Don Rafael had summarily evicted Beau, her little, blond boy toy before they’d been able to enjoy a ménage à trois.
Pity; she’d wanted Beau to keep an eye on Jean-Marie St. Just, Don Rafael’s heraldo, chief diplomat, and definitely the same British spy she’d met in Madrid two centuries ago. There he stood, looking so suave with his Gucci suit and impassive expression—except for the glittering eyes, which always knew exactly where she was, damn him! He probably knew she’d been a double agent back then. But he’d never mentioned it to her, and she had more important things to contemplate now. She could have him killed once she and Don Rafael were united.
She’d dressed to display her suitability as an ally, of course—in gold brocade with her favorite ruby necklace emphasizing the deep neckline. God willing he’d quickly ease her breasts out into his big hands and apply his talented mouth…
Celeste gulped and reminded herself that Don Rafael unaccountably insisted on carnal relations only in private. He’d have to move to her beloved New Orleans once they were united, of course. The ranch might be comfortable for horses—merde, how could he pay so much attention to beasts!—but it didn’t compare to the French Quarter for excitement.
“Mon chéri, I am delighted to finally visit your home,” she purred. She reached up to Don Rafael and kissed him, her mouth and body tasting him fully at last. Unfortunately, the embrace ended all too soon, damn their audience and his aristocratic sense of propriety, which kept him coldly polite.
“Allow me to present my men,” he began.
“Ah, chéri, forget the formalities for an instant,” she interrupted and slid a finger up his arm. Once they were alone, they could resume the passion they’d shared before. “Let’s visit alone first, as patrón to patrón, before we involve anyone else in our games.”
Ah, the fun they’d enjoyed before with Templeton, who was standing only a few feet away, his face impassive. Surely they could invite him back to spur them on after they’d satisfied their first lusts. Although she couldn’t imagine how long it would take to exhaust Don Rafael’s well of carnal creativity.
He seemed to stiffen slightly.
“Certainly, madame. The guest house then,” Don Rafael agreed and offered her his arm. She accepted it politely, following his lead and restraining herself to the most formal courtesies. Once their alliance was sealed, they could renegotiate trifles like public behavior. She much preferred being able to handle her men when, where, and however she desired.
He took her to a small, dingy building, barely large enough for a single sitting room and a small, upstairs bedroom at one end. A cattle skull hung grotesquely over the mantel, a gaudy flag covered the wall, and a few pieces of rough leather furniture provided the only seating.
What a hellhole. Perhaps they started here so they could destroy the furniture in their passion—or she could shine more in contrast to its absolute shabbiness. The sooner the better to move on.
They were alone, of course. He was, after all, more than five hundred years older than her in the only measure that counted—when a vampiro was granted El Abrazo. He was more than capable of destroying her in one-on-one combat, not that she gave a damn.
She planted herself in the middle of the leather sofa, patted the seat beside her invitingly, and batted her eyes at him, arching her back slightly to display her charms. Her gold brocade dress was cut low enough to offer her nipples, always one of her most appreciated features.
He hesitated slightly before he sat down at the other end of the sofa. He’d have to get over being such an old-fashioned gentleman soon.
“Mon petit chou,” she cooed and scooted next to him, her skintight skirt sliding up her thighs as designed.
“Champagne, madame?” he offered, his face tightening—with lust, no doubt. He retrieved a bottle from the ice bucket on the table, behind a small bronze statue. Krug’s Clos du Mesnil, a Cuvée Prestige, very expensive and tasty. But who cared about that?
She pouted while he carefully popped the cork. Why was he dodging his increasing hunger by offering wine? “I’d rather talk about us, mon amour. Remember the Mardi Gras we spent together?”
“Certainement, madame.” His glance flickered sideways at her, but he didn’t add anything else.
“The best Mardi Gras I’ve ever enjoyed,” she mused. She toyed with the ruby, running her fingers over it and her breasts, encouraging his memories to return. “You were magnifique, a stallion beyond compare, a god among men.”
“Surely others have inspired you since then.” He handed her a crystal flute filled with the fine champagne.
“Non, you brought me pleasure like no other can,” she insisted and tossed back her drink. The expensive vintage mattered nothing compared to the prospect of once again tasting his blood.
Rafael sipped his champagne, his expression unreadable.
“Merci, madame, you flatter me immensely,” he murmured. “But enlighten me please. I thought we met tonight to discuss an alliance.”
“Exactement, Don Rafael!” Finally, he spoke directly about unification! She turned to straddle him.
A hand on her waist stopped her.
What the hell?
“Remain seated, madame, s’il vous plaît. Your couturier would never forgive me if anything happened to your magnificent dress.”
What? Valentino knew damn well that a ruined dress meant another sale to replace it!
Celeste harrumphed her disappointment but settled back against the cushions. “It’s so simple, mon amour. We unite our two esferas…”
He set down his glass, watching her very closely.
Pleased to finally have his full attention, she continued in a rush.
“And seal the compact with our bodies, tu comprends? We’d be gods, ruling the largest esfera in the world. We could conquer every other American esfera in an instant and rule the continent inside a year!” She snapped her fingers enthusiastically.
“And the nights, ah, the hours of passion we’d share. Quelle extase!” She caught his face in her hands and leaned in to kiss him.
He lifted his glass in a toast, blocking her. She blinked at him, frustrated.
“You flatter me, madame. Men flock to you like bees flying toward the perfect rose, drunk on your beauty. To be your consort is a heady drink, far too much for a simple man like myself.”
Why was he being so modest?
“Ah, mon amour, don’t you see? That’s why we’d be so magnificent together! We’d rule everything from the Atlantic to the Rockies, from the Gulf to the Ohio River. And in a year or two, we’d have all of the United States and Canada. Who could stop us?” She ran her tongue over her lips, her nipples pointed and hard against the brocade. Mon Dieu, how her blood was pounding. She ran a crimson-tipped finger up his thigh, to remind him of more intimate delights. “And the fucking, mon étalon. To have you between my legs again, filling my cunt with your magnificent cock…”
“Non, madame.” Rafael gripped her wrist hard.
“What do you mean? We would rule North America together!” She leaned forward again, desperate to taste his mouth once again.
“No.” He put her aside very firmly. “I am honored by your high opinion, but I already have more than I ever dreamed of. I regret I must decline your generous offer; uniting Texas with any other territory is impossible.”
She stared at him, her brain finally starting to work. “Mais, Don Rafael, don’t you desire me?”
“Madame, please remember immense territories have never lasted long among our kind. Content yourself with what you have.”
“But I know you want me; every man always has. Why do you keep refusing me?”
“Madame, the answer is no. Neither your great estates nor your beautiful body will take me away from Texas.”
Understanding slowly dawned. She threw her champagne in his face and sprang at him, slashing at his eyes. “Nique ta mère!”
Rafael grabbed her wrists, his expression bitterly controlled.
I
mpossible; nobody was cold to her, least of all a coldly formal rage!
She spat curses at him, hissing and scratching, slipping from his grip, trying to slam her knee into his groin. “Raclure de bidet!”
He wrestled her to the floor, barely dodging the table. A twist, a roll, and they were in front of the fireplace. He forced her to obey him by lying on top of her, straddling her legs, with her wrists gripped in one of his hands. And always—always!—so damnably cold.
She poured her gift over him again and again, seeking an entry to make him her slave. Nobody had ever walked away from her!
“Soyez tranquille, madame,” he insisted, enforcing the command telepathically as well as vocally. “Remember you are the patrón of New Orleans.”
She stretched against him, rubbing her breasts against his jacket. He lifted an eyebrow but didn’t move.
Damn him, how could he say no? Not to her!
She circled her hips against him, making the sexual offering of herself more emphatic. She slammed her gift at him, demanding that he lust for her.
His cock remained as limp as a day-old mackerel.
“Dardillon! You should be hard as a rock for me!” She spat at him, but he dodged easily, his face calm.
He seared tranquility into her mind, pushing anger out of her like a dam locking water from a reservoir.
Logic slowly replaced fury.
“You truly don’t want me,” she hissed as she stilled under him. He finally released, all too calmly.
She straightened her skirt with angry jerks. Rafael poured her a fresh glass of champagne, which she accepted with a sneer. How dare he be kind to her when he’d just insulted her?
She downed it in rapid gulps before she started talking again. “Haven’t you ever wondered why I took over New Orleans only after that Mardi Gras we shared?”
Rafael inclined his head and let her speak, his face impassive. What would it take to break through to him? What wouldn’t she give to see him hurt the way she did?
And when she thought of all she’d done to get his attention? How she’d become a great patrona, just so she’d be a worthy ally for him—the only type of female he’d spend his lifetime with? And what good had it done her?
“I needed that territory so you’d stick around me. Me, La Patrona d’Esfera de Nouvelle Orléans! Not just another chick good for only a few weeks,” she snarled at him. “And if I can’t have you, then by God, I’ll dance on your grave.” Very happily.
“You can try, madame. But you’ll fail.”
“And I’ll succeed. My assassins have killed more than one esfera’s patrón.” She rose impatiently and began to pace.
Rafael lounged against the fireplace, irritatingly calm. “Their tricks are well known to the least discerning vampiro. They will not succeed here.”
She’d wipe that bored nonchalance off his face, the bastard.
“Even the best vampiro assassin in the world and a vampiro mayor at that? The little golden toy who enlivens my bed in gratitude for a place to stay? He’d kill you and a hundred others, just to please me.”
“Texas is not like other territories, madame. Even if I die, Gray Wolf will lead the armies of Texas against you. You will regret the day you caused a painted savage to go to war.”
The hair on the nape of her neck rose. An Indian leading a war between esferas, when very few rules applied anyway? Merde…
Let Don Rafael and his minions just try it! If he wanted to use Indians—well, she had an army and could find vampiros. Plus, there were other weapons that would terrify even him.
She bared her fangs in a travesty of a smile, the ritual start to a vampiro duel.
He came to full attention. Good, she had his attention now.
“Or I’ll send in my darling Georges to frighten the locals. He would make Texas so hot that los prosaicos would destroy you and all your precious vampiros and compañeros.”
“Madame, do not try to alarm me with your talk of assassins and mobs. Texas is too strong for you to take down,” Rafael snapped. “Save your strength for where it can be put to better use, such as stopping the river rats that bring drugs and weapons into your great city.”
“Don’t bother me with your pretty speeches, Don Rafael. We understand each other well enough without them,” she snarled and turned for the door. She stiffened when Rafael clamped his hand over her wrist.
“Do not start a war you cannot win, madame, lest you be destroyed by it,” Rafael warned, his voice hard. “You are my guest tonight, protected by the laws of hospitality. But if you attack me, then I and my Texans will bury you.”
“Damn you, let me go!” She yanked but his grip was immovable. She viciously compared him to the worst forms of life that had ever crawled out of a sewer, or better yet, one of his beloved manure pits.
“You and your entourage are leaving now, madame. If you ever step foot uninvited again on Texan soil, you will die.” He forced her to meet his eyes, fury boiling inside him. “Do you understand me, madame?”
“Oui, je comprends,” she snarled, contemplating her revenge.
He released her slowly.
She nearly spat at him but changed it into an offended snort. She stormed out, striding down the hill toward the helipad and Georges.
Mon Dieu, he would regret the day he insulted her this way. She would kill him and take his precious Texas for her own.
COMPOSTELA RANCH, JUNE 1
Jean-Marie stirred his coffee while he scanned the watch center’s monitors, looking for any status changes from the daylight hours he’d been asleep. The room was part of the ranch’s underground warren, built to keep vampiros safe from daylight, and loaded with every technological device a group of very rich, very paranoid, and very, very intelligent men could want.
Large screens, whose brilliance and clarity would make sports moguls weep, hung just below the ceiling. Underneath them were two rows of workstations, with equally superb monitors and extraordinarily comfortable leather chairs. Men stood or sat before them, conversing in low tones, while they passed on key knowledge to the new shift, clustered into four groups, according to their commander. Luis Alvarez, the siniscal, and his men, who watched over Compostela Ranch and its safety. Ethan Templeton and his mesnaderos—sworn to protect Don Rafael at all costs—and who also oversaw Texas’s military might. Gray Wolf and his men—especially Caleb Jones, his cónyuge—who cherished Texas and its people. Finally, his own men, the finest spies and assassins in all of North America.
A raised platform on one end permitted the watch commander to have his own desk, pace, and entertain a visitor or two.
It had originally been built to guard against attacks on Don Rafael and the commanderies by other patrones. Here they also watched for any sign that the great multitudes of prosaicos had learned about vampiros. Those hordes were the deadlier threat, as the Parisian vampiros had so painfully learned two centuries ago. They’d made some changes—added technology, changed the mix of personnel, and more—since la patrona de New Orleans had sworn a blood feud against Rafael.
Months of vicious war against Madame Celeste had taught Jean-Marie, and all of Rafael’s other men, just how quickly life could go from calm to hellish. But that bitch hadn’t yet managed to damage El Patrón, despite placing a fifty million dollar price on his head. At least he now traveled with presidential quality security, no matter how much he fumed against it.
Today looked to have been fairly quiet. No major incidents; good. Next thing to check was the ranch’s arrivals log.
Jean-Marie frowned. What the hell?
“Is Don Rafael back from the research center yet?”
“No, sir,” the senior watch commander answered, his voice far too neutral. “He left there about five minutes ago.”
“Why the devil did he stay so late?” Jean-Marie swung around to stare. “I thought he was just going to drop off a check. You know, make his usual annual donation.”
A shrug answered him. “Emilio mentioned he spent conside
rable time talking to a lady veterinarian,” the ex-Ranger reported, his tone implying this was the only fact he could offer.
“Enough to risk trouble on his return, when he’s got hundreds of other lovers? Ridiculous.” Jean-Marie waved off the proffered explanation and turned to study the map.
Where was Rafael? He needed to be back here before sunset, when Madame Celeste’s vampiro assassins could take the field against him. Christ, if they lost him now…
The two red dots of Rafael’s convoy were skimming through the outer pastures. Compostela was located high in the Texas Hill Country, the Alps of Texas, full of roads with sharp turns and surprisingly steep cliffs. It would take time, far too much time for him to reach home—especially by car. That delay needed to be reduced.
Jean-Marie’s skin tightened, his instincts almost shrieking to him. He’d always had superb timing, which his swordplay had honed. But becoming a vampiro had brought his intuition to knife-edge perfection whenever it spoke to him.
“Get one of the mesnadero helicopters ready to launch,” he said flatly. He didn’t have the right to order them. But his own certainty cut deep into his bones and slashed through his words.
The hard-bitten watch commander flicked a glance at him before turning to the mesnaderos. “You heard the man—get that bird ready to roll!”
The mesnadero on duty tossed a salute and started talking into his headset, his tone low and urgent.
Jean-Marie set down his coffee cup, absently drumming his fingers while he watched the weather outside on the monitors. Rafael and Emilio Alvarez, a Navy SEAL currently on leave to lead Rafael’s daytime bodyguard, could be heard idly chatting over the radio.
The sun still poured sunset’s crimson through the skies. If anything went wrong, they’d need vampiro instincts aboard that bird to counter Madame Celeste’s bastards. Ethan couldn’t go, since he was a half-century younger than Jean-Marie and therefore certain to wind up a pile of ash.
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