by Jackie Ivie
“Where…am I?”
“Chateau de la Montagne.”
“Sounds…French.”
His voice was groggy. Disoriented. Weak. That was her fault. She’d drained a lot of blood this last time, but he was a large man and very obstinate.
“I don’t speak French.”
“It means ‘Castle’.”
“It looks…like a church.”
“I know.”
“You…the vampire lady?”
“Yes.”
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“In a castle that resembles…a cathedral?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know why I ask. Sacrilegious mean anything to you?”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Figures.”
His eyes were a near match to the Caribbean Ocean, deep and vivid blue. It was especially visual when he lifted his head and stared at her. She’d taken a long time this evening with her appearance, donning a gown of eggplant-shaded satin, worn tight to the bosom, belted in place just beneath her breasts. She’d plaited two braids beside both ears and wrapped them atop her head, then spent nearly an hour curling the long white-kissed blond locks into a mass of curls that looked slightly mussed as they trailed down her back and over her shoulders.
She’d done it to see the look in his eye and on his face. Angelique couldn’t help the rush of pure pleasure she experienced before he dropped his head back to the pillows and groaned again. She rose, hovering above him.
“What is it?”
“Who…are you?”
“I drained some of your blood, Garrick. Not enough for memory loss.”
“Why didn’t you drain it all?”
“I can’t control you if I do that.”
“Control me? God damn—.”
“I couldn’t just let you go! Not after finding you. Don’t you see?”
He didn’t answer, although the deep gargling noise in his throat probably meant one. She watched him strain against his bonds, putting every bit of his frame on display for her, and turning it red with a flush of blood as well. Angelique sucked at the canines that lengthened as she watched and waited for him to tire or realize how fruitless struggling was.
She had to wait a long time, too.
She was pulsing in place with need and longing, her vision riveted to masculine perfection before he gave up. The man wasn’t just beautiful. He was god-like. If she still believed, she’d pay homage. As it was, all she could do was gape and pant, putting every bit of her fangs on display. His look of horror didn’t even stay the feeling, although his revulsion muted it slightly. Not much, but enough to keep her from latching onto his flesh and sucking even more of his fluid.
“You can just wipe that look off your face, lady. That’s never happening. Hell no. Not in this lifetime.”
“You hungry?” she asked.
“No.”
“You should be. You need sustenance.”
“So you can feed some more off me?”
“Uh…” It was more to keep him strong, but his words made her mouth water in anticipation. She didn’t know how to answer.
“Who tied me?”
“I did.”
“Bullshit. With a capital B.”
He’d decided to try the bonds again. She watched him push his entire body upward, turning the flesh beneath his straps white with the effort. She sucked at her fangs until he stopped and flopped back onto the mattress.
“Your words are profane and show lack of breeding.”
“So?”
“I’m not used to such. At least…not in such a rampant fashion.”
“You going to cut these ropes and let me go, then?”
“No.”
“Then you might as well get used to it.”
He spat the last word and then lunged against his bonds again. With the exact same result as before. They held and he ended flat on his back, breathing hard, while looking supremely flushed. And incredibly tasty. Warm. Inviting. His life blood was a perfection of taste and texture for her. She should probably warn him.
“What did you use?”
His question brought her out of the reverie. She blinked twice before moving her gaze from the exposed portion of his throat to the area just above his lip. She didn’t want to look into his eyes. The disgust in his voice told her what she’d see.
“Whatever I needed.”
His cheeks puffed out as he loosed a sigh, putting little brown whiskers on display. Masculine. The man was absolutely perfect male.
“I mean, for these ropes. What the hell did you use?”
“Oh. Hosiery.”
“I’m being held down with pantyhose? Argh!”
She had no trouble deciphering that gargled cry as he lurched up, thrashing against spandex and nylon. Angelique watched the bonds etch into his flesh, crisscrossing his chest and abdomen, and each thigh and ankle before he gave up.
“I didn’t know what else to use. I don’t like seeing you tied down! But…I couldn’t risk chancing it.”
“What?”
“Losing you.”
“I will never…live this down. Ever. You might as well just kill me now.”
“Really?”
He was breathing hard and turned his head toward her to tip his chin down. The result was an upward-cast glare that sent menace. Virility. And anger. All of it barely leashed. If Angelique were the swooning type, she’d have probably done it.
“No. Not really. It’s an expression.”
“Pity.”
“You can just stop there, lady.”
“Why?”
She’d reached forward, placing one of her manicured nails along a thigh to trace along the indentation he’d made. The hairs whispered into an erect state against her finger-pad, lifted with his goose-bumps. She murmured the satisfaction, and then she reached the ankle she’d injured. Stupid man.
“Don’t…you know a brush-off when you get it?”
If he hadn’t caught the words mid-sentence and gone rigid beneath her touch, she might have stopped. No. That wasn’t true. He was too intriguing and fascinating. Every bit of him called to her, whispering of delights and intimacies and ecstasies she’d yet to experience. There wasn’t any way she’d stop.
“This isn’t just hosiery, hunter. It’s a special variety. Compression support. Very strong. Expensive. Guaranteed not to run and snag.”
“Thanks. I feel a lot better now.”
“I cut it into strips and braided it to add strength. And resilience. You want to know why?” She’d reached the scraped section where the tattoo had been removed, and circled it with her fingers.
“Not…especially.”
“Because I don’t trust you. Not after you lied to me.”
A look along his legs got her a full view of the bump at the crotch of his briefs, before she looked beyond it. Her gaze traveled over the twin humps of his pecs, to the bottom of his chin, where a nervous swallow couldn’t be disguised. Angelique had never had a man so fully in her control before. She’d never wanted one. It was exciting and illicit and sensually arousing…and everything she’d thought lost to her when she’d entered the convent.
“Such a shame.”
She bent down to his ankle and blew gently on the flesh, causing the scab to age just a bit faster. That was proof he’d been bitten and he’d fed. He might not know it, but the man had tasted vampire blood sometime in his past. Her fingernails bit into him before she could halt them at the jealousy. Angelique concentrated on releasing each finger, and then blew on the little pricks she’d made, closing in to lick the tiny drops of blood away. At the first taste, an instant and amazing flash of pure energy shot through her, turning her nipples into an itch of need, and the rest of her into wanton, quivering female. She nearly gave vent to the cry and had to stand and back from him; one step. Another.
He was watching her when she reache
d five of them. He could have been watching the entire time. His eyes might still be vivid blue, but in the candlelight, they looked black. Deadly.
“Which time?”
“What?”
“When did I lie? You running an interrogation or not? If a vampire has to up and claim me, the least she can be is intelligent. Or is that too much to ask?”
“I scarred you.”
“I have a lot of scars.”
“True. But none that mar your perfection…too much.”
“That better not sound like I think it sounds.”
“The physical form is permanent once a vampire is turned. And…while I don’t mind your scars - in fact, I think I’ll grow rather fond of them - it’s a pure shame to add unnecessary ones.”
“I’m going to sue the makers of pantyhose. I swear it!”
He was back to thrashing against his bonds. She watched for a count of ten and then approached. The moment she put her hand on the center of his chest he stopped, his body suspended for an instant above the bed, before he fell. Just like that. She watched her hand rise and fall with each of his labored breaths while he came to terms with it. Her touch equaled instant gratification for him. Just her touch. And it could be forever. She bent down and hovered above his ear to whisper her next words.
“The transmitter was in the little diamond stud you had in your left earlobe. It’s now on the way to Penang Pang. In a special container. Hermetically sealed. I suppose hunters have the technology to track it. Just think of their disappointment.”
“You think you have all the answers, don’t you?”
“You hungry yet?”
“Depends on what you’re offering.”
“Gruel.”
“I’d rather starve.”
“But I can’t let that happen! I like your size exactly like it is…right here. Right now. Brawny. Immense. Fit. Supremely…beautiful. You are, you know. Beautiful.”
His muscles leaped in reaction, but her hand atop his upper belly quelled it almost instantaneously. She watched him go from taut sinew to eased physique, and heard the bed frame creak from the dead-weight. He licked his lips and started talking to the air above him.
“Steak and eggs. Scrambled. Cottage-fried potatoes. Grill-fried salmon. A rasher of bacon. Hell, I’ll even eat rice pilaf. Anything but mush.”
“All right. I only made porridge because I can spoon feed it to you.”
His curses filled the room for a bit while she watched and waited. He should probably be warned that getting angry only flushed his skin, and that made her longing grow deeper, and that just made it harder to control the urge to make him one with her fully. She hadn’t lied earlier. The only thing holding her back from turning him completely was fear of how uncontrollable he’d be.
His spate of words ran out, although the heavy breaths he was taking probably warranted another round of them. Angelique slid her hand along the ridges of muscle lining his abdomen. Slowly. Mesmerizingly. Giving him time to absorb the sensation of her touch. She knew it worked as the bulge in his briefs responded, stirring and then enlarging, pulling at the cotton and spandex threads about it.
“You finished?”
“Where’s the water closet?”
“The what?”
“You like things messy?”
“Not especially.”
“Then, you might want to allow me up so I can use your facilities.”
“Oh. That. Don’t fret. I have a bed pan. Right here.”
She shouldn’t have moved her hand from him in order to fetch it. He howled in anger.
“Don’t tell me you hovered around sickbeds, too. You were waiting for people to die. Or…maybe assisting them at it.”
“Why would I do that? Sick people have nothing I want.”
“They’ve got blood. And you don’t like to kill, remember?”
“I never said I didn’t kill. I said it wasn’t always necessary. And I don’t hover around sick beds. I don’t take tainted blood. Do you need this or not?”
“I’ll bust my gut first.”
“Garrick, see reason. Please?”
“Will you cut me loose?”
“I want to.”
He turned his head and caught her gaze. His eyes were back to the riveting blue shade. She knew he had Nordic heritage, and right now every bit of it was on display. He didn’t just look like a fallen Viking. He resembled the mythical god, Baldur. She trembled and watched him note it. She had to clear her throat to make words.
“Will you give me your word…not to try and escape?”
“No.”
The answer came through gritted teeth. He was eyeing the bedpan as he did it. Angelique gestured with it. “Then, here’s your answer. I’ll just go and fetch some porridge and—.”
“You win! I give you my word! Just free me and point me in the direction of your bathroom. I’ll hold my tongue, and keep from trying to escape your gracious hospitality. For the time being, anyway.”
Angelique moved to a dresser to fetch his combat knife, slid the dull side along her thumb pad as she approached. She didn’t truly trust him, but she didn’t have much choice.
CHAPTER FOUR
It was a matter of semantics. Not honor. There wasn’t any trying involved. He fully intended to escape and started the moment he locked the door behind him. Garrick craned his neck to evaluate the bathroom walls and ceiling as he answered nature’s call. He couldn’t climb out. Her bathroom ceiling was well out of reach, along the lines of her bed chamber. No regress there. He inventoried his assets. He still wore underwear briefs. He had his wits, four large Turkish bath towels, a stack of smaller cloths, sundry toiletries. Damn. Nothing of much use.
The rest of the room had the same issue. Her bathroom was octagonal, all five walls constructed of highly polished marble, slick and cold. He supposed if he ran the shower hot enough the moisture might give him some grip. It wouldn’t help. He couldn’t maneuver in a cave climb. The walls were too far apart. The entire area was spacious, easily accommodating a Victorian-looking claw tub, a shower that looked especially inviting with one of those ten-inch wide showerheads, a double sink, and one large painting where a mirror should be.
Oh that’s right, Garrick. She’s a vampire. It was probably hard to put on makeup when you couldn’t see yourself. Now that he thought of it, she didn’t appear to wear cosmetics. She might not need them. He’d rarely seen a more natural beauty; clear, perfect skin, a dusting of dark lashes, really large, green-cast eyes. Being near her put his hormones into a carnival of frustration and longing that defied description. Every touch jacked him into such massive lust and longing, he should probably thank the hosiery for its stopping power.
Hell. And damnation.
What was wrong with him? She was dead. A dead thing couldn’t be beautiful. Or create desire. Or do anything other than rot in place. That meant he needn’t care whether he broke his word to her or not. That should stop the kernel of guilt. It should…but it didn’t.
He’d have to go further afield. The bathroom wasn’t going to work. He took a deep breath and headed for the door. He’d save self-justification for later. Right now he had to get out of this castle and figure out where the hell he was. It couldn’t be Louisiana. There wasn’t a mountain in this part of the country capable of hiding a castle this size. It would be seen for miles. And commented on. Of course, she might have built it against a mountain, using the size for camouflage. The exact phrasing of her home gave that away. It wasn’t just a castle. It was the ‘Castle of the Mountain’.
He’d lied to her about that, as well. He knew every Romanic language: Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian, and Romanian. He knew a few others as well, but they were more difficult. And he was wasting time.
Nobody was in the hall outside. The space echoed with emptiness and vast space. Garrick raced along a cold stone floor, reached the first doorknob, and peeked before sliding in. And then narrowed his eyes. The woman had an entire room devoted to wardrobe.
And shoes. And handbags, cloaks, hats. Both sides of the place were filled with garments of every hue and every description, while toes of shoes peeked out from beneath. It wasn’t just one room, either. The corridor of clothing zigzagged through the space, going beneath more than one doorframe as it encompassed another room. Twice, Garrick had to stand on one of the little chairs set at specified intervals to get his bearings. Good thing she liked skylights and it was still day because he didn’t know where the light switch might be. Amazing. He knew women were capricious and liked to shop, but this was ridiculous. Surely she hadn’t worn all these. And then he reminded himself. She was ancient. She’d had centuries to shop. And this was the result.
He reached a door that opened without one hint of squeak to another surprise. The woman also collected men’s clothing. Ensembles of every description filled the new space. Suits. Slacks. Sport coats. Fat ties that went out in the ‘80’s. Thin ties from the ‘50’s. Filly white cravats that had been in fashion sometime in the nineteenth century. Maybe earlier. He couldn’t guess and didn’t waste time on it. It was enough that he had something to wear. He shoved a t-shirt on. It appeared to match the wide-legged white slacks making up a yachting outfit. Garrick moved on, looking for pants, and found Jodhpurs for horseback riding. He’d be damned before he’d wear them. Or the knee breeches that followed next. As for the velvet jackets? He wouldn’t be caught dead in them. Which was what he’d be if she caught him.
There was a stack of denims at one corner and he grabbed a pair, donning and zipping them without even questioning why they fit. He didn’t care. He had an opening to find, a mountain to scale, and another homing beacon to rig up. He’d worry about her wardrobes later. The men’s department changed to rows of outer attire: coats, cloaks, hats, and what looked like powdered wigs. Garrick grabbed a jacket, and then turned another corner to see socks followed by hundred of shoes, in graduating shelves, all in perfect condition. He was grinning as he shoved his feet into hikers and laced them with studious efficiency. Now he could really cover some ground.