“Yes, of course you are, Max,” Bellitano said smoothly, clearly still attempting to keep the peace. “But Savina—”
“I can easily deal with Purcell to get to Rastingard. Miss Eleiasa has no reason to compromise her virtue—either literally or figuratively—in this case.”
“You might ‘deal with’ Purcell,” Savina broke in, “but you won’t be able to obtain the letter from Rastingard without my help. His important documents—of which surely this is one—travel with him on the rare occasion that he does leave his fortress, and are kept under lock and key in his chamber—”
“Are you suggesting I don’t have the skill to break into a room?”
“Savina has spent the last six months laying the groundwork for an opportunity like this,” said Paolo soothingly. “She actually saw Rastingard at a club—where was it?”
“In Frankfurt, and from a distance—and Purcell was with him. Rastingard was surrounded by a cluster of guards—Tutela members, I believe—as he climbed into his motorcar. At least we know he isn’t a figment of our imagination.”
Bellitano nodded. “That is the closest anyone we know has gotten to Rastingard in years. Perhaps ever. We don’t even have a good photograph of him. But most pertinent to our purposes is the fact that we’ve learned from one undead informant that Rastingard keeps the only key to his safe on his person at all times—”
“And it isn’t made of copper,” she said pointedly. “Look, Mr. Denton, I have been working on this project to gain Purcell’s trust for nearly six months so that I could be present if and when Rastingard ever visited, or if they ever met up again. I have a plan—”
“For six months?” Max’s voice was low and dark. “But the letter…the letter in question was intercepted less than two weeks ago.”
Blast and damn. She should have kept her mouth shut. And if that letter hadn’t gone missing, Max Denton wouldn’t even be here now, throwing a wrench into her plans.
“Yes, that’s true. But this is a rare opportunity to catch Rastingard outside the protection of his home, and our plan was already in place before that letter was intercepted. Understand this: I don’t merely want to stake Rastingard—though I wager I’ll have a better likelihood of getting close enough to do so than anyone else in this room. I also want to obtain all the documents from his safe. Including the letter about Macey, if he has it.”
Max went noticeably rigid at the sound of his daughter’s name. Was it true he hadn’t seen or spoken of her since his wife had been killed? That he refused any information about Macey, including her whereabouts?
Savina couldn’t imagine her father doing such a thing to her. To himself. He would have died—he did die—before cutting her out of his life.
“Aside from the obvious—I refer to your personal, er, attributes,” he said, flapping a hand vaguely in her direction, “what makes you believe he’ll bite? Pun most definitely intended.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing for the last six months—trying to create this opportunity. Alexander Purcell, who is the darling of the Tutela, already knows me—or at least, knows what I want him to know. I’ve created and cultivated a persona—that of a celebrated lady adventure photographer from Cairo high society—designed to attract his attention. We’ve crossed paths more than once already, and I’ve made certain to engage him. He’ll be delighted to continue our acquaintance on his own turf,” she said with a wry smile. “I have no doubt of it. He’s already invited me to visit him at his home in London. I’m certain he’ll be delighted when I arrive at his house party at Crenshaw Hall. With…”
She looked at Max appraisingly, then nodded. “Yes, with my chauffeur in tow. Or perhaps…perhaps you could be my assistant. Handle all of the grunt work, carrying around my photography equipment, setting it up, that sort of thing. That would be fitting, Mr. Denton, in light of your considerable Venatorial strength, and it would give you the opportunity to mingle with the—what do they call it in England? The downstairs people? The servants?”
It was all she could do to keep a straight face at the expressions crisscrossing his. There was shock, affront, fury, and then at the end, disdain. Not even a flicker of appreciation for her forethought and planning. Not even a glimmer of levity.
“You’re quite amusing, Miss Eleiasa. But I am not about to be anyone’s assistant. Or partner. And certainly not a bloody serv—”
“You’re Max Denton. Every vampire in the world and most every member of the Tutela knows who you are and what you look like, thanks to the wonders of photography. Surely you don’t think you can waltz into an English country house and move about as you like without being noticed or detected. Especially with a stake as itchy as yours.”
“She’s right, Max,” Bellitano said. His voice sounded strained, and Savina looked at him, unable to tell whether he was choking back laughter or battling concern about infuriating the celebrated Venator. “You’d have to go in disguise anyway. Savina’s already got an entrée into Purcell’s residence of her own making, and you wouldn’t attract undue attention if you were—er—overshadowed by her.”
“You could be my mute servant,” she said, knowing her eyes danced with delight. “Who doesn’t understand English. Wear a fez and grow a beard and mustache—surely you could manage that in the next four or five days, couldn’t you? At least something to cover your face?—and wear traditional clothing to hide those impressive muscles of yours. Your skin is dark enough to pass as an Egyptian, or at least a half-blood one like me, and—” Her voice quivered and she probably would have lost control of it if the door to the study hadn’t swung open.
A wave of warmth and calm came into the room as its occupants stood to greet Wayren. She smiled at them and stepped inside.
“Thank you for joining us,” said Bellitano as the willowy blond woman gestured for them all to sit. “I wasn’t certain whether you would be here.”
“I felt it necessary, all things considered.” Her pale blue eyes settled on Max. “It’s good to see you.”
Savina found that interesting. Had he avoided even Wayren over the last ten years as well?
When those steady, calm eyes turned to her, Savina found herself prickling with something warm and lively. She very nearly held her breath, for though she’d met Wayren briefly over the years, she’d never been in a private meeting like this with the mysterious librarian—or whatever she was. Definitely something not simply human, or perhaps even mortal.
“You’ve been preparing for this opportunity for some time,” said Wayren. “Much planning and care have gone into this mission.”
As the older woman held her eyes, knowledge shimmered therein. Savina realized that somehow Wayren knew or suspected her ulterior motive. Her true reason for befriending Alexander Purcell and painstakingly stalking him. Was she giving her blessing? Or sending a quiet warning?
“I hope all goes as you intend,” Wayren added, then shifted her gaze from Savina. She seated herself behind the desk, arranging her long, medieval skirts neatly and sliding a slender braid over her shoulder. “Max, you must admit Savina’s plan is well thought out. And Bellitano—” she smiled warmly at the acting summa “—is correct in saying that you would not only be immediately recognized, but could jeopardize this mission. Surely you don’t wish to take the chance of that letter getting into Rastingard’s hands—or finding its way to Nicholas Iscariot.”
Max’s jaw shifted from side to side under the collective stare of his companions. He pursed his lips in distaste, frowned, and then, through gritted teeth, said, “Fine. Servant it is. But I refuse to be mute.”
CHAPTER 5
~ Exposure ~
“It worked in Pride & Prejudice, Max,” Savina said, propping her elbows on the table in the train’s first-class dining car. It was past midnight and they were the only ones remaining. The porter was absent. Even after a long day of travel, her dark eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and determination. Her blue-black hair was falling out of its moorings at the back of her head
. “It was a great plot device for getting things moving.”
Max’s confusion must have shown on his face, for she gave a little laugh. “Of course you haven’t read Pride & Prejudice.”
“No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t.” He curled his fingers around the glass of brandy that vibrated with the rhythm of the train barreling across the French countryside toward Normandy. Max wasn’t certain whether he was relieved or aggravated that there was no indication that any undead were on the train. He could have used something to do other than to sit here and try not to look at Savina Eleiasa. Try not to find her plans and thoughts interesting.
He could have excused himself an hour ago to go to his third-class (servant) bunk for the night, but here he remained.
Still smiling at his lack of literary exposure, Savina explained, “The heroine is traveling about the countryside with her aunt and uncle, and they stop at one of the great estates—because it was like a sightseeing tour, and the great estates were always open for tours. The estate happened to be Pemberley, which was owned by the very last person Lizzie Bennett wanted to see again. They didn’t expect Mr. Darcy to be in residence, but of course he was…See?” She opened her hands as if to say “voila!” “It’ll work the same way for us, except we know Purcell will be in residence at Crenshaw.”
Lizzie, Darcy, Pemberley…whatever. He wasn’t even certain he knew who’d written the book. Dickens? Mentally shaking his head, Max took a sip of his drink. Because they were in the first-class car, it was a rich and full-bodied Armagnac—worlds better than the swill they served (if they served any at all) in his assigned car.
The only light in the formal red-velvet-and-brass dining room was from two lamps mounted at the fore and aft of the aisle, and a small, low one affixed to the table between them. Thus, the interior light wasn’t reflected so brightly that he couldn’t make out some of the details illuminated by a full moon and a bright swath of stars outside. So he stared out the window at the shapes of trees and buildings instead of staring at the woman across from him.
Dammit. He itched inside. Something in his belly made him feel off balance and anxious. It was because he wanted to be doing something, not sitting here on a train discussing the plot devices of novels and whether they would translate to real life. And he was realizing, belatedly, that he really didn’t want to be here with Savina.
And yet, he remained.
It was…unsettling. She was unsettling, with her plans and unvarnished opinions—not to mention her determination to seduce a bloody damned vampire. And, from the way she talked, she was even willing to get cozy with Alexander Purcell as well.
Most aggravating of all, however, was that Savina didn’t seem to be intimidated by him. Maybe it was because they’d known each other, before…long ago.
“We’re going to get the letter.”
Her quiet words yanked Max’s attention from his determination to bore a hole through the train window, and his gaze snapped to her. An irrational fury bubbled up inside him, causing his fingers to tighten once more on the glass of brandy.
She continued, “I can only imagine how anxious you are about intercepting the information about Macey—”
“Stop.” The syllable whipped out like the crack of a palm on someone’s cheek. Max gritted his teeth and drew back on the wild horses of his emotions. “Don’t say her name,” he said more calmly.
“Oh, right. Of course.” But she didn’t look as if she understood. She looked…well, almost pityingly at him. Almost as if she wanted to gather him into her arms and comfort him. Comfort him?
It had been a long time since he’d touched anyone other than in acts of violence or lust.
For an insane moment, he wondered what it would be like to be surrounded by that sensual, spicy perfume she wore, held close against her warm, curvy torso. What it would be like to be touched again. To just let go, to live in a moment of bliss. To inhale, and close his eyes, and feel.
Max ground his teeth and looked out the window. I should go to bed. Surely she could make her way to the first-class car without an escort.
Savina looked around suddenly, half rising from her seat.
“What is it?” he asked, his senses going on alert. The back of his neck felt normal; no prickling or chill that would portend the presence of an undead, unfortunately. That he knew how to deal with.
“I’m hungry, and I was looking for the porter.”
“Again?” He’d never met a woman who ate as often as Savina did. And where did she put it all anyway? She was slender and delicate. Not that the long, loose clothing currently in style showed much of her figure—just hints of high breasts and, occasionally, the shape of her bum (as when she bent over to pick up something she’d dropped). “I think he’s long gone to bed. It’s after midnight, anyway.” There was more than a little pointedness in his voice—maybe she’d take the hint and call it a night.
“I could ring for him.”
“You could.” He settled back in his seat, resigned to the fact that he was going to be there for a while longer.
“Or maybe there’s something in those cupboards there in the back.” She was gone before he could reply, the lace hem of her blue frock fluttering just above her ankles. They were elegant ankles, he couldn’t help notice. And she had small feet to go with her small hands and delicate shoulders.
He grimaced and looked out the window again, listening to her rummaging about in the back of the car. By the sound of it, she’d found something. Not a surprise, he supposed, here in these luxury accommodations. Moments later, she returned, carrying a tray filled with food for an army. A huge apple and a red pear, hunks of three different cheeses (they were in France, after all), a baguette, a pat of white butter, a tiny pot of honey with a spoon, fresh figs, a bottle of wine, and the half-filled bottle of the brandy he was sipping.
“I thought you might want something too,” she said, putting down the offerings with a clink and a rattle.
“Thank you.” He refilled his glass as Savina dove into her midnight repast, tearing off a piece of baguette and slicing a chunk of Montrachet to go with it.
Max acquiesced and picked up the apple, then began to cut it into slender slices for them to share. As he did so, he had a flash of memory from so long ago…slicing up an apple just like this for Macey as she sat on a stool, her stubby four-year-old legs swinging, her big brown eyes lit with mischief.
He could see it so clearly: the blue bow atop the riot of her curls, her pink cheeks round and full with an array of tiny dimples, and her little fingers taking the pieces of apple just as quickly as he could slice them.
His little girl had loved apples.
Christ. Max blinked hard, shoved away the memory. Or tried to. But it clung to his thoughts, just as stubborn as she had been. As he himself was.
“I used to do this for her,” he heard himself say, as if he were someone else merely observing. “She loved apples. And especially when I’d cut them this way, crosswise, so the core looks like a star in the center of each piece. She’d take all the pieces and hoard them, her hands cupped around to hide the pile, and then she’d eat them, one by one. All the while, I’d…” His voice grew rough. “I’d pretend to try and steal a piece.”
Savina looked up at him, her eyes startled and a little wary. “Your daughter?”
He nodded, aware of how tight and flat his lips had gone, how his eyes stung a little, how unsteady his insides had become. Why had he said that? So many words. Too much information. Now he was practically begging her to ask him questions.
“I’ll bet she remembers it too. Even now,” was all Savina said. Her eyes softened. “I have a few sharp images like that of my father—things that might seem unimportant, but very clear pictures of certain things we would do together. My mother died when I was ten, and after that I was raised by Papa and his sister Antonia. Back then, he used to sit on the floor, and we’d roll a ball back and forth between us to entertain my cat. That was when he was still around a lo
t, still grieving for my mother. After he met Carmella, he…well, I didn’t see him as much. I was really glad he’d found someone, and they were planning to get married, but then…” She shrugged nonchalantly. “He was so much happier…and then he died.”
Savina took a large sip of the red wine she’d poured for herself and added, “I’m sure Macey treasures every memory she has of you, and every letter you write or update she gets about you.”
Max gave a bitter laugh and swallowed the rest of his drink. “I didn’t spend a lot of time at home, as one would imagine. She probably doesn’t have many—if any—memories of me at all. Which is just as well.” He stared down at the amber liquid as he refilled his glass. “I haven’t seen her—since.” He closed his mouth. There was no need to say more.
“But you know she’s safe, and you know she’s being taken care of. Raised by someone you trust. How old is she now?”
“She’s been told I’m—that I died. In the war. So she doesn’t get letters, or…anything. And I…it’s better if I don’t know anything about where she is. Or what she’s doing. I told Wayren I didn’t want to know anything. Ever.” When Savina didn’t respond, Max looked up. Was that censure in her expression? How dare she judge him! “She would be just turning eighteen.”
Just about the time she’d learn about the family legacy. His mood soured even further.
“So you’ve had no contact with her for ten years? And as far as she knows, she’s an orphan?”
Max found he couldn’t speak, so he gave a short nod.
“And you don’t know anything about her—where she is, who she’s with…anything? Not even a picture? How can you not…want to know? She’s your daughter.” Again, a tinge of censure…and perhaps a bit of pity.
Dammit. He didn’t need pity or sympathy. A rush of fury spiraled through him, then just as quickly ebbed.
Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 103