by Julie Leto
“No,” she said. “Plastic surgeons specialize in removing outward signs—scars and such—after major injuries. And they do the occasional boob job.”
He arched a brow. “Do I want to know what that is?”
She swallowed a snort. “If you stick around in this century, you’ll find out soon enough.”
“My plans do not include returning to my own time,” he said, and after looking around, he added, “Or to my banishment in this infernal room.”
“I think the room is rich and warm.”
“Try remaining here for nearly three centuries.”
“I get your point.”
With a push, he moved the cat off his lap. It hit the ground on all four paws, then poofed into nothingness.
“That’s very unnerving,” she said.
“Everything about the animal is. Rogan loved the beast, so I advise you not to trust it.”
“Can you trust a cat? I mean, like, ever?”
He chuckled, stood and offered her the chair.
She was tempted. Her shoulders ached. Her legs throbbed. She glanced at her watch and discovered that her nine-thousand-dollar Franck Muller had stopped working. She had no idea how long she’d been here, trapped in the castle or perhaps even in this dream, but the experience had drained the last of her energy. She dropped to the ground, and sitting, as her nanny used to say, “crisscross, applesauce,” she stared up at Damon, who looked entirely shocked by her collapse.
“Please, my lady,” he said, extending his hand.
“Sit down,” she said, crossing her arms.
“I will not allow you to sit on the floor.”
“See, that’s the best part of the twenty-first century. You don’t get to allow me to do anything. I make my own choices. And I’m tired. And right this second, I’m comfortable, so I’m not moving.” He scowled, so she added, “But I thank you for your concern over my comfort. Sometimes, it just feels right to sit on the floor.”
After a moment of deep consideration, Damon plopped down beside her and, after examining her position, twisted his limbs until he was sitting in the same fashion. “I do believe I was much younger the last time I attempted this.”
Alexa tried not to laugh. “I’ll see to it that my next Crown Chandler property offers daily yoga. You’ll enjoy it.”
He shook his head. “There are so many words you speak that I do not understand. Plastic. Yoga. Car. That’s how you knew how to heal my shoulder. The accident in the…car?”
Alexa yawned. “It’s a mode of transportation. A horseless carriage.”
Damon’s brow arched. “This I’d like to see.”
She shook her head. “Not on this island. We’ll probably use golf carts.”
His face reflected his additional questions, but he remained silent.
Alexa grinned and patted him on the knee. “Okay, Damon Forsyth, I get the hint. You’ve got a lot of history to catch up on. Got anything better to do tonight?”
His grin bordered on sinful as his eyes darkened sensually. “That is entirely up to you, my lady.”
She slapped his knee again, this time harder and with obvious denial.
“Then why don’t you magic us up some coffee. It’s time for a history lesson, and two hundred and sixty years’ worth will clearly take us the rest of the night.”
9
“This ruler of yours, also George, you’re sure he’s not the king?”
Alexa instantly burst into laughter, leaving Damon to wonder what he’d said that was so amusing. He was merely making an assessment based on the facts she’d provided. Over the course of the night, he’d done precisely as she’d asked, conjuring a collection of cushions on the floor for them to lie upon while they imbibed pot after pot of brewed coffee, a drink he’d learned to appreciate during his travels to Italy. As they drank, he listened while she ran down the basics of technological and political advancement over the past three centuries. Her knowledge of the British, outside their failed battle to squelch the revolution of the colonists, was less than comprehensive, and ye t she was laughing at him? He failed to see the reason for her amusement.
She noticed his displeasure and quickly rebounded. “I’m sorry, Damon. Honestly, you’re not the first person to ask that question and you likely won’t be the last. But unlike in a monarchy, we have—”
“Elections. Yes, I understand your two-party system and the basics of a representative democracy. Thank you. Perhaps we should take a break from any further explanation of politics,” he said, sliding his empty china cup away from where he’d reclined on the carpet surrounded by thick, tasseled pillows. The setting he’d conjured using Rogan’s magic was much more conducive to seduction than instruction, but so far, none of his attempts to sway Alexa to forget her history lesson in lieu of more pleasurable pursuits had worked. He was either losing his touch, or exhaustion and the medication she kept forcing him to swallow at the slightest twinge of pain was playing on his skills.
“Shall we go over the principles of capitalism again?” she asked, earnest.
It was his turn to laugh. “I was hoping for some relaxation, but now I’m leaning toward rest. Once I was freed from the portrait, I did not ever think I’d want to sleep again.” He yawned noisily. “I was wrong.”
“Am I that boring?” she asked, unsuccessfully attempting to cover her own exhaustion.
“Boring?” he asked, surprised. For a woman who claimed to be nothing more than a hotelier, she’d done a fine job explaining what might have taken him weeks to learn on his own. And she was much more delightful to look at and listen to than any of the scholars he’d studied with in his youth. “Not likely, my lady. But I must say that for all the learned tutors my father employed over the course of my boyhood, none tried to cram my brain with so much information in such a short time.”
She curled a pillow underneath her breasts, forcing Damon to look away or risk molesting her despite her protestations. Two buttons kept her blouse from breaking open. Two measly buttons.
Before, he’d found her merely beautiful and alluring and powerful. Now that he’d discovered how her intelligence not only matched, but surpassed her beauty, he couldn’t imagine resisting her, no matter the cost.
“Are you still afraid to sleep?” she ventured.
Damon frowned, but noted silently she might not be too far from the mark. “I cannot deny the emotion has niggled at me, particularly when there’s a chance I might not wake again for another century or two. Of course, you might be experiencing the same reluctance. If you sleep, you may discover that once you wake, our meeting has been nothing more than a dream.”
Alexa pressed her lips tightly together, lips that were now pale. They’d been rouged darkly when he’d first seen her from the other side of the painting. All of the color she’d applied to her face to enhance her large green eyes and striking cheekbones had faded, and her hair, still brilliantly red of course, was now a tangled mess.
And yet, he still found her undeniably desirable. Educated beyond most men of his station, Damon had met many knowledgeable women in his time, yet none took their educational prowess lightly. Women in his age who’d been lucky enough to know things beyond husbandry and housekeeping either flaunted their superior intellects or hid them furiously. Alexa did neither. She simply enjoyed the things she knew and joked about the things she didn’t.
And underneath the fair skin, rumpled appearance and sharp mind resided a woman of unparalleled passion. Perhaps this was his ultimate punishment—meeting a woman he could have only until he was free. Because once he could leave this castle, he would spend the rest of his days avenging Rogan’s evil.
As she rolled over, her hair fanned across the pillows and caught the dying light of the fire’s embers. “I’d likely be better off if this were all a dream.”
“Why?” he asked, scooting nearer. Unable to help himself, he wished for the torches and candles to dim, and instantly, they complied.
She stretched, raising her arms o
ver her head and arching her back so that her breasts curved against her barely buttoned blouse. The outline of her dark nipples caused his mouth to water. What he wouldn’t give for another taste of her heavenly flesh.
“A lot of people rely on me,” she answered. “They need me to think clearly and logically all the time. Indulging in an affair with a man who might not be real? Doesn’t exactly qualify as clear or logical.”
“You cannot be beholden to others all of your life.”
Mindlessly, she toyed with the cuff of his shirt, her fingers grazing over the inside of his wrist. If she knew how the tiny action was driving him insane, would she stop? Could she?
“You were the eldest son,” she pointed out. “Are you trying to say you didn’t put your family obligations above your own needs most of the time?”
Damon glanced aside. “I upheld my responsibilities, yes. But that’s not to say I didn’t indulge my own needs. On a regular basis, I might add.”
He was tempted to tell her of his mistress, but thought better of it. He’d gathered from her earlier diatribe on marriage in the twenty-first century that the taking of a lover while legally wed to another was no longer universally acceptable, though the practice still existed. What a strange world she lived in. She had no trouble sleeping with a man without benefit of marriage, but breaking marriage vows was unacceptable. He wondered if he’d ever grow accustomed to the new morality—or if he’d even get the chance.
Suddenly noticing how she was touching him, she yanked her hand away and tucked it beneath her head. “What about the night you went after Rogan? Was that for you or for your sister?”
Damon had avoided admitting too much about the situation that had led him to his entrapment, but her question struck him deeply. He supposed he’d never questioned his motivation for seeking out Rogan that night because his sister’s kidnapping and the oncoming mercenary horde had taken precedence above all else. “A bit of both, I suppose. Lord Rogan had been introduced to me at White’s by a mutual friend a year before I brought him to Valoren. The man was utterly fascinating, I must admit. Nobility from some far-off land, knowledgeable in all manner of science and literature and politics. Handsome. Wealthy. Engaging, I dare say.”
“Charming?” she asked.
Damon frowned. To women, yes. Undeniably, to many men as well. In Valoren, company rarely changed. Damon had relished the time he’d spent in London tending to his family’s interests and, when not paying attention to familiar concerns, seeking out new and interesting entertainments. From their first encounter, Rogan had brought an exotic excitement into Damon’s often tedious life. First, he’d been fascinated. Shortly thereafter, disgusted.
“Most who met Rogan fell immediately under his spell. I had no idea at the time that his magic was beyond this world.”
“You had no idea he was a sorcerer?” Alexa yawned again; this time she managed to curl her fist in front of her mouth before she rolled onto her side and watched him intently, despite her heavy-lidded eyes.
“One hardly believes such things, does one? The magic I’d witnessed in my childhood had been of Romani origin—healing and such. Hardly more than an intense knowledge of herbal remedies, good luck and superstition, or so I believed,” he said, adjusting a few pillows to accommodate the stiffness growing in his shoulder. “But when Rogan heard that my father was the governor over the only recognized colony of Gypsies in Europe, he was the fascinated one. He entreated me to invite him on my next journey. I had no idea that he would not only set up housekeeping within the Gypsy enclave and attempt to usurp my father’s authority with the king, but also entice my sister to run off with him on the eve of what would have been a very bloody attack.”
Damon filled in the rest of the story, marveling at how his anger still seemed so fresh.
“Rogan must have been very charismatic,” she concluded at the end of his tale.
The dreamy sound in Alexa’s voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “He was evil personified. Romanticize any other portion of my life, my lady, but not him. Never him.”
Alexa’s eyes widened at the intensity of his speech, but her shock surrendered to yet another yawn, and slowly, her lids began to drift closed.
“I doubt I’ll ever have to deal with your Lord Rogan, Damon. Neither will you. Yes, you survived all these centuries because of magic, but what are the chances this Rogan did as well? And if he did, wouldn’t he be here, in his own castle, seeking to regain the magic you now command?”
Alexa curled into a ball and closed her eyes. Apparently, Damon thought too long before he replied, because just as he opened his mouth to present a theory on Rogan’s whereabouts, he heard the sweet purr of her sleeping. Indulgently, he brushed aside the hair that had fallen across her cheek and wondered at the soft sensation of his skin against hers.
His skin. His touch. His blood, bone and muscle. He was alive again, Rogan be damned. And if he survived all these centuries on account of his nemesis’s dark magic, chances remained that Rogan had somehow cheated death as well—no matter how unlikely Alexa thought such survival could be. Rogan had been an extraordinary man and an even more clever sorcerer. Damon had underestimated him once. He would not do so again.
And then there was Sarina. His heart ached, knowing that the protective talisman she’d once worn had been torn away on that fateful night. Did she escape with Rogan? Had another of their brothers found her? Or had the mercenaries destroyed her with the coming dawn?
Damon surrendered to the softness of the pillows all around him. Sleep teased the edge of his consciousness, and he didn’t have any further energy to fight. If sleep meant the end of this folly, he’d at least have the memories of making love with Alexa to last him for the next few centuries. If he awoke with the dawn, however, he’d have to push those memories aside. For as much as he relished the idea of seducing her again, he had to keep his emotions in check. He enjoyed her. And he’d use her. Just as he’d used his mistresses before her. Because only with her help could he answer the questions burning through him—and only by betraying her would he finally find retribution.
Farrow Pryce tapped his fingers along the windowsill, the rhythmic drumming marking his impatience. Yet again, for the good of the cause, he’d operated with maximum stealth, never moving in for the kill, no matter how many opportunities he’d watched come and go. He waited until he could utilize the old man to ultimate effectiveness. And according to the spies he’d placed in the Crown Chandler organization, the time was now.
After a barely audible knock, the door behind him opened with a soft whoosh.
Farrow didn’t bother to turn around. “Is our guest tucked in for the evening?”
“He thinks so, yes,” was the reply, the male voice tremulous, a contrast to the man’s large size. He could break Farrow in two with his bare hands, and yet he followed his every order to the letter. Farrow’s jaw twitched into a smile. Power really was delicious.
“Good,” he replied. “Wait until the drugs have him nearly asleep, then wake him. Ice water ought to do the trick.”
With the appropriate affirmative response, his minion shot out of the room. Funny how none of the men he’d brought into his service ever dawdled. Farrow never blatantly asked for quick service and immediate obedience, but somehow they all knew his expectations. Subtlety could be a powerful motivator, when skillfully applied. But not for his guest. With Paschal Rousseau, he was done playing games.
“Rousseau is old,” Gemma said, her sultry tone creeping out from where she lounged on the leather chair behind his desk. She was, as always, the lone voice of constant contradiction.
“Why do you care?” he asked.
“Care? Hardly. But torturing him with traditional methods could result in his death. And then where will you be? He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to hide the diary. He’s not going to give it up just because you put bamboo shoots under his fingernails. At his age, he’s likely made peace with dying, don’t you think?”
He reached out with both hands, curling her outstretched fingers in his. “What do you suggest, love? As you said, Rousseau is over ninety years old. I doubt he’d fall prey to your particular brand of persuasion.”
With sleek elegance, she slid off the chair and coiled into his arms, her breath teasing along the edge of his collar. Her short, cropped hair, highlighted in colors that ranged from white blond to inky black, hugged her sleek cheekbones and emphasized the luminous blue of her irises. “You think age makes a man immune to a woman’s charms?”
Farrow laughed, wondering how Gemma’s brother would react to witnessing this scene. Keith Von Roan fancied himself the true heir to the K’vr—which wasn’t exactly untrue. But what he possessed in bloodline, he lacked in vision. Over the centuries, many a coup had taken away the leadership from Rogan’s direct descendents, though they remained influential. So with Keith’s sibling at his side, Farrow would take the title of leader. Once he had Rogan’s magic in his possession.
He swiped his lips across Gemma’s, reveling in the feel of her sleek red mouth against his. “Is charm what they’re calling your talents these days?”
Her grin reflected her iniquitous sensuality. “No, but it’s what they called it in Rousseau’s day. I know all about a man like him. The chivalry. The denied passions. Allow me to work my magic on him and I’ll get you what you want. Perhaps more. And he’ll be in a condition to use him later on, if necessary, which he won’t be in if you keep turning him over to those goons of yours. If I fail, you can try your preferred approach with nothing but a few more days lost.”