Possessed by An Immortal

by Sharon Ashwood

  But instead, she plundered him, seeking with her tongue. Heat flamed up through her core, burning her with its hunger. His body tensed as she responded, meeting her need for need. But then he relaxed, drawing her closer. Bree leaned into him, fitting perfectly against the curve of his strong chest.

  He was still wearing his leather jacket, supple with long wear. She ran her hands under it, finding the soft cotton of his dark green T-shirt. It fit tight over the muscles of his chest, letting her hands follow his smooth outline all the way down to where his shirt met the waistband of his jeans.

  He nipped her tongue as she stroked him with it, distracting her as his hands found her hips, then her backside. And then the tables were turned, and he was the aggressor, taking her mouth with the boldness of a pirate. Bree gasped, no longer holding the advantage. She was suddenly at his mercy, desire lancing through her with the acuteness of a blade.

  It was more than she’d bargained for. She broke the kiss, pushing away to put air between them. She could feel the pulse in her lips, a throbbing ache from his bruising demands.

  Bree took another step back. Mark’s eyes were still dark, but the lamplight seemed to dance in them, as if fire flickered within. His face had gone still and tense, locking down whatever was going on in his head. Bree felt suddenly cut off, even though it had been her backing away. The distance between them left her cold, as if he had absorbed every scrap of heat from the room. She glanced guiltily at her sleeping son, relieved for once to see the child was still asleep.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Was there a problem?” Mark’s voice was so low and soft, it was almost a growl.

  Nothing, except that she could fall into his embrace as if it was a drug, losing herself in that sensual power. “Bad timing. I want to stay focused.”

  That much was true.

  He reached out, the movement slow and controlled, as if it was all he could do not to grab her. His cool fingers traced her cheek, lingering with a butterfly touch. It would have been so natural to turn her lips to those fingers, to rub her chin against him like a cat marking her territory, but she didn’t dare. If she made one move, her restraint would fail. She would be his, forgetting all else in her desperation to be touched like a woman again. It had been so very, very long, and her imagination toyed with everything he could do to her.

  Heat flickered in his eyes. “There’s no need to worry. I can protect you. I can protect him.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Not right now.”

  He finally pulled his hand away, fingers curling into a fist. The air pulsed with tension. Some of it was sexual, but there was wildness underneath it, almost violence. Bree’s stomach fluttered, suddenly unsure. What did she know about Mark Winspear, anyway?

  He took a step toward her. Instinctively, she fell back and for a fleeting instant wondered what she could use to defend herself. But then he turned away, this time the one to put distance between them.

  The tension broke, and she took a long, shaking breath, feeling foolish. He had kissed her and wanted more. That was what men did. She knew that much to her sorrow.

  When he turned to face her again, he was standing by the door. She took another breath, yearning to touch the hard, strong muscles of his chest, but held herself in check. Mark Winspear was a peril all on his own, and not a man to be toyed with. If she said yes to him, she had better mean it.

  The woman in her wrestled with the urge to call him back, but Jonathan was asleep and helpless. She couldn’t ignore that for an instant.

  “I’m going out for a few minutes,” Mark said. The words were casual, but his glance was not. For an instant, she was seeing the cougar in the woods again, this time staring from behind his dark, liquid eyes. Her head had known he was just as dangerous as Nicholas Ferrel. In that instant, her gut knew it, too.

  Anything she might have said stuck in her throat.

  Chapter 12

  Mark, restless and weary, roamed the perimeter of the block where the motel sat. His mind inched back to Bree and the scene that had almost happened, and then ricocheted away. He knew he should not become involved with her. She had a young child. She was vulnerable. He was doing his damnedest to be a doctor, not a killer.

  And yet she tempted him like sin itself. In that moment of madness, he had reveled in the smoothness of her skin, the perfume of her desire. For an instant, he had felt as fragile and urgent as a mortal, grabbing at life before the flame snuffed out.

  She was keeping secrets. Had she really lost Jessica’s book of designs? He doubted it, yet knowing that she had probably lied to him didn’t dull his yearning. If there was a measure for his idiocy, that was it.

  Now he stood alone on the corner, just out of the glow of the streetlight. The darkness felt good after the punishing sun, his flesh itching lightly as it healed itself. Saltwater washed the air, mixing with the bitter scent of the old gasoline soaked into the surface of the parking lot. The restaurant across the street was frying onions and burning the coffee. Two lovers stood at the side door, hidden behind the Dumpster but he could hear them whispering and laughing. Only minutes ago, he’d almost had what they now shared.

  But everything had been wrong. Bree had wanted him to hold her. He had wanted to possess her with all the savagery of a bloodthirsty beast. Mark clenched his fist, though what he threatened was a mystery. Fate? Love? His own incapacity for feeling?

  No, that wasn’t really true. He had wanted love in that instant. He had felt that unwelcome wrench under his ribs, a pang of loneliness he dreamed she could kiss away. Foolishness.

  And something of a surprise. He wasn’t a mortal, safe and warm and capable of keeping a woman’s affection. Not once she truly knew him. He had ethics—or at least his own code of morality—but he was a monster. He had been since the day the first Nicholas Ferrel had burned his wife and little boys at the stake for harboring the undead. Five hundred years later, he could still hear their screams. Was it any wonder he’d taken revenge on the Knights of Vidon?

  The memory flared, but he pushed it back into the dark places inside him. Surrendering to a lust for vengeance had never eased his pain. And he had plenty of problems in the present: murder, a book of secrets, slayers and a vulnerable woman and child.

  Mark paced the boundaries of the motel again, but caught no sign of their pursuers. Staying put made him nervous, so he had to find a new vehicle soon. But not too soon. The woman and boy needed rest. He had slipped the child a few drops of his own blood at the hospital and then again when they had stopped to change cars. That was what had made Jonathan sleep so hard this afternoon. A tiny dose of vampire blood had curative powers—at least enough to keep the boy from getting any worse until they reached Los Angeles. For a little while, rest could be a priority.

  As for Mark, he needed to hunt. Spending his day locked in a car with a beautiful human female he wasn’t supposed to bite was the next best thing to outright torture. And while he could survive on the hospital blood stores or the deer around his cabin—well, there was a difference between surviving and dining well.

  He drifted through the shadows, searching for what he wanted. There, he saw a family arriving at another motel, tired and stretching out the stiffness of too many hours behind the wheel. There, he saw a young man leaning against a back stairway, smoking a cigarette. And there, a waitress from the diner throwing garbage into the trash. None of them stirred his appetite.

  He wanted Bree. No. For so many reasons, no.

  Then he saw the Subaru Forester pull into the motel lot. Not a scratch on it. He could smell the new-car scent all the way to the corner. With barely a moment’s hesitation, he walked toward it as it parked. He took in the tinted windows, cargo space and roof rack. Not a tired station wagon, but a compact SUV with good mileage and all the safety features. A perfect family vehicle. No one
ever called me a poor provider.

  A man was getting out. The raincoat and briefcase said businessman. Despite the darkness and the distance, Mark could still read the convention badge clipped to his lapel: Brian MacNally, Seagirt Insurance. Someone breaking the long drive home from a professional conference? With silent steps, Mark closed the distance between them.

  The stink of sex and cheap perfume clinging to MacNally’s clothes said there’d been after-hours adjustments that had nothing to do with homeowner policies—yet a wedding ring flashed on the man’s left hand. A sudden flash of rage overtook Mark. He would have given anything for the man’s way of life: a job, a home, the family that went with the family car. And this Brian MacNally was risking it for what? Relief from boredom?

  Mark put one hand on the hood of the car, blocking MacNally’s path. “So, does this vehicle have childproof locks?”

  He’d moved quickly, using the bad light to disguise his approach. MacNally jerked with surprise. “What?”

  “Childproof locks?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  The man looked confused. “What do you want?”

  Mark stepped into the pale glow of the streetlight, catching MacNally’s gaze. The man was on the cusp of middle age, turning pudgy from too much paperwork and quitting-time Scotch. In another fifteen years he’d be old, fat and facing diabetes. Mark could smell the incipient condition in his sweat. He pitied the man’s wife. He looked like a whiner.

  “I noticed your convention badge. Do you have a business card?” he asked.

  MacNally reached into his breast pocket, whipping one out with a practiced flourish. “I do all kinds of insurance, but I specialize in life. It’s never too soon to think about the future. Have you spoken with anyone about your coverage?”

  “Truthfully, no.” Mark kept the man’s gaze, slipping his will over the man’s mind like a glove. All vampires had some talent for hypnotism, but he was what the Company called a Cleaner: one who could control human memories with a surgeon’s precision. Cleaners took care of the mess when an ordinary human got tangled in their affairs.

  The talent was also extremely useful when hunting. “Stand on your left foot and hop in a circle.”

  MacNally did as he was told. Good.

  “Give me your car keys.”

  MacNally complied, and Mark handed him the keys to his rental car. “There is a brown station wagon in the lot of the Sleepytime Motel three blocks east of here. The wagon is a loaner from a repair shop you visited because of a crack in your windshield. You will ask no questions now or in the future, and you will not remember meeting me here tonight.”

  MacNally nodded weakly.

  “In a few days’ time, a man will return your Subaru to you. You will give this station wagon to that man. I repeat, you will ask no questions. Furthermore, you will stop cheating on your wife.” That wasn’t any of Mark’s business, but he was in an unforgiving mood. “And you will adopt an effective diet and exercise plan. Lose twenty pounds and stop drinking. Do you understand me?”

  MacNally nodded again, a faint look of relief in his eyes, as if he was happy that someone had seized control of his will. “Yes.”

  The beast in Mark tightened its grip on the man, ready to move in for the kill. Mark kept an iron grip on the impulse. Vampires could give sexual pleasure with their bite, but this sure as hell wouldn’t be one of those times. He would feed, but only as much as he needed to take the edge off. The blood he truly craved belonged to a woman with tawny hair and eyes the shifting color of the sea.

  A woman he was sure was still keeping secrets from him.

  * * *

  Bree lay beside Jonathan on the bed closest to the door, leaving the other conspicuously vacant. She was wide-awake, comforted only by the fact that Jonathan seemed to be sleeping normally, if deeply.

  She should eat something, but there was too much to think about. She wanted to use her phone, maybe surf the net looking for more news of the incident at Gleeford Ferry, but she’d pulled the battery out for a good reason. Still, the thought left her feeling isolated. Losing contact with the phone and internet was almost like being deaf and blind.

  A perfectly good landline sat on the bedside table, a sticker on the side telling her to dial nine to place an outside call. Surely a call from an anonymous hotel number was different from her personal cell phone? No one was going to listen in here. Except, who was she going to call? She’d kept her own secrets and everyone else’s for so long, she had cut herself off from the world.

  She stared at the phone, and it stared back at her. There is no one.

  That was crazy. Mark was taking them to Los Angeles. Home. The word sounded almost odd. Sure, she kept up on what her family was doing—they were nothing if not publicity hounds—but she’d left for New York and never looked back. She’d slammed their big front door.

  Now here she was, just hours from her childhood home, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Bree’s mother had sent her to boarding school when she reached fourteen. She’d been seeking attention in inappropriate ways—stealing things, sneaking out at night. The kiddie shrinks had recommended discipline. Bree would have prescribed real parents—ones who kept an eye on their daughter when her dad threw a bash for his movie friends.

  Poor, innocent Brianna, they’d used to say. Bree had become very good at dodging their hands and sliding away, as quick and deft as a ferret. That had started when she was nine.

  She’d been running then, too.

  A good mother would have noticed that Bree’s first boyfriends were too old for her. Or that she’d come home with her clothes torn, or drunk, or with a bloody lip. Some men didn’t understand no.

  She’d assumed it was just the way things were. All the starlets in her father’s world expected to be used—or at least it seemed that way to her inexperienced eye. She was a lot older before she understood that some of it was just games.

  Looking back, her father probably assumed she knew, if he had thought about it at all. Hank Meadows, motion picture genius, was anything but malicious, but his only child was just part of the landscape, like the potted orange tree in the front hall.

  A twinge of old anger snaked through her. She’d never ignore Jonathan that way, ever. When they’d found the place on the coast, surrounded by trees and water and good people, Bree had settled in to raise her son. It didn’t matter if they had no money and the locals thought fashion was a clean pair of jeans—no one asked questions. It was safe. She had been prepared to give up everything to stay.

  The idyll had lasted almost a whole year, until she’d been stupid enough to hand over her health insurance card. Then they were on the run, there was Mark and here she was.

  Mark, who was man enough to listen when she said no. She had to respect that. Not all men had that kind of honor.

  Bree looked down at her son’s sleeping face, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his nose and chin. She tucked the blankets around him a bit more tightly, as if that could erase the stamp of illness from his face.

  Her folks had never even met Jonathan. Regret filled her, followed by a sliver of guilt. They’d want that, wouldn’t they? Don’t people want to see their grandkids? Her parents had never made the move, never suggested that they visit her in New York. Were they giving me space, or do they really not care?

  Or was it because Bree had promised never to come home again? Their last family meeting made high noon at the O.K. Corral look downright friendly. Bree had been free at last, on her way to a real life and a real career. She had taken that final chance to lash out at the people who had hurt her so badly. But leaving would never ease the ache inside her. Against all reason, she still wanted their love.

  Before Bree knew it, her hand was on the telephone receiver, putting it to her ear. She dialed her dad’s private cell
number.

  It rang. Bree held her breath, her heart beating fast. What would she say? That she would be in town and wanted to see him but she was being followed by lethal madmen so maybe next time? Would her dad think she was crazy or ask for the film rights? Or call out the National Guard? It was hard to predict.

  It went to voice mail. It wasn’t even his voice on the message. She hung up.

  Bree stared at the phone again, wondering if she should try her mom. She picked up the receiver again, trying to remember her mom’s number. Althea Meadows was an expert in international corporate law and more often than not was on a plane. In more ways than one, Bree had given up trying to reach her long ago.

  “I’m on the road,” her mom would say when she was little. “Ask your father.”

  Bree would reply that he was on location, filming in Nevada. Or Africa. Or Iceland.

  “Then ask the nanny.”

  The dial tone went to a steady beeping. She still hadn’t called her mother, and the welling discomfort inside told her she probably wouldn’t.

  Jonathan shifted and mumbled while Bree glared at the phone, frozen with fury. Why wasn’t I important enough to protect? What was the matter with me?

  But then Bree heard footsteps in the hall. She replaced the receiver as quietly as she could and nestled down into the pillow, closing her eyes. She slowed her breathing. Long practice as a kid had taught her how to fool her caretakers into believing she was sound asleep.

  The lock clicked and the door swung open. Bree opened her eyes just enough to peer out from under her lashes. Only the dim glow from the bedside lamp took the edge off the darkness, but Mark moved through the room with sure-footed ease. He paused, looking around, looking at her, and then picked up her backpack, quietly sliding the zipper open.

  “Hey!” she said, sitting bolt upright. “Get your hands off that!”

  Without a word, he upended it on the bed, dumping out socks, underwear, a hairbrush and Jessica’s priceless book of wedding designs.