Blood on Silk

by Marie Treanor

  Well, there were plenty of innocent reasons to open one’s bag in a bar.

  So, from instinct, she pretended to be annoyed rather than completely thrown by his presence. “There’s just no time off around here. Are you following me?”

  “I was here first,” he pointed out. “But broadly speaking, yes, of course I am.”

  “Well, don’t let me interrupt your . . . drink.” She waved her hand behind her at her fellow patrons, and was rewarded by a quirk of his sensual lips before she dragged her gaze from him to the young bartender who was hovering opposite her. He looked human. But then, so did Saloman, if you didn’t pay too much attention to his eyes. “A glass of red wine, please. Something local.”

  The barman grabbed a bottle and poured a small amount into a large glass, which he passed to her to taste. Aware of Saloman’s attention, she took her time, fighting the desire to throw it down her throat and hold the glass out for more. Alcohol did not steady the nerves. It numbed them, which might make the present more bearable but wouldn’t help her stay alive.

  “It’s good,” she pronounced, and the barman smiled as he filled her glass. Trying not to hold her breath, Elizabeth reached for the zip of her bag. She could press the buzzer while rummaging for her purse.

  “I’ll get that,” Saloman said beside her. “We’ll take the bottle.”

  “No, thank you,” Elizabeth snapped, but it was too late. The barman had moved on, and Saloman was watching her with those knowing, mocking eyes while he poured wine into his own glass. Raising it in his long, elegant fingers, he saluted her.

  There seemed to be nothing else to do but release the zip, raise her own glass, and sip. In a few moments, she could just take out her phone and pretend to check for messages or something.

  Fascinated, she watched him draw the wine over his lips and into his mouth. He swallowed. She opened her mouth to ask what vampires could eat and drink—a subject on which her recent reading had been silent—before she remembered she was too angry with him to make conversation.

  He said, “Would you like to dance?”

  She set her glass on the bar. “No.”

  Saloman stood, and she glanced up at him in alarm. “What a pity,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to dance with you. Another time—perhaps here, tomorrow.”

  Oh shit, now he was going to leave! What was she thinking? She was getting her roles all muddled. She’d come here to seduce him—or at least to appear to do so for long enough to let the hunters arrive in force, and here she was letting him walk out on her within five minutes! He’d walked past her. All she could see was his back.

  “Saloman.” Her desperate, helpless plea came out throatily enough to sound sexy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t be sure he heard it over the music. She slid off her stool, reaching for his hand, when he turned and caught hers instead.

  His eyes gleamed with laughter. She’d been had—again. But she’d learned her lesson. Stay in character. So she let her eyes and her lips smile back in rueful acknowledgment of his hit.

  “Actually, I love to dance.” After too many drinks in comfortable surroundings, but stone-cold sober in a dangerous vampire bar would have to do for tonight.

  “I knew you would.” His thumb stroked the edge of her palm, making her shiver, while his free hand closed over her bag. “You can’t dance with this. Leave it here.”

  She tightened her grip in panic, before forcing herself to release it. She didn’t think he would kill her here. There would be other opportunities. Even so, when he dropped it onto her vacated stool, she laid her hand on it, drumming her fingers as if still hesitating over whether or not to abandon it in such a public place. In reality, she hoped it would activate the buzzer.

  Saloman’s gaze lifted from the bag to her face, giving nothing away. Red lights from the dance floor flickered across his forehead and the strong line of his jaw. Part of his face always seemed to be in shadow, adding to his mystery and, for some reason, to his allure. She slid her hand off the bag and let him lead her with slow deliberation onto the dance floor.

  Her heart drummed in her breast, seeming to vibrate her oversensitive nipples as they pushed against the fine, thin fabric of her risqué dress. Anticipation thrummed through her, sensitizing every nerve ending in her body, because this time all the teasing and mockery he could summon didn’t matter a jot. This time she had a job to do. She had to keep him here until the hunters arrived, and she had every confidence she could.

  It felt good, swaying to the beat of the music, letting her body slide against his arm as she chose their spot, turned, and began to dance. The atmosphere was different here, dimmer, darker, full of flickering, shooting shadows and shafts of bright, mesmerizing light. It made her part of the heaving, jumping throng that hemmed her in, yet gave her the illusion of solitude in which to enjoy throwing off the inhibitions that were her reality. Her body was her weapon, gyrating, thrusting, and spinning to the music—provoking and enticing the beautiful, lethal being who danced so close to her.

  Saloman moved with the grace of ballet, the freedom of modern dance, and all the energy of rock; yet he never strayed from the contained space that harbored both of them, never took his leaping, half-hidden gaze from her as he followed the movement of her throat and breasts and hips. Sometimes, she saw the brief gleam of his teeth and imagined the pointed canines that could rip her open for him to drain her blood in two beats of a song. But mostly, she watched his body mirroring the actions of hers, not dancing at her as most people did, but with her. For some reason, it was incredibly sexy, as if their circling, thrusting bodies were touching.

  Between her thighs was a warning dampness, but the dance exhilarated her; his predatory attention urged her on. So long as he didn’t touch her, she felt safe in her bubble of dangerous, reciprocated desire.

  The driving music slammed through her. Saloman swayed closer, almost touching as he moved with her gyrating hips. When she thrust backward, he followed, weaving to either side with her, and back when she arched forward. It excited her, because it seemed so natural and she was still in control. She could see the bulge in his trousers as he danced, and God help her, she liked that too, so much so that when the shifting light flashed down his abdomen, revealing the full outline of his upright shaft, she flooded her panties with sexual moisture. She couldn’t even pretend that was perspiration, and she didn’t care, not so long as his gaze was riveted to her breasts.

  She arched back, and again his hips followed hers. She thrust forward, and this time he didn’t budge. With shock she came up against the hardness of his erection, and before she could slide free, his hands closed over her hips, guiding her to his lead.

  Her whole body melted against the heat of him. Her abdomen burned and tingled to his touch. Her aching sex throbbed as her precious control began to ebb. The dance became his, not hers, their bodies melded together at the hips, thrusting in perfect harmony with the music and with each other.

  In wonder, she gazed up at him, staring through the flickering shadows on his face to the warm, clouded lust he didn’t trouble to hide. He leaned back, forcing his hardness closer into her. She gasped, swaying under his hands, leaning back as he did to intensify the pressure and the pleasure. It was blatant, but it felt so good.

  When their upper bodies met again, her nipples seemed to cry out. His hands on her hips raised her up on her toes, his chest rubbed against her breasts, his erection slid lower, almost between her parted thighs, and still he danced—and she with him.

  The music blasted her ears, the darkness cocooned her in wild, exciting lust. The vampire’s eyes held hers with a promise she yearned for with every treacherous fiber of her existence.

  Until the music came to a climactic close.

  The dancers broke into a raucous, ragged cheer. Some began to move off the floor, or to change partners. Elizabeth and Saloman stood quite still, his hands on her hips, their bodies molded together as if actually joined.

  Oh Jesus Christ, what would that
be like?

  The singer was talking, but she barely heard, never mind understood the words. Was it finished? Good, then she should pull away, get herself back together before . . .

  A long, tragic chord sounded on the guitar. The music began again on a slower, more sensual beat. Saloman swayed, holding her with him until the music took her back, and she danced again too.

  “Slower, and sweeter,” he murmured in her ear. “Dalliance in dance . . .”

  Dalliance and dinner, remember that? She swallowed. “You like alliteration.” She could make out the texture of his neck, the tiny, perfect black hairs. Because she had a part to play, and because she wanted to, she gave in to her desire, and softly blew on them.

  His head moved, twisting his neck in languorous response. “I like lots of things. I like this sexy side to you. I like your hot little body clamped into mine as if we’re making love.”

  “We’re not,” she managed.

  “We could be.” His hand slid down her hip to her naked thigh. “I like your soft, silken skin.” Something cool and moist touched her neck, forcing another gasp from her. “I like the way you dance.” His lips brushed a vein, and in the panic induced as much by desire as fear, she grabbed at him. She found his hips, which slid and swayed in her hold, gratifying her on so many levels that she carried on dancing.

  While his hardness rubbed against her pubic bone, slid between her parted thighs, his lips closed on her neck and kissed, teasing. Before she could panic again he raised his head to reveal burning eyes. For the first time she began to wonder how much control he had. But in this state of semibemused bliss, it didn’t seem to matter.

  “And as I recall,” he whispered, “I like the way you kiss. . . .”

  Her lips parted with shock and need. He lowered his head once more and, mesmerized, she watched the progress of his lips, parting, half smiling and straightening again as they approached.

  Well, there’s no one here to see. What harm in one kiss?

  His mouth touched hers, brushed once, and closed.

  All sorts of harm, if it was Saloman’s kiss. She couldn’t have forgotten its devastating effect on her. He tasted like no one else, strong and earthy and spicy, his mouth firm and commanding and yet moving so sensually on hers that the surrender was sweet. Her mouth almost fell open under his, admitting his tongue and his sharp, terrible teeth.

  But with the flash of terror came the saving memory of her role. She was allowed to kiss him back. In fact, she had to, whatever the danger.

  She slid her tongue along his, twisted around it, and sucked; his mouth hardened in response, deepening the kiss. She fought him for it, nipping at his lips, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, and curling over his teeth as if to draw him nearer.

  His hand stroked her naked thigh, then slid higher under her dress and over her bottom, kneading her into his erection. She flicked her tongue over his canines, felt their sharpness, and tasted a spot of her own salty blood before his tongue swiped over hers, stealing it. He sucked, and weirdly, she felt more pleasure at that than fear. For some reason it aroused her even more.

  It was mad. She was dancing, practically grinding in public with a vampire who had his hand up her skirt and was sucking the blood from her tongue. And she liked it?

  Hell, yes, it was the most amazingly sensual experience of her life. She lifted one leg, rubbing her thigh against his, parting her sex to increase the pleasure from his probing erection. The hand not on her bottom slid round to hold her leg, caress it, and raise it higher. And the kiss went on.

  You can. You really can orgasm on a public dance floor.

  Gasping, she dragged her mouth free and tried to lower her leg. She was almost disappointed that he let her.

  “I need air,” she said shakily.

  He devoured her face with his eyes, sending all sorts of wicked shivers through her oversensitive body, and settled on her lips. He took another kiss, quick and sensual, and then stared at her gasping mouth wide-open with lust.

  He smiled and threw one arm about her shoulders to guide her off the dance floor. Trembling, she closed her mouth with a snap. Focus, Silk, focus. . . .

  But it was hard to concentrate with his steely arm around her, his fingers caressing her naked shoulder, playing along her clavicle. Only when she found herself sinking into one of the comfortable red sofas facing the large window, did she manage to say in panic, “My bag . . .”

  Saloman crooked his finger to someone, made another quick hand signal, and sat down beside her, his thigh brushing hers. “They’ll bring it.” The familiar half smile dawned and vanished from his lips. “You’re a constant revelation to me, Elizabeth Silk. I’m so glad you dance.”

  “You mean you’ll miss me after you kill me?” She wasn’t quite sure why she brought the subject up. Right now, it just seemed safer than the sex thing she’d been relying on for the last half hour.

  “I will.”

  She cast him a lopsided smile. “Don’t spare my feelings by pretending.”

  “It will be a good death, and a sweet one.”

  “Not for me,” she disputed, wondering vaguely when she had learned to treat her own demise with such callousness.

  “Oh yes. For you,” he said as a waiter deposited her bag on the sofa beside her and a tray containing the wine bottle and glasses on the table in front of them. As the waiter hurried away, Saloman leaned forward, blocking her view, and trailed his finger down her chest and cleavage, where it lingered, brushing the swell of each breast in turn.

  Elizabeth’s body flamed all over again. She clutched the bag to her side like a lifeline.

  “I promise,” Saloman said huskily.

  “Thanks. I’d rather keep my sour life.”

  “A life with mere academic thrills? Without wild, intense sex?”

  She stared. “I can get wild, intense sex whenever I want to.” It sounded so childish that she bit her lip as soon as the lying words were out. But Saloman frowned, as if displeased.

  “Not like I can give you.” He leaned even closer, hiding her from view with his body. His hand slipped under her dress to cover her naked breast. “Here and now, if you wish.”

  His hand was bliss and torture at once—on her aching breast, tweaking her nipple between his fingers. Almost with awe, she realized she had the advantage back, that he’d forgotten about her bag.

  “I think,” she managed, surreptitiously sliding open the zipper, “that you overrate the intensity caused by imminent death. On the contrary, I find it—er—a turn-off.”

  “Liar,” he whispered, caressing her nipple between finger and thumb, over and over. Where in hell was that buzzer? She found it, pressed it, and as she slid her hand free, her knuckles brushed against the cold, hard shaft of the wooden stake.

  If you get close enough, you stake the bastard, Mihaela had said. Well, she was close enough, but she wasn’t stupid enough to imagine he’d let her do it. Nevertheless, she left her hand resting against the bag’s opening. If the hunters didn’t get here fast, the stake might be her only possible defense against certain death. How long did she have?

  And how did you kill a man, a being, who was fondling your breast like a lover? At least when you liked it as much as she did. “Stop that,” she begged.

  To her perverse disappointment, he did stop, removing his hand in such a way as left her breast exposed to him, its rosy nipple stretching out in a silent plea for more attention. Gasping, she snatched up the strap of her dress, glaring at him.

  “You have such beautiful breasts,” he excused, and for some reason she melted all over again.

  Struggling, she said, “Do you really have time to lavish such attention on all your victims?”

  “My Awakener is special.”

  “Then perhaps you owe her more than a quick shag and murder.”

  His eyes darkened impossibly. “I never said anything about a quick shag.”

  Oh, God help me. . . . “I’m more concerned with the murder.”


  “You won’t be.”

  Her fist tightened around her bag, ready to draw the stake if the opportunity arose. “You have no right . . . ,” she raged.

  “Actually, I have.”

  She stared at him. “Because of might? You’re stronger than me, so you can take my blood and kill me?”

  “I am and I can. But I meant right. You are only one human.”

  “I may be ‘only’ to you, but I’m pretty important to me.”

  “Kiss me,” he whispered.

  In spite of everything, her heart turned over. Grief and anguish rose up, but couldn’t quell the anger that had been festering and building since this began. She jerked back to avoid his questing mouth.

  As if unaware of her sudden reluctance, he followed, looming over her.

  His mouth covered hers. He stroked her neck over the old, sensitive wound, and she gasped against his lips. Was it to be now? Her fingers twitched on her bag, before his hand covered them and held.

  “Death comes after the sex,” he murmured against her lips. “Otherwise, where’s the fun in it?”

  “You’re twisted and weird,” she whispered, and because she couldn’t help it, brushed her mouth across his lower lip.

  “And you want me.”

  “That’s just the vampire thing. . . .”

  His lips stretched into a smile while they kissed her. “That humans are drawn to evil vampire sex appeal? Equating sex with evil, you’ll notice. I wasn’t aware of your enjoying the attentions of the vampire I killed for you in Bistriƫa, or falling for the charms of my good friend Zoltán. Perhaps Dmitriu was before me?”

  “You’re an idiot.” She grasped his shoulders to push him off, and then, fascinated by the feel of the steely muscles under her fingers, let her fingers linger there instead.

  “Elizabeth . . .” He laid his hand on her knee, caressed up the length of her thigh. “Nothing compels you but your own desire.”

  “Then I can walk out of here right now?”