She stared at him in shock. He wanted to help her clean up? Here and now? His expression was completely sincere. The arm across her throat relaxed, a light weight like a heavy collar, rather than the hard bar of imminent death. Don Rafael's minion was no longer threatening her. Don Rafael was giving her a free choice.
Grania considered him suspiciously before inclining her head. "Certainly."
"You may depart, Ethan."
Ethan hesitated. If anything, his grip tightened on her. "She could be the bait for another assassination attempt, Don Rafael."
Assassination?
"There is no threat to me here and now." Don Rafael's voice was deadly calm—and it sliced the night air like her best scalpel.
"As you wish, sir." Her jailer reluctantly released her and was gone—without a sound.
Don Rafael removed the twig from a pocket flap on her sleeve. A moment later, another twig dropped to the ground as he methodically removed the signs of her passage through the thicket. He was also quite possibly checking for recording equipment, weapons, or any other means of causing trouble.
Grania kept her mouth shut and submitted, all too conscious of the big hands moving so expertly over her. Without the fellow holding her, she had nothing to think about except Don Rafael's deft touch and how his breath stirred her hair. How the night's soft air wrapped them like a cloak.
She was a wildlife biologist. She knew perfectly well, from years of study and observation, that grooming rituals, like this one, both cleaned the recipient and soothed her. Don Rafael was gentling her to his touch—and she had very little say in the matter.
The light sandalwood scent of his body was reassuring, even when underlain by sweat and musk. His breath stirred her hair and his hands were callused. He worked steadily, with an even rhythm that seduced her into relaxing.
Somehow her eyes drifted shut, as her breathing matched the pattern of his movements. Something deep inside her, beyond her mind's control, whispered agreement and pleasure in his touch, as if he were the most welcome of lovers. Her muscles slowly unclenched and her pulse slowed to a more normal beat. The night's tensions started to drift away, as Don Rafael behaved like a gentleman. Thought slowed to a crawl. A deep throbbing ache awoke inside her, tightening her breasts as if they longed to be fondled by him.
"Will you give me the kiss of peace, as a token of your pledge?"
Grania's eyes drifted open and she found Don Rafael standing very close to her. She considered his oddly medieval phrasing warily. If he hadn't harmed her by now, what was the risk in a kiss? "If you wish."
She reached out to take Don Rafael's hands but he was so close, she touched his arms instead. Warm, strong muscle, vibrant with health and life, welcomed her. She shivered and instinctively caressed him a little.
His eyes flickered briefly but she was too absorbed in controlling herself to try to read his expression.
She bit her lip at her sentimental lapse and deliberately took a more formal stance, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders in an ancient folk dance hold, learned during childhood. She planted her feet and turned her face up to him. "Whenever you're ready," she announced, deliberately trying not to be enticing.
"Ah, doctora," he murmured and bent his head. He brushed his lips against her temple, gentle and undemanding. She relaxed and started to move away, hoping her contact with him was over.
His hands slid down her arms to her elbows as his mouth drifted lower. She froze, startled, her mouth half open on a good-bye. His lips covered hers, gently sipping the breath from her. She murmured as their lips and tongues stroked each other, angled to fit together, glided, tangled, wove a web of magic. She pressed up against him and trembled. He groaned something and kissed her harder.
Her hands slid down from his shoulders, over his arms, exploring the iron heat of his biceps. She murmured her approval and tilted her head back to smile at him, everything in her seeming to slowly swirl into a lava pool of lust.
"Ah, doctora, your kisses are more heated than your hair," Don Rafael purred, stroking her back until she stretched against him like a cat begging for more. She rubbed her leg along the outside of his, the roughness of their jeans heating the fire in her core still further. She sighed and slid her hand into his hair, unconscionably eager for more kisses.
"Querida." He bent his head toward her again.
Just then a car's headlights swept over them briefly, as it twisted and turned along the lakeshore road, no more than two miles away.
Don Rafael broke the kiss and listened, his attitude alert and almost feral.
Grania jerked away from Don Rafael and tried to recover her sanity. Good God, what had come over her? She might not be the world's most experienced female but she wasn't a virgin either.
"Satisfied now?" she asked, managing just enough bravado to meet his eyes. Her headache was almost entirely gone.
He glanced down at her. A ghost of a smile teased his mouth before vanishing quickly. "Sí, we have an understanding. Buenas noches, doctora."
"Buenas noches, señor."
He strolled down the road, humming a medieval cantiga, and disappeared from sight at the first turn, where the road curved around so a promontory. Grania stood quite still until he was gone—and her knees had stopped shaking.
Then she ran to where she'd last seen him fully dressed—and first seen the owl. She searched the spot as thoroughly as possible but could find no sign of his missing boots or other gear.
Where the hell had they gone? Had Ethan taken his gear or did he have more men around?
A headlong run around the bluff took her to an overlook above the marina. From there she could see Brynda sharing a drink with friends on a big houseboat. She showed no signs of weakness or injury and was protected by others. Grania shook her head at her own concern for someone who didn't seem to need it and headed back to her truck.
It was a relief when she was finally driving home, after a very long hike, without any trace of her sick headache. She'd never felt anything like it before so perhaps it was an allergic reaction to some vegetation. Hopefully, she'd never have anything like it again.
And the next step? Tell the police? As she'd promised Rafael, not unless Brynda was hurt. So tomorrow, she'd go back to the lake and check up on her.
And at some point, as she was unhappily aware, her scientific curiosity would insist she understand exactly what happened when Don Rafael drank Brynda's blood.
Don Rafael turned away from Grania's cottage after the last light turned off and headed back to his Mercedes. "Keep a very close eye on her, Ethan. We want to be very sure she doesn't talk."
"Yes, sir." Ethan was wise enough not to ask why the woman was still alive.
After all, Rafael had killed (when mind control wouldn't resolve the situation) people who knew far less about vampiros than Grania did and were, therefore, less of a threat than she was. But his gut knotted fast and hard at any thought of injury to her—and raced to turn itself inside out at the prospect of killing her. He simply could not do it. Obviously, the reason must be that he needed to learn where she'd gained those impregnable mental shields. In seven centuries, he had never encountered such barriers nor heard of any so strong.
Since a frontal attack had been so thoroughly rebuffed, a more subtle approach was called for. He'd seduce her—and see just how quickly she'd stop paying attention to Caleb and start focusing all of her passion on a man like himself.
Rafael quickened his step, ignoring the voices that hinted this lady would not be so amenable to his plans. He'd survived by playing sexual games all of his life as a vampiro. He'd bet a thousand of his finest longhorns that the redheaded doctora would be whispering her secrets into his ear within a week.
In New Orleans, Beau strolled back into Madame Celeste's headquarters in the Warehouse District, ready to start some action after taking more than a liter of blood from a silly coed a few miles away. He'd bled her until she'd passed out, and all the while she'd thought she was going to
die, making for a meal of almost incomparable richness. Then he'd ordered her unconscious mind to forget the experience so that she could heal—and he could feed upon her again in a few months. It was the way his creador had taught him to prey upon prosaicas, providing almost as much energy as death throes while keeping the stupid cows alive for another round.
Madame Celeste's headquarters was a two-hundred-year-old, four-story building. An enormous, gaudy casino lured in hordes of tourists on the first floor, with its King Bacchus theme, while the nightclub occupied the second floor. The world's beautiful people fought for invitations to the private club on the third floor. Madame's private quarters took up the entire fourth floor, with a helipad on the roof.
Irritatingly, Madame Celeste's private elevator was off-limits to all vampiros tonight. So he took the public elevator to the private club on the third floor, then worked his way through the crowd.
Tonight, the fashionable club was a hive of activity, with many of New Orleans' junior vampiros actively hunting prosaicos. There was a brilliant dance floor in the center where beautiful, half-naked prosaicos sweated and danced under ever-changing lights. A bar covered one wall, above which shadow dancers, both men and women, gyrated ever more lewdly. The private booths were immense and circular, their circular beds screened by floor-to-ceiling shimmering curtains. The walls were covered with pale golden woods, on which flashed an ever-changing montage of past Mardi Gras celebrations.
To his more senior eyes, it was a tawdry place where no illusions held. Vampiro senses could easily see past the flashing lights and darkened corners to the frayed wires and duct tape—not necessarily in the same place—the chipped paint, the uneven floors, and the remains of last year's or last decade's hot decor.
Worse, he could smell the alcohol and drugs used by tonight's crowd and last night's, and so on back in time since Madame Celeste had opened this trap for fools and lazy predators. Chemicals that dulled prosaico senses and spoiled the taste of a good meal for a vampiro.
He pasted an insincere smile on his face and glided across the crowded dance floor, his Armani wardrobe and angelic looks winning him immediate acceptance and come-hither glances. He sneered privately. Give him genuinely terrified prey anytime, not drunks. A vampiro needed the rich flood of emotion to live on, not prey who'd blame the experience on something that came out of a glass. Any vampiro who made a steady diet of drunks became as sluggish and stupid as his prey, making himself very vulnerable in a duel.
Which was probably why Madame Celeste encouraged her cachorros to feed in places like this. And why so few of her vampiros had survived to full maturity, let alone twenty or thirty years.
He headed for the old-fashioned private stairs. The vampiro guard silently let him pass and Beau went up, allowing none of his disdain to show.
Madame Celeste was a fool to let her vampiros, however young, feed so publicly. The last Soviet vampiros had thought themselves equally invulnerable to public opinion and allowed their hijos to do as they pleased. He himself had been trapped in Moscow by generations of Russian rulers who'd used his skills for their own ends.
But it had been a good life in its way. Ah, the delights of those long winter nights and the torture chambers with the endless supply of victims' pain to drink!
But they'd been too blatant for too long and even the stolid Russian cows had finally revolted. He'd needed all the bitter lessons learned in seven centuries as a vampiro to survive the fall of the Kremlin and eventually make his way here.
Here to New Orleans, one step away from Texas—and finally killing Rafael.
Madame Celeste's private quarters were quieter than he'd expected, with no covey of young male vampiros singing her praises. Shockingly overdecorated, even to one who'd known Catherine the Great's love of homages to herself, the rooms were full of pieces acquired from conquered esferas or sent as tribute. Neither logic nor comfort was apparent, just a jumble of expensive furniture and artwork leaving very little room to move.
Beau automatically schooled his features into adoring anticipation and hunted for her, careful to make sure she thought she was always first on his mind—no matter what he really thought of her. He found her in a small sitting room, with a PC open before her. Probably financial records; she trusted no one with her complete portfolio.
He sniffed lightly; it was good he'd fed so deeply. She was very hungry and would probably want to drink from him.
"Madame." He bowed with a flourish, shifting slightly to see some of her spreadsheets.
Madame Celeste glanced up and spotted him. "Mon cher Beau." She smiled lasciviously and began to quickly shut down the computer, her long nails clicking over the keys.
"Ma belle," he sighed suggestively, shifting into a pose that displayed his male assets.
"Does my darling boy need more money?" She chuckled and rose, gliding over to him and stroking his face.
"Money, pshaw." He kissed her fingers, keeping a schoolboy's pout on his face. "I was merely thinking how soon we could be together."
"Together? Ooh, sounds good," she purred, sliding her arms up around his neck.
He wrapped his around her waist and pulled her closer. She was soft and scented, well-curved, a very delectable, feminine armful—if you enjoyed women who would kill you as easily as they'd fuck you. "Very good," he agreed. She was exactly the sort of woman who was best handled by keeping her always in sight, so you knew exactly what she was up to. He bent his head toward her, offering himself like a hopeful gigolo.
She nipped his lip, drawing blood. He pursed his mouth in a mock pout, as crimson welled and dripped slowly down his chin.
She touched her finger to it, smelled it, tasted it—her eyes closing as she savored the incomparable richness of a vampiro mayor's blood. She moaned softly, her other hand slipping down to fondle her breast.
He was too skilled in the hunt to let his satisfaction at her eagerness show. He had a great deal of blood to offer, after drinking so much tonight. A vampiro's hunger for blood diminished with age, unless under great stress. At his age, Beau could readily survive on only a mouthful or two. But Madame Celeste needed far more and he'd made sure he had enough to be her sole provider. Just one more link in the chain to bind her to him. He didn't want her to throw him out until he'd killed Rafael.
She ran her fingers down his silk shirt until she reached his belt. He arched his back slightly, offering his chest for whatever handling she chose to give. It was unlikely she'd want to arouse him, since she rarely paid attention to anyone else's sexual needs for long.
Her hand delved into his trousers and he grunted in surprise. She squeezed him boldly, measuring him. "You're not wearing a thong."
He raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to start doing so?"
She freed him from the cloth and began to fondle him. Why was she working him like this tonight? His hips began to rock, matching her tempo.
"No. Undergarments for men are a waste of time. Take your jacket and shirt off too. They'll mess up my hair."
He obeyed, tossing the expensive silk across the table, and looked back to enjoy his cock hardening rapidly under her expert touch. She was watching him very closely so he closed his eyes and drew an expression of increasing lust over his face.
He had no idea what she planned and he was enjoying both the danger and the unexpected hand job. He also knew exactly how to rip her head off with a single blow, should she try to attack him. He kneaded her shoulders, careful not to disturb her makeup or her coiffure, and groaned her name appreciatively.
"I want to drink from your thigh when you come," she murmured.
"Under my balls?"
"Out."
A very dangerous spot for a male; one false move and he could be castrated by a quick bite. He'd often seen that done, especially when torturing vampiros, since their horror made for an incredibly delicious meal. Still, a vampiro could heal any wound, even that one—and Beau would kill her if she tried it.
"Of course, my dear, whatever you
like," he cooed.
"Silly boy. I don't need your permission. I can just bite you wherever I want."
"Sorry, darling," he muttered, becoming more and more absorbed in her expert handling of his cock. He took one of his hands away from her shoulders to tease his chest.
She assessed his condition rapidly and smirked, then dropped to her knees and pulled his trousers down. He eagerly angled his hips forward slightly, to give her a better angle.
A harsh cough interrupted. Madame Celeste sighed. "This had better be good, Devol."
Beau's head came up in pleasure at the sight of one of Madame Celeste's and his favorite sex partners. He always gave Devol the same wary caution a prosaico would give a rabid dog—and he respected Madame Celeste because she was the one person who'd managed to bring the brute to heel. Devol could spend an entire night killing or screwing, whichever his mistress commanded.
"You ordered me to report immediately how well the Eastern pros did in Texas." Devol was dressed very simply in jeans and a T-shirt, displaying the hard muscles that were part of the reason for his nickname, the "Bayou Butcher." He had brown hair and eyes, with average features, average height, and average build. There was little to distinguish him from any other man in a crowd except the expression in his eyes, which was usually pure concentrated hate.
But not tonight. Devol's voice was neutral but his eyes burned with carnal flames as they took in every detail of Beau and Madame Celeste's position. He shifted his stance slightly, allowing more room for the erection in his jeans.
"Yes, I did, didn't I." Madame Celeste turned and sat at Beau's feet. She reached behind her head and undid her dress's fastening, pulling it down to expose her magnificent breasts. She pulled on both nipples until they stood brilliant red, prominent on the rich curves. Then she leaned back against Beau's leg and stretched, sending her short skirt slithering up her legs. Her hand swept the length of his cock, gliding her blood-red nails over his engorged flesh.
The enforcer swallowed hard but made no move to touch himself.
"Report, Devol." She teased her breasts, her eyes half shut. Beau dropped to the floor behind her and cupped her breasts. She arched back against him, displaying herself completely, as Devol continued to talk.
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