by Shelby Reed
“Jude owns that exact game. Naturally, we’ve played it in every corresponding room in this house, so you’ll be spared that particular agony.”
The billiard room was richly furnished in maroon and navy, set around a magnificent antique billiard table with mammoth claw feet and gold fringe at each pocket.
“Do you shoot pool?” Kate’s fingers drifted along the smooth, carved wood as she circled the table.
“When I’ve had too much to drink,” he said. “You?”
“Same. I was quite skilled and slippery in my youth.”
“Ah.” His eyes warmed as they lingered on her face. “A hustler. Say it isn’t so.”
Kate laughed, but inside she had dissolved to jellied pleasure. Gideon Renaud was flirting with her in the most delicious way, and she, being a woman who prided herself on lack of inhibition, felt compelled to leap across the pool table and devour his delectable mouth. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she wandered over to the leather and mahogany bar and peeked behind it. An impressive array of fine liquor sparkled in crystal decanters on every shelf. “Do you entertain?”
“Yes.” He moved closer to her and rested his hip against the table. “All sorts of amazing possibilities, at the moment.”
Her head came up and she stared at him, torn between laughter and the sting of arousal. The chemistry between them was thick with heated promise. How long could she maintain this tantalizing repartee before she wobbled to the ground like damp spaghetti? “I meant…do you have parties?”
“Not here yet. But if I do, your name will be at the top of my guest list.”
“I’d be delighted.” She followed him through another set of doors and stepped from the billiard room’s dark interior into a bright, circular hall with multi-paned, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight poured through silken sheers and danced on the graceful brass chandelier, casting prisms of color on every wall. The room reminded her of a wedding cake. A mahogany Steinway sat in a curved niche, flanked by marble busts of distinguished composers. Nearby, a harp rested by a dainty, gilded chair with turned legs and a tapestry seat. Sheet music lay open on the music stand, as though the musician had only recently abandoned his station.
Speechless, Kate gazed around. Somewhere in the space between her body and the ceiling fourteen feet above, phantom strains of music floated in echoing, invisible wisps. They reached down and plucked at her in disjointed notes, until she shook her head and blinked. “This room…”
“The conservatory.” Gideon was watching her with a curious smile, as though he, too, heard the otherworldly melody. “It’s quite a special place.”
“I could live in here.” Entranced, she crossed to the piano, following the music. The moment her fingers touched the Steinway’s lid, the notes halted. Silence. It was deafening. She sought Gideon’s face, alarmed. “What happened?”
He wandered over to where she stood. “Do you play?”
“Yes, a little. I took lessons as a child.” She hesitated, unwilling to look like a fool, but driven for an explanation. “Why did the music stop?”
“You touched the keys. You play.” He glanced around the room. “It’s waiting for you. For your music.”
His matter-of-fact explanation disconcerted her. The hairs on her neck stood at attention and she wrapped her arms around herself to withhold a shiver. She, who’d never believed in spooks or ghosts or bumps-in-the-night, suddenly felt crowded by the room’s feminine, frivolous presence. “You said there’s a library too?”
“This way.” Moving ahead of her, he threw open yet another set of double doors, and Kate was greeted by the faint scent of aged paper, leather and a hint of mustiness. Bookshelves climbed every wall in the long, narrow room. A wrought iron catwalk ran the perimeter above their heads, providing access to the highest shelves. Leather wingback chairs and sofas and Chippendale tables were grouped together in cozy settings, offering a comfortable place to curl up and read. The colossal fireplace to the right showcased an oil painting that caught Kate’s eye, and she moved toward it hesitantly, feeling an inexplicable excitement as she drew closer.
The portrait depicted a dark-haired man and boy dressed in Victorian finery. The man, posed on an ornate chair, stared from the aged canvas with eyes as black as coal, cool, pale, enigmatic. The boy leaned on his father’s shoulder, his ebony gaze just as direct, just as defiant; his complexion just as milky white. Father and son. So eerily like Gideon and Jude, and yet obviously painted in another century.
“This is incredible, Mr. Renaud. Where did you acquire such an uncanny portrait?”
“I’ve owned it at least a hundred years.” His voice came from behind her. “And my name is Gideon.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, found him frowning at her, and suddenly felt swimmy-headed. “I’m sorry?”
“I’m Gideon. Say my name, Kate.”
Her pulse jolted and sped up; the floor tilted beneath her. Her fingers made a weak motion toward the painting. “Gideon.” She swallowed, tried again, stumbling over the words as though she were intoxicated. “The portrait looks like you and Jude.”
He moved closer to her. The roar of blood in her ears grew louder, and low in her belly a restless throbbing began.
Her gaze fixed on his somber, unsmiling mouth, the same lips as the man in the portrait from one hundred fifty years ago. She blinked, and somehow, in the instant when her lashes lowered and lifted, Gideon kissed her.
She hadn’t known he stood so close. He couldn’t have possibly reached her across three feet of space that quickly, but his soft mouth was hungry on hers, his hands grasping her upper arms, holding tight when desire robbed her legs of the ability to support her. His tongue made a single, lush sweep between her lips, and she tasted him, cool and delicious, the flavor of his want and need as she breathed in his harsh exhalation, his low expression of pleasure. Deep in her core that sweet, aching, telltale burn ignited, the kind that simmers between a woman’s legs and liquefies her insides when a man makes love to her with the sinuous exploration of lips and tongue.
“Please…” she tried to say, but the groaning invitation was muffled by his kiss.
And within the space of a second blink, he stood by the door, watching her, as though he’d been across the room all along, as though he’d never touched her.
Kate lifted a trembling hand to her lips, horrified to realize that she’d only imagined it. Some sort of hallucination or…or overzealous fantasy. She didn’t look at the portrait again. The roar in her ears was gone; the floors beneath her feet steady, her pulse even.
But she’d gone wet and soft in secret, feminine places, and that part of her never lied.
“Are you all right?” Gideon’s voice was remote.
“I’m fine,” she said weakly. What did you do to me?
“Maybe you should sit down.”
She made no move toward the nearby sofa. Her feet wouldn’t follow her direction and held her imprisoned in the center of the room. Gideon didn’t move either, just stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.
Kate looked at him in helpless disbelief. How could she explain the last five minutes? Paranormal fun and games? Momentary insanity? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to affect the master of the house. Maybe he was a ghost after all.
Damned if she’d be scared away. She had nothing, and no one, to run home to.
Three months, a stolid voice inside her whispered. Give it three months.
“It’s gotten late.” He finally glanced at his watch, a pricey glimpse of gold on a broad wrist. “I’m afraid I have work. We’ll tour the grounds tomorrow if you’d like.”
The sound of his voice shattered the paralysis that had seized her legs. “Maybe I’ll take a walk by myself,” she said, desperate to escape the thick, closed air of the mansion.
“Good idea. You look like you could use some fresh air.” He threw open the doors behind him and waited until she passed by him before adding, “The pool is heated, Ms. O’Brien. It
’s at your disposal anytime, day or night.”
Kate shot him a quick, searching look, but found no hint of teasing in his face. Only a closed, abrupt withdrawal that said something had happened in the library…something only he understood.
Chapter Three
Gideon stood in the center of his study, jaws clenched, arms crossed like steel girders over his heart. The woman would have to go. She couldn’t stay at Sister Oaks, not now that he’d broken every sacred, precious rule he’d so painstakingly laid out for himself, and all within a few hours of meeting her.
He hadn’t expected her to appear last night on the balcony in the moonlight, luminous and vulnerable and alone…her solitude so potent, so tangible, it radiated from her body in waves of melancholy indigo.
He could taste it. Taste her. The sweetness of her skin. The slick, hot core of her body opening beneath his tongue like dewy rose petals.
Standing in the soft, waist-deep pool water, he’d imagined her pulse thrumming under his lips, and the ensuing surge of sexual desire had rocked him, brought him nearly to his knees. For the first time since Caroline’s death the hunger stirred within him, stretched and rumbled, like an animal coming awake after a long hibernation.
He felt his erection—a constant threat for the last few hours—stir within his pants, and he ran a hand down to press against it and will it under control, forcing himself to breathe, to think. At first he’d been elated, intoxicated by Kate O’Brien’s presence and the knowledge that he could sink into her and feel—truly feel—again. He hadn’t experienced desire like this in years. Decades. The lovers he took were his kind, and he’d been content, denying that eventually it wouldn’t be enough, that one day the touch of cool, soulless fingers would no longer quench the driving force of his hunger.
He’d always known someone—a mortal someone—would come to end the era of his resolve, and he’d hidden from her, dodged and danced and played the game with unshakable focus. Beauties had come and gone, warm-blooded, mortal, full of need and desire. He could have had any of them and he’d turned away again and again, remembering Jude, who suffered because of him. Remembering Caroline, who died in agony because of him.
If Kate O’Brien didn’t leave Sister Oaks, it would play out again, a discordant scene in an endless production. She would lose her life; he would lose the game. But how did a creature, parched and dying of thirst, turn aside a sip of water? Kissing her, tasting her warmth and heat and soft, soft lips had revived him. Reawakened it, and it was beyond his control.
Shoving his hands through his hair, he paced the rug in a restless pattern. How could he let her go?
Martha could do it. She’d think of a reason. And he wouldn’t have to explain a thing; his secretary would take one look at him and know what she had to do without asking questions. They’d never spoken much about his existence or the passage of years, and how, even as her hair grayed and her face weathered, Gideon never changed, and Jude never healed.
A light knock at the door brought him around and he heaved a sigh. “It’s open.”
Martha’s silvery head appeared, as though she’d telepathically heeded his distress call from somewhere within the house. “May I have a word?”
“Come in.” He forced his expression to soften, stepped back and waited for her to arrange her petite frame on a nearby Queen Anne chair. Then he smiled with a reassurance he didn’t feel, and took the seat across from her. “Everything all right?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.” She hesitated, her blue eyes discerning behind the thick glasses she wore. “Gideon…this woman’s going to be a problem, isn’t she?”
He swallowed, tried to shrug, but knew it was fruitless to deny it. “Ah, Martha. I don’t know. But it’s always best to err on the safe side.”
She nodded, sat in thoughtful silence for a long time. Then, “I get the feeling she’d be good for Jude. She’s young, enthusiastic. Doesn’t seem like the kind to take any sass.”
“Yes, to all of that.” A defeated smile touched his lips as he let his head rest against the back of the chair. “What can I say?”
She leaned forward on her chair and touched his knee. “We could give her some time, you know. You’re stronger than you think. I’m not suggesting it will go away, this…whatever it is you’re feeling. But maybe if you see she’s working well with Jude, maybe you could somehow look the other way.”
“I know my limits. It’s hers I can’t read.” He leapt to his feet, too restless to sit any longer. “There’s something between this woman and me. Instantly. I was sideswiped by it.” He paused and cast her a desperate glance. “It’s not just…you know. Physical.” God, this was difficult. He felt like he was talking to his grandmother.
There was a time in the early 1960s, before she’d married, when Martha had been young and attractive in a simple, wholesome way. Gideon had stopped a time or two and watched her working beside him in the greenhouse, reaching out to her with clairvoyant fingers, trying to sense her wants, her desires. Wondering if she’d ever tasted ecstasy, and what she’d do if he reached for her.
Of course, he never did; the purity of their friendship surpassed any romantic musings that crossed his mind. She’d known even then that he held a dark secret. She’d met the steady stream of nightwalkers that moved in and out of his life, and the darkness hadn’t frightened her.
Martha was extraordinary then, and more so now, for standing by him. Even when she married that dolt David Shelton, who couldn’t understand her friendship with Gideon and ultimately left her because of it, her devotion hadn’t wavered. Even when Gideon fell in love with Caroline fifteen years ago. And when that impossible love delivered Jude—and more anguish—Martha had remained staunchly supportive, never questioning, hovering always near like a guardian spirit made of flesh and blood and bone.
The human remnants within him loved her as deeply as he could love anyone. The survivor in him warned him to not love her too much; at the most she would remain by him another fifteen years, and then her life would end, and Gideon’s would go ever onward.
Right now she was saying something about self-control, about focus in that dry, matter-of-fact parental tone, and Gideon looked at her and laughed. He couldn’t help it.
Martha stopped and glared at him. “What’s so funny? I thought you were desperate. If you don’t want my input, don’t—”
“Ah, Martha, wait.” He knelt in front of her and grasped her warm, leathery hand between his cool ones. “You’re right. You’re always right. I have to think of Jude, and something tells me he needs this woman. I’m too busy to even worry about her—I have three conventions to attend this month alone, letters and e-mails to answer, and a whole slew of articles to write. I don’t have to be in the same room with her at any given moment, do I? I can be the reasonable, self-disciplined exemplar I’ve been for the past thirteen years. Nothing’s changed.”
Martha squinted at him. “But you don’t sound convinced. Just give her a trial run, and most importantly, watch Jude. In a week, if things don’t seem significantly different with him, I’ll think of a way to let our Ms. O’Brien slip away.”
“Right.” He allowed her fingers to slide from his and straightened. “Has Delilah called lately?”
She scowled. “Vexatious creature. She called last week, and I forgot to give you the message.”
“Conveniently,” he murmured.
“I can’t pretend to like her. She has radar, you know. The minute you get antsy, here she comes. She makes Jude uncomfortable, Gideon. She makes all of us uncomfortable.”
“But she’s a necessary evil.” He moved away from her, shame rifling the edge of his conscience. “She doesn’t have to come here. I can meet her somewhere else.”
He drew a breath and envisioned Delilah, all creamy, porcelain blonde, lush desire and rapier-sharp intent. Pure selfishness laced with malice. He stepped carefully with her, and took from her what he needed, to their mutual satisfaction. And right now he needed
so desperately, he could hardly think. Her blood on his tongue, her limbs twined around him, the scalding heat of her body when he drove himself into her and pushed them both into orgasmic release. He could be as rough as he wanted with Delilah, and it was never violent enough.
He was a vampire. Chastity did not suit him.
“Do me a favor,” he said, staring out the windows at the placid, cerulean water of the swimming pool. “When Delilah calls again, put her through.”
* * * * *
Dusk fell like a wave of mist over Sister Oaks, the strangest fog bank Kate had ever seen. She stared at it in the failing light, watching it undulate around her knees in slow, swirling wisps as she crossed the lawn. The same mist that had danced around the strong, bare legs of the midnight swimmer.
Glancing up at the house, she noted that several balconied windows on the upper floors glowed with golden warmth. Gideon was up there somewhere. She hadn’t seen him leave the house. A glossy black sedan, the only vehicle parked in the four-car carriage house near the mansion, hadn’t moved today. She assumed it was his.
Martha Shelton drove a commonsensical white econo-box; Kate remembered it from their first meeting in Richmond. It was parked in the circular driveway when she rounded the corner, stolid and unimaginative, a comical incongruity in the mansion’s hulking shadow.
Swiping a violet-tipped weed from the boxwoods, Kate twirled it between her fingers as she walked, playing and replaying the morning’s wild hallucination in her mind.
Whatever had happened to her in that library was not paranormal, or ghostly, but purely physical. A dip in blood sugar, maybe. Or a surge of PMS. She still felt lightheaded if she moved her eyes too quickly. Getting sick now would be a fine accompaniment to the self-doubt that had nagged her all afternoon, and she prayed it wasn’t some sort of spring flu.
Experimentally, she skimmed the memory of his kiss and a jolt of desire fired her through her like a distant lightning bolt.