Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  Time to brace the beast in his den.

  The ride up seemed interminable. She kept her mind focused on what she would say and away from what he might do. That's the only way she could convince herself to continue. She'd come to terms with the information Alex had sent her. Logic insisted she accept what the facts told her. Science urged her to find out how those facts were possible. And her own situation prompted her to ignore physical danger in order to satisfy both.

  Those were the external claims working upon her. But inside, where she pretended they had no pull, were two very different reasons for her to go to Redman.

  Anger and disappointment.

  She'd believed him, wanted to believe in what she thought she saw in him. Decency. Honor. Concern.

  Lies. All lies.

  She didn't know what Louis cared about, but it wasn't the fate of humankind.

  He'd led her to think he would help her. That with his money and his charm and his interest in her work, she could break through the barriers of time and red tape to complete the study. Another cruel lie.

  The truth was destroying her every hope. And she resented the hell out of it and out of him.

  Why couldn't things just go her way a little while longer? Just until she found the cure? She'd come so close. She'd seen the possibilities there in her microscope. Now, that hope was fading, slipping farther and farther from her grasp as the illusion Louis Redman hid behind began to unravel.

  She couldn't partner herself with a killer. She couldn't align herself with a devil. And she wanted him to know that. She wanted to tell him to his face—no insincere telephone call—how much his deception had hurt her.

  Then they would come to terms.

  If she lived that long.

  It was possibly the only purely irrational moment of her life.

  She was met at the door by Redman's manservant. He scanned her apparel without obvious disapproval but she guessed at it in his slight hesitation before he waved her inside. Her footsteps were swallowed up by the thick plush of the carpet. As frantically as it was beating, she was surprised the pulse of her heart wasn't audible. Or would it be to one of Redman's dark heritage?

  "Stacy, your call was a pleasant interruption."

  Gasping because she had neither heard nor felt his approach, Stacy turned to face the enigma of Louis Redman. His single statement managed to artfully convey his tolerance for what was nonetheless an intrusion.

  "Good evening. Thank's for seeing me."

  She felt his gaze skim her appearance and wondered if she'd chosen her attire wisely when he crooned, “It is always a pleasure to see you. What business have you to discuss? Your message sounded urgent."

  Might as well get right to the point before her courage failed her.

  "I've discovered some interesting things today and would like your input on them."

  His brows arched elegantly. “Oh? Something to do with your project?"

  "Indirectly. No, that's not true. It has everything to do with my research."

  At her hesitation, he prompted, “Yes?"

  How on Earth to broach the unbelievable? By just plunging in the way one would acclimate to the chill waters of a swimming pool. Once you were up to your neck and beyond to the point of no return, the adjustment was quick albeit not quite painless.

  She took a breath.

  "Mr. Redman."

  "Louis,” he corrected smoothly. “I thought you'd agreed to call me by my name."

  "What name would that be, Louis?"

  He froze in anticipation of her summary.

  "Redman or Rodmini?"

  Chapter Nine

  Louis had no idea why she'd called to request a meeting, but the urgency in her voice made him wary. And the anticipation in his mood made him equally concerned.

  Just a tool, he continued to remind himself. That's all Stacy Kimball could be to him. Her intelligence, her talent were meant for him to take advantage of, not admire. Experience had taught him to keep his distance. Set her on the path and let her own curiosity lead the way. A woman of her clever initiative couldn't resist the journey. His hope was that it would end where it would do him the most good.

  But then Stacy Kimball arrived, and as she skimmed off her coat, he was staggered by what she revealed. A dull ache began, an impatient throb below his belt. A twin rumble of need and want growled to be recognized and appeased. He would do neither. He could do neither without compromising all.

  But whatever else he was, he was still a man.

  And she was a scientist. What kind of scientist looked like a Venus and dressed like a harlot? It was his experience that one didn't advertise what wasn't for sale. And Stacy Kimball looked like a red light special in the seduction aisle.

  A thick French braid captured most of her honey-gold hair. Wisps escaped to frame her face with flirty softness. Blue gray eyes were kohled to the envy of a Middle Eastern concubine, the defining smudges lending a smoky sensuality to even the most innocent stare. Her mouth, so wide and lush and tempting, appeared just kissed by glossy color. And her high, glamorous cheekbones displayed the tint of a maiden's blush.

  And blush, she should have, when observing herself in the mirror. The sleek inviting line of her long neck led to a seemingly endless downward visual plunge where skillfully undone buttons directed the eye into an amazing curve of cleavage. Fragrant shadows beckoned between gorgeously soft contours. Drowning there would be a man's sweetest fantasy. Until his gaze dropped to the tight skin of her black vinyl skirt. It barely topped her thighs then tormented the imagination with a zipper sketching up one sleek hip. In his raging imagination, he could feel the metal tab between his fingers, hear the rasp of paradise opening, revealing inch after inch of firm, nylon-clad leg.

  He locked his hands behind his back, laced fingers going pale with tension.

  What could the woman be thinking to present herself in such a fashion? Was it her purpose to distract him? If so, she'd succeeded brilliantly. Did she want him to forget that a razor-sharp mind lay beneath the tousled hair? That within her gloriously ripe breasts beat a blind ambition? He'd read her dossier. He knew she hadn't slept her way up through the scientific community. Her affairs were outside the field, brief, puzzlingly inappropriate, and severed with clinical precision. She never looked back.

  What made a beautiful, passionate creature like Stacy Kimball settle for cheap, screw-top wine when she should have been bathing in champagne?

  It wasn't his business to wonder. But he had to wonder what business brought her.

  Then she hit him between the eyes with it.

  Rodmini.

  Protective instincts that had kept him alive for centuries surged to the forefront, demanding that he take swift, unwaveringly brutal action to guard his secret from further exposure. Exquisite agony pierced through his gums as necessity and need combined. He'd been hungry for her from the very first, and now he had an excuse to lose control.

  He could smell her fear entwined intoxicatingly with her femininity. Expectation brought the anticipated taste of her to whet his lips. His muscles coiled with predatory intention, until logic slapped the urges from him.

  If she knew who and what he was, why was she here?

  Curiosity reined in his hunger and quieted his defensive panic. Why place her life in peril unless the risk was worth the potential gain?

  What did she want from him?

  Stacy saw her own end in the cauterizing fire consuming his gaze. She saw her death in the abrupt angles and hollows that altered his handsome looks into something lethally gaunt and ravenous. She'd awakened the demon residing within the man, and now she would pay the price.

  Suddenly, even as she struggled to hold her ground against the expected attack, the danger lessened. The phosphorescent gleam extinguished. The sharp bones of his face softened. And he looked at her with a suspicious intensity while she shivered in realization of how close she'd come to death.

  "Where did you hear that name?"

  Rel
ief made her cocky once more.

  "My sources prefer to remain anonymous. I'm sure you can understand why."

  Out of respect for her intelligence, he didn't try to spin some reasonable explanation as either a lie or a mistake to wave away the information she possessed. Instead, he studied her, gaze piercing and penetrating, in search of a different sort of truth.

  "What do you plan to do with what you know?"

  "That depends upon you. May I still call you Louis?"

  His mouth tightened into a fierce smile as he made an affirming gesture with his hand. “Why not?"

  Stacy wasn't fooled by his almost cavalier manner. He was a dangerous animal facing the confines of an unpleasant and potentially deadly trap. Only his curiosity held him at bay. But just in case his protective instincts got the better of him, she eased the small silver cross around from where it had dangled at the back of her neck. It flashed as it caught the room's muted light.

  His gaze riveted to the crucifix that had more significance to him than to her. The sight of it took a huge bite out of his good will as his stare winced away. His nostrils flared, and his breath exhaled in a soft hiss. He spoke with a cutting tone.

  "What do you want? Money? A promotion? Your own company? Name your blackmail."

  "I want your blood."

  He blinked, then issued a genuine laugh. There were few things she could have said at that point to so neatly defuse the danger from the situation. “What an ironic reversal. Sit down, Ms. Kimball. Tell me more."

  Cautiously, she eased into one of the overstuffed chairs. Her attention followed Louis as he began to roam the room, his restlessness a sign of his dissatisfaction with the corner she'd maneuvered him into.

  "I don't know what you are,” she began tersely. “I hadn't thought such a thing possible. But here you are, and so I must believe. No matter how much I despise the deceptions you hide behind, I cannot ignore your importance to my work. You have certain properties in your blood that make your rather unique existence possible. They keep you alive. They extend your life expectancy well beyond the normal range, perhaps even indefinitely. Unfortunately, they seem to break down quickly and completely when exposed to sunlight."

  "How did you get a sample ... ah, yes. At the restaurant. How resourceful of you."

  It didn't quite sound like a compliment. For a moment, Stacy experienced an odd twinge of shame, as if she'd violated his privacy in some unacceptable fashion. The moment quickly disappeared.

  What did she have to apologize for?

  "It was the only way I could think of. You weren't likely to volunteer."

  "But why did you suspect me?” Louis wanted to know. “Was it the photographs you took? In this modern age, one doesn't leap so quickly to cry ‘vampire’ just because of certain eccentricities."

  Vampire.

  Stacy shuddered involuntarily then grabbed onto the saving strength of her profession. Approach him calmly, step by step, braced behind the power of logic.

  "The girl on the pier. She had trace amounts of your blood under her fingernails. You were the only one the police questioned in earlier attacks, even though they had no proof to hold you. I just put the two together."

  "The young woman on the pier? She volunteered this information?” He seemed surprised, as if it meant some sort of personal betrayal.

  "In a way. I took the sample from her in the morgue. She didn't object."

  Louis winced at her harsh tone. He turned away for a moment, and Stacy thought she heard him murmur, “So she jumped, after all. A pity."

  How dare he? His inappropriate regret fired Stacy's outrage, making her forget her immediate situation in favor of Wanda Cummings's brutal end. “Are you asking so you can cover your tracks more carefully next time?"

  He glanced back at her. His slight smile said ‘touche.’ “My tracks, as you call them, are extremely well covered. It would take a very determined and very clever individual to expose them for what they are."

  "And you for what you are,” she added, hoping to attain a bit more leverage so she could put her fears to rest. And to needle his own in payment for what the poor Wanda must have felt. And Lisa. And Brianna after her. But Louis would not be so easily frightened.

  He pinned her with a sudden, white-hot glare. “Is that what you mean to do? Expose me? To what? Sunlight? Publicity? The police?"

  "No. At least not for the time being."

  "I will not be threatened, Ms. Kimball."

  She wasn't deceived by the purr of his voice. Threat vibrated through it. He was a panther about to strike unless she could convince him not to spring. Difficult to achieve when she was a potential meal poking him with a stick.

  "And neither will I. I wanted to tell you that myself so there would be no misunderstanding. I didn't come here to threaten. I came to propose a truce."

  Again, she had caught him off guard. Bemusement plain on his darkly handsome face, he asked, “And what is the nature of this arrangement?"

  "I want to study you. When you ... feed, something in your blood chemistry alters any other blood type it contacts into a compatible arrangement so it can be absorbed to sustain you. Do you understand what that might mean? The end of transplant rejection. A universal supply of blood. And there's another benefit that could eventually wipe out disease by eliminating weaker strains. An end to AIDs, leukemia."

  "Ah, the crusader, not the capitalist."

  "What if I am? That changes nothing."

  His soft response was mild and mysterious. “Perhaps it does."

  "I'm interested in curing diseases that kill more in a moment than you have in a lifetime. That makes me willing to bargain."

  "And there's this,” he added softly, a whisper that should have prepared her.

  He extended his forearm and pushed up his sleeve to bare his inner arm. Deliberately, he drew his thumbnail from elbow to wrist, inhaling sharply as blood welled up from the gash he opened. Stacy gasped in shock, but her alarm quieted into amazement as, before her eyes, the wound closed and faded until no seam remained. She seized his arm, checking the validity of what she'd seen by rubbing her fingertips across what should have been, but wasn't, torn flesh.

  "Instantaneous cell regeneration,” she breathed in astonishment, not noticing the chill of his undamaged skin.

  "Not always immediate,” he corrected, calmly covering the unblemished area with his shirt sleeve once again and in the process, brushing off her touch. “But always complete. The time frame depends upon the degree of injury."

  "Then it's true.” Her hushed words were almost inaudible. “Immortality.” Her gaze flashed up to his, her enthusiasm firing her eyes and quivering in her voice. “You must let me study you. I guarantee completely secrecy. I'll do all the research on my own time, so my findings will be strictly confidential."

  "So, any moral objection you might have to what I am is easily overcome by my scientific significance, is that it, Doctor Kimball?"

  "Not easily,” she replied in response to his acidic tone rather than his pointed words. “But one endures what one must for the greater good."

  "The greater good.” He chuckled, taunting her with her own self-righteous stand. “When one has led a selfish life, thinking only to preserve that which should never have survived, you play the wrong tune to win my compliance."

  "It's the only tune I know."

  "And what do I get for my cooperation?"

  "What do you want? Why did you fund my work and the projects at the center? Is it for greater power or to gain Harper's protection—"

  "I seek a cure."

  Now, she was surprised. That, she hadn't expected. “A cure?"

  Watching him speak of it, she couldn't doubt his sincerity. The mere prospect animated his features, firing the green of his eyes like heat purifying a rare jewel.

  "Is it possible? I must know. I followed your work, the direction of your studies. That's why I chose you, Stacy. With what you now know, can you create a cure? Do not lie to me or lead me
on if you know there is no chance of success. I guarantee you, you'd do well not to disappoint me."

  As he had disappointed her? His bullying only strengthened her resolve instead of intimidating. Her clinical cool would have frostbitten an ordinary man.

  But nothing about Redman was ordinary.

  "There is every chance of success. While I separate out the special aspects of your condition to benefit my cause, I'll also work on a way to reverse it."

  "To make me mortal?” He asked as if he were requesting an impossible dream become reality. Stacy shrugged.

  "Yes."

  The breath left him in a rush. His eyes closed tight and his body swayed. Stacy reached for him, steadying him with her grip on his elbows. She was about to ask if he was all right when quiet laughter escaped him.

  "You make it sound possible."

  "It is,” she assured him.

  He looked at her then, a bittersweet joy lending his features a youthful innocence. She had no immunity to that unexpected glimpse of vulnerability. Quickly, she released him and stepped back, but it was too late to distance herself from the way his poignant melancholy moved upon her heart.

  She must be very, very careful not to come to care for Louis Redman.

  "Why are you smiling?” she asked him.

  "You remind me of someone, the way you hold your chin with such bold certainty.” Then he seemed to shake himself to scatter tender thoughts, and he was the one to turn away. “How long will it take? When can I expect to be human again?"

  His sudden brusqueness shattered the mood of companionable intimacy, changing it to one of impersonal business again. She reined in foolish sentiments that threatened to run away with her against her staunchly held will and noble agenda. He was an object of study, a research specimen, nothing more.

  Anything more would be too dangerous.

  "I'll start by getting another sample of your blood, more this time so I can begin running a battery of tests. Once I isolate the factor of variance, things should progress quite swiftly."

  "Do you need more money? More equipment? Is there anything I can do to hurry the process along?"

  "Yes, one thing."