I carefully repositioned myself so I could look into her eyes. I cradled her face gently between both of my pale cold hands. She looked at me through her tears. There was pain there; so much pain, and I could feel it.
‘Rowan …’ I said, my breath brushing across her face, ‘I love you more than you can ever begin to comprehend, with more depth than any human language can hope to put into words. If you really, truly are not scared to death of me, and you really, truly want me in your life, then you have a problem, my love – because you will be stuck – completely and utterly stuck – with a vampire by your side … and we are very hard to shrug off!’
Her fear evaporated. Just like that. She wasn’t scared of me! All that anguish I had caused her and myself. All I had had to do was listen.
‘Do not start crying again, my love. Rowan … please. I cannot bear to see you cry. Please!’
I started to kiss her tears away. Gently first, and then more fervently. And when there were no tears left to kiss away and I was faced with her eyes glowing with an intensity that took my breath away, I started on her mouth. Today, I wondered at what point would I stop? Because I didn’t trust myself to stop, not in the here and now.
But this wasn’t the time. I knew it couldn’t be. I might trust myself not to hurt her – and in this moment, I did – but she needed to be sure. I needed to tell her everything; absolutely everything. For Christ’s sake, she didn’t even know I shared her deepest innermost feelings! If, after that, she could still trust me, then any brakes going on wouldn’t be from me.
But neither of us was ready to stop quite yet. We were hungry, famished, desperate to dissolve ourselves fully into each other’s beings, never wanting to let each other go. She was laughing, and I was laughing as I scooped her on to my four-poster bed so she was more comfortable. I was painfully aware of the bruises and damage upon her fragile body. I was gentle now, so gentle.
‘Nate,’ she gasped, as my lips followed the feathery light touch of my fingers as they slowly moved along the length of her neck. I stopped. Was she concerned? Of course she was concerned – she had a vampire at her neck! But I was in control, I was sure I was in control. She met my worried eyes and shook her head.
‘No, it isn’t that.’ She gave a breathless chuckle. ‘No – it really isn’t that,’ she said again, rolling her eyes to dispel the look of angst in my eyes, once and for all.
I smiled and repositioned myself so we lay on our sides looking intently at each other, our semi-clothed bodies touching, our faces as close as eye contact would allow.
‘What was it?’ I asked so gently.
She laughed and became even more flushed. ‘You were teasing me, Nate. Driving me to the edge and I was struggling …’
I laughed, both relieved and satisfied, and gently stroked the side of her face. ‘We need to talk, my love. Then if you still feel able to consider …’ I was unable to stop myself from leaving a trail of kisses along her jaw line, before taking a path downwards ‘… a more physical relationship … then I would be honoured … so truly, irrevocably … unquestionably … honoured … to oblige.’
Rowan spoke breathlessly and urgently, ‘Then talk – fast, Nate!’
I chuckled, returning my face to within a few inches of hers.
‘No – I’m serious!’ she said, with a hint of annoyance and more than a hint of frustration.
‘I know you are,’ I said ruefully, before frowning. ‘But what we need to talk about, may take some time …’
* The End *
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About the Author
Sarah lives in Wiltshire, England with her very supportive husband and her two boys. The family includes Rufus the dog, two cats, five chickens, countless pet spiders and an assortment of bugs (courtesy of her youngest).
Sarah has been a Constituency Researcher for a Labour Member of Parliament, a Political Lobbyist and a London Publicist, before turning her career to writing. No Such Thing as Immortality is her debut novel .
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From Sarah Tranter
Romancing the Soul
Your Soul Mate is out there! Let a past life lead the way
Rachael Jones hasn’t exactly chosen an average career path. She’s a ‘past-life regressionist’ and is now hoping to help her clients find their Soul Mates through reconnecting them with their past lives. But despite her best intentions, there are problems. Rachael made the mistake of regressing her best friend, Susie Morris, who has since been haunted by events that occurred in her past life.
When Susie meets Hollywood actor, George Silbury in unlikely circumstances, she is completely unprepared for her reactions. There’s an intense mutual attraction that neither can explain nor ignore. Can George help Susie to overcome the sense of desolation she feels as the result of her past-life regression or will history’s habit of repeating itself ruin all chances of her finding happiness?
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Preview
Romancing the Soul
Sarah Tranter
Chapter One
Cassie Silbury fled down the plush-carpeted stairs, chanting over and over in her head the mantra, ‘Stop freaking out. It wasn’t real. It. Was. Not. Real.’
The sound of her heels hitting hard tiles heralded her arrival at the imposing reception hall. The relief that flooded through her at the sight of the exit was very real and there was nothing she could do about that; she was out of there.
Dashing through the doorway that she’d so confidently strolled through earlier, she hurtled down the stone steps fronting the Harley Street property. The normality of London’s evening rush hour, with its cacophonous sights and sounds, enveloped and immediately soothed her. She cursed violently though as the biting wind sliced deep and she realised that she’d left her coat behind. Hugging herself tightly, she embraced her anger. Anger was good. For a moment there …
‘Taxi!’ she screeched, on seeing a yellow light. She vigoro
usly waved her hand in the air to attract the necessary attention.
Cassie was in the back of the black cab before it reached a full stop. ‘Sixty-three Kensington Avenue!’ she said, as she threw her bag and notebook onto the seat next to her. The cab manoeuvred into the right-hand lane, heading towards the sanctuary of home. And Cassie finally stilled.
But she was cold and angry and … would absolutely not think about the rest! She focused on her anger: How dare he put those things into my head! How dare he make me think I was …? How dare he make me flee! And my coat! The evil little man!
Cassie’s restless eyes honed in on the open notebook next to her bag. She snatched it up triumphantly. ‘Nevil L. Mann,’ she’d written and underlined at the top of the page, alongside today’s date, January 25th. Unsnapping the pen clipped to her notebook, she proceeded to scrub out the ‘N’ with a self-satisfied flourish that quickly became a furious obliterating scribble: ‘evil L. Mann’ it now read. She continued to eradicate his preposterous job title, which she’d jotted underneath: ‘Past Life Regressionist to the Stars’. She stopped only when the nib of her pen wore through the paper, tearing up several of the pages underneath.
‘Stupid evil little man,’ she muttered. He knew full well who she was. He’d even told her that he was a fan of her work, before he’d proceeded to ‘past life regress’ her. She snorted at the ridiculous description of what had just occurred … before glaring at the taxi driver, who was observing her nervously in his rear-view mirror.
Beyond stupid, she further clarified to herself. Who, in their right frame of mind, gave an investigative reporter a past life from hell? She desperately suppressed where that thought was going and forced a healthier focus. He was clearly deranged, along with the rest of his so-called profession. This piece was always going to be an exposé, just like so many she had written before, to prove his profession a sham. But things had just got personal.
And he’d been good, she ruefully conceded. She’d expected to imagine and ‘manufacture’ a past life. All her research indicated they were creations of the mind, with Cleopatra in the number one slot. She’d spent last night studying Elizabeth Taylor in the role so she could look damned good in her imaginings.
But she’d found that she had no control whatsoever over proceedings. Each time that evil man had voiced another one of his malicious, manipulative prompts, she’d sunk deeper and deeper into the horror playing out in her head.
And then he’d wanted her to talk it through with him, to apply context, to use the newfound knowledge to heal … Heal? I had nothing to bloody well heal until I walked into that godforsaken building!
No. Cassie needed a plan. A plan that would expose the profession for what it was. A sham. That and that alone would apply the necessary context. They had no right playing around with people’s heads, making them think …
She grinned with self-satisfaction as it came to her. She might have been unsettled there for a moment, but Cassie Silbury was back on form. She knew what she had to do … just after she found oblivion through the bottle of vodka she was sure sat in the cupboard at home.
Three days later
‘No way! Noooo way!’ Cassie wailed the words over and over, mantra-style, while blindly fleeing the Tunbridge Wells town house. On automatic pilot, her feet followed the path and turned left after passing through the garden gate.
It was several minutes before she became aware of her surroundings. A park. A bench. She let herself collapse onto the bench and sat. Stunned.
Several more minutes passed before she allowed herself to think. And then it was to reflect: things hadn’t gone quite to plan. It had been so simple; another ‘past life regressionist,’ planting a different past in her mind. The second couldn’t possibly come up with the same as the first. She was supposed to have them by the short and curlies.
She let out a hysterical laugh at the question that flashed into her head: ‘So Cassie Silbury – what did you do in a past life to deserve this?’ Oh, she so couldn’t go there. She urged her mind to cooperate, while her lungs released a shaky breath.
Cassie knew there was a perfectly rational, non-crackpot explanation for the two past life stories matching … exactly. She just had to find it. She groaned, hardly sparing a glance at the jogger who found an extra burst of speed to lurch past her in a widened berth.
Concentrate Cassie. She shuffled awkwardly in her seat for several long moments before … enlightenment! Oh, it was a blessed, fanfare playing moment. Of course! She laughed delightedly, before shaking her head quickly. She’d never believed it, not for a minute!
It was so simple: The Conspiracy Theory. She’d come across enough of them in her work to know one when she saw one. And the NAPLR (National Association of Past Life Regressionists) – she couldn’t help the snort – knew she was doing the piece. And they also knew her style. They would have known she’d go to another practitioner. The stories tallying had to be their attempt at credibility.
It wouldn’t have been difficult, she realised, her mind warming nicely to the theme. There had to be methodology to their madness. The evil little people had, after all, studied past life regression and had qualifications on their walls to prove it. So, logically, there had to be an established method for planting a scenario into their victim’s subconscious. All they would have had to do was ensure each of them knew the scenario to be placed and when to provide the necessary prompts. Voila! An idiot’s guide to painting Cassie Silbury as ‘bitch reincarnate.’
But I used a different name this time. How could this one have known what to plant? Cassie thrust the highly unhelpful thought away. Conspiracy, she reminded herself. Aaaand …
Yes! They could have her picture circulating electronically on wanted-style posters. Although many would probably recognise her anyway as she was regularly in the press, not just through her critically acclaimed, high-profile written word, but because being the sister of Hollywood actor George Silbury hardly ensured anonymity.
Cassie quickly quashed the sinking sensation she experienced on thinking of George. ‘Do you recognise anyone, Cassie?’ She wasn’t going there. It was nonsensical.
Cassie realised another plan was required. A foolproof plan this time that took account of the conspiracy. She’d work on it on the way home. Standing up, on traitorously shaky legs, she looked around to gauge the most likely route to the train station. She had no idea where she was … other than a park in Tunbridge Wells. Cassie decided, once she was back in sight of home, she’d pop into Waitrose for another bottle of vodka. Just so it was in the cupboard.
Six days later
Cassie put the phone down and jotted the time and details of the next appointment in her diary. Casting an eye over the local newspaper advertisement before her, she grinned. Her plan was finally coming together. And Rachael Jones was a godsend.
Although qualified, Rachael Jones wasn’t a member of the NAPLR, and therefore wouldn’t be in receipt of the conspiratorial communications no doubt doing their rounds among members. Yet she did hold their approved qualifications. Indeed, she’d passed them all with distinction and, on qualifying last year, had received their most outstanding graduate of the year award. In an incredible stroke of luck that award had been presented to her by the NAPLR’s Chairman. He’d provided, for the record, several glowing words on her abilities that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than an endorsement. How was he to know she’d not join the association? And how was he to know Cassie Silbury had her in her sights?
Cassie was delighted with herself. The fact Rachael Jones’s ‘flamboyant’ newspaper advertisement indicated that she may well be a candidate for a padded cell and complimentary lobotomy, was simply the very sweet mallow icing on her meticulously planned cake.
Next Wednesday, Cassie mused, tapping the diary page with her pen. George would be back in the country …
She shook her head rapidly, urging herself not to even contemplate where that thought was leading. She reached for her gla
ss and took a swift gulp of neat vodka.
But it was no good. George would be filming not far from where this Rachael nut practiced and … what if he could come to the appointment with her?
Cassie was more battle-scarred than she was prepared to admit while sober and in control of her faculties. And ditto to the bricking herself about subjecting herself to the administrations of another head case. But George, despite his Hollywood heart-throb status, was sensible, grounded and her favourite and most protective older brother.
Cassie raised her glass to her lips. What was wrong with someone being there to hold her hand?
Two large gulps from her glass.
She wanted George there! He’d always been able to slay her dragons. Of course … If she could get him to past life regress, he could slay the most monstrous of all dragons to ever haunt her. With no crossover in their past, all those fears that kept creeping up on her would—
Stop! She dropped her head into her hands. There was No. Such. Thing. As. Past. Lives. Cassie wished with all her heart that she’d never started this story. Why couldn’t they have had her as Cleopatra?
No! She raised her head in horror. She promptly downed what was left of her latest glass of vodka and desperately shook the empty bottle.
Hadn’t Cleopatra killed her brother too?
Chapter Two
‘Ummm …’ Susie wasn’t sure what to say. She slowly shook her head and replaced the newspaper on the kitchen table.
‘It’s brilliant, don’t you think?’ Rachael asked, bringing two mugs of coffee over, and curling her tall frame into the seat next to Susie’s. ‘I wanted eye-catching.’
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