by Mason, Nina
“Your opponent has been slinging a lot of mud in your direction,” she said, recapturing his attention, “claiming you’re a bleeding-heart liberal with no experience who will base his decision on New Age hocus-pocus. How do you respond to these allegations, Lord Lyon?”
He gaped at her a moment, unsure what to say. There was no blood left in his brain to answer hard-hitting questions, which she had to know. With her seductive looks, revealing clothing, and double-entendres, she teased him into a frenzy. Had she done it deliberately to throw him off his game? Were all women wicked vixens who used men like playthings?
“Please.” He forced a smile. “Call me Callum.”
Her eyes locked with his. “All right then. How do you respond to these allegations, Callum?”
He regarded her, waffling between suspicion and confusion. Was she manipulating him or simply seeking to do her job and seduce him at the same time? Whatever her motives, he needed to answer the bloody question. He searched his voided brain for a response.
“I may be inexperienced,” he said, doing his best to appear composed, “but I say better fresh blood and new vigor than a washed-up party puppet like Sinclair.”
“Can I quote you on that?”
He nodded his answer, fighting to maintain his focus and poise. He picked up his coffee, took a swig, and ran his tongue across the points of his sprouting fangs.
“I like your confidence…among other things.” As she said it, she slipped a stockinged foot between his legs. She wriggled her toes against his erection, stretching his self-control to the limits. “But tell me why the voters of Caithness should choose you?”
He drew a deep breath, licked his lips, and gulped his coffee. All his focus was in the spot her toes were massaging. His cock was throbbing with arousal and he was starting to sweat. “With the incumbent, it would be business as usual, wouldn’t it?”
Aye, he sounded lame, but it was the best he could manage without an ounce of blood in his brain. She was still holding his gaze, still walking her toes up and down his prick.
“Where do you stand on the question of independence?”
He coughed, broke free of her gaze, and slurped his coffee, burning his tongue again. “Why don’t you ask me how I feel about what your foot is doing in my crotch?”
She laughed. “I don’t need to ask what I already know.”
“Is your plan to interview or seduce me?”
Her mouth curved into a seductive smile. “I thought I’d do both. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Aye. For one thing, I can’t think straight when my cock is hard. For another, I’m sort of seeing someone I’d rather not cheat on.”
She arched a penciled eyebrow. “Would rather not…but will if pressed, I’ll wager.”
He had no answer. Licking his lips, he slipped a hand under the table and seized her teasing foot. Rather than push it away, he pressed it against his erection, which pulsed with the need for release. “Aye, Miss Hornsby. If forced to fuck someone else, I will, as I made perfectly clear.”
With one more salacious swipe, she removed her foot, gathered her belongings, and nodded toward the back of the café. “Come on, then.”
Not eager to rise from the table in his present state, he looked where she’d nodded and coughed in surprise. “You want to do it in the loo?”
With a shrug, she got to her feet. “Why not? There’s a lock on the door.”
He took a moment to consider the logistics. Fixating on the sink, he imagined bending her over as he tugged up that skintight skirt of hers. It was a fantasy he liked very much. “You’re on. Just give me a minute, eh?”
She got up and glanced around before looking down at him. “How about I run reconnaissance? Just don’t keep me waiting too long, all right?”
He nodded his agreement. As he watched her walk away, gaze fixed on her twitching backside, he thought of his butterfly with a pang. Had she only been stringing him along? As much as he didn’t want to believe that was true, neither did he want to be made to feel foolish.
Reaching into the pocket of his coat for his new mobile, which he’d silenced before entering the newspaper office, he made a deal with himself. If there was a message from Vanessa, he’d get up and leave right now. If not, he’d satisfy his needs with Miss Hornsby in the lavatory.
There was no message and no missed call. Damn her to hell and damn himself for thinking he could change her. He gave his head a firm shake to chase her from his thoughts. Without delay, he let Miss Hornsby fill the vacancy. God, how he wanted to taste that mouth, squeeze those tits, bend that tempting body of hers over the sink and bang her with a vengeance.
Because that was exactly what it would be. Vengeance for the pain and disappointment Vanessa had inflicted on his hopeful heart.
He got up from the table. Aye, he would fuck her. And while he was at it, purge his heart of disenchantment. Not just from Vanessa, but for Sorcha and Queen Morgan as well.
Fuck the lot of them.
He followed the sign around a corner and down a small hallway. Finding the restroom door ajar, he slipped inside. She shut and locked the door behind him before leaning back against it. Searing desire swept through him as he closed the gap between them. The next second, his mouth was on hers. She tasted of coffee, lipstick, and desperation. Capturing her tongue between his lips, he bit down and sucked hard. She flinched and made a small sound of surprise but didn’t pull away. He heard the rasp of a zipper, felt fingers close around his cock.
As she stroked him, he groaned with pleasure. Running his hands down her body, he jerked up her skirt, pressed his hand between her thighs, and pushed aside her lacy panties. He plunged two fingers inside her, pleased to find her as ready as he was. Moaning into his mouth, she parted her legs.
Withdrawing his fingers, he moved into position and entered her with a savage thrust. The sudden sizzling pleasure of his possession made him gasp. With a hop, she locked her legs around his hips, digging her high heels into his ass. He drove into her again and again, purging the pain in his heart.
Fuck Vanessa.
When he’d finished with her poor substitute, he let go, turned away, and zipped up. Miss Hornsby set a hand on his arm, compelling him to turn. Forgetting his fangs, he looked at her, meeting not her eyes but the blinding flash of a camera.
“Gotcha.” She beamed at him triumphantly. “Ever since I moved to this hellhole to take this crappy job, I’ve heard rumors about the Vampire of Barrogill. And now I’ve got the story I need to get hired by a serious news organization.”
Rounding on her with murder in his heart, Callum set one hand on the door beside her head. With the other, he confiscated her camera. Looking deeply into her scheming gray eyes, he said, in a cool, methodical voice, “This never happened. When you finished our interview, you went to the toilet. And when you returned to the table, I was gone—and so was your camera.” Licking his lips, he went on. “Far from a vampire, the laird of Barrogill is a decent, honorable man whose bid for Parliament you wholeheartedly endorse.” He closed his fist around the camera, crushing it into electronic debris. “Nod if you understand me.”
She dipped and raised her head robotically.
“Good.” He still held her glassy, expressionless gaze. “And while I’ve got your attention, astrology is a legitimate science, whose insights have benefitted some of the greatest leaders of all time. Not a bunch of New Age bollocks. Are we clear on that?”
* * * *
Vanessa tamped down her loathing as she followed Beau off the streetcar and across Magazine Street toward a one-story white house with a columned front porch. The hot-pink neon sign over the front door read, The Camellia Grill.
“Everything’s good here.” He took her arm and pulled her along. “So order whatever you like.”
The thought of eating turned her stomach, as did his touch. He’d played with her last night in the car, like a cat with a mouse, making her fondle him while he fondled her, but stopping short of
penetration. He wanted to take it slow, he’d said. To milk his advantage for all it was worth. He’d dropped her off around midnight, promising to return in the morning to take her out on the town, starting with a trolley ride through the Garden District, during which he’d forced her to kiss him while putting his hand up her skirt.
He’d knocked on her door bright and early, before she’d had time to do more than brush her teeth and hair. He’d also picked out the outfit she was wearing—a white sundress with spaghetti straps, a fitted bodice, and a full skirt.
“Don’t bother with underwear,” he told her. “I want ready access to the goods.”
Stepping inside the grill was like stepping back in time to a 1950s lunch counter. There were no tables, only islands of marble jutting out from the kitchen, each surrounded by a horseshoe of chrome-and-red-vinyl swivel stools. A similarly vintage shade of Cameo pink paint covered the walls.
“Oh hey, Mr. Beau. Have a seat wherever you like.”
The greeting came from a big black man in a crisp white jacket and black bow tie. Beau guided her toward the far corner, where they grabbed two stools with a full view of the room.
“How’s your mamma doing?”
The man flashed a broad, white-toothed grin. “She’s lots better, Mr. Beau. Thanks for asking.”
Beau turned to Vanessa. “Milton’s worked here as long as I can remember. His mama fell off the porch and broke her hip a few weeks back.”
Unsure what to say, she simply nodded.
Still grinning, Milton ambled over. As he approached, he pulled a pad and pencil out of the big square pocket on the front of his coat. “What can I get for ya’ll this fine morning? Grits and bacon? Biscuits and gravy? Ham and eggs?”
“We’re here on a serious mission,” Beau told him. “I brought my lady here to sample your specialty.”
His lady? Vanessa wanted to vomit.
Milton gave her an exaggerated wink. “Pie for breakfast? Well, why not?”
She forced herself to smile. Under the counter, Beau’s fingers were creeping under her dress. She clenched her jaw, but made no effort to stop him. Much as it reviled her, she had to go along to protect Callum.
The advancing digits brushed her sex at the same moment her phone started ringing in her purse. She stiffened on both accounts. What if it was Callum? Her heart ached with the need to answer it and tell him everything, but she couldn’t.
Milton brought their pie and filled their coffee cups. Not knowing what else to do, she picked up her fork and took a tiny bite of pie. It was good albeit cloyingly sweet. As she continued to pick at the slice, her mind raced around in search of a way out. What if she turned herself into a bird? Could she fly all the way to Scotland? She somehow doubted it. And, even if she could, she’d have to turn back into herself sooner or later. Beau would leak the story and the press would ruin Callum’s life.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” Beau nodded toward her ringing handbag.
“Nope.”
Maybe there was some way to escape into the Thitherworld. She and Callum could go together and lay low until this all blew over.
“I thought after we finished our pie,” Beau said, keeping his voice low as he ran his fingers across her bare shoulder, “We could head on back to your place, so you can show me a few things, if you catch my drift.”
She did, unfortunately, and the only alternative she could see was to delay the inevitable as long as possible. “I want to,” she lied in a voice as sweet as the pie on her plate. “I really do. But I also want to wait.”
The shadow of suspicion passed across his eyes. “Wait for what?”
She batted her eyes and did her best to fake an alluring smile. “Until we want each other so badly we’re crawling out of our skin.”
As she sat back, regret put down roots, cracking her open to the core. If she hadn’t insisted on being so stubborn, so distrustful, and so goddamned self-sufficient, she might be at Barrogill right now, cuddled up with Callum in his big, man-sized bed. Why was she so afraid to let someone love her? Not that Callum had invoked the l-word yet, but maybe that was her fault, too. If he did love her, all her talk about freedom probably scared him into keeping quiet about it.
She shook her head, despairing. What an idiot she’d been. She might pretend to be confident, but it was just an act. In reality, she was a coward. Now, she was trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place. If she didn’t think of something and quick, she’d have no choice but to turn a sleazy sexual predator into an eternal pox on womankind.
Poor, sweet Callum. Her gentle lion. Had she misjudged him? Had she hurt him? Was his aim as true as he’d claimed? There was only one way to find out. She shot a glance at Beau, relieved to find him watching the cook flipping burgers. Holding her breath, she slipped her hand inside her handbag and felt around for her cell phone.
Clutching it, she moved the screen into view and furtively scrolled through the pre-programmed numbers until she arrived at Callum’s. Ever so gingerly, she entered three letters and pushed send. Then, for added insurance, she said a silent prayer: “Our Lady of Prompt Succor, I am lost unless you hasten to my aid.”
* * * *
Callum felt like the world’s biggest arse when he read Vanessa’s text message. Not only had he jumped to a false conclusion, he’d cheated on her, a bell he could never un-ring, much as he wished to. She hadn’t blown him off; she hadn’t called because she was in trouble. Why else text him the Morse code distress signal? He tried to think what might be wrong as he rang her back, cursing when he got her voicemail. Gritting his teeth, he disconnected the call and set the phone on the table beside his chair. He’d text her later, once he decided what to do.
His gut told him her trouble had to do with that prick Beau Armstrong. Was he sexually harassing her? While it wouldn’t surprise him, he couldn’t imagine his plucky butterfly putting up with that kind of bollocks. On the other hand, what did he know? The job had meant enough for her to leave him behind with no firm plans to pin his hopes on.
The possibility she’d sleep with that snake to keep a lousy job twisted in his heart like a screw. The screw turned harder when he remembered what he’d done to her. The thought of that conniving journalist and his own stupidity made him broil. He’d worked so hard to earn his butterfly’s trust only to throw it all away for a few moments of cathartic rutting.
Then again, he couldn’t take all the blame upon himself. For one thing, they weren’t exclusive. For another, he’d been upfront about what would happen if she put him off for too long. He wasn’t human anymore. As much as he tried to live like a mortal, to be normal again, pretending didn’t make it so. Inside of him there was a beast he could only tame with regular doses of sex and blood. He’d tried to explain that to her, but she wouldn’t listen. Just as he’d failed to heed her warning not to try to pin her down. He shook his head and wrung his hands. It would seem they both needed to work on their listening skills.
Getting up, he started pacing. What to do? As much as he wanted to ride to her rescue, he couldn’t right now. In another half-hour, he’d be announcing his candidacy in the ballroom downstairs. Afterward, perhaps, he could book a flight to the States. While it would cost the earth, he could see no other option short of turning into a winged creature and flying over. But that would take too long. She needed his help and he was determined to give it. For now, however, he needed to stay focused on the commitment in front of him.
There would be plenty of time on the plane to anguish over what to tell her about his tryst with Miss Hornsby—or whether to tell her at all. Though he wanted no secrets between them, he couldn’t see any good resulting from confessing his infidelity. As much as he hated the idea of deceiving her, he hated more the thought of losing her trust.
He sent a text saying he’d be there soon before slipping the phone his pocket. He shook his head to clear her from his thoughts as he stepped before the mirror to make the final adjustments to his appearance. He straig
htened his tie and combed his fingers through his freshly shorn mane. While the haircut made him look like a conservative prick, it was only temporary, thank the stars. If and when he won the election, he’d grow it back.
A rap at the door told him it was time. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on as he crossed the room.
On the other side of the door, he found Duncan, as expected, wearing his usual cheerful expression. “It’s show time. Are you ready?”
With a nod, Callum followed his friend down the hall and into the stairwell. The metal steps rumbled as the two of them hurried down them. Duncan led the way into the buzzing ballroom. Callum looked around, stunned by the turnout. While he’d known Duncan and the party were busy drumming up support, he hadn’t expected anything like this.
Gavin MacIntosh, the SMP for Inverness, sauntered up to him with a small entourage that included several members of the Scottish Parliament. There were introductions and handshakes all around, but Callum felt too keyed up to register any names.
At the front of the room a dais held three chairs, a lectern, and a trio of flags—the UK’s, Scotland’s, and the European Union’s. Duncan led him toward it and, after the consultant took his seat, Callum claimed the chair beside him. Struggling to steady his nerves, he looked around the cavernous room. Posters bearing his face lined the salmon-colored walls. He fought a smile as he read the slogan, “Cast Your Vote for the Rampant Lyon of Caithness.”
Mr. MacIntosh stepped behind the lectern, tapped the microphone, and cleared his throat. His introduction was succinct and, as he finished, Callum got to his feet and went to stand beside his party’s leader. When his turn came, he wrapped his damp hands around the edges of the lectern and gazed out across the sea of unfamiliar faces.
“I want what the voters of Caithness want,” he began, the microphone amplifying his deep burr. “As your elected representative, I believe it’s my duty to represent the interests of the people guided by my own principles, not my personal interests or my party’s interests. As Winston Churchill once expressed, ‘Some men change their party for the sake of their principles, others, their principles for the sake of their party.’ I believe in compromise, though not when it comes to my principles…or the best interests of my constituents. I want to be of service to this community and to Scotland. That is my only goal in seeking this seat. I may live in a castle, but I am still a man of the people.”