The Vampire's Temptation

by Cecelia Mecca

  More banging from outside invaded his consciousness.

  If Lawrence insisted on seeing him now, so be it.

  He stormed his way to the front door, then ripped it open and said the words that would allow his enemy to enter. Then, without another word, he punched Lawrence in the face so hard his head spun. Shaking it off immediately, his foe answered back in kind, the fight as pointless as it was invigorating.

  They were equals in strength, and immortality, and therefore could not kill each other. Which is likely why Lawrence finally shouted for him to stop. He did so, but only because he needed another drink.

  They’d destroyed the furniture in the entranceway, and the hall had fared little better. Ignoring the Scot, Kenton stalked into the front room, or the “red room,” as it had been previously called on account of its red walls, and proceeded to make himself a sloe gin at the bar. Gritting his teeth, he made two.

  Lawrence hated the drink, but courtesy demanded he take it—an ancient rule, yes, but one grounded into them by their medieval beginnings. Handing him the glass, Kenton ignored the blood on their already healed skin.

  “An interesting turn of events.”

  “Not now, Derrickson.”

  He needed to think. To understand what he’d done.

  “Why didn’t you kill her?” Lawrence pressed.

  He could lie to the Scot, tell him he’d decided to hold off on killing her until he had more information. But Lawrence was fully aware her time had run out.

  “We’ve pleaded with you across the globe for centuries, tried to tell you there was another way.”

  He glared at Lawrence, willing him to stop speaking. It had been a mistake to allow the pompous Scot entry.

  “But still you seek to wipe out my brother’s bloodline.”

  “Before they do the same to us. And you. Lawrence, I’m in no mood for this argument.”

  Lawrence sat on a chair in the red room.

  “And yet, here I am, sharing the second drink of the day with my enemy. While yours has gone home, alive and well, against all reason.” He drank deeply, a small frown on his brow. “As I said, an interesting turn of events. Why?”

  Kenton snapped. “Do you think I know the answer to that?” he yelled. He followed Lawrence’s gaze to the splintered remains of the table he’d shattered.

  “Seven hundred years and I have never seen you lose your temper in such a way, Kenton.”

  Because he never did. Until today.

  “Look at me.”

  “I don’t take orders from you—”

  “Or anyone. I know. You are, or were, the eldest son to one of the most powerful men in Northumbria. A ruthless killer responsible for nearly eradicating an entire family line—my brother’s to be exact—and a onetime king.”

  Kenton took a long sip of gin. “It was a small country,” he conceded.

  Lawrence didn’t smile, but his lips twitched as if they wanted to. Kenton refused to look at him because he’d been ordered to do so, but he could see the Scot’s expression from the corner of his eye.

  “You take orders from no one, save your brothers, and even then it is you who is in control. Even of Rowan.”

  It was true, Rowan was more difficult than Drake to control, but his brothers rarely overruled him, knowing it was their safety he cared most about in this world.

  “And yet, you’ve gone against your own nature, certainly your brothers’ wishes, and allowed the lovely Alessandra Fiore to live.”

  Indeed. And he could make no more sense of it than his enemy could. He finished his drink in one large gulp, then, without speaking to his guest, made himself another. Finally, his temper cooled enough for him to ask the Scot a question.

  “Are you drawn to her?”

  It was the most civil tone he’d ever taken with a Derrickson, and it seemed to take the Scot by surprise.

  “I am.”

  So that was it. For some reason, this woman drew vampires to her more powerfully than—

  “But no more so than I am to others of her kind.” The brooding look he gave him made Kenton regret speaking. Usually, he was better at shielding his thoughts from his opponents. But he clearly was not himself today.

  “I see.”

  In that moment, Kenton hated him more than any other man on earth.

  “Well? Don’t be so cryptic, Lawrence. Clearly you know something I do not.”

  “It seems as if I have my wish. That two weeks’ cease-fire I mentioned—”

  “What of it?”

  “You dismissed me earlier, but I ask again, in light of recent developments, for a two-week truce. Do not tell your brothers or call them here. Let us regroup while—”

  “And why would I agree now when I did not before?”

  Lawrence stood, placing his empty glass on the fireplace mantle.

  “Because, my dear Kenton, you have no more desire to see me at every turn than I do you. And because it will give you more time to discover what I already know about the Fiore family.”

  Kenton gritted his teeth.

  “Furthermore, you will find a way to ensure Alessandra no longer fears me—”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Because you need my help.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are a fool, Scotsman. I need nothing from you.”

  “We both know that if you were going to kill Alessandra, you’d have done so today.” This time, Lawrence did smile. “Fortunately, the one thing I never thought would happen, especially with a Cheld, has come to pass.”

  If he hated Lawrence Derrickson, Kenton despised his riddles even more so.

  “The great Sir Kenton of Rockford, eternal bachelor and pillar of restraint, is in love.”

  The idea was too absurd for him to deign to comment. Kenton had been in love before, and certainly he had no such feelings for Alessandra. He hardly knew her. Besides, even if he did love her, which he didn’t, such a thing would not stop him from doing what had to be done. His family claimed his first loyalty and always would.

  But he would humor Lawrence just the same.

  “Very well. A two-week truce. You have my word, I will not harm her. Nor will I bring Drake or Rowan here. But in exchange, you will neither follow me nor seek to speak to Alessandra.”

  “Done.”

  Lawrence began to walk away.

  “Besides, my job interview went quite well,” he said over his shoulder, “and I do believe Amendment 18 will make me an offer imminently.”

  Like him, Lawrence had more money than any human on earth. But the Scot had a habit of finding work wherever he lived, for reasons Kenton could not fathom.

  “And what, may I ask, will you be doing at said establishment?”

  Lawrence turned to look at him, grinning so broadly his teeth showed.

  “Bartending, of course. A skill you’d do well to acquire given your wretched taste in drinks.”

  As his old enemy walked through the front door, Kenton laughed heartily. Despite the wretched day he’d had, the thought of one of the oldest vampires in the world standing behind a bar serving humans bottles of beer could not fail to amuse him.

  He closed the door behind Lawrence and stared at it, thinking once again of what he’d done.

  The Scot was right about one thing. The events of that day could very well break Alessandra, and whatever his motivations, Kenton found he didn’t wish for her to be afraid. Just the opposite, in fact. For if he wasn’t going to kill her for the next two weeks, he might as well play the hero and protect her, despite the fact that he was the very person she needed protection from.

  Chapter 10

  Every time she went to the spa, Alessandra wondered why she didn’t just recreate the pleasant atmosphere at home—buy a sound machine, fill her tub with bubbles, lower the lights and maybe put out some candles. But somehow, after she left the spa and went back to the daily grind, the ideal of simulated rainstorms and the sweet scent of lavender gave way to vanilla-scented plug-ins, if she were lucky,
and a hot shower.

  Taking off the robe and hanging it on the back of the door as directed, Alessandra moved to the raised massage table and climbed up. Such a vulnerable position, lying on her stomach with her face smooshed into that headrest, but the blanket beneath her was soft and warm and Sunset Spa had always felt like a safe place. And her knife was nestled within reach.

  Alessandra had nearly canceled her appointment today, knowing it would be difficult to relax given the danger she was in. Logic told her a simple knife would do little to protect her if Lawrence decided to come after her. Really, it had been silly to allow Birdie to give it to her. The extra locks on her door and Toni’s insistence on having Tyler stay over wouldn’t do any good either. Which meant, despite their final parting, Alessandra had no choice but to put her faith in a man she’d just met. One she’d been terrified of just days earlier.

  And one she desired like none other.

  Kenton’s draw was not simply a physical attraction. She’d tried to explain it to Toni the night before, but words had failed her. It was as if he stood at the edge of a cliff, a bottomless void below, and she stood behind him, belonging there as much as she belonged anywhere.

  The door clicked open just as a shiver ran down the length of her body. Exhaling, Alessandra waited to be asked what kind of pressure she liked, but instead, the smell of lavender and citrus filled the room, the oils ensuring she would have to go straight home for a shower.

  Cool air licked her back as the masseur lifted the blanket she’d pulled over herself.

  Guess this guy wasn’t much of a talker. Which was just as well. She needed time to think. To plan her next move.

  When the masseuse’s hands finally touched her bare back, she was more than ready. They moved expertly to the base of her neck, applying just the right amount of pressure. She sighed, grateful for the former co-workers who’d given her the gift certificate to the spa.

  This was just what she needed.

  Beginning to relax, Alessandra broke the silence.

  “That feels perfect.”

  She wanted to be sure the masseur knew he was doing an exemplary job. Oddly, he didn’t respond. Was something wrong?

  Chastising herself for being constantly on edge, incapable of relaxing, Alessandra took another deep breath. In and out.

  Oh man, that felt good.

  “Feeling more relaxed?”

  Alessandra bolted up at the familiar voice, spinning around so quickly she tangled herself in the blanket.

  “What the—”

  Kenton stood behind her, hands raised in the air. “Easy, love.”

  “How did you get in here? What are you—”

  “Lie back down. You’re owed a massage, and I’m giving you one.”

  “Right. I’m going to simply lie down and let you put your hands on me after what happened yesterday—”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  There was a touch of humor in his eyes, yes, but she could tell he was serious. A bit more casual today than usual, he wore jeans and a blue button-down shirt. No sport coat. Worse, his damned sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

  “We’ve already established I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his black hair ever so slightly tousled as if it had recently been washed. How did he manage to always look so put together? “And as I said, you’re owed a massage.”

  “Not from you! Where is—”

  “On an extended lunch break.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How did you convince him to . . . isn’t this some serious breach of patient-client privilege, letting a stranger . . .”

  She completely forgot what she’d intended to say when his gaze drifted down to the blanket she held just above her breasts.

  “Lie down,” he repeated, firm enough that she actually, unaccountably, listened.

  But she certainly wasn’t going to lie facedown. Instead, she shimmied down the table and lowered herself onto her back, pulling the blanket up to her chin.

  With a chuckle, Kenton took it from her death grip and tucked it across her chest. Only her arms were exposed, so he started there. His wickedly talented hands moved from her shoulder downward, rubbing and kneading.

  “Relax,” he ordered.

  “High-handed much?”

  His lips pursed, making him look like a king’s errant son, one who knew he could never be disciplined for his devilish ways.

  “You are a client, not a patient, and the amount of money I gave your masseur more than compensates for what I assured him would be a welcome surprise.”

  She was about to comment on the fact that he’d bribed her masseur when the tail end of his statement penetrated her thoughts.

  “A welcome surprise? After you ordered me out of your house like that?”

  He dropped her arm, ignoring her statement, and moved to the counter. Another wave of scented oil reached her. No wonder she hadn’t detected his usual scent. That thought gave way to another—did he really plan on giving her a massage?

  Lifting the blanket over her left leg, he tucked it around her, just as the masseur would do, leaving nothing but her leg exposed. When he placed his hands on her thigh, Alessandra didn’t have time to react as they moved expertly over her.

  Holy shit.

  “I apologize for the way I reacted. The . . . intensity of my feelings scared me.”

  What could she possibly say to that? Just the fact that he’d admitted to being scared, of anything, stunned her into silence. And then the way he was touching her . . .

  When his hand reached her foot, Alessandra was sure she was going to die. Right here, right now. On this table.

  “You do that like . . . an expert.”

  He continued to massage her, kneading his warm fingers into her flesh.

  “I am an expert at many things, Alessandra.”

  He wasn’t flirting. Well, not entirely. And it wasn’t an empty boast either. She had the distinct impression that Kenton was simply telling the truth.

  If she hadn’t been wet before, she was now. Her body clenched with wanting as she watched his every movement, imagining how expertly he would savor the rest of her body if given the chance.

  “Who are you?” Alessandra desperately wanted to close her eyes and allow herself to simply feel each touch of his hands. But she needed answers more.

  His fingers pressed into the soles of her feet.

  “I told you, I am English—”

  “No, who are you? And who, or what, is Lawrence?”

  Something else had just occurred to her.

  “I take it the oils blocked your scent, but why didn’t I sense your presence when you first came in here?”

  “I don’t know.” He untucked the blanket from her leg and covered it, moving to her other side. “Perhaps you did and just ignored it.”

  There had been that shiver . . . only she’d written it off as anticipation for the massage.

  After exposing her right leg, Kenton began his ministrations again on her upper thigh. She tried not to look down. The sight of his hands on her that way, coupled with the intensity of his gaze . . . a girl could only take so much.

  “Cheld are typically trained,” he said. “Or at least guided by those who have gone before them. But you . . . your lack of knowledge has resulted in a certain dormancy of your abilities.”

  “Until you and Lawrence came to town.”

  Did his hands falter ever so slightly?

  “If you can determine where it came from—”

  “My father.” Alessandra said it without thinking. But now that it was out there, she knew it to be true. “It had to be him. My father was adopted and never knew his real parents.”

  Kenton’s hands froze in place.

  “Adopted?” he repeated. A moment later, his hands resumed movement again, ever so slowly.

  “Yep. Mom says he never had any desire to find them. His birth parents. And his adopted ones moved to California when he was twelve. He came back, but they didn’t. I’ve never
even met them.”

  How could his hands work such magic while he looked so unattached to his actions? He didn’t look down at where he kneaded her calves with just the right amount of pressure. Instead, he stared at her, though she couldn’t read his expression.

  Cool as a cucumber.

  Not at all like when he’d kissed her.

  “Can you train me?”

  He didn’t appear to hear her, at least, not at first. He’d moved down to her foot, and honestly, Alessandra couldn’t remember ever having a better massage than this one. He was skilled, certainly, but she feared her enjoyment might have something to do with the fact that she’d welcome it if he were to stop right now and crawl on top of her. Despite the fact that Kenton Morley was the most enigmatic man she’d ever met, and she’d thought him a potential stalker or killer just a few days earlier, she had never wanted a man more. Not even close.

  “No,” he said. “I cannot train you.”

  Kenton replaced the blanket back over her leg. Then, lifting the whole thing into the air, he said, “Turn over,” just as the regular masseur would do.

  She should be on her guard. Maybe she should even fear him.

  But she did not.

  Instead, Alessandra gave him one last Your tone is annoying look before flipping onto her stomach. She was about to pull her hair to the side to lay her face in the cradle when he did it for her, his hand grazing her neck in a very nonprofessional manner. His fingers lingered there for a moment, caressing, before pressing more firmly on both sides of her head.

  She couldn’t help it.

  Alessandra groaned in pleasure as his thumbs dug into the base of her neck, his hands reaching around to her temples in a double assault.

  “Then who can?” she asked.

  As good as it felt—and it felt damn good—she still needed answers.

  “There is no one . . .” He paused. “You will not need training.”

  Again the cool air touched her back as he lifted the blanket from her torso and tucked it under both sides of her waist.

  Her back was not the only thing exposed. Allowing him to position her as such was a proclamation of trust. Despite the danger, she was allowing herself to be vulnerable with him.