by Tamara Hogan
He rose and headed for the exit.
“Make sure you apologize,” Bailey called after him.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment.
There was an odd energy in his step as he left the building and walked to the car. Yes, he definitely owed Tia an apology, but what would he say? He couldn’t possibly describe his primal, clenching fear with words.
Folding his frame behind the wheel, he closed the door and strapped in. With a chirp of wheels, he pulled out of the parking lot and headed east.
He had forty miles to figure it out.
Across the room, another shelving unit moved with a muffled mechanical hum—the only clue Tia had about Wyland’s location, because the dratted man had disappeared the minute they’d arrived at the Archives. With white-gloved hands, she very carefully turned the manuscript’s brittle page. If he could concentrate on work with this…this…tension seething between them, then so could she.
But as she looked for references to Sigurd or The Old Ways, the words blurred on the page.
The long drive to Marine on St. Croix hadn’t helped matters any. After she’d left Sebastiani Security, Wyland had quickly caught up with her, his car’s sexy silhouette unmistakable in her rear view mirror. When it became clear he didn’t intend to pass, she’d taken perverse satisfaction in slowing to the posted speed limit, making him throttle back all that power. He’d followed at a polite distance, headlights boring into her back for miles, finally passing when they’d turned onto the remote county road leading to the Archives. He’d opened the garage door, pulling in first, and stood skimming the tree line as she entered, quickly closing the door behind them—and thank the freaking universe, because her headlights had illuminated a set of eyes peering at them through the long grass.
A deer? A dog? Her overactive imagination? “Damn.” She pushed back from the table. Working with centuries-old books required a delicacy she wasn’t capable of at the moment. Banging on a keyboard sounded a lot more satisfying. Pulling off the gloves and dropping them on the table, she went to the kitchenette, made a bloody Diet Dew, and carried it back to the workstation Bailey said she could use.
She sat down, logged on, pulled up Valerian’s bio, and then hesitated. Maybe she should check with Bailey before updating such critical files.
Nah. If Bailey didn’t like her updates, Bailey could damn well change them.
She scrolled down, down, down, skimming, assessing the material with an eye to structure. Given Valerian’s near-millennia of life and service, his file was immense, spanning so many historical eras and containing so many footnotes and cross-references that her eyes nearly crossed just looking at it. Other areas of the bio were woefully incomplete, with section headers present but saying nothing but “TBD” or “information not available” underneath. She added a new section header—Interviews—and went to work.
In no time at all, the transcript from her first interview with Valerian was added, and the audio file embedded. Her links worked, expand/condense functionality worked, and she hadn’t screwed up Bailey’s beloved HTML. Not wanting to tempt fate, she saved her changes, exited Edit mode, then kept reading.
Bailey had spoken truthfully—the rudiments of a biography were here—but someone really needed to take this material in hand. Valerian’s time as a warrior-priest, and his accomplishments as a political leader and diplomat, were well-documented, but his personal life? Bubkes. Other Council members’ bios contained up-to-the-minute information about their significant personal relationships, but Valerian’s? Nothing. No mention of lovers, bondmates, or offspring. Was the data simply missing? Lying somewhere in the Archives, uncatalogued? Had Valerian, responsible for keeping their culture’s written records for centuries, simply not considered his own personal information essential?
Had he never known these relationships?
Other than Valerian, who’d know?
Thane.
She issued a quick search on Thane’s name. “Bingo.” Not only did Thane have multiple mentions in Valerian’s bio, he had his own lengthy file, complete with a fourteenth century birth date. If the data was correct, Thane had served Val for nearly five hundred years, several centuries longer than Wyland had been alive. As she read, she shook her head in amazement. Thane’s bio read almost like a novel, full of heroic tales and derring-do, but…no mention of bondmates, lovers, partners or offspring. They’d been each other’s family for half a millennia… “Oh.” There were two toothbrushes in Valerian’s bathroom.
They were a family.
She’d lived in the same house for nearly a week, and she hadn’t noticed a thing. “Some investigative journalist I am,” she mumbled. Her thoughts whirled. Why in the world wasn’t such a significant, long-term relationship part of their biographies? Who else knew? Across the room, there was a whirring hum as Wyland moved yet another shelf.
Wyland surely must.
Her lips tightened. One more secret the Vampire Second kept.
She went back to her search results, then clicked on a cross-reference connecting Thane’s bio to Wyland’s. According to the bio, it had been Thane who’d brought the young Wyland to Valerian’s attention. “No interest in being the Vampire Second yourself, Thane? I don’t blame you.” She quickly scrolled past Wyland’s recent headshot, away from those piercing, loch-blue eyes, looking for the picture of him, Deirdre d’Amour, and Bram Stoker… Okay, where the hell was it? She paged up, paged down. Navigated to the top of the document and scrolled down, slowly and carefully. Issued a search.
Nothing. The picture was gone.
All references to Deirdre and Bram, gone.
She leaned back in the chair, tapping her index finger against her lower lip. The picture had been there a couple of days ago. Who’d deleted the information between then and now?
Why?
She was paging to modification records when she heard Wyland approach. “Crap.” She minimized his file, leaving Valerian’s visible on the screen.
“There you are.” His voice stroked like crushed velvet.
She turned her chair to face him. Somewhere along the way, he’d taken off his tie and unbuttoned his top two shirt buttons. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms and his antique Piaget watch. After last night, she knew exactly what kind of bodily terrain the fine fabric of his clothing covered. She’d mapped every inch of it with her eyes, her hands, her mouth.
He stopped about an arm’s length away. With her sitting and him standing, her eyes were level with his belt buckle. Yes, she knew every thick, glorious inch.
“Not working on the manuscript anymore?”
”No.” Clearing her throat, she gestured toward the bloody Dew sitting on the desk. “I wanted something to drink.”
“I fear for your teeth.” Leaning over, he peered at the screen. “What are you working on?”
He smelled…amazing. “I’ve started to record some interviews with Valerian—a day in the life—and I’m adding the information in his bio.” She paused. “Some Council members’ biographies seem to have significant gaps.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re interviewing Valerian?”
“Yes.” She knew damn well he’d deleted information from his own bio, but his expression gave nothing away. “Transcript, audio…I’d like to capture some video as well.” She explained her interest in doing the same for all Council members. “With today’s technology, there’s no reason future generations can’t know exactly what their representatives looked and sounded like.”
He leaned closer, skimming the transcript. “You’ve accomplished this since you’ve been our guest?”
“Val and I spend a lot of time together while you’re at the hospital.” She gave an uncomfortable shrug. “I ask him a kickoff question, and then let the recorder roll. He’s quite the raconteur.”
When he straightened, the summer-weight wool covering his thigh brushed against her bare arm. “Alka Schlessinger started doing something similar before she went on sabbatical last year. She a
nd Valerian had these long dinners together, and she’d record their conversations. I don’t think she’s had a chance to do anything with the materials yet. You might contact her, and tell her about your project.”
“I have a project?”
He gestured to the screen, as if the answer was obvious. “Please focus on Valerian first.” A wisp of sadness crossed his face, but quickly disappeared. “Recording him, and embedding the materials in the Archive, is an excellent idea. I should have thought of it myself.”
“You can’t think of everything. There’s not enough time in the day.” And you spend too much of it working as it is. “Are you done for the evening?”
“There’s one last thing,” he said.
More work? “Wyland—”
“We really have to stop interrupting each other.”
She snickered; she couldn’t help it.
“What’s so funny?”
“You interrupted me to tell me we shouldn’t interrupt each other.”
He took a deep breath. “You’re going to drive me to the madhouse.” Taking her hands, he drew her to her feet. “I must apologize for my behavior earlier this evening.”
His voice was clipped and controlled, with that wisp of upper crust England, but the edgy frustration seething in his eyes made her melt. Somewhere along the way, she’d learned how to read him, noticed how precise gradations of tone conveyed his moods. Did he really think she wouldn’t accept his apology? That she wouldn’t offer one of her own? Because, yeah—her own behavior at the meeting had been less-than-professional. She touched his crisp shirt, resting her palm over his thumping heart. He felt so warm, so alive—and so, so tense.
His forehead was suddenly against hers, his gaze boring down. “I’m sorry.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Me, too.”
He was hard against her stomach. As his mouth descended, his fangs flashed in the fluorescent light.
He was magnificent, and he wanted her.
She could taste his apology on his lips and tongue, could feel it in his rough, roving hands. Such edgy, pounding need—a need she shared. She tugged at the band holding his hair in its disciplined queue, then plunged her fingers through the silky drift. “Something about your loose hair makes me want to drag you to the floor.”
Wyland glanced at the white tiles, as if he was actually considering it. “I’m supposed to be apologizing.”
“You are.” She tilted her head to the side. “Very nicely, I might add.”
He dropped his hands to her waist. “Tia, the thought of you investigating the GPL, or the house where that poor human was killed, chills my blood, but…‘I forbid it’?” He shook his head. “I was out of line. I should have been more diplomatic with my phrasing. The fact that we’re having a sexual relationship is now common knowledge, and I apologize for violating your privacy.”
Having a sexual relationship? She hadn’t dared think of last night, or of any future nights, as anything beyond a casual hook-up, but Wyland used language precisely, and wasn’t a casual man. “I was the one who revealed the nature of our…relationship...to your work colleagues.” The word ‘relationship’ tasted odd on her tongue. Maybe she’d get used to it if she said it more often. “Why did you leave me alone in the pool room last night?”
“I needed to think,” he admitted. “There are political ramifications to any relationship I engage in, no matter how superficial or serious.” He sighed. “And you’re so damn young.”
She swept a glance over his frame. “You’re not exactly decrepit. As soon as word gets out that you’ve taken a lover, I’m going to have to watch my back.”
“I want you to watch your back regardless,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt like you were being watched the last time we were here? The security cameras haven’t picked up anything unusual, if that reassures you at all.”
Were the eyes she’d seen gleaming in the grass usual or unusual? Who the hell knew?
“Shall we go home?” Wyland murmured against the corner of her mouth. “Find a more comfortable place to continue this conversation?”
Such heat, such anticipation.
“Let’s go.” Nothing long-term could possibly come of this, but that was okay. She’d make sure the short-term rocked.
Chapter Eleven
“How about watching a movie in bed?” Tia suggested as they walked up the stairs to the second floor bedrooms.
Agile fingers danced at the small of his back, reassuring him she was still interested in the ‘bed’ part of the evening’s entertainment, but…a movie? Wyland didn’t know if he could keep his hands off her for the twenty footsteps it would take to reach his bedroom, much less for an hour and a half. Back at the Archives, he’d almost taken her on the table, heedless of the precious books he insisted no bare fingers touch. Thankfully, they’d driven home in separate cars, because he’d needed every centimeter of the drive to put a choke-chain on his libido.
“If you wish.” He wasn’t an animal. He could control himself—for a while, to please her.
She laughed, low and knowing, as she slipped her fingertips under his belt. “Haven’t you ever necked at the movies?”
Her suggestive tone shot to his head like top-shelf liquor. “No.” He hadn’t watched a movie in years, but any activity involving her luscious neck sounded intriguing. As they reached the top of the stairs and turned down the hallway, the household’s window shutters engaged, shutting out the rising sun with a whoosh and a click.
“Do you have a TV and DVD player in your room, or should we use Valerian’s?” she asked.
“I have them.”
“Let me get something from my movie box.” She gave his arse a cheeky pat before creeping across the hall to Valerian’s sitting room.
Her warm touch lingered, and her scent was absolutely intoxicating. He was drunk on her, absolutely piss drunk, and he’d barely touched her yet. Hell. It didn’t matter what film Tia chose, as long as she was lying on the bed beside him.
Beneath him.
On top of him.
Soon.
Entering his room, he flicked on the bedside lamp. After giving the room a quick glance—it was neat enough, except for his desk—he hurried to the bathroom. Thankfully, it was in better condition now than he’d left it, with the glass shower enclosure wiped clean of water droplets, and a new bar of soap at the sink. The damp towels he’d used earlier were gone, replaced with dry, fresh linens. On the toilet tank, a small wicker basket of pine needles and pinecones had appeared, filling the room with a subtle scent.
The utilitarian room looked like a spa. He cast a mental ‘thank you’ to Thane.
You’re welcome. Sleep well. With that, Thane withdrew, leaving him in privacy.
“What a beautiful room,” Tia said from the bathroom door, holding a slim black box. “So many shades of blue, and what a gorgeous shower.” She looked at the clear panel of glass, then at him, as if visualizing what he’d look like standing behind it.
Naked.
His teeth tingled, and his cock gave a warning throb. If he didn’t get her out of here, he’d take her on the hard tile floor. With a hand at the small of her back, he guided her back to the bedroom. Leaving her to explore, he bent to the chest at the foot of his bed and pressed a couple of buttons. A flat-screen television slowly rose, perfectly positioned for viewing from the bed.
“Awesome! Just like on Cribs.”
He wanted to bask in Tia’s obvious delight, but Thane had chosen the outrageous piece of furniture. “What is Cribs?”
“A show that used to be on MTV—you know, the music television station? Famous musicians would invite a camera crew into their homes for a day and show off their larger-than-life décor. And this—” she gave the mattress a testing push, then winked at him “—is where the magic happens.”
His blood pressure spiked. “What?”
“That’s what the people on Cribs always said when they toured the bedroom.” She scanned th
e room, running her hand over the bluish-gray duvet. “I have to say, your bedroom looks more modern than I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Antiques,” she said with a shrug. “Something a little more traditional.”
Meaning staid, of course. And if they’d had this conversation a year ago, she’d have been right. When Thane expressed an urge to redecorate last year, Wyland had given him free rein here in his private quarters. Unlike Valerian, he had no sentimental attachment to furniture; he was more concerned about functionality, utility, and a basic level of comfort. After spending gleeful weeks with color swatches, tile samples, and carpet squares, Thane had definitely met his requirements—the mattress was sinfully comfortable, and the L-shaped desk was a quantum improvement over the tiny Victorian secretary he used to use—but he’d never considered whether a lover might find the room pleasing.
Perhaps Thane had.
Tia crouched in front of the entertainment center and turned on the DVD player. Opening the black container she’d brought with her, she extracted a disc, and slid it into the machine.
“What’s tonight’s feature?”
“Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”
He froze.
“Come on, don’t be so stuffy.” When she rose, there was a remote control in her hand. “It’ll be fun.”
Fun? He glanced at the plump, accordion-pleated folder sitting on his desk. If she only knew how much bloody work Bram’s little story had created for him over the years.
“There’s this really hot ménage scene…”
His pulse gave a bump. If Tia wanted to watch a movie, they’d watch a movie. Even this movie. He’d focus her attention elsewhere soon enough. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure, what do you have?”
When he opened the small refrigerator next to the desk, he blinked in surprise. In addition to the usual water, juice, and blood, there was a six-pack of Tia’s favorite soda, several bottles of excellent wine, and a beautifully arranged platter of cheese, fruit, and crackers.
Tia chose the Riesling. “I’ll start the movie.”