Table of Contents
Night Train to New Orleans
Blurb
Copyright Acknowledgement
Trademarks Acknowledgment
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
NIGHT TRAIN: TO VENICE
About the Author
MLR Press
Night Train to New Orleans
Night Train series Book 2
Carolina Valdez
www.mlrpress.com
In New Orleans, the killer still stalks, and confusion and passion heat up the reunion of human and vampire lovers.
In this sequel to Night Train To Naples, confusion, danger and passion heat up the reunion of Italian diamond courier Dante Rocco and his once business rival, then lover—the vampire Alexandros Nicolaides. Alex has never wavered in what Dante means to him, but Dante arrives in New Orleans suddenly unsure of his feelings and the impulsive promise he’d made to leave Italy and move to America. In the historic richness of the French Quarter, Dante must decide how he really feels about Alex even as the powerful ruler of the Louisiana vampires complicates their lives, and Giacomo, an unstable vampire, arrives with their murders on his mind.
Copyright Acknowledgement
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2016 by Carolina Valdez
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Published by
MLR Press, LLC
3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.
Albion, NY 14411
Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:
www.mlrpress.com
Cover Art by Winterheart Design
Editing by Christie Nelson
ebook format
Issued 2016
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.
Trademarks Acknowledgment
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Amtrak: National Railroad Passenger Corporation
Lincoln: Lincoln Motor Company
HP LaserJet: Hewlett-Packard Company
Skechers: Skechers Inc.
Versace: Gianni Versace S.p.A.
Armani: Giorgio Armani S.p.A.
Christie’s: Christie’s Inc.
Dedication
To Louisiana’s fabulous and historic New Orleans, the birthplace of jazz and Fat Tuesday.
Chapter One
Florence, Italy
Dusk crept in, and the lamps on the Ponte Vecchio glowed in the soft, settling night. The wet smell of the river, now the deep color of malachite under the fading light, filtered up through the three open arches of a bridge first built in Roman times. One by one, the goldsmiths and jewelers had closed their shops at both ends of the bridge for the night. The bridge was quiet, almost deserted, when three young men arrived. They crouched and laid their battered guitar cases on the stone floor, then opened them and removed the acoustic instruments. Their banter and laughter mingled with the sounds of strings being tuned.
“What happened to the fourth young man who usually plays with them?”
The voice startled Giorgio, a slightly overweight, older street vendor. Thinking he was alone, he’d been boxing up his cheap souvenirs in preparation for folding up his display table and leaving. He turned, and fear rushed through him at the sight of the man whose black hair had been swept back from a high forehead, tucked behind his ears and gelled in place. He was elegantly dressed in an expensive dark suit, and the collar of a coat that brushed the tops of his shoes was turned up to frame his face. Giorgio wasn’t wealthy, but he judged everything the stranger wore had been custom made by one of Italy’s world famous designers.
He wondered if the designer had intended to convey the sense of menace radiating from the man.
Giorgio was at the far end of the bridge, but he’d seen the young men pass. He knew Dante Rocco, a friend, was the missing musician, but a sixth sense warned him to keep this from the stranger. He played ignorant by asking, “Scuzzi, signor?”
The stranger repeated his question, and Giorgio felt little reassurance when the dark gaze centered on him. He hadn’t realized how handsome the man’s face was—pale and almost luminescent. Eerie. He shivered and tried to smile, to appear to accommodate, but horror turned his tongue to cotton. “I…he…he’s leaving on vacation, I heard.”
The stranger’s smile was perfunctory and without warmth. “Dawero? Dove sta anadando?”
Giorgio shrugged. He refused to reveal Dante’s destination.
A hand clamped down hard where his shoulder met his neck. Excruciating pain shot into his chest and down his arm as the question was repeated. Giorgio winced and tried to free himself, but the hand was an ever-tightening steel band. At any minute, he expected his collarbone to snap. He wanted to stand firm and protect Dante, but he stammered, “Stati Uniti d’America.”
“Grazie, mi amico.” The questioner smiled and leaned in as if to kiss one cheek and then the other in the customary Italian greeting. Instead, his body moved in close and he moaned in pleasure as their groins touched.
Giorgio stiffened as the stranger’s free hand clamped on his butt and locked them together. The stone-like hardness of his cock thrust repeatedly into Giorgio’s belly through the man’s slacks. That Giorgio’s body betrayed him by responding to the unwanted sexual advance horrified him. Fangs sinking into his neck just above the restraining hand confirmed his underlying sense that evil was here just as his knees went weak. The man’s orgasm rocketed through Giorgio’s belly.
Giorgio fainted.
§§§§
“You’re lucky I didn’t drain you,” the vampire Giacomo said as he released him and let Giorgio slump to the ground. He chuckled. The undead didn’t mingle openly with the living here as they did in Naples, and no one would believe the curio seller when he revealed he’d seen one of them, but he’d look over his shoulder every evening now. Nights, he’d be too afraid to go outdoors. Maybe someday the vampire would revisit the man and reignite his terror, but for now he had an old score to settle.
His fangs had retracted after his drink, and Giacomo cleaned the rest of his teeth with a hankie he carried. Satisfied he had the information he wanted, he smiled, and with a swirl of dark coat, he turned and glided away.
Chapter Two
New Orleans, Louisiana
USA
Dante pushed aside his growing anxiety that he’d made a mistake in coming here and was the first one at the door when Amtrak’s City of New Orleans rolled to a stop in the station. A plane emergency had spoiled what was to have been his flight into Louis Armstrong International, and they’d landed at Baton Rouge Metropolitan instead. A flight tomorrow would have put him in the airport in daylight, so he’d chosen to spend almost two hours on the train in order to arrive in New Orleans in the evening.
The irony that he and Alex had first met on the night train to Naples wasn’t lost on him, and he was grinni
ng as he paused on the steps and glanced at the crowd meeting the train. His spirits sagged. Alex wasn’t here.
“Move it will ya, buddy?” came a voice from behind.
I think he means I’m blocking the other passengers. Leaving the train, he muttered, “Scuzzi…sorry.” The hot humidity outside was like a sauna after the air-conditioned train, and he hoped his antiperspirant was protecting his shirt and jacket. For the moment, they were the only ones he had.
As he hurried past people toward the terminal, his thoughts were on Alex. He must not have gotten Dante’s text message about this change in plans. Frowning, his mind flew through what he’d do if Alex didn’t arrive. The only luggage he had was his carry-on containing shaving materials and a change of underwear.
Then Alexandros Nicolaides appeared from the evening shadows behind a pillar. Dante’s breath stopped. An indescribable happiness welled up inside him.
Alex walked toward him, fingers tucked into the front pockets of dark blue jeans, his thighs straining the leg seams. His long, blond hair was loose, and it flowed over the upturned collar of a casual dark jacket. As always, he was breathtaking. Beautiful. Dante sighed. He looked good enough to eat—just as he had that morning in Rome two months ago, when Dante had said good-bye, and taken a Lincoln Town Car to the train station for Florence, while Alex had flown here to resume his life as a diamond courier.
Eager to reach him now, suddenly Dante slowed as uncharacteristic shyness and doubt overwhelmed him. How crazy had it been to stand next to Alex’s plane as it roared down the runway in Rome for the US and text him that he loved him and would see him in New Orleans? And now his mind was flooded with questions—how did you meet an old lover in a public place, a lover for whom you were no longer sure about your feelings or your future together, especially when coming here may have signaled a permanence that might not exist?
He hadn’t warned Alex he was here only for a vacation, but there was no time to puzzle over his emotions or why he’d come because Alex had reached him. He enveloped Dante in a strong hug.
“Buona sera, Dante!” Cool lips kissed first one cheek and then the other, supposedly in the European way of greeting, but the kisses weren’t air kisses. They were full out and real, his cool tongue touching Dante’s skin with an erotic flick.
With those words, Alex had reacted to Dante as Italian, and it was easy to reply in that language and return the greeting. Touching and kissing between men this way was acceptable in Europe, and it somewhat relieved the tension Dante felt about sensual contact or how to greet him. The moment Alex’s strong arms closed around him, the remembered charm and sense of belonging to this vampire flooded the very human Dante.
That sense of belonging was something he thought he should resist; otherwise, it would confuse him even more than he was already.
“Bagaglio?”
“My luggage will be flown in on the next flight out of Baton Rouge. All I have is this.” Dante stepped out of Alex’s arms and held up a brown leather carry-on the size of a large shaving kit.
“La mia automobile è questo maniera.” Alex wrapped an arm around Dante’s shoulder and pulled him along toward the parking area. In a voice only Dante could hear, he said, “I am so happy you are here.”
“I’ve missed you,” Dante said, and realized it was true.
In the terminal, they walked past a long mural depicting the rich cultural history of the once bawdy river town. At any other time, Dante would’ve been interested in studying it, but now all his attention was on Alex. They left the low white building and entered the parking lot. The moist, reedy odor of Lake Pontchartrain surrounded them as they stepped outside, reminding Dante of reports he’d read describing the devastation it had caused when a violent hurricane had thundered through and its levees had failed.
As they approached a red convertible, Alex hit the clicker in his hand, and the lights flashed and the horn honked briefly as the doors unlocked.
Dante threw his head back and laughed. “By the saints, this beautiful thing suits you.”
He thought a smidgeon of pride of ownership showed on Alex’s face as he opened the door for him. Dante slid in, and now the pleasant smell of a new car replaced those from the lake. Alex folded the top back, and soon they were speeding through traffic on the expressway, headed for his home. It was Dante’s first experience with what must be Alex’s love of flashy, fast cars. He took a deep breath and held on as the warm, subtropical wind ruffled his dark hair.
“I will take you out to dinner tonight at one of our hot spots. If I have not stocked my kitchen with the foods you like, we will stop by a market on the way home and purchase more.”
Dante had forgotten the more formal, courteous way Alex spoke. Despite seven hundred years as a vampire living among humans, he still used few contractions. “I’d like to clean up before eating. I hope that hot spot won’t be fancy. My new suit’s a mess from sleeping in it.”
“Tub or shower? I have both. Your suit is not a problem. Just remove the jacket and tie. I would loan you something, but it would not fit.”
Dante laughed. “You’re right. Your clothes wouldn’t fit me.” He wasn’t a small man, but Alex was two inches taller, with a broad chest and thighs as large as a weightlifter’s. The only clothes he could possibly wear of Alex’s were his pajamas, and he’d swim in them.
Alex left the expressway and slowed as he drove through residential areas. Gradually, the homes grew older. When Alex pulled through the porte cochère—the original carriage entrance—of a French Creole style home set flush with the sidewalk like all the other structures on the narrow street, Dante couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From the street names and his research, he recognized they were in the Vieux Carré, or Old Square, which was the original town. Now it was known as the French Quarter, containing some of the most historic houses and shops in the city—fortunately untouched by the hurricane flooding because they had been built on the heights near the river. As a diamond courier himself, Dante was rich, but what he saw here must be astronomically expensive. It told him something of the degree of Alex’s wealth.
Maybe I’d be this wealthy, too, if I’d had centuries to accumulate it.
Alex parked in the back beside a high wall with an ornate iron gate he unlocked. Entering a small courtyard thick with lush plantings, they walked across red bricks as worn as those of the house walls.
Old, and yet not old at all compared to Florence, my hometown. It’s so different from Italy. Even from Venice, which has its own spectacular charm.
Most of the sunlight to the courtyard would be blocked because of the plantings and the tall buildings surrounding it, and he thought Alex must be able to sit out there safely sometimes during the late afternoon. They passed a small, bubbling fountain set low to the ground and covered with moss. An open book lay on a round table with wrought iron legs and a marble top. A wine glass, dark with the remnants of something he knew would be blood, sat beside the book. As they passed it, Alex palmed the dirty glass. “Sorry for my mess.”
It drove home anew the realization that Alex was a vampire, and Dante’s doubts about their relationship surfaced anew.
Alex unlocked the door and shut down the alarm. The first floor appeared to be for receiving guests, and its décor was as elegant and tasteful as that of its owner. Small paintings that must have cost a fortune hung on the walls. Couches and chairs were covered with brocades, and they walked across Persian carpets, their colors faded to a soft patina, protecting the polished wood floors. Books and objets d’arte filled a floor-to-ceiling bookcase. When Dante recognized the figure of one of the small bronzes statues, his pucker tightened and his balls and dick tingled as he remembered a night with Alex in Pompeii. He walked quickly past the display so as not to give Alex any ideas, or give his groin a chance to rise and point.
Dante stopped and turned to face Alex, spreading his arms wide to indicate the room. “Fantastico.”
“Thank you. I wish I were here more to enj
oy it. The kitchen is this way. Kitchens in the time this house was built were separate due to fire hazards, but now they have been made part of the houses. I only use it to warm synthetic blood, but you can prepare meals here. Or eat out if the thought of hot blood bothers you.” Alex washed the dirty glass with practiced ease and left it mouth down on a towel to dry.
There was a lift on one side of his mouth, and Dante thought he’d repressed a smile at his double meaning. He wondered if Alex, clever vamp that he was, sensed Dante was distancing himself from him. But, surely, that wasn’t possible. Dante finished checking the refrigerator and cupboards. “For someone who hasn’t eaten for centuries, you’ve done a great job stocking this.”
“For breakfast tomorrow morning, you might walk to Café Du Monde in the French Market. You can buy warm beignets and try a cup of New Orleans coffee. It is a mixture of coffee and chicory, and so dark they call it café noir. Coffee was very scarce during the war between the northern and southern states here, and they added chicory to stretch it. They liked it so much they always add chicory now.”
“I’ve heard France has a similar brew, but I’ve never tried it. In Italy, we usually sprinkle olive oil and salt on the chicory leaves and grill or bake them.”
Beyond the kitchen was a nook furnished for eating. Its windows overlooked the garden. Dante thought it was probably heavily shuttered during the day.
“Sometimes I do my paperwork out here in the late afternoon. If the sun is not too bright.”
Dante remembered spending an evening or two in the Naples Stoker Hotel. He’d read while Alex had worked at his computer. It’d felt comfortable to be with him that way. Sex hadn’t been all there was to their relationship in their few harrowing days together.
They climbed a graceful staircase to the second floor. “This is the entresol,” Alex explained. “Historically, it was designed for storage, but since the hurricane I’ve wondered if it wouldn’t be better to make the first floor the permanent storage area and the entresol my living room. In case of flooding, I would prefer losing a few stored items than my valuable furnishings and paintings.”
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