Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  Her back had been to the door. If she turned and walked carefully – crawled, perhaps – surely she could find it . . .

  But before her knees hit the floor John’s strong arm was around her shoulders, scooping her up, carrying her back towards the hall. Through the smoke haze she saw him twist one of the banisters on the staircase, saw a door open at the end of the hall, and then he carried her through it and darkness enveloped them both.

  “John?” Before she was fully awake the word escaped her mouth, but she was glad it had when his hand grasped hers.

  “I’m here.”

  She opened her eyes. Like all rooms John occupied, only a single candle illuminated it, but she could still see. Pale walls rose to a high, gilded ceiling. Heavy furniture sat against the walls, light glinting from shiny carvings. And silk-covered softness cradled her naked body.

  Her throat hurt. “Where are we?”

  “Westminster. We’re safe, Phemie. You’re safe.”

  The room swayed as she sat up. “Westminster?”

  “The tunnels lead here. My house. We’ll be safe enough, for a day or so. Until we get everything packed.”

  “Packed?” Her head felt stuffed with wool. What was he – Oh. It all came back, the fire, the blood, his . . . fangs.

  “We have to leave London. We can’t stay, not when they’ll be after me. I’m sure your friends back in Whitechapel have told them everything they know.”

  Euphemia listened carefully for a trace of bitterness in his voice, but didn’t find one. “My friends . . . ”

  “Don’t fear. You were doing the right thing. We were on the same side, my dear.”

  “How did you know?”

  His free hand stroked her neck, pushing her hair back over her shoulder. “Vampires know things. We see things. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I couldn’t. If everyone suspected me it would put him at ease. I needed him at ease, so I could catch him.”

  “Him?”

  “The killer. Leather Apron, or Jack, or whatever they’re calling him now. He’s not a vampire, but he’s almost one. He’s a ghoul, a thing made of pure evil, which eats flesh and bathes in blood. I was sent to Whitechapel as soon as we had word he was in town. We hoped to catch him before he managed to harm anyone, but . . . ” His eyes darkened. “I failed.”

  “I don’t understand this. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “You will, in time. If you still love me.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “If you like . . . ” She heard him swallow. “If you like I can send you back. I’ll get my driver to take you, or give you fare for a hansom. And something more, to help you. If this is all too much for you, I . . . I understand.”

  She didn’t understand why those words changed everything for her. Perhaps she never would. But it was at that moment, when he gave her back to herself, that she knew, really knew, that he was telling the truth. She’d believed him before. She’d trusted him enough to take the chance despite her fears.

  But this was more than trust or belief. This was knowledge, rock solid. He loved her. He would never hurt her, or anyone else.

  And she loved him. Her body filled with light, so bright it made her grin. A very undignified, un-Euphemialike grin, but it seemed to please John well enough.

  “You think I’d give up a man as wealthy as you?” she teased.

  His reply was a kiss, so soft and slow she felt her insides turn into liquid. “I don’t want you to ever give me up,” he whispered. “Not ever.”

  “I won’t.”

  Their kiss deepened, their tongues meeting, entwining. Heat pooled between her legs, spreading up to her stomach, as if she’d just sat in a hot bath. There would be many nights in bed together. Years and years.

  “Euphemia.” His dark eyes twinkled. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “You are.”

  “And I always will be.”

  She smiled, too full of joy and love and desire to speak. He understood, she knew he did; knew she would never have to hide her thoughts or the wanton need he inspired in her. Never have to pretend anything, ever again. Because she’d finally found a man she could trust, completely and fully. For ever.

  Whitechapel, London

  9 November 1888

  6 am

  John and his brothers waited in the shadows outside 13 Miller’s Court. Too late. John cursed himself. If they’d been a little more clever, if they’d gotten here just a little sooner . . .

  The sun would rise soon. They needed to get back into the tunnels before it did. But so did he.

  Finally the door opened, then closed. Their prey, who’d made so many women his, stood in the passageway between the two buildings, his work done for the night. His very presence coloured the air with stifling evil.

  They fell on him. No more murders. His reign of terror would end, and end now.

  The killer must have been waiting for them, must have known they would catch him eventually. He was prepared. His bloodstained knife sliced the air, caught Edward’s neck, Cyril’s arm, John’s shoulder. He fought silently and hard, as the rest of them did, managing with the skills of their kind to avoid disturbing any neighbours. But just before the sun peeked over the horizon, John drove the stake into “Jack”’s heart as Cyril swung his sword and took the killer’s head off. They stood silently and watched as he crumbled into dust at their feet.

  It was over.

  Truly over. The reign of terror in Whitechapel had ended, and with it the loneliness of centuries. John never thought he would be grateful to a ghoul, to something that never should have existed. But he was. Because if not for him John never would have met Euphemia, and as much as it made him sick that lives had ended, he knew his own had just begun again. His new life. The one he would share with Euphemia for ever.

  The Scotsman and the Vamp

  Jennifer Ashley

  Hollywood, 1925

  The best thing about a wrap party was the dancing.

  Claire Armand loved the beat of the new jazz, its rapid staccato, the thump of the bass, the heartbeat-like pound of the drums. Silas Goldberg, the producer, could afford the best band in Los Angeles for his “it’s in the can” party at his Hollywood mansion. Claire would start on a new picture in the morning, but tonight, she planned to dance her heart out.

  The charleston was her favourite. It let her dance alone instead of risking a man’s wandering hands in a foxtrot. Better still, she could show off her legs and the adorable silver shoes she’d bought to go with her glittering short sheath dress.

  Coming to Hollywood had been the best decision of her life. She’d thrown off the shackles of the straight-laced, tradition-bound vampire community of London, and fled the role expected of her – vampire bride to Scotsman Ross Maclaren.

  Sounded like a Hollywood film: The Vampire Bride of Ross Maclaren. Maybe she should pitch it to Goldberg.

  “Oh, Claire, I love your dress.” The heroine of the film they’d just finished, The Ingénue and the Prince, danced up to her. Lauren Cole, indeed, looked like an ingénue with her cherubic face, soft golden hair and big blue eyes. She was shy, however, and madly in love with the film’s hero, the dark-haired heart-throb, Gavin Sanders.

  “Thank you,” Claire yelled over the music. “I had it made specially for tonight.”

  She didn’t return Lauren’s compliment because, as usual, Lauren had no clothes sense. The dress Lauren had chosen was frilly and frumpy and completely wrong for her figure. Claire would have to take her in hand.

  “Gavin is right over there.” Claire indicated the man standing by the bar, staring wistfully at them. “Go ask him to dance.”

  Lauren’s eyes widened. “No, I couldn’t.”

  This from a woman who’d declared her undying love to Gavin just this afternoon. But, then, the cameras had been rolling.

  “You’ll never get him to look at you if you don’t talk to him.”

  “He’s not interested in me. He’s in love with you.”


  “Don’t be daft. He told me the other day he found you a delight.”

  Rapture. “Did he?” Rapture faded. “I bet he was just being polite. It’s you the men buzz around, Claire. You’re so beautiful.”

  Of course Claire was beautiful. She was eternal. She never had to sleep or eat if she didn’t want to. She could work long hours and always look good; she never complained or got tired. Film directors loved her.

  When Claire had arrived in Hollywood last year, she’d been instantly cast as the femme fatale, a villainness to lure the hero to his doom. She had lustrous black hair, a pale face with sensual red lips, and dark eyes that smouldered at her command. She’d done six pictures so far, and her seductive stare had already become famous across the United States.

  Off the set, Claire had no use for Hollywood men. She disliked their lasciviousness, their unveiled offers of sex, their conviction that all actresses were eager to leap into bed. Not one man she’d met in Hollywood was a gentleman, except Silas Goldberg, but that was only because he didn’t see his actresses as women. They were dollar signs to him, nothing more.

  Claire didn’t care. She preferred dancing to men. She loved beautiful clothes, champagne, wild Hollywood parties, sneaking into speakeasies, and dancing all night. At home she’d been expected to remain quietly indoors in an English country house with the women of her clan, while the males were allowed to mingle with humans in clubs and restaurants. The world was deemed too dangerous for vampire women, who lived together in gorgeously appointed houses muffled against the sunlight. Elegant, luxurious and so very, very dull.

  The music changed. “Foxtrot!” Claire shouted.

  She grabbed Lauren and dragged the young woman to where Gavin Sanders stood at the bar. “Gavin, do dance with Lauren. She certainly doesn’t want to dance with me.”

  Claire thrust Lauren’s hand into Gavin’s, kissed the tips of her fingers to them both, and whirled away, her good deed done.

  A man in full Arab costume strode to her out of the crowd. He wore the entire outfit from The Sheik and had included a dark mask under his headgear. Claire held out her arms.

  “Rudy, how screaming to see you. Come and dance with me.”

  Claire liked Rudy Valentino, one of the few men who didn’t try to grope her. Rudy had supplemented his early career by dancing with elderly rich ladies in hotels back east, and Claire always found him graceful and light on his feet.

  Tonight Rudy seemed ill at ease. He danced with her a few steps then swept her into surprisingly strong arms. Before she could ask what on earth he was doing, he ducked with her through the crowd and ran for the door.

  Claire waved at the throng behind her. “Goodbye, everybody! The Sheik is carrying me off.”

  They cheered, far gone in champagne. Just before her abductor swept her out of the ballroom, Claire caught a glimpse of a man who looked exactly like Rudolph Valentino in a back corner. He wore a plain suit, was conversing with Goldberg, and never looked up at Claire.

  “Wait a minute, who the devil are you? Put me down at once.”

  Claire struggled. She was strong, but so was he. He carried her out of the house and deposited her behind the driver’s seat of an open roadster. He swung into the passenger’s side before she could get out, and reached over and pressed the starter. “Drive,” he growled.

  In fury, Claire put the car in gear and screeched past the vehicles in the circular drive. She shot through the gates and yanked the big car to the right, roaring down the road that snaked downhill to town.

  As she drove, Claire pondered what to do. She could easily wreck the car with her abductor in it and walk away without a scratch. But the man might die, and maybe he was only a foolish movie fan who wanted to see how far he could get with Claire Armand. She couldn’t justify killing him because she was peeved.

  Claire had no reservations about scaring the wits out of him, though. There wasn’t much traffic this late, and she loved to drive. She zigged around a hairpin turn on two wheels then stomped on the gas. Wind rushed through her hair, and she threw back her head and laughed.

  The sheik clawed the cloths from his head and face. “For God’s sake, Claire, be careful.” His voice was deep, rich, Scottish, and haunted her dreams. “This car is hired.”

  Claire hit the brakes. The car skidded sideways across the road then slanted into a ditch. Claire turned to stare at the big, dark-haired Scotsman who glared back at her with sinfully tawny eyes.

  “Ross!”

  “Aye. I’ve come t’ take ye home, Claire.”

  Claire’s body went hot, then ice cold. The tables had just turned. Instead of Claire Armand teaching her kidnapper a lesson, Ross Maclaren was going to teach her one. A big, fat terrifying, never-ending lesson.

  What have they done to my Claire?

  Was this his promised bride – this vixen in a shimmering dress that bared her arms and revealed her long, sexy legs? His Claire who’d danced with abandon in that ballroom, laughing like she’d never been so happy in her life?

  Ross burned with fury but at the same time felt a touch wistful. She’d never laughed like that around him.

  Now his promised bride glared at him with dark eyes that held a glint of red. Those same eyes had burned him from a cinema screen in Edinburgh not three weeks before. She’d been wearing a pseudo-Egyptian sheath that bared her legs and a large quantity of bosom for all the world to see.

  His Claire. The woman who was to turn him into a vampire so that he could love and protect her for ever.

  In the movie, Claire had languidly stroked her hand across the resisting hero’s chest, while her lush lips moved silently. The next card had assured Ross that she’d said, “My darling, I burn for you with undying passion.”

  Ross had stormed out of the theatre and bought a ticket on the next ocean liner to America. He knew that what he’d seen had been a play, make-believe filmed on celluloid. But his urge to rip the hero away from Claire and throttle him had been too strong.

  “Ross,” Claire demanded of him now. “What are you doing here?”

  “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? You are supposed to be home sewing your trousseau, preparing to become m’wife.”

  She shook her head, black hair glistening in the moonlight. “That’s all off. I have a career to think of.”

  “It’s no’ off, lass. It can never be off. You’re promised t’ me and that’s final. ’Tis the way of our lives.”

  “You truly want to become vampire and bound to me for ever? Don’t you want a choice?”

  “I did, when I was younger, aye. But after meeting you . . .”

  “You burned with undying passion?” Claire rolled the eyes that had driven the hero mad in The Pharaoh’s Tomb. “This isn’t a film, Ross. It’s our lives. Or do you want me only because I can give you immortality?” Bitterness and anger edged her voice.

  “Claire, how could ye think that?”

  Claire clutched the wheel of the unmoving car. “I decided I didn’t want to be married off, to spend my days embroidering in some draughty Scottish castle. For ever. The world has opened up for women, and I want to live in it. Women are a large part of the movie industry now, and I see no reason why I shouldn’t be, too.”

  “Aye,” Ross agreed. “Tarts are a large part of it, too. Showing everything but their knickers to the world for a tuppenny ticket.”

  “Are you calling me a tart, Ross Maclaren?” Claire’s eyes flashed dangerous rage, and her fangs brushed her lower lip. He wished he didn’t find that so erotic.

  Ross’ reply was cut short by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

  “You having some trouble, lady?” A man in a police constable’s uniform strolled up to the car, regarding Claire with cynical suspicion. “Had a few sips from the hip flask, did you, ma’am?”

  Ross started to growl in anger, but Claire turned an instant, heart-melting smile on the constable. “Oh, I am zo zorry, officer,” she said, her voice deep and liquid. “I though
t I zaw a cat in the road, and I didn’t want to hit ze poor zing, did I? I had no idea ze car, it could stop zo fast.”

  Ross rolled his eyes in the darkness. The accent, the manner – all ridiculous, but the policeman stared at her with his mouth open. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you Claire Armand?”

  Claire tossed her hair. “I am she, yez.”

  “Hey, no kidding?” The policeman broke into a wide, delighted grin. “I just took my girlfriend to Daughter of the Regiment. You were brilliant. My girlfriend, though, she, um, thought you deserved it when you got shot.”

  Ross’ protective anger rose like an enraged lion, but Claire put a slender hand on his arm. “Your lady is right, officer. Ze countess, she should die. She could not reform herself, no. She was too set on self-destruction. So she decides not to dodge ze bullet when it comes for her.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her, Miss Armand.” The policeman tugged a pen and paper out of his pocket. “Can I have your autograph? It would make my girlfriend so happy.”

  “She will cover you with kisses, no?” Claire tittered as the young man blushed. “Ah, I see zat zis is so. Certainly, I will write ze autograph. Zo long as it is not on a ticket?” She gave a throaty laugh.

  “No, ma’am. I know now that you were trying not to hit a cat. Not your fault, and no one got hurt.”

  Claire wrote her name with a flourish and handed the pen and paper back to him. The policeman tucked the autograph into his pocket then guided Claire as she backed the car out of the ditch. The policeman waved goodbye, and Claire drove them away.

  Ross finally unclenched his hands. “Good God, Claire, what was that all about?”

  “I didn’t want a ticket. And the nice constable can thrill his girlfriend with tales of meeting a famous movie star. I wager she really will cover him in kisses.”

  “I meant th’ accent, and the rubbish about ‘ze countess’ not dodging ‘ze bullet’.’”

  “Oh, it’s just a bit of fun. The movies only have pictures, so how does he know what I sound like in real life?”