by Tracy Tappan
“You like to hit stuff,” Marissa provided. “Be messy. Grunt and sweat.”
He laughed. “That sounds good. Let’s go with that.”
Her eyes sparkled like emeralds. “Are you ready to taste this?” She swirled the wine, then lifted her goblet high to check out the color.
Picking up his own glass, he went through the same motions, a feeling of contentment warming his chest. He loved the rituals that went along with wine drinking, and sharing it with her, someone who clearly understood the finer art of it, was…well, awesome.
It wasn’t beyond him that wine collecting was an unusual hobby for a guy who liked to grunt and sweat, but it’d been impossible for him to define himself as a man who only used his fists…and as a breed of human who was a monster. He tried not to let it show just how much world opinion about vampires bugged the shit out of him. But it did, and he supposed part of his solution had been to wrap himself in something that could be counted as quote sophisticated end quote. He caught flak from his warrior buddies for it, but not as much as he could’ve, since wine-tasting at least involved the consumption of alcohol. That kept the lip tolerable.
Marissa set her nose over the rim of her goblet to smell the wine.
He followed suit again—fruity, with a hint of cherries—then they both took a sip.
Their gazes locked over the rims of their goblets, a look of satisfaction spreading over both of their faces. In that brief second a connection passed between them that twisted Dev’s insides with a strange, painful yearning for something more. Everything.
He pulled his eyes away, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically awkward. “Gotta love that pinot noir grape,” he murmured.
“There’s not much better,” she agreed, pouring them each a healthy serving this time. “So what’s your favorite wine?”
He hmmed in the middle of a long sip. “It can’t be my favorite, I guess, since I’ve never tasted it, but it’s the one I most want to try. It’s got a rep as the best French red in the world: Château Cuvier III, 1990.”
“Oh, my God,” she laughed breathlessly. “You’re kidding?”
“No.” He eyed her quizzically. She had the strangest expression on her face right now. “What?”
“It’s just that…” She shook her head, the barest trace of a smile still on her lips. “No, nothing.”
Maybe she was amazed he even knew about it. The vintage was extremely rare.
“Do you know why it’s considered the best?” she asked.
“Yeah, from what I understand, it’s made from some type of impossible crop. Each area of France produces a distinct grape, as I’m sure you know. The Rhône Valley in the south makes different wine than Burgundy to the north. Well, Cuvier Vineyards is in this tiny place called Jura, close to Switzerland, and normally very cold, right? But one season, Jura had a record warm spell, and the grapes turned into this amazing combination of north-and-south. Only a small portion of the crop was affected that way, though, and just a few hundred bottles were ever made. The stuff’s impossible to find. I’ve been writing to vineyards all over the world, trying to get some, but haven’t been able to.”
“Such dedication to your hobby.”
“Well, hell, this wine’s so good, it’s known as the ‘love wine.’ Apparently, as soon as it passes the lips, the superb flavor puts a body in the mood for”—he slanted a devilish brow at her—“hanky-panky.”
She hooted with laughter. “Oh, Lord, that’s great! I mean, totally wrong, but very funny.”
“Wrong?” WTF. How would she know?
She sipped her drink. “I’m familiar with the history of that family. Angelique Cuvier, the madame of Cuvier Vineyards and widow to the great wine experimentalist, Jacques Cuvier III, fell madly in love for the second time in her life at the ripe age of sixty. Her objet d’amour was thirty years her junior, making their affair overtly scandalous, fiercely passionate, and, unfortunately, agonizingly short. Her lover died in an accident six months into their relationship. Angelique was devastated beyond consolation. She lay in bed for weeks, refusing to harvest her crop.” Marissa wrapped her thumb and forefinger around the stem of her goblet and spun the glass, gazing at the bright red stars of light reflecting off the surface of the wine. “So you see, plenty of that incredible north-and-south blend of Cuvier grapes had ripened. Angelique just let most of them rot on the vine.”
“Good God.” Dev exhaled sharply, appalled. “The woman ought to be shot.”
She glanced up at him through her lashes. “It was for love. That’s why it’s called the ‘love wine.’” She stepped around the sommelier table. “I’ve noticed you don’t have any hair on your body,” she said quietly.
He blinked, the switch in topics jarring him.
She stroked a finger lightly over his bare forearm, and the hairs on his nape went on high alert. Her attention strayed to the wedge of skin exposed by his V-necked black T-shirt; no chest hairs curling there, either. Maybe he should’ve hunted Om Rău tonight in his suit blazer or that stinky trench coat.
“Why do you shave your body?”
I don’t, sweetheart. I’m a breed of human called Vârcolac, so I only have hair on my head, armpits, and nuts. “Well…” He cleared his throat. He’d known there was going to be a certain amount of truth evasion he’d have to engage in with the newbies, hopefully not outright lying, but rather some creative side-stepping. But now that he was facing the prospect of maneuvering around her question, the idea of hiding his true self felt more wrong than he’d predicted it would. Maybe if he didn’t already like this girl so much, he wouldn’t care if she liked him back…for who he really was, fangs and all. Right. Fat chance. “It keeps me sleek,” he said, slicing his hand through the air in a forward motion, “for chasing down bad guys.”
“Ah, yes, you are good at that, aren’t you?” Leaning one elbow on the sommelier table, she dropped her eyes to trace the contours of his pecs. “How much do you bench press, anyway?”
The answer lodged in his throat. What would be a normal amount of poundage for a guy his size? He only knew what he could actually bench, which was—
His insides grew jumpy as she scooted nearer. This close, her scent was a hard kick in the gut, impossible to shove into the back part of his mind, as he’d barely done at the cocktail party. He’d probably only managed it because of the special scent-cutting mud that she and the rest of the Dragons had been asked to wear behind their ears—anti-allergy to the cave air, they’d been told.
Her nightly shower must’ve washed that mud away, and now her scent, both sweet and earthy, even stronger than when they’d been in the van, swirled its hypnotic tendrils through his sinuses and up into the ventricles of his brain. It stamped an aromatic marker on his memory, and a shudder skipped up his spin. His balls tightened, the skin on his scrotum tingling. Fuck. Great. This was just what he needed. Damn his Vârcolac nature, he’d probably be able to smell this woman from half a mile off now.
He stepped back from her, the bones in his knees feeling like bricks with the mortar loose. “Hell, I could lift about twenty of you, that’s for sure, you’re so slender.”
She chuckled, and, stupid prick that he was, he latched his gaze onto her mouth. Something stirred low in his belly. Prettily bowed on top, lush and full on the bottom, her lips were made for kissing a guy into near delirium and then whispering dirty talk into his ear when he was on top of her. In her.
A scorching flare of desire hit him so hard in the groin it stunned him. Christ, ratchet back, Nichita. Now. Lust only equaled pain and more pain to an unmated Vârcolac. He needed to stop this before—
“I don’t know if I’m all that slender. You know how we French chefs only cook with butter.” Smiling a heart-stopping smile, she angled her head to one side and swept her long, two-toned hair over her shoulder.
He went absolutely motionless, his senses crouching down into fixed predatory stillness, his eyes locking with dangerous thirst on the exposed side of her throat. W
ith his Vârcolac instincts, he could feel, more than see, the blood rushing beneath her flesh, dark, delectable liquid within her deep-set jugular vein and the closer carotid artery. That was the good stuff there, the carotid’s newly oxygenated blood—right where he’d tap in and have a feast.
His pulse quickened as he imagined how good she’d taste. Her Dragon blood would go down his throat like the sweetest apple, peach, lemon meringue, and banana cream pie all in one. Nothing at all like nasty donor blood. No, Marissa would be a culinary orgasm. The thought ignited his eyes and sent a pulse through his gums, loosening his fangs. No, no, no.
His instincts weren’t listening.
Primal hunger pushed him forward a step. He lifted a hand to her mouth, lightly caressing the fullness of her bottom lip with the tips of his fingers. A groan crowded into his throat. He wanted to pull that lip between his own and suck on it until—
A hot gust of air brushed his fingers.
It was her breath. He snapped his gaze up to hers.
The clear green of her eyes had darkened to deep jade, more than just flirtation within them now.
She…whoa, she wanted to…?
Her tongue darted out to lick his finger.
He jerked his chin back, his nostrils flaring wide when his senses registered the scent an instant before his conscious mind did.
Marissa’s arousal.
She wanted him.
He was suddenly right in front of her, his hands cupping her face, his fingers sliding into the hair at her temples. Before he could think about what a fucking hole-digger he was being, he hauled her forward and crushed his lips down on hers.
Her mouth opened beneath his at once, hungry and hot and passionate, her warm breath mingling with his.
Her soft tongue sparred with his, and a small grenade went off in his chest. He moaned raggedly, his blood instantly on fire and pounding through his veins in a collision course for his crotch. He stiffened on a rush of anxiety. The only place that blood could go was into a painful pile-up against the blockage inherent to an unmated Vârcolac’s sex organs. He needed to…but he just couldn’t stop. She felt so damned good. Nothing like kissing Shaston, his Vârcolac girlfriend back in the days when that was allowed. Marissa was…hell, Marissa, soft and warm everywhere, lips, body, tongue. He dropped his hands from her face and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, the simple act of drawing her against his body feeling amazingly like finding his proper place in the world.
Her arms lifted to encircle his neck, her boobs squashing against his chest, her thighs pressing his. The air in his lungs rasped. Things were getting extremely uncomfortable down below, blood gathering with increasing pressure in his closed-off groin area. She angled her head to deepen the kiss, making a breathless little sound of pleasure. Her hips canted forward, her mons pushing against his cock, and in a white-hot flash, a raw, primitive lust rose up and bludgeoned him. Blood slammed with brutal force against the barrier in his sexual plumbing, sending agony ripping through his pelvis and spiking down his legs. He tore his mouth from hers on a hoarse shout of pain, and stumbled backward. “Oh, fuck me.” He bent double, wrapping his arms around his middle.
“Dear God,” Marissa gasped. “Dev, what’s wrong?”
“I… I…” He checked his teeth with his tongue. Shit, his fangs were elongated. Two days into the newbie gig and Dev Nichita gives away the whole bag of cats. “I’m sorry, Marissa, I sustained a groin injury in the fight last night, and…” Well, there went his plan to avoid outright lies. “And it’s acting up under all of the…activity.” Still bent in half, he staggered a few more paces away from her, sweat popping out on his brow. She was really aroused and the scent of that was threatening to tear a hole in his gut.
She pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh, Dev, I’m so sorry. I mean, I saw what you went through that night, and…” She flushed. “You must think I’m a total whore.”
“No…no.” He was actually more worried about what she thought of him right now; he had to look like a complete idiot. “Definitely, no. I just think…you had a couple of rough nights, like I said, and you probably want to feel alive and…and pleasure.” He edged toward the sommelier table and snatched up his goblet, putting his nose over the rim and drawing in a couple of deep breaths of the fruity wine. He checked his teeth again. A little better. “Believe me, I’m feeling the same way.” He carefully straightened. “If it weren’t for my injury, I’d, you know, totally do you.”
The concern on her face gradually faded, then she snorted. “What happened to being a Grade A Good Guy and not taking advantage of me for some hanky-panky?”
“Well, what can I say?” He hitched a shoulder, faking nonchalance. “You’re unbelievably hot, Riss.”
She laughed at that, her eyes sparkling. “Well, I guess that means no sharing the bed tonight, huh?”
“Ah, no big.” He tried to slap a smile on, careful to keep his lips close together, but the expression felt unconvincing. “I’ve slept in that armchair in front of the TV many times.” Just never in the presence of a woman who smelled like the porno version of Jiffy Lube. Shit… He took an unsteady sip of his wine. If he could just manage not to sleepwalk tonight with his fangs out and his cock swinging, he’d owe the Universe a big one.
Chapter Fifteen
Leaving off the studious inspection of his cream cheese bagel, Alex angled a glance at his sister, seated next to him at the U-shaped conference table, and secretly grimaced. Man, Tonĩ was hacked, her jaw set and her mouth tight, her blue eyes flaming. Roth was red-faced, as if he’d just been scolded, which, well…he sort of had been, although not with overt words.
The morning Council meeting had just gotten underway when Beverly Morville, the new jewelry designer, had been ushered in, asking to opt out of her contract. Her exact words had gone something like, “I want to leave this whack town right now.”
Honestly, Alex could understand Beverly’s urgency. Last night, she and the other new residents had received a too-close view of Jøsnic, and that dude made the spike-faced demon from Hellraiser look like Opie Taylor from The Andy Griffith Show. The sight of Jøsnic had even shrunk down Alex’s manjiggles a bit. Damage control had definitely been high on the Council’s agenda this morning. Then Beverly had entered, and…
Roth had pulled a Roth. Faced with the loss of a precious Dragon, he’d started to deny Beverly’s request to leave—as in, revert to the old ways of doing things and keep her here against her will. Roth had been mid-denial when Tonĩ had snapped a glare over to her co-leader that had shut him up but quick. Maybe even shrunk his manjiggles a bit.
Alex would’ve chuckled, if, um, that wouldn’t have been a completely wrong thing to do. But who would’ve thought that his little sister would someday be able to make vampires quake in their boots with a mere glance.
He gave his head a slight shake. He’d never forget that day four months ago when, after an insane eighteen-day search for his missing sister, he’d finally gotten Tonĩ back. He’d been the one to set the ball in motion for her escape, but his plans never would have come to fruition if not for ginormous help from Beth Costache and Kimberly Stănescu.
Reunited topside, Tonĩ and Alex, plus four other women called “Dragons,” had holed up in a hotel room, and that’s when the story of the Vârcolac had come out. He probably should’ve treated the info like far-fetched malarkey, but instead, everything that Tonĩ told him made perfect sense—the most sense anything had ever made in his entire life. He finally understood why he’d never fit in anywhere, or why at the age of thirty-five—correction, thirty-six today—he’d never had a serious relationship with a woman. Turned out, he, as a Dragon male, belonged with the people of Ţărână, not topside with regular humans.
Deciding it was do-over time, he’d moved down here with his sister for a fresh start, and the first thing he’d done was put his computer skills to work on a very special project: finding valuable Dragons.
As one of the brightest compu
ter geniuses to come out of UC Berkley’s class of ’97, Alex had been recruited right out of college by the DoD, moving directly into their R&D department. There he’d created groundbreaking pattern recognition software, modeling his programs after the arbitrage trading system that large companies used to detect trends in the stock market. Based on this theory, he’d devised “scene change detection” software to help the military organize the incalculable satellite images they collected. It was only a matter of altering the language of this software a bit to use the program to wade through colossal amounts of information—from hospitals, blood banks, private laboratories, medical clinics, and fingerprinting labs—to find women with a unique element in their blood called Peak 8. Dragons.
He’d unearthed fifty Dragons in three months, an overwhelming success compared to the seven women in seven years the community had found without his help. Yep, career-wise he was a triumph. His personal life, on the other hand, was a total flop.
Unlike his sister, who’d had the advantage of getting to know everyone in the community as a plain ol’ Dragon, Alex had arrived as a Royal Fey and, on top of that, in possession of the Străvechi Caiet—a book and guide of the Vârcolac’s ancient history—which meant that he was also a revered Soothsayer. Well…if he could ever boot up his Fey enchantment skill. Such a thing would necessitate him bonding with a Vârcolac female and getting loaded up with the Fiinţă that came out of her fangs…which kind of required that the women around here not be so freaking intimidated by him.
Talk about irony.
Somebody seriously needed to tell these Vârcolac women to take a second look at him. He wasn’t a half bad-looking guy, and, yes, he was smart and generally up-beat. He could even pull off cool when he played the guitar, but he also tended toward tan Dockers and plaid shirts, plus he wore glasses and a pocket-protector, for God’s sake. He himself was loath to use the word nerd, but he certainly wasn’t worthy of the star-struck, hands-off treatment he’d received so far.