“Thank you for bringing this, Duncan. It was kind.”
“It is no more than you earned.” He opened the door, looked back as if to say something, then sighed and said instead, “Take care of yourself, Cynthia.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
Cyn sank down into her chair and let the tears come. It had been easier to believe there was no hope, that Raphael’s feelings for Alexandra and the deadly permanence of that bond cut off any possibility for them. But now, to find out . . .
You’re a fool, Leighton. If life had taught her anything at all, it was that love could not be trusted. Her father, her mother, her grandmother, even the strangers who took care of her, every one of them had let her down until finally she’d acknowledged that it wasn’t going to happen, that she was well and truly alone. But the damn vampire had gotten through to her, had made her feel wanted, needed, cherished even. And she’d responded like the fool she was, letting herself care, letting herself believe that he cared in return.
She stood, shaking herself a bit, straightening her shoulders. What did it matter, really? So Raphael was gone. She’d been alone before and would be again. So she had been a moment’s diversion for the powerful vampire lord. So what? The sex had been great, the money generous, and her reputation would certainly benefit, which meant more jobs in the future. So. Great all around.
She picked up her backpack and headed for the parking lot where the rented Lexus was waiting for her. So she’d been a fool. Lesson learned. She’d get over it. A year from now, she’d probably be laughing at the whole thing. But tonight . . . tonight it hurt too much.
Chapter Fifty
DUNCAN SWUNG THE BMW in next to a long, black limo that sat idling in the private hangar. Raphael walked across to meet him, waiting as his lieutenant turned off the engine and got out of the car.
“She is well?” he asked.
Duncan nodded, little more than a bow of his head. “She appeared healthy and well-rested, perhaps a bit too thin, but . . .” He shrugged. “It was a stressful few days.”
“Did she—”
“She asked about Alexandra, inquired for her health. I told her Alexandra has asked about her, as well.” He gazed steadily at Raphael, who met his stare.
“What, Duncan? Say whatever it is. I don’t want to spend the next several hours in the air with you brooding at my back.”
Duncan flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment, Raphael couldn’t say. Possibly both. He waited.
“Whether you claim her or not, my lord,” Duncan said finally. “She is yours.”
Raphael stilled, his black eyes going flat with brutally contained emotion. Left unsaid, never to be said in his presence, was the other half of Duncan’s pronouncement, the corollary that was as immutable as the truth of what Duncan had dared say. For if Cyn was his, and he was filled with rage at the very thought of her belonging to another, then he was just as surely hers.
Behind him, the pitch of the plane’s engines changed as the pilot prepared to taxi and he heard Alexandra calling his name. Raphael sighed as Duncan came up next to him, and together they walked toward the stairs.
“Is it snowing yet in Colorado, Duncan?”
“Not yet, my lord, but soon.”
He sighed. “I hate cold weather.”
“I know, Sire. Let us hope we can return to California before long.”
“Let us hope.”
The pilot closed the door and had the jet taxiing out of the hangar almost as soon as they were aboard. There was a short delay while he checked in with the tower, and then Raphael was leaning back in the soft leather seat for takeoff, his eyes lingering for some reason on the bright lights of a restaurant high above the tarmac and the lone figure of a woman sitting at the bar. She was there and gone in seconds as the plane raced down the runway, rising into the night sky over the ocean before banking and leaving the warm sands of Malibu far behind.
CYNTHIA SAT AT the sushi bar above the Santa Monica Airport and watched a sleek Gulfstream as it soared into the cloudless sky. She didn’t know why she’d come here, to this place. She hadn’t been to this restaurant in years, not since a brief fling with an FAA test pilot. Her only thought on leaving her office had been to go home and sleep a few more days. But she’d found herself turning in the opposite direction, and here she sat watching someone else escape from L.A.
She stood, suddenly anxious to leave. She was cold and her jacket was in the car. Dropping a tip on the bar, she headed for the elevator, wondering if she would ever be warm again, if there was heat enough in the world to erase the touch of his hands, the taste of his kiss. And knowing she’d trade a lifetime of warm for one more night beneath the cool moon in the arms of the vampire lord.
To be continued . . .
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Acknowledgments
This is my first book, the one every writer dreams of. I’m supposed to thank everyone who influenced me, going back to my first grade teacher. But my first grade teacher was an unhappy woman who should never have been entrusted with growing minds, so I’ll skip over that part and jump right to the present and those people who made my dream come true.
First of all, I want to thank Linda Kichline for her support and enthusiasm and for giving me a chance to share my stories. Thanks also to Amy Stout, editor extraordinaire, who gave my confidence a boost at a critical time and without whose advice I might never have written anything beyond that first short story.
Huge thanks to my entire family on both sides for their love and support. Very special gratitude to my sister Diana, who reads everything I write and tells me how wonderful it is, even when it’s not. Every writer should be lucky enough to have a Diana.
Thanks to Kelley Armstrong for her wonderful cover blurb and for creating the OWG, the greatest group of writers I’ve ever been privileged to work with. I don’t know how I’d make it through without their input and support. And to Adrian Phoenix for a fantastic cover blurb and for a generous spirit and unflagging enthusiasm that makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger, something better than just a lone writer sitting at a keyboard. To Patrish Lazarus for my wonderful cover, and to my friend Susan W. who tells me when it’s good, and when it’s not. To Jenny in Australia who read the first thing I ever wrote and said she loved it. Honest, it wasn’t that good. To Vanessa S. for her help with Spanish translations. If I’ve made mistakes there, it’s all my fault, not hers. To John G. for his expertise in guns and weapons of all kinds—Cyn wouldn’t know which trigger to pull without his advice. To all the members of my writing group, but especially Jessica (Jepad), Lesley W. and Michelle M. (Ghostwriter) who read early drafts and rewritten parts of this book long before it was presentable.
And finally, this book is dedicated to my wonderful husband, even though he doesn’t quite get “the neck biter thing.” Without his love and support, nothing else would matter.
Visit me at Dbreynolds.com
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