Predatory

by Alexandra Ivy

  “I’m on my way.” Tucking his phone away, Richart turned back to Jenna. “Looks like I spoke too soon. It won’t be a quiet night after all. A problem has arisen that requires my immediate attention.”

  “Okay.”

  “May I have your phone number so I may call you tomorrow to obtain your address?” He didn’t wish to frighten her by admitting he already knew it.

  She recited it quickly. “Be careful,” she added as he bowed and backed away.

  Warmth filled him. “Feel better,” he replied, earning another smile.

  It took Chris longer than anticipated to trace the call, which came from way out in the boonies. Étienne violated just about every traffic law to get the two of them there as quickly as possible. When the car flew over a hill and Richart spied the battlefield ahead, he teleported himself the remaining distance and drew his swords.

  Gaping, he took in what must be three dozen shriveling-up vampire corpses scattered across a blood-soaked field. “Merde!”

  The threat, it would seem, had been annihilated. All the vampires had been taken out by . . .

  His gaze strayed to a battered-all-to-hell black Prius upon which sat a small female figure, nearly hidden behind the irate, eight-hundred-plus-year-old British immortal who stood protectively in front of her, eyes blazing amber fire.

  “Really?” Marcus bellowed. “You show up now?”

  “The call didn’t come from your phone,” Richart explained. “So Chris didn’t know you were the one who needed help or where to send us until the GPS identified your location.”

  “I dialed the number,” the woman murmured, voice pained, “but the vampires attacked before I could say anything.”

  Marcus nodded, the eyes he trained on Richart still furious. “It took this long for him to track our location? I thought that shit worked faster than that.”

  “No, it took this long for us to get here. You are way out in the sticks, you know.” Richart eyed the two of them curiously.

  Marcus continued to stand protectively in front of the woman, one hand tucked behind him, resting on her legs.

  Interesting.

  Marcus’s scowl deepened. “Why didn’t you just—”

  “I’m not as powerful as Seth. I can only teleport to places I’m familiar with, and I’m new to the area.”

  The hem of Richart’s long coat fluttered as his brother’s car skidded to a halt inches away.

  The driver’s door flew open and Étienne leaped out, weapons at the ready. “Merde! How many were there?” he asked with astonishment.

  Richart turned in a circle, taking in the rapidly decomposing remains of the vampires the duo had defeated. “Thirty-four by my count.”

  Étienne gaped at Marcus. “And you took them all out by yourself?”

  Marcus shook his head. “We took them all out.”

  As one, Richart and his brother shifted so they could better see the injured woman, who seemed to want to lose herself behind Marcus.

  “Two defeated thirty-four?” Richart said with a shake of his head. It was an unheard of feat. Richart would have thought only Seth—the eldest and most powerful immortal and leader of the Immortal Guardians—would have been capable of such. “Incredible.”

  Étienne nodded, his gaze pinned to the woman.

  Small, attractive, and blood-splattered, she boasted red hair that must have been dyed. All immortals had black hair.

  Well, all but a couple who had brown hair.

  “I didn’t know Seth had called in another immortal,” Étienne said, drawing the same conclusion Richart had. “Pleasure to meet you. I am Étienne d’Alençon, and this is my brother Richart.”

  Was that jealousy Richart saw flare in Marcus’s eyes?

  “Ami isn’t an immortal. She’s my Second.”

  Richart felt his jaw drop. “She’s human?” he asked incredulously.

  How had one immortal and one human stood against so many vampires?

  Once again, he took in the multitude of corpses littering the field.

  Vampires had not even attacked in these numbers when Bastien, an immortal who had thought himself a vampire for two centuries, had raised an army and waged war with the Immortal Guardians a couple of years ago.

  What the hell was going on?

  Chapter Two

  Jenna was beset by nerves all day as she anticipated her date with Richart.

  It hadn’t taken her long to tidy the apartment. Once done, she rearranged the kitchen cabinets and drawers, placing the nicest of her mismatched dishes and glasses in the front and on top.

  She couldn’t remember a time when money hadn’t been tight. Her parents had kicked her out when she had turned up pregnant at sixteen. Her boyfriend’s parents had declared their child-rearing days over and done little more than give Jenna and Bobby, John’s father, first and last month’s rent on their first apartment. The two had married and worked their asses off, but—unable to afford health insurance—had accrued thousands of dollars in debt thanks to the medical bills pregnancy and giving birth had generated. Debt they had still been struggling to pay off when Bobby had been killed in a car accident three years later.

  So nice dishes and pretty glasses had been beyond her budget.

  Hell, the only furniture she had owned for years—other than baby furniture—had been throwaway pieces other tenants had left out by the Dumpster and an inflatable mattress.

  But eventually, she had paid off the debt and managed to put away a little extra here and there until she had acquired enough to furnish the apartment with something that wouldn’t embarrass John when he invited friends over.

  Or her. Richart had said he wouldn’t pursue anything amorous tonight, but she was nevertheless glad she had an actual bed in case something developed between them later.

  Butterflies flocked to her stomach. She hadn’t had a date in . . .

  Hmm. She drew a blank on that one.

  Debbie had set her up on a blind date a couple of years ago that had gone rather well, Jenna thought, until she had mentioned having a son who planned to go to medical school. Her date had apparently mentally jumped ahead to marrying her and having to shell out a couple hundred thousand dollars in educational fees for a son who wasn’t his and had run, not walked, in the opposite direction.

  Dating wasn’t easy for single moms.

  The phone rang.

  Jenna jumped. Shaking her head at herself, she answered. “Hello?”

  “Hello.”

  Her heart began to pound at the sound of Richart’s deep, silky voice. “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, thank you.” Well . . . a little better, anyway. Though her stomach remained unsettled, she felt somewhat confident that she would be able to eat whatever meal he prepared without projectile vomiting it on him afterward.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I thought I would run some dinner ideas by you and see what you think would be the most gentle on your stomach.”

  So thoughtful. “Okay. What did you have in mind?”

  Richart began to list entrées he could prepare for her. Clearly the man could cook.

  Jenna didn’t know how half of the dishes he mentioned were prepared or if she even had the pots and pans needed to do it, so she went with the safest option. “How about the light salad and fettuccine Alfredo?”

  “As you wish,” he responded cheerfully. “I shall see you tonight.”

  When Jenna opened her door shortly after sunset, Richart smiled and decided that he loved yoga pants and tank tops. The soft gray pants hugged full hips and slender thighs before falling in straight lines to a pair of sneakers. A white tank top clung to a narrow ribcage, minuscule waist, and breasts he thought would fit perfectly in the palms of his hands, which tightened around the handles of the shopping bags he carried.

  “I took you at your word and stayed in my comfy clothes,” she said with a hesitant smile, stepping back and motioning for him to enter.

  “I like your co
mfy clothes,” he professed, inhaling her sweet scent as he strode past into the small living room. Jenna plus a hint of the chocolate-raspberry soap she used. A delectable combination.

  She had even worn her hair down. At work she usually pulled it back with clasps or ties or put it up in a ponytail. Tonight it fell freely in shining waves as red as the sky at sunset, tumbling across her shoulders and tempting him to comb his fingers through it.

  No touching, he admonished himself. At least, no touching that might lead to more touching. She’s ill and you’re immortal and haven’t told her. Nor do you plan to tell her. So, what the hell are you actually doing here?

  Giving in to weakness.

  He hadn’t felt this drawn to a woman since before his transformation. She made him forget the dark violence that was such a large part of his existence and made everything somehow less tedious, so he actually looked forward to rising each day, eager to see her again.

  “How are you feeling?” Richart asked as she closed the door.

  “Both hungry and nauseated at the same time. I haven’t eaten anything all day because my stomach still isn’t right. But I think the Alfredo is mild enough to stay down.” She grimaced.

  “What?”

  She gave him a self-deprecating smile and led him into the kitchen. “Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve never talked about vomiting on a first date before. Real romantic, right?”

  He grinned. “More romantic certainly than not mentioning it was a possibility, then spewing your dinner all over your companion as he leans in for a kiss.”

  She laughed. “Thank you for being such a good sport about it.”

  “Thank you for letting me cook you dinner.” He set his bags down on the counter and started removing the ingredients he’d purchased on the way there. “I should probably warn you that I haven’t been on a date in quite a while, so I’m a little rusty.”

  Her eyebrows flew up as she transferred the cold foods to her refrigerator. “How long has it been?”

  “Longer than I care to admit. My job and odd hours tend to make dating difficult.”

  She nodded. “Being a single mom and working the night shift does, too. I haven’t dated in a while either.”

  “Excellent. Then, if neither of us remembers the rules, we don’t have to follow them.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She closed the refrigerator door and leaned her hip against it, crossing her arms just beneath her breasts. “Listen, I’m sort of a get-the-truth-out-there-so-when-it-comes-up-later-it-won’t-be-an-issue kind of gal, so there’s something I wanted to mention.”

  This couldn’t be good.

  She hesitated. “You know I’m older than you, right?”

  Richart stared down at her and forced himself not to laugh at the irony. He may be over two hundred years old, but he looked as if he were in his late twenties, thirty at the most. And Jenna was worried that her being thirty-seven would be a problem?

  “Honestly, I could not care less how old you are, Jenna,” he assured her, all the while calling himself a bastard for not taking the opening she had provided and broaching the topic of who and what he was. She valued truth. If he continued to keep it from her . . .

  A hint of insecurity entered her features. “I don’t mean to press this, but . . . I dated a guy once—very briefly—who said the same thing until his friends found out and started to razz him about it. I’m thirty-seven. Are you sure that isn’t a problem?”

  “I don’t know why his friends would tease him about dating you unless they were envious. You look like you’re in your twenties, Jenna. Not much older than your son, in fact. And, if you looked like you were in your forties, guess what. I would be just as interested.”

  She smiled and closed the distance between them. “And if I looked like I were in my fifties?”

  “Still interested.”

  “Sixties?”

  “I happen to think laugh lines are hot.”

  She laughed. “Good, because I have a feeling you’re going to give me a few.”

  “I should hope so,” he said, telling himself not to think about the fact that he would still look and feel as he did now when she was in her sixties, seventies, and eighties and all of the problems that would generate.

  You’re getting ahead of yourself, old man. This is your first damned date. Not your engagement party.

  “You don’t mind that I’m older than you. You don’t mind that I’m a single mom, putting a son through college.” She shook her head and smiled up at him, expression soft. “You’re a rare breed, Richart d’Alençon.”

  She didn’t know the half of it.

  Unable to resist, he dipped his head and touched his lips to hers in a gentle caress.

  Her breath caught.

  Lightning struck.

  Both their hearts began to beat faster.

  Resting a hand on her waist, Richart tilted his head and explored those smooth pink lips that had drawn his gaze so often, then drew back before his emotions could take over and make his eyes begin to glow.

  “Wow,” Jenna breathed, staring up at him.

  “I am so smitten with you,” he admitted softly.

  “I love the way you talk.”

  “My accent?”

  “That, too, but . . . I love the way you phrase things. Like the heroes from the historical romance novels I read.”

  He cringed. Apparently, he was showing his age.

  She smiled. “Don’t look like that. I meant it in a good way.”

  “If you say so.”

  Her stomach chose that moment to rumble and growl. Both laughed as she covered her flat belly with one hand. “Sorry about that.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s get started so we can get some food in you.”

  Hands down, it was the best date Jenna ever had. Richart was charming and funny and so sexy he took her breath away. Just as that kiss had. She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  And the man was an excellent cook. She had never been a big fan of salads, had always found them pretty bland, but he concocted some kind of homemade salad dressing that was absolutely delicious.

  “How’s your stomach?” he asked, taking her empty salad plate and replacing it with one heaped high with fettuccine Alfredo.

  “Doing good,” she responded with relief. The first taste of his creamy Alfredo sauce elicited a moan. “This is delicious. Where did you learn to cook?”

  “I taught myself.” He shrugged. “No reason not to really. I don’t know why some men balk at it. I love food and saw no better way to ensure I would always have a tasty meal at my disposal.”

  “Smart man. I like that.”

  He winked.

  Her pulse jumped.

  The front doorknob rattled as a key slipped in and unlocked it.

  Aaaaaaand the moment’s over, she thought as her son opened the door and entered.

  Jenna watched Richart with some trepidation. Saying he had no problem with her being a single mom was one thing. Not minding her son intruding on their romantic dinner was another.

  John hesitated before removing his key from the lock and closing the door behind him.

  Awkward.

  Jenna smiled at him. “Hi, honey. How was school?”

  “Same old same old,” he said with a shrug and a tentative smile.

  Richart rose and, setting his napkin on the table, took a step forward and offered his hand. “You must be John.”

  John set the tall pile of books he carried on the sofa. He often went straight from school to work. “And you must be Richart.” He shook Richart’s hand. “Am I pronouncing that correctly?” he asked, making sure Reeshart was correct.

  “Yes. Richart d’Alençon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Jenna couldn’t gauge her son’s thoughts and had no clue how he felt about his mom dating. Such had rarely happened.

  Richart motioned to the table. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Oh.” Clearly surprised, J
ohn eyed the food with longing, glanced at Jenna, then looked at Richart. “Nnnno. No, thanks. I have some studying to do and wouldn’t want to intrude.”

  “I made more than enough,” Richart tempted. “Please, sit and join us. Jenna has told me so much about you. It would be nice to get to know you better.”

  Jenna stared, knowing with absolute certainty that Richart wasn’t simply mouthing platitudes to score points with her. He actually meant it.

  Again, John looked to Jenna.

  She nodded and smiled.

  “Okay.” He started for the kitchen.

  Richart followed. “Jenna tells me you attend UNC Chapel Hill.”

  “Yes.” John pulled down a plate and turned toward the stove, where Richart waited.

  Richart motioned him closer and began filling his plate.

  John met Jenna’s gaze and raised his eyebrows.

  She grinned.

  John was almost as tall as Richart and still seemed to be growing at age twenty. His shoulders weren’t quite as broad and his physique was leaner, but his brown hair was cropped short like Richart’s.

  “A friend of mine used to teach at UNC,” Richart mentioned.

  “What department?”

  “Music.”

  “Oh, yeah? A guy in my study group is minoring in music. What’s his name? Maybe they took some classes with him.”

  Richart smiled as the two returned to the table. Richart retook his seat at Jenna’s elbow while John took the chair across from him. “Dr. Sarah Bingham.”

  John’s eyebrows flew up again. “You know Dr. Bingham? Carl said she was really something.” Something awesome, his tone declared.

  Richart picked up his fork. “She is.”

  Jealousy stirred as Jenna watched Richart smile with what could only be affection.

  John tucked into the food. “Man, this is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Whatever happened to Dr. Bingham? She only taught there for a year, then disappeared.”

  “She married a friend of mine and now works in the same business I do.”

  John’s eyes widened. “Dr. Bingham works in private security? Doing what? She’s like five feet tall and weighs less than my mom.”