“Do?”
She indicated the photos. “About what happened. Are you going to talk to the owner of the car?”
“I see no reason to. Macklin’s dead.”
“Exactly. I could tell you had an interest in saving him. Don’t you want to find his killer?”
More than you know, Miss Martell. “That’s for the law to take care of.”
“I can help you. Talk to the owner of the car and let me come with you.”
She surprised him again. Just what was she after? “Why? Why should you want to do that? And why should I let you?”
“I’m already involved with this. And I really can help.” She glanced around the room and cocked her head. “I used to be a cop.”
He laughed again, even harder this time. Who would have guessed that behind the irritating photographer was an ex-cop? But as quickly as his laughter exploded, he quelled it, shaking his head.
“No.”
“I have experience with these things.”
“No, Tia. Go back home to Minnesota or Iowa or . . . ”
“Wisconsin.”
“ . . . wherever you came from. There’s nothing but danger for you here.”
“I’m used to dealing with danger.”
“You’ve never dealt with this kind of danger, believe me. Did it ever occur to you that the killer has seen the photo you foolishly sold to the newspaper? He just might think you got a good look at him. That maybe you can identify him. It would be child’s play for him to find out where you’re staying.” She paused, her mouth open, but bereft of a swift reply. Perhaps the logic of what he was saying was finally getting through to her. He pressed his advantage.
“Come. It’s getting late. I’ll escort you to your car.”
Her mouth closed, but he could see the wheels turning inside her head nevertheless. He didn’t like it.
“I wish you’d change your mind,” she said, preceding him down the stairs.
“No.”
“You’re a very stubborn man, Mr. Allgate.”
“Stubborn? Just because I know my own mind?”
“And arrogant.”
He smiled, glad she couldn’t see it. He was almost sorry he wouldn’t be seeing her again.
The smile was forgotten as soon as he opened the front door of the inn to let her out. The warm breeze carried a fetid stench, and for the second time in two days the stagnant odor of another vampire filled his nostrils. He dared not go further outside with Tia. His own vampiric scent would be as telling to Flynne as Flynne’s was to him. He couldn’t afford to let Tia be seen with him. Her life was already in too much danger.
“Where’s your car, Tia?”
“Across the street about half a block down.”
“I’ll watch you from here. Where are you staying?”
“At the Magnolia House on Devereaux, but it’s my last night there.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re finally listening to sense.”
“No, I mean tomorrow I’m checking into a cheaper hotel.”
He pulled her back inside the foyer and into a corner out of view of the main dining room. He gripped both her arms and gave her a little shake. “Look at me.”
“Let go of me this instant!”
Dallas released one of her arms and held her head instead, the span of his hand easily reaching from below her chin to the top of her head. He tilted her head so that she looked him in the eye. He exerted his power on her and felt a subtle change in the tension in her limbs, as if a magnetic pole had been reversed. Instead of fighting him, she was fusing to him. It was the mirror, and she was immersed in what she saw. Once upon a time, he would have groaned at such a response to him, but playing by the rules of survival for so many years had bestowed a measure of discipline to his baser propensities.
“Your life is in danger. Go straight back to your hotel now and stay there the rest of the night. Tomorrow get on a flight back to Wisconsin and forget you ever met me, understand?”
Her eyes, iris-dark in the dim light, stared into his, but there was no affirming nod. Suddenly too conscious of the blood pulsing under his fingers and the heartbeat racing to outrun his, he stroked her silky black hair once, smoothing the strands he had mussed, then released her gently. “Go on, now.”
She took a deep breath, adjusted the camera case strap on her shoulder, passed her gaze over his once last time, then turned and strode out of the inn. He held the door open and watched as she half-walked, half-ran to her car, the rhinestone sun winking under the street lamps.
“Excuse me, Mr. Allgate.”
He didn’t turn around. “Yes, Angie?”
“There are two men waiting for you on the patio.”
“Ah, yes, I thought there might be.”
“I told them you were occupied, but . . . ”
“You didn’t tell them who I was with, or even that I was with a young woman, did you?”
“No, just that you were unavailable, but they wanted to wait, so . . . ”
“Thank you, Angie. I’ll see them now.” He had expected this, but not so soon. If Conner was with his master, Dallas would be at a distinct disadvantage. He could handle Flynne, but not Flynne and a seasoned vampire. The meeting was inevitable, however, and it would be extremely difficult for even two vampires to kill him at night when his strength was at its peak. Besides, he didn’t think a fight in the middle of town was what the master had in mind.
Dallas walked back through the dining room and entered the patio from the rear entrance. The fenced-in area was empty except for two men seated at a center table. One was Conner Flynne, the other a vampire Dallas had never seen before. Transformed at a relatively young age, the man had tousled blond hair, long sideburns, and deep-set eyes, but sported none of the obvious affectations that Flynne did.
“Conner Flynne. And I don’t think I’ve had the displeasure of meeting the creature who yanks your chain.”
Flynne, with a lifting of his upper lip, started to rise from his seat, but at a gesture from his companion sank slowly back into his chair.
“Now, now. You see, Flynne? Even after two hundred years, his lack of breeding is evident.” The blond vampire canted his head toward Flynne, but his dark eyes never left Dallas. “Aldgate. Do you remember the sixpenny whore who gave you life? No? No doubt you don’t remember your father, either. I’m sure even your mother never knew which evening’s coin begat you. Well, I am here to make you a gift of memories to make up for those you lack. Allow me to introduce myself. Jermyn St. James. I’m sure you remember my father.”
St. James. Christian St. James. Indeed, how could he forget that name? “I should have known a spineless dandy like St. James would spawn an ill-bred perversion like you.”
“No, Aldgate, there you’re wrong. My father sired the man in me long gone. What you see before you was created by none other than yourself. Your vengeance gave me birth, and your hatred made me strong.” St. James spread his arms wide. “Aren’t you proud of the work you authored?”
Vengeance. Hatred. They had indeed fueled his lust for survival. And they had made him, too, what he is.
A memory stirred, and like a demon startled from a deep sleep, it rose in his mind with an old, familiar anger. It was a madness that Dallas had thought, until tonight, to be dead and buried.
Sydney, Australia, 1788.
Dalys Aldgate, convicted felon, had lost everything. Dalys thought of all the hard years of work at The Knights Chaise Company, all gone in a day. Hired as an apprentice blacksmith, the owner had soon seen that Dalys’ quick mind and sober disposition were greater assets than even his robust physique. The company maintained chaises for hire out of Knightsbridge, and Dalys had perfected not only the skills of a farrier, but a coachman.
Christian St. James hired only the fin
est post-chaise for his travels out of London. On that day over two years ago, the regular coachman had taken sick and Dalys had taken his place. Unhappy with the weather, the loss of his regular coachman, and God knew what else, St. James had fixed Dalys with a baleful eye from the start. When two highwaymen stopped the coach on the common two hours later and bandied words with Dalys, the young Viscount took it that Dalys was an accomplice. St. James had pulled a weapon and was promptly shot and robbed by the highwaymen, who galloped off and were never apprehended. Christian’s wounds healed, but he vowed someone would pay, and pay Dalys did.
Dalys had lost everything. All his money had gone for jailer charges and prisoner garnishes in Newgate. His friends, job, everything he had ever known, were halfway across the world. But St. James would yet pay. Revenge would keep Dalys Aldgate alive.
And it had, for a while. But even as life had ended, the bloodlust had gone on, and on, and on . . .
Jermyn St. James summoned Dallas from the past with a careless gesture. “Come, Aldgate. Sit down and join us. We have so much in common, the three of us. Lots and lots of memories to share. Conner here hasn’t heard the best of them. Or the worst.”
“Of course. I’d be a poor host if I didn’t join my guests, wouldn’t I?” Dallas eased his frame into a sturdy wooden patio chair across the table from his visitors. It was still too close. The sultry air was almost suffocating with the musty odor that hung like a haze over the patio. How can Flynne and St. James stand each other’s company? It was as if the stink withered the atmosphere itself, sucking the oxygen out.
Dallas searched St. James’ eyes, subtly gauging the creature’s power with his own. A slow smile spread on St. James’ face, and Dallas felt an answering touch. Nothing overt, just a soft push to remind Dallas he wasn’t a novice like Flynne to be trifled with. They understood each other.
Dallas matched his opponent’s smile with one of his own. “Well, St. James, now that we are all well met, who shall recall the first story for the edification of the young brattie here?”
Five
TIA STOOD ACROSS the street and could just see portions of the three men through a crack provided by a broken fence plank. She had never had any intention of going straight back to her hotel, in spite of Allgate’s dire warnings. She had driven around the block, parked her car on a nearby cross street, and prowled back to the inn. She intended to learn where he lived and, grateful now for her evening nap, would wait all night for him to leave if need be.
He had been playing some kind of game with her from the moment he invited her to step into the attic suite. She wasn’t going to let it end with him telling her to forget she ever met him. Not with the way his eyes had tackled her. And certainly not with the way he had kissed her.
She had worn the dressiest outfit she had brought with her to Natchez, and if it also happened to be the sexiest, well, that couldn’t hurt either, could it? She’d gone to the inn armed to the teeth with silk, rhinestones, and color that would attract the most nearsighted of bulls in the ring. If all that wasn’t enough to ensure victory, she had had the tried and true weapon of the ages. A very short skirt.
When Dallas had opened the door to admit her and had thrown down the gauntlet, she had accepted and promptly lost the battle.
Dressed in dove gray and black, he had looked better than she had remembered. The monotone colors of his clothes only accentuated the richness of his hair, alive in the light with glints of auburn. His green eyes had a heavy, sleepy look to them, and like a raw recruit instead a veteran of the wars, all she could do was stare, wide-eyed, into their incredible depths.
Something strange had happened. The hostess had dropped off the menu, and Tia remembered thinking that the only thing she wanted to eat was already well done and sitting before her. The next thing she knew he started telling her the story, but it had been so much more than just the recitation of a legend. She had never believed in these things before, and yet it was as though she had been transported through time and was part of the story herself. Rowan, Veilina, and Devon had seemed so real that she felt she was with them, experiencing their passion, their anger, and their pain.
And then, while she was still caught up in the story, he had kissed her, as though he were Devon Alexander and she Veilina Bishop. And she had let him. It was a lover’s kiss, as much of the spirit as the body, full of promise. But then a sensation of warning had arisen inside her and jerked her back to the present. Dallas Allgate was kissing her like he owned her, and that definitely wasn’t on her menu.
Nevertheless, her will had been weakened. She allowed him to renege on their deal regarding the photo shoot, and she blabbed on about how she wanted to help him. She had even disclosed her experience as a cop, something she rarely did, but it got him to laugh. The sight and sound of mirthless Mr. Allgate actually enjoying himself, and her, had been well worth feeling like a teenager on a first date, overwhelmed by a single kiss.
After that, though, something had caused him to shut down. Before she knew what was happening, he was issuing her dire warnings and trying to get rid of her. She tried to remember what she had said to drive away the only real glimpse of the man she had seen in two days. Her memories were in disarray, though, and the only thing she could remember was the feel of him holding her close. His grasp had been almost painful in its severity, but when he held her head and forced her eyes to his, she had fervently wished his words had been something other than “go home.” No man had ever looked at her like that, not even Bret during the stage of their relationship when he had done his utmost to be charming.
Go home. Well, she wasn’t going home. Not yet.
She peered through the fence again. She had gotten the brush-off so he could have one with the boys. Funny, she would never have thought that the reclusive Dallas Allgate was the type. Yet there he was, sitting across from two men who certainly didn’t look like tourists. They were both well dressed, but the one on the left reminded her of a ferret. He had sharp features, a longish nose, and a nervous quality about him, as though he found it hard to sit still for more than five minutes. The man next to him, however, could have been an actor or a rock star. He had spiky blond hair and features to die for. He and Dallas were smiling like old friends.
Tia sighed. This could take a while. She walked back to her car and drove it closer to the inn. She parked where she could see the entrance to the patio and settled in for a long night.
IGNORING CONNER, Dallas acknowledged St. James with a slight nod of his head. “You’re my guest, St. James. You begin. Besides, the pup here is salivating at the thought of hearing your wisdom dispensed.”
Conner’s eyes glimmered, but he said nothing.
“’Tis a pity, Aldgate, that you weren’t as disciplined at Flynne’s age as he is. If you had been, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”
“Say what you came here to say and be done with it.”
St. James raised both brows and toyed with the narrow white scarf that looped casually around his neck. “‘Came here to say?’ Oh, you mistake my intention, Aldgate. I didn’t come here to chat about old times, or even to instruct young Flynne here. These will be done, naturally, in the course of things, but I came here for a very different reason. Didn’t I, Conner?”
“Yes, James.”
“I came here for you, Aldgate, as you came for my father. This pleasant conversation is merely so that you fully understand who it is who will destroy you, and why.”
Dallas laughed softly. Did St. James take him for a total fool? That intent had been clear from the first moment he had nearly choked on Conner Flynne’s fusty fragrance at the hospital. “You’re no match for me, St. James. Else you wouldn’t have brought the pup with you as back up.”
“I don’t need his help to destroy you. But he is under my tutelage. I couldn’t very well have left him behind on such an enlightening undertaking as
this.”
“Oh, naturally not. And, of course, the Brotherhood doesn’t worry you.”
“The Brotherhood has nothing to do with this.”
“They might think otherwise. After all, I’ve done nothing at all to you since Mistress Death gave you renewed life. If you destroy me, an enforcer just may decide you need . . . an adjustment.”
St. James made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “The Brotherhood worries me not the least. And the enforcers have more important matters to worry about, I’m sure, than the well-being of the likes of you. Enough of this useless banter. I can see that Conner grows impatient. Very well.” St. James adjusted the scarf and looked up at the moon. “I was first-born. I was to have been an earl, Conner, did you know that? An earl. A peer of the realm. A lord. My father, Christian, was the Earl of Coventry, like Edward, his father before him. Do you have any idea, Conner, what it’s like to be a lord?”
“No, James.”
“A pity. Well, neither does the bastard here.”
“No, nor do I have any desire to know,” Dallas responded.
“Ah, and yet you took that away from my father, didn’t you? You stole his very life, and mine, without any conceivable notion of what you were doing.”
Dallas twisted his mouth. “’Stole his life?’ Isn’t that a little melodramatic for one who lost nothing but a fortune he did nothing to earn? I was the one who had life stolen from me.”
“Not by my father. My father was the victim of a crime. It was the court that convicted you, not my father.”
“He brought the charges. He was the prosecutor. He cared not a whit for true justice or whether he had the right man or not. All he wanted was for some poor bastard to pay, and he chose me.”
“Now, now. You keep interrupting me, Aldgate. You’ll confuse young Flynne here. Your time to talk will come.”
“I can see that you enjoy the sound of your own voice. Have at it, then.”
“I first remember seeing you at Ashton Park in 1815. I remember the year because it was just after Waterloo. I was only fifteen, young enough to still be curious about strangers who had the exceedingly bad manners to call at the house without being invited. Always the commoner, weren’t you, Aldgate? Fifteen was old enough, though, to remember everything that was said between you and my father.”
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