by Jackie Ivie
“My parents died with I was eight. In a car accident.” His voice was dead-sounding. It was just as well. He’d already cried every tear over it. He didn’t need to add blubbering to his resume with Mary Sue over there.
“Yes?”
“They left a very large estate. A board of trustees to manage it. Lots of jealous relatives I’d never heard of. A little sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“No. Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“She was murdered.”
“Oh.”
That was it. Oh. Stuart waited, and she didn’t say another word, so he put them into the empty air.
“You read recent headlines, or just study history?”
“Both.”
“Then you had to hear of how co-eds just seem to disappear on Spring Break. Especially when they’re down partying in the islands. Without a guardian around. Because they’re mad at them and think they’re being over-protected.”
“She was on Spring Break?”
“Rebecca Emerson. Hear of her?”
“Vaguely. Last year. She disappeared from a party, didn’t she? Her family spent hundreds of thousands to find her and bring her killers to justice. It was all over the news.”
“Millions, actually.”
“Didn’t they just find her body?”
Stuart blinked repeatedly. It wasn’t stopping the emotion and he’d be damned before he admitted to any of it. He nodded.
“She’s…your sister? But I thought you said Emerson?”
“It’s my middle name. My mother’s maiden name. Rebecca used it to prevent all the weirdos that follow the Findlay money from bothering her.” He’d failed. His voice cracked with the pain of it and there wasn’t anything to stop it. He was a wimp now, too.
“Prince Ada Majin killed her?”
Stuart shrugged. The coat was tight enough to follow the move, but there was flexibility to the weave, as well. It appeared this Mary Sue person had a knack for dressing him, after all.
“You have proof?”
“Of course I have proof. I’ve never ordered and paid for a hit on anyone in my life. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t certain.”
“How certain?”
“He was the main person of interest all along.”
“True, but he’s rarely alone. It would’ve been very difficult to kill a beautiful American college student and hide her body with five bodyguards watching every move. Add to that, he’s fairly lazy. Loose. You know…flabby.”
“You saying something with those words?”
“Not at all. I understand revenge. Perfectly. The prince was a target his entire life. Someone was going to get paid for killing him sooner or later.”
“You want to know her last text to me? The night she disappeared? I have it memorized.”
The drape at his side was a blur. He wasn’t blinking any of the emotion into existence. Somehow that made it easier.
“Yes.”
“’I met a prince. A prince, Stuart. Prince Hussein Ada Majin. He calls me the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. And he’s rich. Our wealth means nothing to him. He goes by John. See you soon. Becky.’”
“That’s him, all right. He uses that line.”
Stuart put up his hand. “Don’t. Please.”
“Thank you for telling me. And this changes things quite a bit actually. I’m afraid we’re cancelling our cruise.”
“Our cruise?”
“I had a yacht moved. Tonight, following my assignment, we were sailing. Now, we have to make other plans.”
“Other plans?”
“You still have four targets, Stuart. And I’ll handle them. Gratis.”
“No. Absolutely no.”
“The prince didn’t do it alone, Stuart. He was too lazy. And even if he had murdered her, there would’ve been witnesses.”
“I said no.”
“They didn’t lift a hand to help her, Stuart!”
“If causing one death turns my entire life into a psychotic dream, what might happen with four more?”
“Don’t you want vengeance?”
“Not anymore. It didn’t bring Rebecca back. Nothing changed. All that happened is I got tortured with a dream I can’t wake from, that just keeps getting weirder and weirder. I can’t risk it. Really.”
He heard her sigh heavily. It seemed to linger.
“How many times must I say it? You’re not dreaming, Stuart. This is not a psychotic episode. You are not losing your mind. You’re fully sane and aware, and awake.”
“Can’t be.”
“Why?”
“Because you keep saying you’re a vampire and there’s no such thing. This means you’re not real. A plus B equals C. Easy.”
She made a sound that approximated a Russian curse word spat through her teeth. And he was guessing on the Russian since he’d only heard it once before.
“Why did my mate have to be you? Huh? A man with such a gift for arguing, he had to go and get a doctorate in the subject? Well?”
“Whoa. Now hang on just a minute, Miss Mary Sue. You said mate? Mate?”
“You heard me.”
The car slowed, possibly turning into the disembarking area. She was sulking, too. Her feet were flat on the floorboard, she was sitting upright and prim, and she had a pinched look to her lips as she glared at him.
“We are not mated. Oh no. Never. I’m a commitment-phobe. Any of my prior girlfriends – or women who would have been girlfriends if they’d gone on a second date with me – could’ve told you that. I run from commitment. As for the “L” word? No such thing. I cut it right out of my dictionary. Period.”
“Talking doesn’t change anything, Stuart.”
“You better call me Marvin. We’re almost there. And I haven’t started talking yet.”
“You’re my mate, Stuart. It’s not up for argument. I wasn’t very pleased, either. You think I wanted you?”
“Fine. Turn into every other woman I’ve ever met. Go ahead. See if I care.” Now, he sounded like he was sending taunts from the playground in grammar school. Stuart grimaced and hoped it made him look more mature.
“We’re mates. Doctor Findlay. The sooner you realize it, the sooner we can figure it out. Trust me.”
“Ok. For the sake of argument.” He watched her wince. The car stopped. “Let’s just say I believe you and all this crap you’re shoveling. In which event I need to ask…what exactly , does being a mate mean…uh. In vampire lingo?”
“You grow fangs now, Stuart. Figure it out yourself.”
“Welcome to Casino Royale!”
The door opened with a flourish and a doorman stood grinning and gesturing for them to get out. There were so many lights, it was impossible to tell if it was dawn yet, but Stuart felt the scorch of sun anyway. As if he was lying out on the beach getting fricasseed by solar rays. His skin felt tight. His eyes watered.
It’s your imagination, Stuart. It’s not real. Get hold of yourself .
His dream woman got out first, giving him a perfect view of toned ass and long thighs, until she stood beside the hotel fellow, dwarfing the man, while looking lanky, lean, and vibrantly sexy. She probably did it on purpose, too.
There was nothing for it. He could stay here and turn into an overdone French fry when the sun came out. Or he could follow the most gorgeous woman in the world to their suite of rooms and maybe sort this out.
He got out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The room was exactly as specified, down to the deep black shields attached in front of each window. She’d had them installed decades ago and they’d been maintained. Thank goodness! They’d barely made sunrise, what with Stuart arguing with the doorman, the desk clerk, the bellhop, and the couple in the elevator, about nothing more than which sports could be pursued at night, such as ping pong, or bowling, and how was it nobody pursued night golf.
Sasha checked each window shield, doing her best to ignore Stuart. Sh
e told herself she didn’t care what he was doing and then worked at making it true. The man was a debate looking for a participant, he rarely shut up, and to add full insult: he didn’t want her. Fine. She told herself the slight prick of something behind her eyes was a sign of needing rest. Then she worked at believing it. Sasha Stroyanovich wouldn’t cry. She didn’t remember how. And never over something as superficial as a man.
Good. The suite could still be locked down for the day. She turned. Stuart was standing in the foyer area, unfastening the buttons on his jacket and watching her with an enigmatic expression he’d picked up since she’d turned him. It was devastating. If he lowered his chin a little more, to peer at her through his lashes, it would be even more so. He had the jacket unfastened, and then he peeled it off, putting it back into shape and brushing at the fibers absently, while the cambric shirt she’d chosen clung to every nuance of his body. Sasha opened her lips slightly, blinked, and then he smiled, sending a roar of noise right through her ears.
What was she doing? She didn’t care.
Chyort voz’mi!
Sasha turned her back on him. Damning in Russian wasn’t alleviating anything. She had to concentrate on something else. The suite. That would work. They’d re-done the rooms to her design and color scheme. She’d paid enough, it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it was exciting to walk across shiny black floor tiles, see all the touches of red accenting the areas, skim her eyes across pristine white walls containing red-hued Kabuki prints, while black granite topped counters and tables, and then she reached the bathroom. That room was a work of art.
The fixtures were black, the walls white, and where a huge mirror should be, she’d had them mount an enormous print featuring Dante’s Inferno. The shower took up the corner, encompassing a good section of the floor with the semi-circle of glass that enclosed it. The entire back was constructed with more granite slabs, jutting out in random chunks, easily hiding water spouts near the top. She’d ordered them put in at the seven foot mark. If she didn’t have to stoop to take a shower, she didn’t see why she had to.
She’d designed and paid for it, and they’d kept it exactly to her plan. She guessed why. The entire suite was known as The Inferno and had a waiting list of occupants.
“Wow. Would you look at this.”
She’d sensed Stuart behind her, said another silent curse over the way her entire body seemed to elevate somehow, and didn’t need his slight whistle for verification. Sasha swallowed, put a hand on the counter, and turned to face him, hoping every bit of reaction was hidden.
He’d shed his shirt and had it hanging from two fingers, putting a perfect six-pack on display. Or he was preening. Sasha forced her gaze to stay on his face, and fought down the instant reaction as her canine teeth elongated, and her nails followed suit. The man was gorgeous. Rock solid. Endowed. And ready. There just wasn’t any way to keep from seeing all of it.
“Is that a real shower?”
He brushed by her, sending male scent in his wake, opened the glass door and peered in, making flesh-covered muscle rove about his back. Her claws scratched at the granite with the effort she used to hold onto it.
“The designer has my sincere compliments.”
“Thank you.”
He swiveled his upper body, putting so much male on display, Sasha felt her knees actually quiver.
“You designed this?”
“The entire suite.” Her voice was just above a whisper and breathless-sounding.
“This is late Art Deco stuff. Or something around that period.”
“1928. Redesigned again in 1969. The bath modification came later.”
He’d turned completely and stood to his full height, making her look up at him.
“Oh. I forgot. You’ve been around awhile, you study history, you obviously had a lot of time on your hands, so of course, you spent some of it going around designing hotel suites. How stupid of me.”
“You don’t believe me?” Her voice was stronger, but not by much.
“No. But I haven’t believed you for awhile. So, why would now be different?”
He was so insufferable! If he’d just put his shirt back on, she could get her mind to function enough for the argument he so richly deserved.
“Why are you undressing?”
He looked her up and down and then grinned. Sasha went to a slant atop the counter, forcing her arms to take her weight since her legs turned into jelly somehow and refused to support her.
“I figured it was getting close to ‘jumping on Doctor Findlay’ time and I didn’t want to ruin another suit.”
His voice lowered suggestively. She had to shut her eyes. That was worse. She shook in place for a second before re-opening them on him. He hadn’t moved. The man was cocky now? How did that happen?
“You have…lots of other suits.” She barely had sound to the broken whisper.
“I know. We left them on the plane, though.”
“No. Here. In the closet.”
“Why…of course I do. Every high class hotel stocks my size. It’s part of the Concierge service.”
“Are you always this sarcastic?”
“It’s part of the package, baby.”
Sasha looked up toward the ceiling, stuck out her bottom lip, and blew a sigh so hard it ruffled the hair at her forehead. The man displayed sensual gifts with every move he made, but had an effective stall mechanism if he engaged his mouth. It was actually a good thing.
“You have a complete wardrobe at all my homes, Doctor Findlay. This particular wardrobe was moved from my yacht, probably the moment we decided on Monte Carlo.”
“Yacht?”
His eyebrows rose, highlighting a glint of silver atop the blue of his eyes, and Sasha’s heart lurched so fiercely, she almost put a hand there to keep it from launching right out of her chest.
“You really have a yacht, too?”
She nodded. It was easier.
“And you really have full wardrobes in my size? Exactly my size?”
She nodded again.
“I don’t know why I ask. I really don’t.”
“What?”
“I get ridiculous answers to impossible questions. Waste of time asking. So, I’ll just move onto the ones we really want answered. Forget why I’m undressing. The better question is why are you still fully clothed? And what’s with the bun? Hmm?”
He stepped past her again to drape his shirt over the top of the door, and then he was back, in full display, making such a show of unfastening his belt that her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. The symptom worsened as he pulled the belt out, hung it on the towel rack, and then started on his fly. Sasha couldn’t move her eyes.
“Are we getting any nearer the ‘jumping on Doctor Findlay’ time?”
Her claws scraped across the counter and she lurched into it, settling her rear against it for support. Then he dropped his trousers, leaving low-lying boxers to shield him. It wasn’t enough.
“We should rest.”
“Rest? What the hell for?”
“It’s day.”
His eyebrows rose higher. “That’s true? Vampires really do rest during the day?”
She nodded.
“What else is true?” He stepped out of his slacks and kicked them aside, showing his obvious belief in another wardrobe by the act. She saw them glance off the shower wall with her peripheral vision. Nothing else on her moved. She had her eyes locked to his and watched the fangs slip onto his lower lip as they elongated.
“You…don’t want me.” Damn the words the moment they left her lips, as well as the lovelorn tone that accompanied them!
“Who would tell you such a lie?”
The boxers fell and he pushed himself right between her legs, placing fully primed male against her, while his hand moved to the small of her back to make certain she connected.
“You.”
He tipped her chin back with his, ran his tongue along her throat, and then breathed atop the moisture, s
ending a riot of goose flesh over her entire frame. At least, she wasn’t the only one with a non-rhythmic lurch this time, and his sent her fully atop the counter, angled back over the faucet.
“You’re mistaken, love. I’m not that stupid. You’re the epitome of what every newly created vampire male wants and desires. You have to be.”
Love?
Liquid bliss raced through her at the word, and then it got pumped there with every flick of his tongue, accompanied by the scrape of his teeth. And then he moved closer, gripped her right against him, lifting her right into those abs in order to kiss her. That’s how he caught her moan in his mouth. She felt one of his canine teeth slicing open inner flesh, exactly as she did to him, and at the first exquisite taste, she went reeling. Soaring. Every nerve ending screamed with the sensation while striving for more of the same. And still more. The man could kiss. And it kept his mouth much better occupied than arguing.
He stood, backing from the sink, with her legs wrapped about his slim hips, while she slid up and down over one virile and readied male. Good thing he was strong, since his hands supported the movements. She heard ripping, sensed air at her back and then the cool glass of the inner shower sanctum met her flesh.
“How do you get the water on?”
He breathed the question along her earlobe, pulling that into his mouth in order to lick and then bite.
“Water on. 105 degrees. Mist.”
Water began misting from well above them, wetting his rich brown hair into a dark chestnut shade, and sticking it to his neck, while wetting what was left of her Park Avenue suit, as well as completely ruining her French twist. She didn’t care.
“That’s amazing. It obeys your voice.”
“That was one of my modifications. I designed it.”
She’d have designed him, too, if she’d had the imagination for it. The mist had gone to saturation level, causing a slide of naked male flesh against what was left of her blouse and chemise. She hadn’t worn a bra. This could’ve been why.
“It is definitely ‘jump on Doctor Findlay’ time. And you’re over-dressed.”
Sasha breathed in the amusement and got a nose full of mist and a coughing reaction. That had never happened before.
“And I don’t see any way of correcting it, shy of ruining your attire this time. You game?”