by Kallysten
So, if not me, if not them, whom or what did he have in mind when he took us down that path?
The answer wasn’t hard to figure out.
“Does it have something to do with Melody?” I asked very quietly.
I knew, before he even said a word, that I was right. His eyes snapped open; they were round and wide as he stared at me, his fingers clenched on the armrests of the chair, his body rigid and unnaturally still.
“What did Irene…” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and finished. “What did she tell you?”
Both too much and not enough, as I had thought from the moment I’d heard the name.
“She told me to ask you about Melody,” I said. “But you know what? I’m tired of doing what I’m told. So I’m not going to.”
Not an easy decision considering how little I knew about the circumstances of my captivity, and this Melody, whoever she was, seemed to be an important part of the puzzle. But I, unlike him, could deal with ‘not easy.’ After all, I was learning to deal with Morgan, wasn’t I? He was the very opposite of easy. And when he offered me a quiet, “Thank you” full of relief, I knew that not asking was the right choice. He’d tell me in his own time, or so I hoped.
I started to walk away, but changed my mind.
“Just promise me one thing.”
His expression turned wary again.
“What?”
“No more mind trips. No more fantasies.”
The small hitch in my voice when I said that last word might have betrayed me, but he didn’t mention it and merely said, “Not even if you ask?”
It was tempting, very tempting, to put a caveat in my request. But, no, it wouldn’t help anything to take the path of least resistance. I wanted him, yes, but I wanted something meaningful with him, not a daydream I could conjure on my own that would mean nothing.
“Not even if I beg,” I confirmed.
“But you’re so pretty when you do.”
I was startled enough by that murmur, by the heated look that accompanied it, that I felt myself blushing. It wasn’t fair for him to run hot and cold on me like this. At a loss for words, I left the sun room without so much as a word of goodbye and went to bed.
All the while, the thought bounced through my head that it wasn’t over. I truly hadn’t expected him to reply in kind when I told him I loved him, but the words had been said, and I doubted he could ignore them. He couldn’t even hide behind the excuse that it had been a fantasy because I’d made it clear to him that for me it was real. And I would have bet a lot—maybe even my heart—that it had been real for him, too, and he just wasn’t ready to admit it to himself, let alone me. In time, maybe…
All I could do was the same thing I’d done since finding myself stuck in the mansion: hope. The only difference was that now I was beginning to hope Miss Delilah wouldn’t come back quite yet.
So of course, just to spite me, she did.
The Coward’s Way Out
The tricky part about being kept against your will in a sumptuous mansion in the care of a sexy, mysterious, and infuriating man—sorry, vampire—for two weeks is that when you stop wanting to escape, it’s hard to tell if you have Stockholm Syndrome or if you are genuinely attracted to your reluctant host.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Almost two weeks already… Time had flown. I guess it helped that I spent so much of that time preparing the New Year Day’s charity gala. Now that the party was over, I wasn’t sure how I would occupy my days. Surely, I couldn’t go about spending them as I spent most of the night after the party, which is to say thinking about Morgan, what he’d said, what he hadn’t said, what he’d done and hadn’t done, what I expected from him, and what I was probably silly to hope. Spending my days ruminating about all that couldn’t possibly help anything. It wouldn’t abate my frustration, wouldn’t make me any less attracted to Morgan, and it certainly wouldn’t get me out of the mansion.
Although, I think I mentioned already that getting out wasn’t such a priority anymore. It’s not that I was happy to be trapped, but as long as I was there, as long as Morgan had little choice other than to talk to me, I had a chance to get at least some of my questions answered. Of course, I hadn’t done myself any favors by telling Morgan I would not, in fact, ask him those questions.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, the considerate thing to do, but by morning not so much anymore. What can I say, I’d been physically threatened with death, my mind had been messed with—again—and on top of it I’d been robbed of a much-needed cigarette after only getting a hint of nicotine. Who could think clearly in those conditions?
So, all in all, the first full night of the New Year was spectacularly crappy, and the next morning, even a long shower after sleeping late did little to clear my mind or make me feel human again. I had high hopes that a good, strong cup of coffee would do the trick, and so, still a little bleary-eyed, I yawned my way to the kitchen. As it turned out, the coffee maker did not read my thoughts and start brewing as soon as I set a black mug in place. It took me a good minute of staring at the damn machine to assure myself that, indeed, pressing one of the buttons on top was still necessary.
I had just retrieved the finally-full mug and raised it to my lips when I heard the door swing open behind me. My heart did an odd little jig inside my chest at the thought of Morgan being so close, and it cleared my head a lot better than the coffee did. Except that, when I turned, trying as hard as I could to act nonchalant, it wasn’t Morgan that I found there, but a tall African American man. I’d completely forgotten that Stephen was due to return today.
“Good morning,” he said. Or at least, I assume that’s what he would have said if his mouth hadn’t dropped open when his widening eyes settled on me. All he actually said was “Good,” then after a pause, “What happened? Are you all right?”
Did I say my mind had cleared up? I guess not so much after all, because I had no clue what he was talking about.
“I’m fine,” I said, staring at him. I might also have been staring because, for the first time, I was seeing him out of his butler uniform, wearing faded jeans and a blue shirt, and he looked a lot younger. Certainly not old enough for the threads of silver in his goatee or at his temples. Also not old enough to have a grown daughter and grandchildren, whom he’d been visiting for the past few days.
“Your neck,” he said, raising a hand to his own as though in sympathy. “Who did that to you?”
To tell the truth, I’d forgotten about the bruises on my neck. Or maybe I had wanted to forget. Remembering that small, thin hand around my throat was not a particularly pleasant experience.
“Irene,” I said. “Last night. It looks worse than it is.”
It was his turn to give me a blank look. He came closer and drew a high stool from where they were stored under the kitchen island. Sitting down, he crossed his arms over the counter.
“All right,” he said without the trace of a smile on his lips or in his eyes. “I know I was away, but I haven’t been gone that long. Who’s Irene? And if I may ask, Miss Angelina, what did you do exactly for that person to try to choke you to death?”
Now that, if you ask me, was pretty interesting. From the moment I’d first met him, Stephen had seemed to know everything about his employer and mine. He knew about Morgan and Miss Delilah being vampires, knew she’d compelled me, knew… probably far more than he’d told me, since extracting information from him was like pulling teeth. And now, it seemed, for the first time, I knew more than he did. Was it enough to get a little leverage?
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Irene is,” I said, then hid a grin by taking a sip from my mug. “I thought you knew pretty much everything that happened in this house.”
He sat up straighter suddenly, his pride clearly wounded. When he opened his mouth, I thought he’d tell me something to prove how much more than me he knew about Morgan and everything that went on in the mansion.
Clearly, my atte
mpts at psychological manipulation still needed some work.
He closed his mouth again without another word, then shook his head.
“Tell me or don’t tell me, but don’t play with me, Miss Angelina. We’re all too old for games.”
I was taken by the sudden urge to point out that I wasn’t that old, but I managed to bite back the impulse. Drawing the second stool out from under the counter, I sat across from Stephen.
“Maybe you know her by another name,” I said in between sips. “I didn’t know her name until last night. I only knew her as ‘Mother.’”
When Stephen drew in a sharp breath, I knew he’d heard that name.
“Oh,” he said, very quietly, then said it again, drawing out the sound. “Ooh. Mother. Right. And she’s the one who…”
He gestured toward my neck with two fingers. At my nod, he grimaced.
“I never had the pleasure of meeting the lady myself, but I’ve heard about her. I think you can consider yourself lucky you survived the encounter.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. I owed my life to Morgan, and I knew it. It was one of very few things I knew with complete certainty.
“Who told you about her?” I asked. “Morgan?”
His eyes narrowed fractionally.
“So, he’s ‘Morgan,’ now, is he?” he murmured, and continued more loudly before I had a chance to reply. “No, not Mr. Ward. My grandmother, actually.”
Of all possible answers, this one had not occurred to me. Really not.
“Your grandmother?” I repeated. “So she knew about…” Even now, after all that had happened, I still felt a little silly saying the word aloud. “About vampires?”
“Oh, yes. She worked for ‘Mother’ for many years before she went on into Mr. Ward’s service.”
He stood and walked around the island to get to the coffee maker.
“She could have retired when Mother left New York, but when Mr. Ward offered her to keep her job, along with a nice raise, she was happy to. That’s how she saw three children and four grandchildren through college, all of us debt-free.”
While he spoke, I turned in my seat to watch him. Affection shone through the little smile at the corner of his lips.
“Did you all know about vampires while growing up?” I asked. I could hardly wrap my mind around that notion. What would it be like to know from an early age that there were beings straight out of myth walking the streets with humans?
The coffee maker whistled softly as Stephen brewed himself an espresso in a tiny porcelain cup. He drank it in small sips, leaning back against the counter.
“No, we didn’t. Nana was very discreet. She didn’t speak about work at home.”
“But she told you,” I insisted.
Stephen raised his eyes to the ceiling and let out a sigh.
“Yes, Miss Angelina. She told me. But by then, she was an old lady. And she only told me because I needed to know.”
When he stopped there, I just looked at him, with both my eyebrows raised. I didn’t say anything, but my expression was firmly set on, “You can’t possibly believe I’ll let you stop there when you’ve said that much, so go ahead and finish the story already.”
Another subtle psychological tactic that crashed miserably.
Stephen took another tiny sip.
“You still didn’t tell me what you did for her to leave those marks on your throat.”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure. Morgan said she was making a point, but…”
I finished with a shrug. I could have explained more, but it did seem a little too personal. Although…
An idea ran through me—a name—and it was like a jolt of electricity. I’d told Morgan I wouldn’t ask him, but I hadn’t said I wouldn’t ask anyone else.
“I do know it had something to do with Melody,” I said, looking closely for Stephen’s reaction.
There wasn’t any, other than a cool, “Who?”
“Melody?” I repeated. “I thought… I mean, I was under the impression she was Morgan’s… guest. You said he had guests before. And I know he bought shoes and dresses for someone else.”
A few seconds passed, and I could tell Stephen was trying to figure out whether to answer and, if so, what to say. In the end, he offered a cautious, “Not guests. One guest. Although I don’t think ‘guest’ was really the best word to describe her. And her name was not Melody.”
I’d been so sure… If Melody hadn’t been another of Miss Delilah’s gifts, another of Morgan’s guests, who on Earth could she have been?
“What was she called, then?”
But I had reached the end of Stephen’s patience.
“You know, Miss Angelina, I don’t think it’s up to me to discuss this particular topic with you. I only came in for a quick cup of coffee before I unpack. Is there anything in particular you’d like for lunch?”
And we were back to that. Wonderful.
Did I want to argue with him about my ability to prepare my own meals? I was tired of arguments. And maybe getting on his good side would help. I told him to surprise me, took my still half-full mug out of the kitchen, and started to walk down the hallway. My ballet flats didn’t make a sound on the carpet, but even so I tiptoed to the conference room in which I’d worked side by side with Morgan.
I pushed the door open and peeked in; it was empty, of course. I kept on walking. The door to Morgan’s office was closed. I paused there, listened in, but couldn’t hear a sound. I should have known better, but I went further still, all the way to Morgan’s bedroom, and there, too, I stopped and listened. Silly, I know. I’d stood right there before, quiet as a mouse, and Morgan had still heard my heartbeat through the closed door. Did I want to risk waking him again? Probably not. I turned on my heel, thinking I’d go back to my room.
And leapt about a foot in the air when I found Morgan standing three feet away, his head tilted to one side as he observed me. There might also have been a little shriek of surprise. And plenty of mortification, too. It’s a miracle I didn’t have a heart attack. Or didn’t drop my mug.
“Angelina,” he said, still considering me with the same unreadable expression. “Were you looking for me? Did you need something?”
“I… I didn’t… I mean…”
So, it wasn’t exactly my most coherent answer. What was it about him that could turn my brain to a puddle of goo in two seconds flat? Either that or I managed to antagonize him, also in no more than two seconds. Neither thing was particularly helpful in the long run. I tried again.
“I was just… walking around. I don’t really have much to do.”
All right, so I was lying, I admit it. Yes, I’m sure it’s obvious to you, I had been looking for him. And I’m sure it was obvious to him, too, if he’d watched me stand in front of his bedroom door for a few moments, as I suspected he had. But the thing was, I didn’t really have anything in mind. I didn’t have anything to ask him. Well, I did have a number of questions, but I’d told him I wouldn’t ask them, and I didn’t want to go back on that only a few hours after saying it. I didn’t really need anything, either.
Or maybe some company would have been nice. But could I say that to him? Could I tell him I was lonely? Could I complain that Stephen insisted on seeing me as someone he had to serve rather than someone he could be friendly with—which was a pity, because those few minutes when he’d told me about his grandmother had been pretty interesting? Could I just go to Morgan Ward, millionaire philanthropist and vampire, and tell him ‘I’m bored and you’re attractive, so you should keep me company’?
Of course I couldn’t. But damn if I didn’t want to.
“Is there anything you would like to do?” he asked, and I couldn’t read anything in his tone of voice. “Other than getting out of here. Anything in my power to give you. Just say the word.”
Say the word… but what word? ‘Kiss me’ would have been two, but then it’s a phrase, so it wouldn’t have been cheating, would it? Or how about ‘strip’? That
was just one word. I doubt that was what he meant, unfortunately.
“I don’t know,” I said instead. “If I wasn’t stuck in here, I might go out for a run in the park. But you can’t help with that.”
It’d been more than two weeks since I’d had any kind of exercise, and I missed it. My near-death experiences had given my heart a few work-outs, but that didn’t really count as exercise.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “Anything else you’d be likely to do?”
I shrugged.
“Give a call to my friends and chat for a while.”
I’d kept in contact with them through email, but a couple of them had noticed that I was declining every offer to meet up or go out.
“Don’t you have a cell phone?” he asked. “I thought everyone in your generation did.”
How odd to hear him talk about ‘my generation’ like he was merely part of the previous one rather than part of a group that had been born—and, for the most part, died—four centuries earlier.
“I do have one. But it’s not doing me much good in the drawer of my desk at work.”
I’d had to leave it behind the night of his birthday bash because it didn’t fit in my tiny clutch purse.
“Well, you’ll forgive me for not letting you borrow mine,” he said, and now there was the barest hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. “Once was enough.”
Was he actually teasing me? I didn’t want to be teased. I didn’t want to be toyed with.
“Is there a TV anywhere in here?” I asked, my tone sharper now.
I knew, at the slight grimace that crossed his features, that there wasn’t. And I knew what he’d suggest. I shook my head before he could offer.
“No. Don’t buy one on my account, please. That’d make all of this seem too…”
“Permanent?” he finished for me when I didn’t.
I nodded and looked down into my mug. Better than to look into his eyes and get lost in them. Or in another fantasy. I’d asked him not to play that trick on me again, but would he listen?