Tied With a Bow

by Lora Leigh

  Wait. What? she thought, her initial anxiety easing to relief but also confusion. What was happening?

  “It’s freezing out here,” she mumbled. “Are you . . . Can you stand?”

  He moved with precision and strength, coming to his feet without any evidence of stiffness or pain. He cleared his throat.

  “What happened to you?” She studied his odd clothes. Thin boots, a loose linen shirt, and pants that laced in the front as if he were considering a life of piracy on the high seas. Had he been in some Christmas pageant before stopping in the field?

  He put a hand to the back of his head and rubbed it. His fingers came away wet with melted snow. He looked around.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He seemed perplexed. Could he be foreign?

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I understand you,” he said, squinting at the horizon.

  “Tell me your name.”

  He paused, then said, “I would if I knew it.”

  Her brows rose. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t remember . . . anything.”

  Amnesia? Truly? The number of people with complete amnesia was infinitesimally small. She looked at the snow where he’d been lying. There was no blood. He didn’t look bruised or battered. It made no sense.

  It has to be a dream. But I never realize I’m dreaming in the midst of one. And during a dream, I never remember the other dreams I’ve had of him.

  She looked around, confused and unsettled.

  I feel awake.

  She pinched herself, wincing at the pain. That hurt. So I must be awake, right? But just how reliable is a pinch at distinguishing reality from dreams? Has anyone really studied pinch-pain accuracy with regard to consciousness?

  “I don’t understand this,” she murmured. He stepped close, and a rush of heat coursed through her. She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists to steady herself.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked.

  I’m warm. In the dreams, I never notice the temperature. Not the frigid air and snow. Not the heat from the hot tub. She’d realized that fact once upon waking. Walking through snow or wrapped in his muscled arms, she never felt the temperature.

  This . . . is real.

  “I’m not sure,” she mumbled in response to his question about whether she was all right. No matter how intimate they’d been in dreams, he was still a stranger, but standing so close to him triggered thoughts of the way he’d been in some of those dreams, the way he’d made her body tighten and bow under his touch.

  She hesitated, exhaling a sigh, then took a step back. And another.

  He didn’t pursue her. He remained still as a statue. Preternaturally still, it seemed to her.

  She glanced back to where he’d lain. There were no tracks besides her own leading to that spot. It was as if he’d been there for a long time, and the snow had drifted around him. Or as if he’d fallen into the snow from the sky. She glanced up reflexively, then shook her head. There was nothing around for him to have fallen from. If he’d dropped from a helicopter or small plane, he would’ve been injured. Instead he looked . . . perfect.

  And how had he recovered from being unconscious in the snow? He’d looked frozen—had been frozen—skin cold, body stiff. One possible explanation dawned.

  Oh, God! She stiffened. He can’t be one of them.

  Surviving the fall from an aircraft and an icy sleep could make him a ventala. The ventala, human-vampire half-breeds, were violent, unpredictable, and difficult to kill, but often incredibly attractive. It might also explain the way he invaded her dreams.

  “I’d like to remove these wet clothes and dry myself,” he said.

  Drawn in by the idea of him stripping, she shivered. If he was ventala, she needed to get away from him, but she couldn’t make herself so much as take another step back.

  “Which direction to the nearest dwellings?” he asked.

  Dwellings? What’s up with the way he talks?

  “The closest houses are that way,” she said.

  He glanced where she’d pointed, then back at her face. “It’s not safe here. Why are you traveling alone, girl?”

  That stopped her. “Girl?” she echoed skeptically. “I’m a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist.”

  His expression was puzzled and innocent, which made her frown. Surely he’d heard of the Pulitzer Prize.

  He stretched his back. “Come,” he said, walking on her tracks toward the trail.

  What the hell? He’s got amnesia. Shouldn’t he be the one following me?

  Bronze didn’t hesitate, however. He struck out with strides that ate the ground. She skied after him until she was a few feet behind and tried not to notice the way the light gilded his hair.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “You asked my name. That means we haven’t met before, but you seem familiar. Are we from the same village? Perhaps we’ve seen each other, but haven’t been introduced?”

  “Not exactly,” she said, not prepared to explain about the dreams. As they followed the curve where the trail meandered through the woods, a flash of light glinted off his hand.

  “Hang on a minute.”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  She reached for his right hand where he wore a ring on his fourth finger. His skin blazed with heat now, the warmth as sensual as a touch caressing her. She shivered and gripped his hand tighter, battling the urge to step forward and press her entire body against his.

  There is no way he’s just human.

  She shook her head, fighting to clear the fog of attraction. He watched her reaction to him with deep interest, making her blush self-consciously.

  Get a grip, Kate! He could be a bloodthirsty monster. Are you going to be a simpering little victim who plays right into his fangs? You have a goddamned Pulitzer for investigative reporting. Act like it!

  She cleared her throat, then took a deep breath, her muscles locking with resolve. She looked over the antique ring—the exact one that had been taken from her dorm room.

  “How do you have this?” she mumbled.

  Pulling his hand from her grip, he raised it to examine the ring. “As I’ve already said, I can’t remember.”

  The ring had to have some larger significance.

  “I had this ring years ago, and it went missing.”

  He tipped his head up as though he’d consult the sky on the matter, but instead of arguing or explaining, he cocked his head like an animal listening for predators—or prey.

  “Journalist,” he said, grabbing her arms and turning her toward the trail. “Hurry home.”

  “What? What’s going on?” she asked, giving him points for not calling her girl.

  “Go,” he yelled.

  Then she saw a trio of figures threading their way through the trees. They were dressed in black and carried sickle-shaped blades like modern-day grim reapers. They moved fast, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to get past them quickly enough. Her heart pounded when she saw their faces, which were pulled into rictus smiles, exposing fangs. They were definitely ventala.

  She pumped her legs back and forth, skiing as fast as she could. Would she reach her house before the ventala caught them? It didn’t seem likely, but she had to try, and if she could just get out of the woods, the ventala would be disadvantaged by the morning light.

  A shout of pain made her slow and look back. Bronze had not fled with her. From where he stood now, he must have rushed into the trees to face them.

  One of the ventala was down. She was relieved to see that Bronze looked unhurt—so far. They swung their blades, and all of them moved in a blur of speed. He knocked another down and grabbed his dagger. Slicing in stunning arcs, Bronze tested the blade on them with devastating results. Then, with a few swift downward thrusts behind their left collarbones, he killed them one by one.

  Bronze lowered himself to a knee, shoved the dagger into the snowy ground, and hung his head, whispering. Perched on her skis,
she remained frozen, staring at him while he rose, reclaimed the dagger, and returned to the trail. Blood and melted snow dripped from the dagger tip like a deadly faucet.

  “You waited,” he said.

  It took her a moment to find her voice. All she managed was, “I did.”

  He shook his head, walking briskly. “You should not have stopped when I told you to go on.”

  She shrugged. “I’m one of those people who always has to know how things turn out.”

  He quirked a brow but didn’t pursue the discussion, which left her feeling vaguely dissatisfied. She wanted him to be interested in her life and her work. In some of the dreams, there’d been a profound connection between them. At the moment, he didn’t even seem attracted to her, which was irritating because the mountain-ridge dream had always been so vivid and . . . satisfying. Her nipples tingled, and she glanced away to hide her flush.

  His current indifference was more like his attitude in the nightmares. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to focus her concentration away from anything erotic.

  “So,” he said, wiping the blade on his pant leg. “I don’t know who I am, but I think I know what I am. I must be a soldier.”

  “I think you’re more than a soldier. Pull your lips back. Show me your teeth.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if you’re a ventala.”

  “Ventala,” he said. “What’s that?”

  She blinked. “Ventala. Part human. Part vampire.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You know, vampires bred with humans to try to save themselves from extermination.”

  He stared at her blankly.

  “After the mutation. The bat plague? The Vampire Rising?”

  “Before my time, I suppose,” he said.

  “It’s before a lot of people’s times. It happened in the 1950s. But everyone knows about it. Everyone. All over the world. Surely, you must remember something! Even people with amnesia know some basic things about the planet.”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, not always.”

  Who the hell was he that he didn’t know about the vampire extermination? “What were you doing after you killed those ventala? You knelt and lowered your head like you were—”

  “I was offering thanks.”

  “To God?”

  “Of course, who else? I was grateful for my victory. It seemed right to say so.”

  “That definitely doesn’t seem ventala-like, but just to be sure, show me your teeth.”

  He retracted his lips. All his teeth were perfectly normal, not a fang among them. Relief flooded through her with confusion on its heels.

  “Then what are you?” she murmured. “Human beings don’t move the way you do. And why were those ventala lying in wait for you? There’s so much to figure out, and I’m not sure we have a lot of time. Ventala usually sleep during the day, but they came for you despite the sunrise.” She paused. “Come nightfall, they may come out in force.”

  “Journalist, what’s your name?”

  She smiled. “Kate.”

  “Kate,” he repeated as if tasting the word. He nodded. “It’s kind of you to offer me aid. It speaks well of your character, but you’re a young woman. I wouldn’t enlist your help.”

  Was he seriously going to discount her ability to help him because she was female? All the times she’d had to fight the condescension of her older male colleagues came roaring back.

  “Perhaps your father or brothers would—”

  “My father and brother live in Vermont, which is about two thousand miles away, and when it comes to investigating something and connecting the dots, there’s no one better than me.”

  “No one?” he asked. “I suspect you’re overconfident.”

  “You know what?” she said. “You’re right. Why don’t you knock on some doors and find some random men to help you? See how that works out.” She skied past him, and as she emerged from the forest, the houses popped into view.

  “Ah, good. Shelter,” he said, keeping pace with her.

  “Yes, my shelter. My house that I own alone. A concept that may be too much for you to get your caveman head around. Who raised you? The Taliban?”

  His brows rose. “I’m not sure who that is, but you’re obviously angry. I meant no offense, Kate, but for a young woman to be so sure of herself is surprising.”

  “You’re unbelievable.” She popped her skis off and snatched them up.

  He frowned. “Could you have fought those men and survived?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what is offensive about me suggesting that I’m a dangerous person for you to be around? I have a feeling that—”

  “Save it,” she said, stomping up the deck steps. She propped her skis and poles against the house and took off her boots.

  Walking inside, she slammed the door behind her. By the time she got to the kitchen counter, her heart was pounding. She’d finally met the bronze guy from her dreams, and he turned out to be a clueless sexist. Well, she wasn’t going to try to prove her worth to anyone. She’d already done that many painful times before.

  What a disappointment he was. She’d expected him to be . . . what? More. Definitely more. Maybe even her soul mate. Admitting that to herself made her feel worse.

  She shook her head. How could her subconscious have wasted hundreds of nights on him? Those recurring dreams had made her invest tons of waking hours on the search for his identity.

  Whatever, she thought, yanking off her jacket and throwing it on the couch. She couldn’t change the past, but she could control the present. She just wouldn’t waste any more time on him.

  Chapter Two

  Despite her intention to stop thinking about him, Kate’s mind ran circles around the mystery of the bronze man. While showering, she considered where he might have come from. Many of her theories, though, were pretty unlikely unless her life had become a comic book.

  Dressed in a turtleneck, jeans, and warm socks, she returned to the ground floor, expecting him to be gone. He should have wandered to one of her neighbors’ houses to knock on the door for help. Instead, he was huddled in a deck chair.

  You were supposed to leave, so I wouldn’t be tempted to talk to you again.

  Staring out the window, she couldn’t prevent the surge of compassion that rose up, nor the small spike of pleasure that came from finding him still within reach.

  Don’t even think about it! Just because that mouth was made for kissing doesn’t mean you want the rest of the package that goes with it.

  She went to the guest room, grabbed a towel and blanket, and strode to the door. Pulling it open, she said, “What are you doing?”

  “I expect that’s fairly obvious.”

  She scowled, thrusting the bundle toward him. “Here.”

  He rose and took it. “This is all the hospitality you offer after I saved your life?” he asked. “When I said you were of good character, Kate, I believe I judged you prematurely.”

  “I doubt you saved my life. They were coming for you, not me,” she said, feigning confidence. Actually, those ventala might have been after her, too. They were a vengeful breed, and if they were nostalgic for their vampire sires, they might feel they had reason to want her dead, considering that the biggest story of her career had uncovered a nest of vampires who were later executed.

  He rubbed the towel over his head and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.

  “I’ll call an ambulance. The hospital can treat you for your amnesia, and they can call the police who will check the missing persons database and help you figure out who you are. Until then, they’ll make sure you’re taken to a public shelter. One with central heating and other important features.”

  “No,” he said, sitting back down in the chair.

  “What do you mean no? You can’t stay outside. You’ll freeze to death.”

  He wrapped the blanket tighter, tipping his chin down so all of his neck was covered.

  “Did you hear me?”
r />   “I will remain here,” he said stubbornly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not ready to leave yet.” He clenched his jaws and then glanced at her. “And before you ask, I don’t know why.”

  She threw her arms up in exasperation, stepped back into the house, and closed the door, but she didn’t walk away. She rested her palms on the doorframe, leaning against it.

  “What are you going to do?” she murmured. “Leave him out there until he turns into a Popsicle?”

  She sighed and swung the door open. “Come inside,” she said.

  As he passed the threshold, he blinked and said, “Your home is palatial.”

  “Not really,” she said, but tried to see it with fresh eyes. The open floor plan stretched from back door to front, encompassing the living room, dining room, and kitchen. The ceilings soared two and a half stories. It was a lot of space for a solitary resident, but plenty of career women lived alone and invested in real estate.

  He rolled his shoulders and twisted his back.

  “I’ve noticed you keep stretching. Are you stiff?”

  “My back aches. I may have injured it.”

  “I can drive you to the hospital.”

  “I don’t think the damage is serious. Could I wash and hang my clothes to dry?”

  Her eyes widened. “I’d love to know what cave you’ve been living in,” she said, grabbing his forearm and leading him to the guest bathroom.

  Just inside the door, he stared at the shower. “I thought of a basin of warm water, but this is familiar, too. I stand inside and hot water rains down,” he said, shrugging his brows at her, clearly pleased with himself for remembering something.

  “Right,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “Congratulations. You remember how to take a shower.”

  He hauled his shirt over his head, and she should have turned but didn’t. He was incredibly well built. His smooth lines conjured a feeling that he should’ve been on a pedestal, like a statue or a sports car at an auto show. Though sleek and perfectly designed, he had one imperfection. A round quarter-sized scar on the left side of his chest. The puckered skin was lighter than the rest that surrounded it. She stepped forward to examine the mark, but he cleared his throat, making her look up.