“It’s not that simple, Dr. Bridgeman.”
“The hell it’s not. Look, just let me out, and anything you want, it’s yours. Cross my heart, I won’t tell a soul you took me.” She made a little crisscross motion over her heart.
“Like I said, Dr. Bridgeman, it’s not that simple. I don’t need your money. I need you to do a job for me. That Sherman tank drag queen apparently wants you to do the same job. I think, circumstances being what they are, you might want to consider working for me.”
“Work, my ass.” Sarah mumbled to herself. “Who the hell are you, anyway? And what job could I possibly do for you? I’m a medical researcher, you dickhead.”
He didn’t bother looking at her. He took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh.
“My name is Taris. I’m an eight-hundred-year-old vampire, and I need you to use your medical research to help me stop the slow yet brutal extinction of a race of people who really do exist but are made into horror movie villains and romance novel heroes.”
When he was met with silence, he glanced over to see her passed out cold in the seat.
“I knew it wouldn’t work.”
* * *
This was bad. It was obviously going to take some time to convince her he had snatched her for her own good; it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. Damn, how was he going to get her to agree to help them now? She had been throwing off some major bad vibes. What would she say if she knew he’d been camped out in her coat closet all night and was halfway smitten with her already? Once he got her back to the safety of his home he would explain everything to her and hope her logical side would take over and see reason. Yeah, that made a load of sense. Logically, vampires didn’t exist, right? So how in the name of all that was sweet and feathery did he think he was going to be able to talk her into this?
As much as his mind swam with all of the arm-twisting possibilities, there was a greater fear looming on the horizon.
Bane and Morrigan were alive and on the hunt for the woman in his passenger seat. Things were about to get ugly, lightning fast. He was going to need to bring in reinforcements to keep her safe.
He carefully maneuvered the quad cab diesel onto the narrow gravel path that led to the house. After slowly making his way down the thin strip of road, he finally stopped at a large, wrought iron gate. He rolled down the window and was about to enter the code into the keypad when he heard her shift in the seat next to him. She was still passed out cold, slumped into the seat like a rag doll. The sleep softened her face. A wayward curl had fallen over her eyes, and without thinking about what he was doing, Taris leaned over and pushed it away from her forehead. She caught her breath, hitting the top of his hand. It made him pause. He studied her, and as she shifted again, he caught the scent of her shampoo. It was vanilla, warm and sugary, the same intoxicating scent that had been on her coat earlier that night. It whirled around in his nose, and he closed his eyes, inhaling it, taking it deep into his chest. It was that smell that had made his pelvis jerk the first time he looked at her. Now it was permeating every inch of him, and damn him if it didn’t spell trouble with a capital T. When he realized he was still stroking her hair, he jerked his hand back and turned quickly to the window. With a few beeps, the gate began to creek open, and Taris drove the truck through.
“Tell you what, Doc,” he whispered as he focused on the widening and now paved driveway, “you keep being a bitch to me, and I’ll stay away from you. Otherwise, this could get bad.”
Chapter 8
In the history of the hostage crisis, Sarah highly doubted there had ever been any kind of kidnapping comparable to hers.
When she woke up, she was ensconced in what she was convinced had to be silk that angels had handed down to mankind. That silk was tucking her into the softest mattress with the biggest goose down pillows on a gigantic four-poster bed. The surrounding room was painted in deep red, the walls framed with crown molding and thick beveled stark white baseboards. All of the furniture, from the Colonial highboy to the bed in which she sat, was a dark, glossy black.
On her body was a pair of smooth, powder blue silk pajamas. Her hair was clean, and for the first time in years, she actually felt rested when she woke.
“What is going on?” she mumbled to herself. Her synapses were firing in overload as she suddenly remembered the smell of that leather trench coat and the way that the guy with the makeup’s voice had echoed on the concrete walls of the stairs and planted itself indelibly into her brain.
Taris, the guy said.
Oh yeah, Taris. The big guy driving the big truck.
She looked around her, sizing up the room. Even with its bold colors and its sparse decor, it couldn’t be his. There was no way. A guy who stormed around in the middle of the night, flinging knives and taking women out of their beds didn’t live like this.
After glancing around the room again, the sleep began to fade from her brain, and she came to the realization that she was alone. She slowed her breathing to listen and gently climbed out of the bed. She crept to the door and pressed her ear to its cool paneling when it suddenly flew open. She didn’t have time to react, and the force of the door smacked her right onto the hardwood floor and sent her sliding into the footboard of the bed.
“Oh dear God, I am so sorry!”
Sarah cracked her eyes open to see the blurry outline of a woman.
“Here,” she said as she scrambled around to set down the large plate she was carrying, “let me help you.” She wiped her hands on her jeans and stretched out her hand. Sarah eyed it cautiously.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the woman said, a smile tipping up the corners of her perfectly shaped mouth. “Trust me, that is the last thing I want to do.”
Holy crap, did she have fangs? Sarah eyed the gesture cautiously but slowly extended her hand closer to the woman until her fingers were held tightly in her soft grip. A quick and steady jerk pulled her upright to her feet. The moment she was vertical again she pulled her hand away and took in the woman in front of her.
Sarah was straight as an arrow, but this woman was downright gorgeous. She had long, ink-black hair that fell perfectly straight down to the middle of her back, cut in such a way that little wisps of it fell around her face and down to her shoulders. She was about an inch or two shorter than Sarah, but the way she held herself made her look like she was ten feet tall. Her legs seemed to go from the floor straight up to her neck, and the faded low-rise jeans that she was wearing did everything in the world to show off her perfectly curved hips. The black turtleneck sweater she wore did the same damn thing that her jeans did: hug every curve from her shapely arms to her tiny waist and finish off the show with a snug fit around her disturbingly perky rack. Not to mention that she had had the creamiest skin and a perfect complexion.
It was her eyes that really popped, though. They were wide, almond shaped, and surrounded by the thickest ebony lashes Sarah had ever seen. As corny as it sounded in her head, the only way Sarah could describe the color was the deep orange of a sunrise combined with the emerald green of springtime trees. They were strange and stunning.
The raven-haired woman turned to retrieve the silver plate she had set down on top of the vanity and walked over to the bed, all the while a smile still trying to break out from her lips. Sarah kept her eyes tight, watching the woman’s every move. The woman snorted out a laugh, and those strange eyes tilted up just as her mouth did.
“You can relax, Dr. Bridgeman. I already told you, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re just nervous, that’s all.” The woman went into the bathroom and filled a narrow crystal vase halfway with water. She placed a single flower in it and brought it over to the end table. “And if you keep referring to me as beautiful, I’m going to be the one who’s nervous, not you.”
“You can read my mind?” Sarah spat out the question like a piece of rotten fruit.
“No,” the woman said. She sat down calmly on the bed. Her smile was gone. “You actually said all of t
hat out loud, you know, about being nervous and feeling inadequate. You shouldn’t feel that way. I’ve been watching over you for the past few hours and—”
“Few hours? How long have I been here?” Sarah didn’t realize it, but with every word she spoke, she had inched closer and closer to the bed until finally, she was standing at the foot of the gigantic four-poster. “Why were you watching me? Who put me in these clothes? Where are my clothes? Who washed my hair? Who are you, and what the hell is wrong with your teeth?”
Raven-hair took in a deep breath. She lifted the lid off the giant silver plate that was sitting in the center of the bed. The scent coming off the china hit Sarah straight in the gut, and she suddenly realized how hungry she was. Pancakes—she could almost taste them—drowned in butter and hot maple syrup.
“You are starving, Sarah.” She patted the bed beside her. “Why don’t you sit down and eat, and I will explain everything to you, okay?”
“Oh, so now you want me to sit down and eat? What the hell is going on?”
“So many questions,” the raven-haired woman said as she rose from the bed. “Be logical, Dr. Bridgeman. If we wanted you dead, you would be.” She motioned again toward the platter of pancakes.
She had to admit, the woman had a point. Sarah didn’t argue anymore, with the raven-haired woman or with herself. She padded over to the bed and hopped up on it so ungracefully that she almost fell off the other side. Once she was steady, she crossed her legs and pulled the entire platter onto her lap.
“That’s much better. I’ll go get you some milk. Be right back.” She turned and exited through the door.
Sarah inhaled the food that was in front of her. She had a million questions to ask and a million ways she needed to try and escape. Best to do it on a full stomach.
“Okay, here we go.” The woman walked back into the room and put a tall glass of milk on the table beside the bed before taking her seat next to Sarah. “Now we can begin properly.”
Sarah drank down almost half of it before taking a breath. She stared down at the plate, halfway regretful that she was such a ravenous pig and had eaten almost all of the pancakes.
“It’s okay, I made tons more. I always do. My brother eats like there’s no tomorrow, so I always make plenty.”
“I offered that guy money.” Sarah’s words were mumbled. She was still chewing on a fluffy buttermilk pancake. “Did he tell you? I’ll make you the same offer. Listen, lady, no questions asked, if you just let me go…” Sarah finished the glass of milk and set it back on the table, never breaking eye contact.
“I think he told you that it’s not that simple, my dear. And please, call me Kalin.”
“Okay, Kalin, same offer.”
Kalin shook her head. “We can’t just let you go. And that guy’s name is Taris. He’s my brother.”
Sarah’s eyebrows knitted together as she studied Kalin’s face. They had the same eyes, she and Taris. She remembered the way his had looked as he glanced down at her.
“So wait a minute,” Sarah said. “If he’s your brother, then that transvestite hit man guy is your brother, too, right?”
Any light that was in Kalin’s eyes melted away at the reference.
“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “Yes, he is.”
“And Taris, your brother, took me out of my apartment in the middle of the night to rescue me from your other brother—”
“Bane.”
“Right, Bane. He took me out of my apartment in the middle of the night to save me from that Bane guy, and now I am in his room—”
“My room, actually.” Kalin smiled.
Sarah looked around, surveying the room again. “It’s nice. Very Colonial.”
“Thank you. I do like the simplicity of it. And the red with the crown molding just pops, don’t you think?”
“Yes, it does. I—” Sarah shook her head, waving a hand in the air. “No, damn it. Off topic.” She sucked in a deep breath and sighed. “I’m in your room, at your house, and I still don’t know why the hell I’m here.”
“I think my brother did try to explain it to you, but with his complete lack of tact, you may not have understood him.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard him. You expect me to buy that whole vampire thing? I mean those,” she pointed to Kalin’s mouth, “those could be caps or stage props or something. Or it could be genetic. I mean, the three of you do have them, right? So maybe your mom or dad had some weird dental shit going on, I don’t know. I just need to know what you want so I can get back to my normal life, okay?”
But there was no life to get back to, was there? She was suspended from work for spouting off at the kisser to some broad who deserved it, and her best friend was going to die because he played one too many anonymous games of tickle-the-snake. She really had very little to go back to. The realization played across her face like a billboard.
“Dr. Bridgeman,” Kalin reached a hand out and placed it on top of Sarah’s. “You are a very smart woman. I will explain everything to you as long as you promise to keep an open mind. Do you think you can do that?”
Sarah nodded. What choice did she have? There was no point in arguing or trying to talk her way out of the situation, because when it came down to brass tacks, she was stuck there, whether she liked it or not.
“Good. Now, we brought you here because of th—”
The bedroom door flew open and crashed against the wall. Sarah froze instantly. Kalin’s calming presence was all but forgotten the moment Taris’ big body burst through the door.
Any and all thought processes for Sarah stopped then and there. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. All she could do was stare. He had been a Goliath before, and he scared the hell out of her when he was carrying her in his arms, and what little light streamed through the cab of his truck last night had probably bolstered that strange reaction she had to him, but what was coursing through her veins now was a combination of terror and complete, totally inappropriate want.
He stood in the doorway, his wide shoulders taking up most of the expanse. He was tall, taller than she thought, taller than she remembered. He was no longer wearing his leather trench, just a pair of faded jeans and a black muscle shirt that clung to his lean, muscular chest with the same intensity she had seen the night before. He lifted his arms, running his hands through his shaggy, dark brown hair. His eyes—those haunting, strange amber eyes—were fixed on her as if he were picking apart every last neuron in her brain. His face was strong and angular, his lips were full, and on his cheeks and chin was about a day’s growth of fuzz. As if he knew what she was thinking, he brought a large hand up to his cheek and rubbed it.
“She’s finally awake, huh?”
His voice was heaven. It was deep, so deep that it was almost lyrical. It barely carried across the room, the pitch was so low, but even with its lowness it hit her square in the gut and twisted.
“We were just talking about you,” Kalin said as she smiled at him. Effortlessly, she hopped off the bed and went to him, immediately threading her slender arms around his waist. The hard line of his face melted as he returned her embrace. He hugged her tight and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. As he hugged her, Sarah caught a glimpse of his shoulder—those thick, roped, massive shoulders. His upper right arm was tattooed with some kind of strange writing that stretched from the very top of his arm to where his elbow creased. The ink just made him look that much more dangerous. That much sexier.
Get a grip, Sarah. Hostage. Remember, you are a hostage.
As the two in the doorway pulled away from each other, the eased look on his face went away as he looked up at her.
“You think you can get her ready to go?” he asked. Clearly, he wasn’t talking to her, but his eyes kept a constant vigil on her just the same.
“I haven’t explained anything to her yet, Taris. You interrupted.” Kalin looked up at him.
“My bad,” he said. He began moving toward her, his bare feet making barely any noise on the floor
. “Feeling better now?” He was standing right by the bed now, towering over her.
Damn it. Her heart was thudding against her chest wall. What was the deal? She couldn’t look him in the eye, or there was no telling what kinds of things she might say. She couldn’t find her voice, so all she did was nod.
“Good. Well, Kalin,” he craned his body around to look at his sister, who was walking toward the foot of the bed. “You want to explain, or you want me to?” Kalin shook her head.
Sarah felt ridiculous. There she was, cross-legged on a gigantic bed, in a pair of pajamas that hung off her like a bedsheet, with maple syrup on her face, flanked by two of the most impressive and imposing figures she had ever met. Her insides twisted up again when Taris sat on the edge of the bed. He was far enough away so there was a safe distance between them, but as he sat down, the rush of air carried a scent over to her that caused that hot feeling creep up into her stomach again, only this time, it traveled lower. It smelled like pine trees and snow, the glorious smell of winter, like the one that Glade tried to capture in candles but never quite got right. It was faint, yet powerful, and it did an unholy combination of things to her. It made her relax and tense up all at the same time. She was praying that neither of them noticed her eyes close to take it in. Just as quickly as they had shut, she popped them open again when she heard him clear his throat.
“Do you remember anything about last night?”
Sarah inhaled and managed to kick her voice box into gear. “Yes.” That was all she could get out.
“So you remember what I told you on the way here, then?” Taris slowly twisted his body around so that his shoulders were square with hers.
“I remember you told me that big guy was your brother and that you need me to help you. That was the only thing that made any kind of sense. The rest of it, complete wash.”
Taris ran his hand over his face again, covering the expanse from his eyes to his chin and back again before he took in a deep breath. It was when he rested his palm face up on his thigh that she noticed the scars on his arm.
Chaos and Moonlight (Order of the Nines Book 1) Page 7