Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  I clenched my stomach muscles against the tickle of excitement. Everything was coming together for the first time in my life. I’d finally made my first kill. Now my grandmother would have to accept my competence.

  And the fact I’d managed to finally outdo that bitch Mischa Petrov made the victory so much sweeter. The look on her face when she realized we’d beaten her was worth more to me than any monetary reward.

  And what about Slade? Right then, Slade was a big question mark. A very sexy, intense question mark. I scooted down into the covers as a smile spread across my face.

  Sure, the job didn’t leave a lot of room for romance, but there was no reason we couldn’t be friends with benefits. Using each other to work off the post-job glow, as it were. And, who knew? Maybe we could even be partners. I allowed myself to daydream about us teaming up on more missions. He’d teach me everything he knew about being an assassin, and I’d reward him with hot, steamy sex. Seemed like a fair deal.

  I slammed my fist into the table. “Where is he?” I demanded. All rational thought had flown out the window in the last twenty-four hours, but it wasn’t until this moment that rage filled up the hollow place logic had abandoned.

  “Calm yourself,” my grandmother, Lavinia Kane, snapped. “We don’t know where he went.”

  When Slade failed to reappear the night before, I’d spent the first hour in denial. Traffic, I’d reasoned. By the third hour, I’d paced a trough in my floor. By sunrise, after several unanswered phone messages, I’d gone into panic mode. What if something happened to him? Every now and then, even good assassins lost their luck and fell under the gun of a pissed off friend or relative.

  I’d called the Dominae headquarters just before sunrise, hoping they’d heard something. Tanith informed me that Slade had come by to collect the payment as expected. She hadn’t heard from him since, she said – not to worry.

  After a sleepless day, my phone rang at about 7 pm. I’d rushed to answer, convinced Slade was calling to explain. Instead, my grandmother commanded me to report to the compound ASAP. I’d driven over with dread pooling in my gut like tar.

  When I arrived, my grandmother gave me her theory on what happened to Slade.

  “After you called last night, Tanith sent someone to check Slade’s house. The signs of a hasty departure were unmistakable.”

  “But we don’t know for sure he ran. Maybe someone kidnapped him,” I said.

  Tanith shook her head. “He also left this.” She slid a note across the desk. As I read the letter, my dread morphed into black rage.

  The note was addressed to the Dominae. The content was short and to the point: “I can’t do this any more.”

  “How could he just disappear like that? Surely someone knows where he went,” I said.

  Tanith shook her head. “Sabina, Slade is one of our best assassins. He knows how to disappear when he wants to. We don’t even know how long he’d been planning this or if it was a spur of the moment thing.”

  I closed my eyes. I’d been so stupid. A foolish girl blinded by hero worship and eagerness to please. On that first night, Slade had said he had a lot riding on this mission. I saw now that he’d been planning to leave before I even entered the picture. He’d played me for three days, allowing me to think we were a team. Truth was, I’d been nothing but a pawn in his plan to cut and run.

  Why had he run? Well, he’d mentioned not seeing eye to eye with the Dominae. And when I’d asked him if he regretted killing anyone, he’d clammed up.

  “Oh shit,” I said as the rest became clear.

  “What?”

  “Does Slade ever use guns?”

  Tanith and Lavinia shared a confused glance. “Of course. He’s an excellent marksman. Why?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “He told me he didn’t like to use guns. He only carried stakes when we were together.”

  “That makes no sense,” Tanith said.

  “It makes perfect sense. Last night, he deliberately missed Zeke twice. He all but forced me to carry out the kill.”

  “Why would he do that?” Lavinia asked.

  “Don’t you see? Slade lost his edge. That’s why he ran. He said he couldn’t take it any more.” I held up the note. “He used me to kill Zeke so he could collect the money and run.”

  “Wait – you made the kill?” Lavinia said. “Slade told me you froze and he had to finish the job.”

  Before this little revelation, I’d been hot with anger. Now, the blood in my veins became an ice floe. “Did he? And I’m sure you bought that, didn’t you? Easier to believe I choked than to believe that Slade was playing you all for fools!”

  “That’s enough!” Lavinia yelled.

  “You’re right. It is enough. I will not be punished for Slade’s choices. I carried out the mission as instructed. I want you to clear me for solitary kills.” I thought about asking them to pay me, but that didn’t matter any more. I wasn’t going to let Slade’s duplicity screw me out of my chance to be a real assassin.

  My grandmother stared me down with black eyes. I didn’t flinch – didn’t give her a hint of weakness to use as an excuse to deny me. Finally, she lowered her chin. “Fine. But you must promise to speak to no one about Slade’s desertion. Is that clear?”

  I jerked a nod. “Crystal.”

  “I’d hoped working with Slade would teach you lessons about how to be a good assassin,” Tanith said, shaking her head.

  “Don’t worry, Domina. The lesson Slade taught me was much more valuable than any he could have planned.”

  “And what might that be?” Lavinia said.

  I shook my head and turned to go. They allowed me to leave without comment. But as I walked out of the room and saw the hostile faces of the Undercouncil, and those other vampires who saw me as nothing more than a mixed-blood, the lesson echoed through my head.

  I’ll always be better off alone.

  On the heels of that sad realization, I also knew I hadn’t seen the last of Slade Corbin. I wasn’t sure when. I wasn’t sure where. But one of these days, I’d make sure he understood no one screws Sabina Kane – metaphorically or literally – and just walks away.

  Trust Me

  Stacia Kane

  Chapter One

  Whitechapel, London

  3 September 1888

  “So she was a prostitute?” John leaned back in his chair. He didn’t want to hire a prostitute again. There had been too many of them, too many women he’d trained and come to know a little, only to have them leave again – usually carrying a piece or two of his silver and a bottle of liquor – and head back out to the streets.

  At the same time, given the news that was all over the district this morning . . . how could he turn the girl away?

  “She says no, sir.” Mrs Langley smoothed her black skirts with her hands. “But I’m not certain she’s telling the truth.”

  John nodded. He could easily find out. “Send her in.”

  Mrs Langley bobbed a quick curtsey and left the room, returning a moment later with the girl in question.

  At first glance John thought her nothing special. Wisps of dark hair peeked out from under a respectable brown bonnet; her pale face floated above the neckline of an equally dull dress ten years out of date. She was slim and looked clean, and that was all that mattered. It wasn’t until he looked again that he saw how pleasing were the angles of her face, how delightfully plump her lips. She was quite attractive, no matter how or why she chose to hide it.

  “Sit down, Mrs Richards.” He indicated one of the deep leather chairs in front of his desk, hiding his awkwardness behind a smooth, calm manner. Mrs Langley did all of the hiring and firing of household staff for his home in Westminster, and John barely noticed the maids who washed his dirty linens or scrubbed his fireplace.

  But this was different, just as the house here was different. His home and offices in Whitechapel served a different purpose from his Westminster home, and if he hired this woman in front of him, she would
be spending time here with him in addition to whatever other duties Mrs Langley would give her. He needed a woman who knew the area, a woman who would teach him about it. Most of all, he needed a woman who could be discreet.

  For this Mrs Richards certainly looked the part. He would know more when she spoke. The thought of having a screeching Whitechapel harpie bludgeoning the English tongue in close quarters with him on a daily basis made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.

  Mrs Richards sat, folding her hands neatly on her lap. There was something dignified about her that John liked. It boded well for her.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “Have you worked in service before? How did you come to be here today?”

  Mrs Richards paused a half-beat before she spoke. There was vulnerability in that pause, and it made John oddly protective of her. When she finally did speak, her voice was low and soothing, with no trace of the horrible East End accent he’d so feared.

  “My husband died, sir. Almost a year ago. I’ve been in service ever since.” She paused again before the words “in service”.

  “What kind of service?” John leaned forwards. “With whom?”

  “I did laundry for Mrs Grant on Varden Street. I cooked a little for Mr Bright on Cannon Street Road.” She looked right at him as she spoke, steady and unflinching. Where had this woman gained such dignity, working as a laundress and a cook? Or had she always had it, and the travails of such employment had not managed to erase it from her?

  He was intrigued enough to want to find out. “Did you do any other types of work?”

  Pause. “What other types of work?”

  John signalled for Mrs Langley to leave them alone, waiting until the housekeeper had bustled out of the room before speaking again. “Did you work as a prostitute, Mrs Richards?” He stood and opened the heavy sideboard, removing a crystal decanter of sherry and pouring her a glass. “Go ahead, take it. You look parched.”

  She smiled her thanks, but did not look particularly grateful. This was surely the oddest interview he’d ever had in his life. She seemed to be sizing him up, not the other way around. He liked that, though. He realized he liked her.

  “If I had,” she said, “I don’t see why it should matter.”

  “I suppose it shouldn’t. But I would like to know, just the same.”

  She shrugged. “Does the timing of my arrival here seem like a coincidence?”

  “You mean the murders?”

  “Yes.” Two of them now. Martha Tabram and, only two nights before, Polly Nichols. Both of them viciously slashed . . . mutilated.

  John sat down on the edge of his desk, close enough to her to look into her eyes. He realized as he did so that he’d been curious all this time as to their colour, and the discovery that they were green was quite satisfying. They were also large and steady, and now that he was closer to her he found she smelled faintly of lavender and rosewater. Her skin truly was perfect, as pale as milk, from her face down the slender column of her throat. He could see her pulse beating faintly there, betraying her outward calm.

  “I assume many ladies are trying to get off the streets,” he said as non-committally as he could. “Perhaps even ladies who just arrived on them.”

  “Perhaps that life was not to their tastes after all, sir,” Mrs Richards said.

  “Perhaps they could earn more money doing the same job privately, and enjoy it more as well.”

  The minute it came out of his mouth he regretted it. Was he mad? This woman had come here to be a secretary to him. Now he was actually propositioning her, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why, except he wanted to know what made her tick. He wanted to know what sorts of emotions hid beneath that calm face . . . what sorts of passions beat in the heart beneath the gentle swell of her bosom.

  She blinked, once. The first show of emotion he’d seen from her. “Perhaps they could.” Another delicate pause. “If the terms were right, and the employer agreeable.”

  “Do you find me agreeable, Mrs Richards?” His voice sounded hoarse, echoing strangely in his head; his trousers were uncomfortably tight. This was certainly not the type of interview he’d planned to have, but he found, as the minutes stretched while he waited for her answer, that he desperately hoped she would say yes. The desire to break through that calm exterior and see what lay beneath was almost overwhelming.

  She shrugged again, a tiny smile playing across her face. “You’re a handsome gentleman, sir. What woman wouldn’t find you agreeable?”

  He couldn’t wait any longer. His hands gripped her shoulders, lifting her from her seat to press against him as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  That first taste of her . . . it was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Sherry and honey, and the pure sweetness of her mouth. Whatever she’d been doing for the last year, she still tasted like a virgin.

  But she didn’t kiss like one. The tongue that met his was sensuous, soft, accepting. The arms that wound around his neck as he squeezed her tighter were passionate, willing. He groaned into her mouth and she echoed it, and he believed. She wasn’t putting on a show. Something was happening, some spark had caught fire between them, and he for one wasn’t going to question it. Especially not at that moment.

  His hands travelled down, cupping the curve of her behind and pressing her against him. He dipped his head, kissing that delicate throat. Beneath his lips her blood raced like a hare’s. He had to fight to control himself.

  Damn those heavy skirts! He wanted to feel her, really feel her, but it was impossible with so many layers of petticoats in the way. “Turn around,” he managed.

  She paused. Her lips looked plump and bruised from their passion.

  “Turn around.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly – he could only imagine what she must be thinking, if she’d truly been on the streets – but she obeyed him. Both actions pleased him. She had her own mind, but acknowledged his dominance. He’d never met a woman who did both before, not like this, with her particular cool control.

  He couldn’t wait to watch her lose it.

  Gently he pulled the tie of her bonnet and removed it. The pins holding her tidy bun in place slipped out easily, releasing a soft mass of hair that caught the light from the candles and sent it back in sparks of deep blue. Black as night, black as a sinner’s soul, her hair. He longed to see it spread over her pale naked flesh.

  Still standing behind her, he reached forwards and unfastened the long row of buttons down her front. More of her neck and shoulders were exposed with every one. So pale. So beautiful. He pressed his lips over the delicate ridge of a collarbone, over the smooth curve of her shoulder, and swept her heavy hair off to the other side.

  He glanced up. Her expression was still composed, but her lips were parted. Above the confines of her corset her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She may be able to hide her feelings on her face, but her body did not lie. Neither did his. When had he last wanted a woman this badly, been this desperate to take one?

  Not yet. Not until he managed to break that steely composure.

  Gently he slid the gown off her shoulders and down, so the pale ivory of her corset was her only covering from the waist up, her drawers and petticoat from the waist down. The petticoat he untied and tugged out from under the corset, letting it pool at her feet, before finally taking down the scrupulously clean and almost invisibly mended drawers.

  Her skin was cool under his palm as he caressed one round cheek, then the other. He leaned forwards, running his hands down her front and resting them on her thighs, his thumbs barely touching the curls covering her sex.

  Her breath hitched, but he saw no other reaction.

  Those curls parted under his questing fingers easily, smoothly. His nose tingled with the musky, erotic scent of her. She shuddered in his arms, but still did not speak. Did not turn to look at him, did not move her hips eagerly forwards. But her throat worked as he began teasing her, exploring her with his fingertips.

/>   “Mrs Richards,” he whispered, letting his lips tickle her ear. Her pale flesh was turning pink, the colour spreading over her breasts and throat like a winter sunrise. “Do you find that agreeable?”

  Finally she moved. She reached back and ran one hand smoothly over the front of his trousers. “Do you find that agreeable, Mr March?”

  He couldn’t take it any more. With a growl that seemed to come from somewhere below his waist he swung her around to face him, then moved once again so he could prop her on the edge of his desk. Desire glowed in her heavy-lidded eyes.

  And her body . . . her breasts spilled over the top of her corset, her hips swelled like a cherry beneath it. Her thighs were slim and pale, the place between them perfect.

  His cock leaped in his trousers, reminding him he had other things to do, more important things than simply standing here and staring at her all day. She was so calm. Even now.

  And not a prostitute’s calm. Not boredom. She wanted him, he knew it. The evidence stared him in the face and still coated his fingers. But she was hiding something, a part of herself, and John couldn’t help but admire her for that. He did the same.

  But he was better at it. He would defeat her in this.

  He thrust his fingers under the cups of her corset and scooped her breasts out of it, dipping his head first to one, then the other, and rolling her nipples in his mouth. She gasped. A tiny gasp, but a gasp just the same. Otherwise she stayed still, with one lock of silky black hair falling over her shoulder and into her cleavage.

  What would it take? He kissed her, taking another long taste of her sweetness, and found he could not leave again. The kiss continued while he put his hand back to work between her legs. Another gasp.

  If he didn’t get a real response, a vocal one, from her soon he would explode. “Tell me you want me,” he demanded, his own voice none too steady. “Tell me.”

  She didn’t reply. He withdrew his hand, withdrew himself, and faced her as she perched on the edge of the desk with her small pert breasts free from her corset and her legs spread. She looked, flushed with heat, less like a plain but alluring woman and more like a demon sent to tempt him, to steal his soul. Her eyes shone with hidden secrets.