Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Jennifer Ashley

  “That’s why you charge me so much,” he replied. But this time, there was no humor in his voice, no lilting charm. “And why I always settle up.”

  “I cannot charge you enough to make up for this,” Rubey said. Her eyes were red now. “Ella was…she was…a friend, as well.”

  “My sincerest apology,” Voss said. He sounded as if he meant it, and he reached to touch Rubey’s arm as if to emphasize. “Truly. I don’t know when I’ll see you again.”

  “Never will be soon enough,” said their hostess. And she sounded, at that moment, as if she meant it, too.

  Voss turned sharply. “Miss Woodmore, we must make haste. You’re no longer safe here.” Formality and command replaced the empathy in his voice.

  Angelica allowed him to lead her from the bedchamber and down the corridor. His strides were long and fast, and she felt awkward trying to keep up with him. But her fingers, gloveless, were clasped in his big bare hand, and he steadied her as they hurried along.

  The carriage had been pulled up very near the servants’ entrance; to climb in was no more than a step out the door and up into the vehicle. The conveyance was parked in a narrow mews between two tall buildings, which made the space dark and shadowy despite it being several hours before twilight.

  For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Angelica entered a carriage to ride with Voss. Alone.

  “Where are we going this time?” she asked as he stood at the doorway, his hand on the edge of the door, his feet on the stoop of the house.

  “Somewhere safer,” he said. His eyes seemed to glitter with heat as he looked up at her. “Somewhere where they cannot find us.”

  There was something about the way he said those words that gave her pause. An odd combination of desire and unease prickled inside her.

  “Why do you not take me back to Blackmont Hall? Surely it’s safe there,” Angelica said, remembering the stone wall that surrounded the small plot of land on which the mansion sat. Maia must be sick with worry, too. And what if there’d been a message from Chas?

  “I’ll not take you back to Corvindale,” Voss said flatly. “Not quite yet.”

  And then, to her shock and surprise, he slammed the door closed, leaving himself on the outside. The sound of the latch catching solidified the realization he didn’t intend to join her.

  Angelica whipped the heavy curtains away from the windows just in time to see Voss—she thought it was him, at any rate—heavily cloaked and with a low-riding hat settle on the small stoop at the back of the barouche where the footman would normally stand.

  He was choosing to ride outside of the vehicle instead of inside with her? What did that mean?

  The sudden jolt of the vehicle starting off nudged her against the padded wall. Voss hadn’t moved, but she could see his gloved hands holding on to the handles next to the window. He looked like a black wraith, his cloak flapping as they went on and his face in shadow, his profile turned away and down.

  Angelica, exhausted, still more than a bit horrified at the day’s events, and now filled with annoyance, settled into her seat and folded her arms over her middle.

  “This is a fine kettle,” she said to herself. Locked in a carriage, being taken who knew where.

  But she wasn’t frightened. At least, not of Voss.

  There were much worse threats to her person than the tawny-haired man with the hot gaze.

  Perhaps he meant to protect her reputation by not riding about London during the day alone in the carriage with her. Not that anyone could see inside the heavily curtained windows.

  Or perhaps he thought it would be safer if he rode outside, where he could watch for other attacks.

  Or perhaps he didn’t wish to be near her any longer. Now that he’d been with Rubey for the afternoon.

  For it had become starkly clear to her that he and Rubey had been otherwise engaged when the invaders had come into the house, and had somehow avoided a direct attack. The thought of what they were doing made her feel suddenly quite ill again.

  Miserable, she settled into the corner of the carriage. The plush velvet walls and cushions embraced her, and she rested her head back and tried not to think about what a disaster her life had become.

  She had to admit it, then. That she’d come to truly fancy Voss in the few days that she’d known him, in the fleeting moments of conversation and in those moments when their eyes had met…Well, she must admit it. She had believed, hoped, he’d fancied her, too.

  Foolish purring kitten, as Granny Grapes would say. And she’d jab her finger at Angelica just as Maia was wont to do. Yer seeing whatever y’want to see.

  Voss—she really ought to think of him as Dewhurst again—was merely being gentlemanly in taking care of her and taking her off to safety. Protecting her, or any woman in danger, as any man would do.

  Yes, they’d had some compelling conversation. And indeed, when they’d talked just this morning whilst she was still abed, Angelica had felt as if the silken thread of a connection had been strung between them when she looked into his eyes and saw something deeper there.

  And yes, there’d been that kiss…

  Angelica’s toes curled up inside the too-large slippers as she remembered that kiss, that melting, mind-shattering kiss. And then she forced her thoughts away from it.

  Yes, that kiss. But it hadn’t been her first kiss, and certainly not his. A kiss didn’t have to mean anything. Just because it made the ground shift beneath her feet didn’t mean it did the same to him…and even if it did—there was Rubey.

  And thus and so went her thoughts, circular, dark, confused and focused on everything but the fact that her life was in danger and she’d been attacked for the second time in less than a day.

  That was simply too dark and terrifying for her to think about.

  Angelica opened her eyes when the carriage made a sharp turn, and for the first time, she noticed a glove tucked into the cushion of the seat across from her. Was it Voss’s? By all indication, this was his carriage.

  Angelica bit her lip, looking at the crushed beige glove. She was tempted. Oh, so tempted…

  Before she could consider any repercussions, she slid over to pluck it from its spot. Too large to belong to a woman, as she’d suspected, the glove had small, tight stitches and was soft as butter. When she brought it close to her nose, she found the scent that reminded her of him clung to the silk lining.

  And there on the edge of the underside was a monogram. VA, with a large, stylized D in between the initials. Voss Arden, Lord Dewhurst.

  Angelica glanced guiltily out the window of the carriage. But although his hand still grasped the handle and his dark figure stood steady on its small platform, his face was buried in the dark recesses of his hat and the collar of his cloak.

  Angelica looked down at the rich leather.

  Did she dare?

  Did she even want to know?

  But the man fascinated her and she needed something other than fear on which to focus her mind. And so she closed her eyes, crumpled Voss’s glove in her hand and opened her thoughts.

  ***

  Voss shifted with each movement of the carriage so that his face—the only exposed part of his skin—would remain out of the sunlight. An inconvenience at the very least…but much less trying than sitting in that small space with Angelica.

  For a moment, he lost his thoughts, sliding back into the red haze that had engulfed him when he entered the chamber to find her being attacked by Trastonio and some other gutter-wipe make. Bloodscent filled the air—that of the destroyed maid, and another, sweeter, much more compelling one. From Angelica.

  He’d never forget the image that greeted him, penetrating through that sudden, hot fog of desire. Even now, as his leather-clad fingers gripped the handle protruding from the rear of his carriage, in his mind he saw Angelica—wide-eyed, white-faced, huddled in the corner of the chamber. Terror blazed in her exotic eyes, her hair straggled wild and dark around the sagging neckline of her shi
ft. Two white feet and bare calves beneath the hem, streaked with crimson…and her fingers around a piece of wood, her mouth tight with concentration as she prepared to defend herself.

  Lucifer’s brittle bones. He’d nearly lost her. And lost his chance.

  And then to see, and scent, her blood…a most intimate part of her. The thought of it, the sense of tasting it, hot and heavy on his tongue…her lips parted in pleasured sighs and her lush body opening to him… It made his desire uncontrollable. His fingers dug into the edge of the window as he sent her away before he lost the ability to curb his actions.

  Voss thought they’d have more time at Rubey’s. He hadn’t expected one of her own footmen to betray them to the likes of Belial—but then, of course, men like Edouard did strange things for the chance to become immortal.

  Too bloody bad for the man who was now frying in the deadly sun. Voss was certain Belial hadn’t told Edouard about that particular drawback of being a made Dracule.

  Just as Lucifer hadn’t told Voss about that and a variety of other inconveniences as part of their unholy agreement, including the Mark that now throbbed and ached with the devil’s own annoyance. Every twist and turn of the carriage as it avoided street urchins or piles of refuse in the street, dogs or even other vehicles, made his shoulder stretch and caused a renewal of pain. When he’d sent Angelica away from the chamber instead of tearing into her flesh, the agonizing sting from his Mark had left him breathless.

  Lucifer was never pleased when one of his Dracule thought of someone other than themselves.

  The pain had lessened only a fraction since then, and Voss wasn’t certain how much longer he could fight it. Closing his eyes, resting his temple against the sunbaked side of the carriage, he drew in a deep breath of summer afternoon in London: warm, close, and filled with the smell of rotting food, human and animal waste, choking coal smoke and, faintly, summer lilies. Very faintly.

  The unpleasant aromas did little to distract his thoughts from the paralyzing burn at his shoulder. He couldn’t understand how Dimitri lived with the pain his inflamed Mark must inflict on him at all times. Surely it wasn’t worth the self-denial—and he could rid himself of the suffering for a moment at the least. But still Dimitri denied himself, after more than a century…since that night in Vienna.

  The evening in question, more than a century ago, had begun innocently enough. Dimitri had invested in a private men’s club being built in Vienna—a large, Baroque-style home that was one of many in the new architectural fashion since the great Turkish siege had ended—and had invited several acquaintances, most of them Dracule, to visit for an evening of cards and women and other entertainment.

  Voss had thought it would be the perfect opportunity to confirm his suspicions about Dimitri’s Asthenia and add the information to his book of notes. Having played cards with the stone-faced Dimitri in the past and having observed him carefully on several other social occasions in London and Paris, he’d noticed the man never accepted jewelry as tokens for bets, nor did he interact with men or women who wore ostentatious accessories.

  Thus, in the guise of offering his host a gift, Voss had had a series of a dozen special goblets made. Each one had a different jewel hidden in the bottom of the cup’s base. The cups were identical except for the different gems, and the type of gem was identified by a mark on the bottom of the cup and the slot in which it rested in their velvet-lined case.

  When Voss arrived at the club, he, along with every other entrant, was required to leave any weapons—particularly swords or wooden canes that could be sharpened—as well as any valuables, locked in private chests at the front of the club. That, of course, included jewels and other accessories, and served only to enhance Voss’s suspicion about Dimitri’s weakness.

  He managed to bring in the goblets, for they were made of hammered metal and appeared very plain and unassuming, just as he’d intended. When Voss entered, he had the chest of cups with him and found a corner behind a heavy curtain in an alcove in which to secrete it. His plan was to offer one to Dimitri filled with his best blooded brandy as a gift, and then secretly swap the goblets out one by one throughout the night. That way he could determine which gem affected Dimitri without the other man knowing what he was doing.

  This type of elaborate ruse was just the sort of thing Voss reveled in. He enjoyed not only the planning, but the execution as well, and considered a trap had only been perfectly sprung and a puzzle solved when he managed to do so without the victim realizing what was happening.

  But in this case, things did not turn out as he’d intended.

  He and Dimitri, along with several other guests—mortal and Dracule alike—sat in the main parlor of the club. Windows dark with heavy curtains allowed only a swatch of moonlight to filter through, and a violinist played in the corner. Lovely women, a rarity in men’s clubs—at least in London—offered trays of drink and slender ivory wrists or shoulders.

  The very essence of the place was hot and lush, stemming not from its colonnaded design but from the scent of warm blood and rich wine, along with the haze of hashish smoke filtering from another chamber. The chamber exuded hedonism, complete with food and drink and the most sensual of furnishings—both of the inanimate and mortal type.

  Dimitri had planned his establishment well, and even though Voss meant to use the evening to observe and learn from his host, he found himself lulled by the strains of music and the feminine company—and young, hard males as well, for those who tended toward that preference. He confessed to having tried that once, early on after realizing he was to live forever, and when he was very drunk. But in the end it hadn’t appealed, and he returned to the lush flesh of women instead of the hard muscle of men.

  The most lovely of the women was named Lerina, and she was clearly Dimitri’s current mistress. Her elegant shoulder, bared by a low-bodice gown, bore several sets of bite marks on the right side. Every Dracule in the place recognized Dimitri’s scent on the woman, and even if they hadn’t, the way she watched him with her pale blue eyes would have indicated her allegiance.

  Dimitri accepted the first goblet from Voss, and sipped the brandy as Lerina traced her fingers gently over the back of her lover’s neck. His dark eyes scanned the room, as if watching for trouble or merely surveying his domain, and he hardly seemed to notice the woman’s touch.

  That was where Voss and Dimitri differed, as well. Even if Voss was only planning to bed the woman that night, he plied her with attention and charm. When he was finished with her, he was finished…but until then, she was the recipient of his complete attention.

  As he sipped from his own cup, Voss observed his host, who was drinking from the goblet with a garnet in the base. He noticed nothing untoward. He’d added a bit of his favorite enhancement to the brandy as well, in hopes that it would lower Dimitri’s natural defenses even further. The salvi wouldn’t weaken Dimitri—although it would drug a mortal to sleep almost instantly—but combined with the brandy and blood, it would increase his intoxication to an even deeper level.

  Voss partook of the same drink, with the same enhancement, and divided his attention between his host, the lovely Lerina, who seemed desperate for Dimitri’s spare notice, and other amusements in the room. Voss had all night to enjoy himself, and fully intended to do so.

  He’d refilled Dimitri’s goblet a third time—and had swapped for a third gem, the topaz, which had taken the place of a pearl—when everything went to hell.

  It started when one of Dimitri’s stewards approached swiftly, carrying a chest. As he came closer, Voss recognized it as the box that held his collection of goblets, along with the salvi. Damnation.

  “My lord,” said the steward, showing Dimitri the chest. “I found these in the front alcove. Hidden behind the curtain.”

  Voss’s stomach sank, but he fixed an insouciant smile on his face as Dimitri glanced at the goblets, lined up in their spots with the chemical symbol for each gem marked on its slot in the box. Of course, one slot wa
s empty—for the one cup he held in his hand. He turned a frigid glare onto Voss, who lifted his own glass in salute.

  “A gift for my host,” Voss said in an effort to bluff his way through the situation. “A collection of a dozen of the finest craftsmanship.”

  “So that’s what you’ve done,” said Dimitri. His eyes burned red and his mouth flattened into an unpleasant expression. “I wondered. And you expected to trick me thus?”

  Voss noticed that his hand trembled, and that the man’s face appeared taut and tense. His breathing altered, slowed.

  Voss had been right! It was a gemstone. Something in the chest. Something that wasn’t large enough to cause him great weakness, although in combination with the salvi and blood brandy it had obviously affected him. But there was no way of knowing which one it was, for all dozen were present.

  “I would throttle you but I’m afraid I have more imminent concerns to deal with,” Dimitri said flatly, and Voss realized he’d shifted his attention from him to something beyond his shoulder. He had an arrested expression on his face as he looked across the room. “But you are no longer welcome here, Voss. See that he leaves,” he added to his steward.

  Voss stood, knowing when he’d pushed things too far. He didn’t see any reason to cause a fight and muss his clothes, so he gave a short little bow of acquiescence. But Dimitri was no longer paying him any attention.

  Instead his focus was on a group of men who’d just entered the room.

  Cezar Moldavi and five of his companions.

  At that time, Voss knew little about Moldavi except he didn’t care for the man. Perhaps it was the way the vampire carried himself, as if there was a large block on his shoulder that he dared anyone to knock off. Or perhaps it was the manner in which he spoke to everyone, as if he were better than they. Which was a hard thing to account for, since Cezar Moldavi wasn’t the tallest of men, and he wasn’t particularly pleasant to look at. He wasn’t even half as rich as Voss. In the company of other Dracule, what exactly did he think was so special about himself?