowered her backpack to the floor and slipped out of her leather jacket, then pulled the Glock from its shoulder holster and started up the stairs. Forcing herself to move slowly, she hugged the wall, keeping her sight focused upward, spinning around quickly at the short landing to clear her ex
posure to the next level. She could hear voices, on the top floor, she thought. Her office. Damn. Moving faster now, she peeked over the ledge as her eyes came even with the second level, then hurried up the last few stairs.
There were no lights on, but there was definitely someone up there. They were making no attempt to conceal their presence and clearly hadn’t heard her return. As Cyn eased through the kitchen, she saw a key card lying on the island countertop. Great. Not just burglars, but incompetent burglars. She was too fucking tired to deal with this shit. She paused at the last flight of stairs, listening. Whatever they were after, they weren’t moving around much, not tossing her drawers or anything. In fact, they weren’t moving at all. Frowning, she leaned against the wall and slipped out of her heavy boots and socks, then eased her way upward.
“Jesus, Billy, what’s taking so long? She’ll be home soon. Her vampire boyfriend’s gotta be in his coffin by now.”
“I told you, they don’t sleep in coffins, you idiot. That’s stupid movie crap. They sleep in beds like everyone else.”
“Don’t call me an idiot! Who got us this far?”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Look, be quiet a minute, would you? I need to concentrate here. Are you sure the tape’s in there? She doesn’t like, lock it up or something?”
“This is locked up, dummy. And it’s not a tape, it’s a computer file. Christ, why am I messing with you anyway?”
“‘Cuz I’m the one whose cousin works for Fox, baby. They’ll pay us a bundle for this little home movie.”
“Yes,” Cynthia drawled. “And it’ll buy you the very nicest funeral after the vampires twist your heads off. But, hey, your parents will be so proud.”
Holly shrieked loud enough to hurt Cyn’s ears before dropping the flashlight she’d been holding. It rolled around on the floor, casting a haphazard light on the two shocked burglars. The male half of the duo, a youngish surfer-looking type whose name was apparently Billy, simply stood there staring at her with his mouth hanging open. He didn’t even try to conceal the lock picks dangling from the keyhole to her office.
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