by Syrie James
She’d thought Michael’s fierce desire for privacy and reluctance to have her here was because he was Patrick Spencer, reclusive author. In truth, it had little to do with that at all, and she began to understand why he’d been so irritable the past two days. For a vampire who’d sworn off the blood of the living—yet apparently was still tempted—it must have required a great deal of self-restraint just to be in the same room with her.
At least Nicole knew where she stood. She had liked Michael, had been attracted to him from the very start, and it
Nicole would have to be on her guard, she told herself, but she didn’t have to be terrified for her life every second. The realization brought a sigh of relief.
In this new frame of mind, Nicole made her way to the kitchen, where she found Michael staring dubiously at the contents of the refrigerator.
“I wish I could offer you something interesting for dinner,” he said.
“The fixings are pretty slim at this establishment,” she replied with a little smile. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful for your cleaning woman’s contribution. But by the time I get home, I don’t think I’ll be able to look at enchiladas again for a year.”
“If you think your diet is boring after only two days, think what it’s like for me. I’ve been eating the same damn thing for more than 260 years.”
Their eyes met and they both laughed.
“If you’d like,” he added, “I could go out and hunt you a rabbit.”
“No thank you.” The calm, congenial look on his face put her even more at ease. Michael seemed to take that in and looked pleased by it. “So you really can’t eat or drink anything but blood?”
“Sadly, it’s all I can digest.”
“That’s too bad. Because I made you a very nice carrot and apple salad for lunch,” she teased, taking out the dishes she’d concocted and setting them on the counter.
“How thoughtful.” He took out a plate and silverware for her, then filled a glass with water. “I’m pleased that you were able to be so inventive with the supplies on hand.”
As Nicole heated another serving of enchiladas and helped herself to the other food, a thought occurred to her. “All those carrots and apples—they’re for your horses, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Ditto for the sugar cubes?”
He nodded.
“And the oatmeal . . .”
“Rolled oats. Also for the horses. I brought it all up yesterday before you regained consciousness, to make sure you had something to eat.”
She grimaced in disbelief. “Oh my God. I ate horse food?”
“It’s the exact same thing you’d find in a Quaker Oats box. I just buy it in bulk.”
“Whatever. It’s horse food.”
“It’s keeping you alive, isn’t it?”
She sighed, unable to argue with that. They sat down at his kitchen table and she began to eat. Michael leaned back in his chair, studying her.
“This is a little weird,” Nicole said in between bites.
“What?”
“You watching me eat.”
“I just like looking at you. Would you rather I leave?”
“No.” She waved her fork in the air. “But feel free to get a . . . bag of blood . . . or whatever . . . and join me.”
“Thank you, but I took care to eat yesterday even though I didn’t need to. So I’ve had an excellent sufficiency.”
“Well, thank goodness for that.” The image of Michael downing a bag of blood was disturbing, and she banished it from her thoughts. Another image quickly followed: of Michael’s sharp fangs piercing the flesh of her tender throat. It was equally disturbing, but for some reason no longer quite as terrifying as before. Her cheeks grew warm. Quickly, she said:
“Speaking of which. How do you get those bags of blood you keep? Do you really pretend to be a hemophiliac?”
“No. I get them from my clinic.”
“Your clinic?” she said, surprised.
“I own a small medical clinic in Kremmling, about thirty-five miles from here.”
“You own a medical clinic?”
“I founded it in the 1970s so I’d have access to a steady supply of human blood.”
“How did you afford that? I mean, I know you have lots of money now. But back then—”
“When you live as long as I have, even very modest investments tend to compound. And I got a bank loan.”
“And they give you permission to take home human blood?”
“Not really. My staff runs the place. There’s only one job I take personal charge of: the shipping of units of blood every month—which I pay for from my own personal funds—to a sister clinic in Mexico. It so happens that the sister clinic doesn’t exist. I take the blood home myself.”
“What a complex undertaking, just so you can eat.”
“Believe me, if I could have human blood shipped directly to me, I would. Unfortunately it isn’t allowed.”
“Couldn’t you just live on the blood of animals?”
“I did, for a very long time. It tastes vile to me. So I came up with a different plan. A way to nourish myself that didn’t harm anyone.”
“Oh.” There was a brief lull in the conversation. Nicole asked, “How did it happen?”
“How did what happen?”
“How did you become a vampire?”
He opened his mouth as if to reply, then apparently changed his mind and looked away. “I think it’s best to leave that topic unexplored.”
“Why?”
“It’s not the most . . . pleasant of stories, and I don’t . . . It happened so long ago. It’s better left in the past.”
Although disappointed, Nicole said nothing, eating the rest of her meal in silence. After finishing the last bite, she asked, “Who lives in that other building across the way?”
“What?”
“The place I saw you go into earlier, beyond the trees. Who lives there?”
“No one.”
“But it belongs to you?”
“It does.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s where I go when I want to relax, vent some steam, or just . . . get away.”
“What do you do in an empty house?”
“I didn’t say it was empty.”
“Why are you being so vague?”
“I don’t mean to be vague.”
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing. It’s just that . . . since construction was completed, no one but me has ever set foot in there.” He looked at her. “Would you like to see it?”
His sudden offer came as a surprise, and for some reason it made her a little nervous. “I don’t know. Would I? I guess it depends on . . . what you keep inside.”
“Something you said yesterday makes me think you might appreciate it.” He stood up. “Let’s go take a look.”
Her eyes widened in alarm and strayed to the window, through which nothing could be seen but inky darkness. “You mean—now?”
“Why not?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until tomorrow?”
“They say there’s no time like the present.” An almost boyish excitement lit his face, and he now seemed eager to share this with her.
“But—it’s dark.”
“I can see in the dark. And the place has lights.”
She was starting to regret that she’d ever brought up the subject. “But it’s still snowing. I almost froze to death once today already. I just recovered. I don’t want to go out there again.”
“You’ll be with me. You’ll be perfectly fine. You’ll barely get a flake of snow on you. Have you forgotten how fast I can move?”
“No, but—”
“I do recommend that you put on your warm outer gear, just to be safe.” He headed to the kitchen door, urging her to follow. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Her parka, hat, scarf, and gloves, which he’d hung by the living room hearth, were all warm and dry. With s
ome reluctance, Nicole put them on. Michael slipped into his coat with lightning speed, and before she could resist, he drew her to him, scooped his hands under her bottom, and lifted her body up against the hard wall of his chest.
“Michael! Wait—”
“Wrap your legs around me. We’ll be more aerodynamic this way.”
Nicole did as bidden, encircling his waist with her legs and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her heart hammered, whether it was from the fear of heading outside again, the excitement of the unknown, or simply the close contact with Michael’s body, she couldn’t be certain. He carried her out the front door into the freezing night air of the porch. With the deep cloud cover and falling snow, there wasn’t a speck of natural light anywhere.
“Ready?” came his voice, deep and low against her ear.
She nodded, her cheek against his. With his arms tight about her, he took off down the stairs and pitched headlong into the blackness with the grace, speed, and prowess of a cheetah.
CHAPTER 12
THEY WERE FLYING AGAIN. At least Nicole presumed they were flying. All around her was such deep, intense blackness, the only real proof of their movement was the glacial air that whipped against her face and through her hair, and the snowflakes that stung her eyes and cheeks.
Nicole barely had time to blink before Michael stopped, still carrying her in his arms, her legs wrapped around him. Her pulse raced with anticipation and excitement. In the space of a few hours, the entire world had been turned upside down. Was this really happening to her? Was she truly in the arms of a vampire? What was he about to show her?
“Close your eyes,” he said softly. That deep voice at her ear, which caused every nerve in her body to sizzle like a red-hot wire, reassured her that this was real; that he was real.
“Why close my eyes? It’s so dark, I can’t see a thing.”
“I’m going to turn on the lights, but I’d rather you experience it through your other senses first.”
There was such eager enthusiasm in his voice that Nicole felt compelled to comply. “My eyes are shut.”
She heard a door opening and closing as he brought her inside. Immediately, Nicole was enveloped by a thick, pervasive warmth and humidity, as if they’d stepped into a temperate steam room, or onto an island in the tropics. Her ears caught the gentle sound of flowing water. Michael deposited her on her feet, his hands holding her reassuringly by the waist. The ground beneath her was soft and springy. Nicole detected a myriad of delectable scents in the air, including the sweet aroma of fresh earth.
“Where are we?” she said wonderingly, her eyes still shut.
He released her silently and stepped away. Nicole heard the sound of several switches being flipped and then his quiet voice telling her to open her eyes. She did, and gasped aloud.
It was a large indoor garden conservatory. Its high, sturdy walls and airy, domed ceiling were constructed entirely of large glass panels framed in white. A path of finely shaved wood chips meandered past beautifully landscaped beds and displays of tropical plants, trees, and flowers in a multitude of colors and varieties. A complex fluorescent lighting system suspended from the rafters lit up the interior as if it were brightest day.
“Oh!” was all Nicole could manage, before retreating into an astonished and reverent silence. The air was so moist, still, and warm that she ripped off her outerwear down to her jeans and T-shirt and kicked off her sneakers and socks. Leaving everything on a bench near the door, Nicole wandered barefoot along the path, reveling in the sensuous texture of the fragrant,
Michael strolled up and joined her. With delight, she took in the many varieties of orchids, lilies, gardenia, hibiscus, philodendron, coleus, bird of paradise, and polka dot plants growing amid brilliant green ferns, palm, banana, and plumeria trees, and dozens of other plants, trees, and vines that she couldn’t name. Artistically placed tree trunks and rocks supported hundreds of small, exotic-looking potted plants and orchids, many of which were in full bloom. Nicole paused to examine a flowering orchid mounted on a chunk of wood that had been cleverly disguised with hanging moss to look as though it was growing from the tree. Ahead, she saw a rock waterfall and a pond teeming with colorful fish.
Nicole turned to look at Michael, so moved that she could hardly speak. His eyes were strangely vulnerable, as if anxiously awaiting her approval.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You amaze me,” Nicole finally managed, her awe spilling out into her voice. “This is beautiful. Incredible. One minute I was in the middle of a harsh Colorado winter night, and the next it’s a summer afternoon in Bali.”
A smile lit his face, the corners of his eyes crinkling charmingly. “That’s the idea. I can’t spend much time outside in nature when the sun shines, so I’ve brought a little bit of nature inside to me.”
“How on earth did you build this?”
“I hired an architectural firm from San Francisco, which sent out a special team. It’s modeled after the Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park, but on a much smaller scale of
Nicole shook her head, stunned. “I don’t even want to think about how much this cost to build or to maintain.”
“It was either this or a summer palace in Abu Dhabi,” he said, grinning, “so . . .”
She laughed.
“Seriously, it’s just a glorified greenhouse. The plants and trees cost more than the structure. I’d already donated so many millions to charities. Compared to that and to my new house over there, this was just a drop in the bucket.”
She’d forgotten about Patrick Spencer’s many philanthropic activities. It reminded her once again of the inherent goodness in the man. “With so much glass, I suppose you can only come in at night?”
“And on cloudy days.”
That’s a shame, she thought. “Who takes care of all this?”
“I do.”
“What? But how? It must require a ton of upkeep. You write books. You build furniture and music boxes. You play piano. You keep horses. How do you find time for this?”
“I do things a lot faster than other people. I only sleep three hours a day. And—”
“Three hours? You only need three hours of sleep?”
“Sometimes less. And, I don’t eat. Have you ever considered the number of hours people spend engaged in the purchase, preparation, and consumption of food, not to mention the cleanup time after meals?”
“Not really. But now that you mention it . . .”
“I have a lot of free time, Nicole. A person can only do the same things year in and year out for so long. After a while, you go stir crazy. I had to find a new hobby.”
Nicole was incredulous. “What I would give for that kind of free time.”
Michael looked away, frowning. “There’s such a thing as too much time. I’d give anything to taste a strawberry again. To drink a glass of wine. To stroll down a beach on a hot, sunny day. To be able to—” He broke off, heaving a rueful sigh. Then, a small smile resuming, he nodded toward the pond up ahead. “Would you like to feed the fish?”
Nicole said she would. They strolled to the pond and knelt down on the smooth flagstones beside it. A river rock waterfall descended in tiers into a lovely, natural-looking pool surrounded by tropical plants and flowers, and teeming with orange and black-and-white speckled koi. From a watertight box, Michael scooped a handful of pungent, pea-size, crimson-colored pellets into Nicole’s upturned palm. “You can toss them on the water if you like, but if you hold them out, the fish will eat from your hand.”
Nicole positioned a few pellets in between her thumb and forefinger, then reached out until her hand was resting just below the surface of the lukewarm water. The fish instantly shimmied off in the opposite direction.
“They’re afraid of me.”
“It’s their instinct to be afraid. Just be patient. They’ll overcome their fear and come to you in time.”
Nicole kept her hand in the water, waiting. The fish darted back
and forth in the distance, then tentatively approached, swimming around her hand in a semicircle, as if assessing
Nicole giggled in delight. “I’ve never fed a fish from my hand before.”
She held out a second offering and a swarm of fish now followed suit, nudging each other out of the way as they competed for the food.
“I told you they’d warm up to you,” Michael said with a smile.
Nicole fed them until the pellets were gone, then waved her hand in the warm air to dry it. Her gaze fell on a potted plant with a profusion of small, dark pink blooms atop long stems. The flowers had an unusual shape, with two slender, outstretched petals protruding from the center, resembling tiny birds in flight. “What kind of orchid is that?”
“A Porroglossum. It’s from the Greek, meaning ‘far, far off’ and ‘tongue.’” Michael broke off a small branch from another nearby plant, stripped it of leaves, and handed it to her. “Touch the tip of this to one of the flowers and watch what happens.”
Nicole obliged. To her surprise, the lip of the flower quickly snapped shut as if operated by a mechanical hinge.
“It’s like a Venus flytrap!”
“Fascinating, aren’t they?”
“I’ve never understood why some plants trap bugs. Do they kill them?”
“The Venus flytrap is carnivorous. It’s the only species in the genus Dionaea. Instead of absorbing nitrogen and other nutrients through its roots like other plants, it secretes an enzyme that digests its prey into usable nutrients. But the Porroglossum isn’t
“Well, that’s a relief.” Nicole was suddenly, self-consciously aware of a kind of metaphorical connection between her relationship with Michael and the liaison between insects and this uncommon and remarkable plant. “And what’s that one?” she asked quickly, indicating an impressive black-russet bloom with a velvety napped texture and long tendrils.
“Do you like it?” There was a teasing glint in Michael’s eyes as he studied her, but they also held so much affection that her heart gave a little twinge.
“I do.”
“It’s called the Dracula orchid.”
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly serious.”