by Juliet Lyons
“Once,” I say finally. “I murdered him the next evening, just like you saw in my life essence. I walked out into the street afterward, still holding the poker, blood dripping into the dirt as I went, and I kept going until I stumbled across a policeman. I told him who I’d killed and where the body could be found. The weird thing is I wasn’t afraid as he led me away. I ached for death.”
I draw a deep, shuddering breath and fall silent. People say that sharing lightens the load, but I’m crushed beneath a weight of regret. Why didn’t I run away? Beg my parents to take me back? What monster lives inside me that I resorted to murder?
Ronin, whose tense arms are still wrapped around my waist, seems to read my thoughts. “You can’t beat yourself up for not making a rational decision at a time when everything and everyone around you was irrational.”
I shake my head. “You’re just being kind.”
“It’s the truth, Catherine.”
“Is it?”
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Why do you even care?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Try and take us full circle back to snarksville.”
“I happen to enjoy snarksville.” I gaze at his lips meaningfully. “I’ve had some good times there.”
“Me too,” he whispers, leaning forward and kissing me gently on the mouth, his fingers toying with my hair.
My whole body begins to liquefy beneath his touch, delicious warmth spreading through me.
“It’s your turn next, you know?” I say, pulling away to gaze at him. “I want the full life story.”
“Do you, now?”
I nuzzle the tip of his nose with mine. “Yes.”
“I have one last question,” he says, frowning. “Why did you hate me so much after our night together? Was it just because I’d bitten you without asking, or was it something more? Did you think I was trying to control you like your husband?”
I sigh. “You released your venom, made me yours.”
“Aye, and I am sorry for that. Would you believe me if I said control was the last thing on my mind?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” I say honestly. “Not after tonight.”
He rests his forehead against mine, piercing me with his bright-blue eyes. “I lost control that first time. There’s something about you that drives me a little nuts.”
“You drive me nuts too.”
He chuckles, wedging my thighs open with a knee. “Then maybe we should stop talking.”
I slide a hand beneath the sheets, exploring the silky ridges of his torso. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter 14
Ronin
I am so screwed.
For the past three hours, I’ve been watching Catherine sleep. Not because I’m eager for her to wake up and have sex with me again—though, granted, that would be nice. No, it’s because I’m mesmerized, like a kid on Christmas morning who’s woken up to find the present he always wanted beside him on the pillow.
She’s here. I’m here. We’ve gone a whole twelve hours without fighting. Religious types would call it a miracle.
I brush a stray tendril of hair from her face, admiring the dark sweep of lashes against her rosy cheeks. Early-morning sunshine streams through a gap in the curtains, casting her sleeping body in a golden glow. With her thick curls, she could be one of Botticelli’s angels. If I were an artist, I’d fetch oils and paint her.
Which takes us full circle to my original point.
I am so screwed.
Her eyelids flicker, and as she stretches like a cat against the pillows, I shift closer, taking advantage of the movement by sliding an arm around her shoulders and drawing her closer. Her breath is warm on my chest, her body soft. My cock doesn’t just stir; it jumps to attention. Even though we spent all last night and most of this morning making love, it wants in.
Her eyes flip open. “Jesus, Ronin! What time is it?”
I glance over her head at the bedside clock. “Half past eight.”
“In the morning?” she asks incredulously.
“Yes,” I say, grinding my erection against her hip. “Are you ready for your wake-up call?”
“Did you sleep?” she asks, rubbing her eyes and peering around the room.
I shake my head, leaning down to kiss the silky column of her neck. “How could I, with you here?”
“But what about work?” she squeaks, as I graze fangs across her collarbone, pressing fervent kisses into the hollow of her throat.
Good question. The phone downstairs was ringing off the hook for an hour last night until I eventually went down and unplugged it, and my cell phone is still abandoned in a pocket of the jeans I discarded on the floor last night. I’ve never missed a Sunday evening at the club before. They must think something’s happened.
I should probably call them, but I can’t think of anything worse than that world colliding with this one. For too long, I’ve blurred the lines between the club and my personal life. Lying here with Catherine in my arms, it feels as if we’re on another planet.
“We’re both our own bosses,” I point out, rolling on top of her and placing my hands on either side of her head on the pillow. “It’s not like we’re going to be sacked.”
She gazes up at me, cheeks flushing pink. “Won’t your vampire minions be angry their lord and master has abandoned them?”
“They have nothing to be mad about. I’m a great boss. Unlimited healthcare and the finest pension plan in the country.”
She chuckles. “You’re a douche.”
“When will you grasp the fact that your insults only turn me on?” I ask, rubbing a thumb around the silky tip of one of her nipples and eliciting a deep moan.
“Maybe that’s why I enjoy them so much,” she murmurs, skimming fingers over my stomach muscles and making my cock twitch.
As if we’re reading from the same page, she opens her legs, wrapping them around my hips and crossing her ankles at the base of my spine as I position myself at her entrance.
“I’ll have to get up after this,” she whispers.
I slide slowly into her tight, wet sheath, all thoughts of the club and the future obliterated by the erotic sensation of being inside her moist warmth. She smells like clean linen and soap, a lingering scent of sex. As I begin to gently thrust, our moans clashing, her nails digging into my skin, I wonder if there’s anything I wouldn’t give up to have this continue.
I really am screwed.
But for the first time in a long while, I couldn’t care less.
* * *
It’s after ten by the time we make it downstairs. I sit on the bottom step, watching as she picks up her jeans from the hallway floor, tugging the black denim over her slender legs.
“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” she mutters, glancing up at me with a smile.
“I don’t need to,” I quip, waggling my brows. “There are cameras everywhere. I’ll have quite the Catherine Adair collection with all the footage from last night.”
She narrows her eyes, scanning the ceiling.
“Gotcha.”
“Anything is possible with the likes of you,” she says, buttoning up her jeans and holding the remnants of the torn camisole across her breasts. “Where are my shoes?”
Unable to keep my distance for a second longer, I jump up from the stairs and pull her close, locking my arms around her hips and lifting her from the floor. “In the kitchen, where you kicked them off and demanded sex.”
She smirks. “Oh, yeah, that.”
I capture her lips with mine, sliding my tongue into her mouth. She tastes of cherries and minty toothpaste, and the notion that she’s about to leave makes my chest ache.
She responds hungrily, th
e ripped top slipping to the floor as she grasps my collar, pulling me deeper into the kiss. When we eventually part, she’s panting, her eyes drowsy as they roam my face. “I really do have to go.”
“Aye. Me too,” I murmur.
Releasing my shirt, she slides back onto the floor. “Shoes,” she mutters to herself, as if waking from a dream.
I close my fingers around hers and lead her, half-naked, through to the kitchen where her hoodie lies abandoned next to the table.
The ache in my chest grows more intense. In just a few minutes, she’ll walk out the door, and everything between us will be up in the air again.
“When will I see you next?” I ask. My voice sounds so unsteady I barely recognize it.
She sits down on one of the kitchen benches, pushing her feet into her shoes. “I don’t know. When’s your next night off, supreme leader of our race?”
I twitch a grin. “Tonight. I’ll come to your place. I can glamour your neighbors into liking you again while I’m there, if you like?”
She hops off the bench and tilts her head, feigning adoration. “That’s sweet, but I can handle them. Come over though. If you don’t have anything better to do with your time.”
I loop an arm around her waist and draw her to me again, my lips brushing her hair as I whisper in her ear, “What could possibly be better than fucking the living daylights out of you?”
Her breathing hitches. “Sounds like we have a date.”
I release her, instantly missing the sweet warmth of her body. “Good. I’ll bring wine.”
She narrows her eyes. “I bet you have a wine cellar, don’t you?”
“In the basement. I’ll have Flavia dust off a couple of bottles.”
We smile like buffoons. Even though eight hours is no time at all, I feel as if we’re standing on the precipice of eternity.
“How will you get back?” I ask, the spell broken as she pulls the gray sweatshirt over her head. “Shall I call the driver from the club?”
She clucks her tongue. “This isn’t Pretty Woman, Ronin. I am capable of getting myself home.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tonight, then.”
She nods. “See you tonight. And try not to ‘out’ any of the neighbors this time.”
Without warning, she closes the distance between us and reaches up on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. Then she’s gone down the hallway, the door slamming shut behind her.
I trail after her like a lovesick teenager, rubbing the spot on my face where she kissed me and stopping only when I stumble across the torn camisole on the hallway floor. I pick it up, burying my nose in the slippery material and inhaling her fresh scent. Shoving it into my trouser pocket, I decide it might just be enough to see me through the next eight hours.
* * *
I take a cab to the club, Catherine’s camisole burning a hole in my pocket as I contemplate our night of passion. The streets are jammed, black taxis and red buses thronging the roads, the pavements teeming with early festive shoppers. Crawling through a busy junction, we drive past a store that catches my eye, the name La Perla carved into a sleek, gunmetal-gray exterior in chrome lettering. I finger the slippery material in my pocket, remembering what Catherine said when I tore the camisole.
I lean forward. “Keep driving. I’ll catch up.”
Before the driver can respond, I’m flinging open the door of the cab and weaving through two lanes of traffic to the shop. I’m not in the habit of visiting women’s clothing stores, so when I push open the polished glass door, I’m surprised at how bare the place is—both of people and things. A striking woman in her thirties, with chestnut-brown hair slicked back into a bun, gazes at me with money signs in her eyes.
“Can I help you?” she asks, flashing me a pearly-white smile.
I pull the two halves of pink material from my pocket—all that’s missing is a white rabbit and I’m a magician. “Do you have any of these in stock?”
The girl narrows her eyes at the camisole, the appreciative once-over she gave me on the way in hardening to disapproval.
“It belongs to a friend of mine,” I say, wracking my brain for an excuse. “My dog attacked her.”
“Your dog attacked her?” she repeats, her lip curled.
“He was just playing. You know what french bulldogs are like.”
“I’m sure they’re very playful,” she mutters snootily, giving me her back as she crosses the shiny floor to a rack of satin camisoles. She pulls out one that looks identical to one I’m holding. “What size is your friend?”
I stare at the label, a tiny S grabbing my attention. “Small, though that surprises me. She’s actually fairly buxom.”
“This one is small,” the woman says, ignoring my comment. “Shall I ring it up?”
“Please.”
A couple of minutes later, I’m back inside the taxi clutching a shiny cardboard bag.
“Do you still want to go to Soho?” the driver asks.
I’m half-tempted to tell him to make a left onto a side street and turn around, take me straight to Catherine’s office in East London instead. But God only knows what her reaction would be if I showed up so soon, brandishing lingerie. She’d probably take out a court injunction.
“Yes, Soho.”
When the taxi finally pulls onto the double yellow lines outside 66 Broadwick Street, I pay the driver and climb out onto the damp pavement, slamming the door shut behind me. Only now I remember that my phone is still switched off in my pocket. I reach in and hit the power button, and by the time I’m tapping a code into the panel beside the door, the thing is buzzing in my trousers like a wasp. I peer at the screen as the door clicks off the latch—seventy-two missed calls, twelve texts messages, and forty emails. Nice to know I was missed.
I don’t bother to read any of the texts as I slip along the gloomy, gray-papered corridor. I’ll catch the gist of the drama before long.
Sure enough, as I push open the interior door, momentarily dazzled by the strip lights in the ceiling, Harper’s voice booms, “You’re back. We’ve been trying to get ahold of you all night.”
He jumps up from a leather sofa, swiftly crossing the empty dance floor toward me. He’s wearing a well-tailored charcoal suit that looks suspiciously like one of mine.
I wave a finger at it. “Is that…?”
He averts his eyes. “Yes, it’s yours. I got blood on mine last night and I haven’t been home yet. Where were you?”
“I wasn’t aware I was under a curfew,” I say in a low voice.
Harper shakes his head vigorously. “We were worried. First, Charlie didn’t show up, and then you. We kept thinking about those vampire killings—”
“Wait,” I say. “Charlie didn’t show up?”
“No one’s seen him since Saturday night. He isn’t answering his phone either.”
“That is odd,” I say.
Charlie’s worked at the club from the beginning. Reliable and sober, I’ve never known him to touch a drop of blood. He was a soldier in his human life and though he happily wades into messy situations, he believes taking from the vein is an insult to Mother Nature. He’s never said those words aloud, of course—he wouldn’t dare—but I can tell that’s what he’s thinking. Beneath his burly doorman exterior, Charlie is a deep well of untapped emotions.
“Has someone checked his house?”
“Hassan went over there last night. His apartment is empty.” He pauses. “I’m afraid that’s not all.”
I sigh. “What else?”
“The New York ancient, Esme. She called asking for news about the killer. I said it was your night off but that you’d call her back as—”
“My night off?” I cut in.
Harper gulps. “I didn’t know what else to say. She was demanding to speak with you, and you weren’t here, so…” He trails off into silence.
I briefly close my eyes. Harper’s whiny voice is starting to vibrate through my skull like a dentist’s drill. Why did I ever leave home this morning?
I brush past him, striding toward the door next to the bar. “It’s fine,” I say over my shoulder. “You did your best. I’ll call her now.”
“Ronin?”
I spin around on my heel, jerking in shock when I see that Harper is holding up Catherine’s torn satin camisole.
“I think you dropped this.”
I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed, him or I. Which is silly, considering we’ve shared women like other people share dessert. I snatch the two halves of the camisole from his outstretched hand, dropping it into the tiny bag alongside the new one. Harper notices the shiny bag for the first time, and his gaze lingers on the logo. Pulling myself to full height and cutting him a hard look, I silently dare him to ask me about it. He says nothing as I saunter through the door to the back rooms.
Once I’m safely inside my office, I pluck the ruined lingerie out and drop it into my desk drawer, leaving the bag next to a pile of papers so I remember to take it with me later. I glance at the clock above the door. It’s only just past eleven, which means it’ll be early morning in New York City. I pick up the phone and dial Esme. With any luck, I’ll be able to leave a voice message. Which is what she would have done last night, if she wasn’t such a demanding, power-crazed harpy.
She answers on the sixth ring. “Ronin McDermott,” she purrs down the line. “I’ve had better wake-up calls.”
“Have I disturbed you?” I ask. There’s no sense asking if she was sleeping. Ancients very rarely do.
“No. Nothing doing at this hour of the day, I’m afraid. I called last night, but you were having a night off.” Her last two words drip with sarcasm.
“There was a situation I had to attend to,” I say. Which is almost the truth, if you count finally bedding the woman I’ve been obsessed with for the best part of a decade.
“Oh, does this mean you’ve figured out who murdered dear Roger?”
“I’m chasing up several leads,” I say, sounding like a detective in a low-budget cop show. “I’ve spoken with his girlfriend and I suspect he had money troubles.”