by Nina Mason
“Monique Sinclair,” she said, “And I think fifty thousand pounds ought to keep me quiet and cover my start-up expenses.”
He frowned and arched an eyebrow. “Any relation to Alasdair Sinclair?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He’s my father.”
Fuck me.
Kicking himself for being so reckless, Callum filled in the blanks just as she’d instructed, tore the check free, and held it out to her. When she made to grab the note, he pulled it back.
“Not so fast, Miss Sinclair. First, I’ll have your phone so I can erase the evidence.”
With a superior smirk, she handed over her smart phone. As he let her take the check, he dropped her phone on the ground and stomped it into debris.
“Hey,” she complained, frowning hard, “that was an iPhone.”
“Ask me if I give a fuck.”
In one fluid move, he pinned her back against the Land Rover and drilled into her mind through her scheming eyes. “This never happened,” he said in a hypnotic monotone. “You never saw me or the lass I’m with. And if you should ever meet either of us again, it will be as strangers. Nod if you understand me.”
She dipped and raised her head like a robot, her glassy gaze locked with his.
“Good.” He snatched the check from her hand. “Now fuck off and don’t look back.”
He crumpled the check into a wad as he circled around to the driver’s side. Vanessa looked as pale as milk, had tears in her eyes, and was wringing her hands in her lap.
“What’s the matter?” he asked gruffly, climbing in beside her.
“You’re not really going to do that to me, are you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m still thinking it over.”
She offered him a feeble smile. “Thanks for the lingerie, by the way.”
“My pleasure,” he said, sincerely hoping it would be.
“Do I get to keep it?”
“I haven’t made up my mind.”
The brine of bitterness pickled his heart. If only he could wipe his own memory of her when she left. He knew himself, knew he’d pine for her, worry every moment what she was up to and who she was with, and generally drive himself around the bend.
As he started the engine, he said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening: Please, if there’s a way to make this work, show it to me, because, for the life of me, I can’t see it.
* * * *
Vanessa woke shivering. She’d been napping in Callum’s bedroom, worn out from shopping and frequent lovemaking. She was naked atop the covers and the room felt like a bloody refrigerator. Shivering, she sat up, rubbed her gooseflesh to warm herself, and cast around. Though Callum wasn’t in the room, Vanessa wasn’t alone. Sorcha’s shimmering visage loomed at the foot of the bed.
“Why are you still planning to leave here?” the spirit demanded, dispensing with pleasantries. “I thought we agreed you would stay.”
Caught off guard, Vanessa sputtered as words escaped her. After a few moments, regaining her wits, she said, “We agreed to no such thing.”
“He’s your Knight of Wands. Your one true love. Surely that’s worth staying for.”
“True love is a myth for women who can’t stand on their own two feet,” Vanessa returned with a scowl, “which isn’t me. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
Even if so-called true love did exist, which she doubted, men couldn’t be trusted. Just look at her father—or worse, Prince Charles. At least her father truly loved her mother once upon a time while the prince only played a part to his poor duped first wife.
“Besides, I’m moving to America in a few days,” she added. “And even if I weren’t, I haven’t the slightest interest in binding myself to someone I hardly know.”
“I told you he’s a good man,” the ghost returned. “What more do you need to know?”
“Lots of things.”
“I don’t understand,” Sorcha said. “Callum and I were married after speaking only a few words.”
“And just look how well that turned out,” Vanessa muttered, hoping the ghost wouldn’t hear. “There’s also the issue of compatibility. He and I are opposites in many ways. Temperament, diet, and lifespan, to name a few. There’s no way it can work, Sorcha—even if I wasn’t moving to New Orleans to take a new job, which I absolutely am.”
The apparition gave Vanessa a hard, apprising look. “Those are your reasons for abandoning Callum?”
Vanessa huffed, exasperated. “I’m doing no such thing. He wants me to go. And to forget him. End of story.” As an afterthought, she added, “Besides, even if we wanted it to work, there are too many obstacles in the way.”
“What if some of the obstacles were removed? Would you try to work it out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. If he stopped being so bloody minded about erasing my memory.” Vanessa regarded the shimmering specter with suspicion. “Tell me something, if you would. Why are you so bloody keen on getting me and Callum together? What’s in it for you?”
Rather than answer, Sorcha started to fade, infuriating Vanessa.
“Oh, no you don’t. Get back here and answer the question. What do you gain from getting me and Callum together?”
The apparition grew denser. “When I threw myself from the tower, I expected to find my husband waiting for me at the gates of Heaven, but he wasn’t there. I knew then he hadn’t been killed at Flodden Field, as I’d been told, so I came back to Barrogill to wait for his return. I waited two hundred years, during which the castle fell into the hands of Clan Sinclair, but by and by Callum returned—with a new wife. I could see at once that she didn’t deserve him or make him happy, so I vowed to keep watch until he found someone who could make him happy.”
“And what makes you think I’m that person?”
“Because you’re the first lass he’s brought to Barrogill since Deirdre ran away,” the spirit said. “And because of the Knight of Wands.”
Vanessa eyed the apparition narrowly. “That reminds me, how did you know about the card?”
“In the space between the realms, one knows all there is to know.”
When approaching footsteps sounded in the hall, the specter vanished, leaving Vanessa alone, her attitudes unchanged.
True love was total bollocks. Even grand passions eroded over time into barely contained bitterness. Some couples stuck it out for the kids, the security, because they feared being alone, or because they’d given up the dream of finding something better. Others threw in the towel at the first sign of trouble and went off to chase some new fantasy to fulfill their starry-eyed vision of perfect love.
Well, not her, damn it. Not her. She was a strong, independent woman. She didn’t need a man to fulfill her and make her feel valuable. Not even a man as wonderful as Callum Lyon.
Vanessa must have dozed off again while having a think because she awoke sometime later from one of those dreams in which she searched everywhere for a loo, but couldn’t find one in working order. Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and padded toward the en suite lavatory.
After doing her business, she washed her hands and face and brushed her teeth. Just as she was rinsing her mouth, the bedroom door opened and closed.
She spat in the basin. “Callum? Is that you?”
“Nay,” the intruder replied in Callum’s burr. “It’s the bogey man.”
He appeared in the doorway wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with the tails tucked in. A smile bowed his lion’s mouth as he studied her. Modesty scorched her face. While he was fully dressed, she was still starkers.
“Where’d you go?” she asked, twisting out of his full-frontal view.
“I was just speaking to Duncan on the telephone.” His gaze moved up and down her body like a paintbrush.
“What did you tell him? About Parliament, I mean.”
He shrugged, arms still crossed. “I told him I’d think about it and let him know w
hen I’d made up my mind.”
She left it at that, not wishing to pursue the matter further. For the time being, anyway. Neither did she want to bring up her encounter with his dead wife’s ghost, as she could see no way to bring up the tarot card without wading in much deeper than she was prepared to go. Besides, she was hungry—and not only for food. When she moved toward the door, he caught her in his arms and kissed her soundly.
“Feel like going back to bed?” she asked against his mouth.
He rubbed his pelvis against hers, letting her feel his hardness. “I might be persuaded.”
“Should I put on some of my new lingerie?”
He swept his tongue across her lips. “That would go a long way toward convincing me.”
As if the man needed coaxing. He had the sex drive of an inmate during a rare conjugal visit. As she pulled out of his arms and ducked around him, he followed her into the bedroom and took a seat on the chesterfield at the foot of the bed.
Failing to visually locate her bag from Indecent, she asked where he’d put her new underthings. He motioned toward a highboy on the opposite wall.
“Top drawer on the right.”
Crossing to the tall chest, she picked out a corset, a matching thong, and a pair of thigh-high stockings. As she put everything on, he watched with a scorching gaze that made her feel like a gazelle in the sights of a hungry lion. It also made her feel incredibly desirable.
Deciding to put on some high heels to enhance the effect, she went to the armoire, pulled out an especially slutty pair, and slipped them on before parading past him like a runway model.
“Well?” she said, turning to show him all angles. “What do you think?”
“Nothing,” he said, pulling her down on his lap. “I can’t think when there’s no blood left in my brain.”
Vanessa laughed and wiggled on his lap, confirming his statement. Callum let his head fall back against the couch, his eyes smoldering with passion for her, his hair spilling around his shoulders like spun sunlight.
Slowly, seductively, she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it aside, exposing his sculpted chest to her view. She ran her hands over his muscled plains, thumbed his tender nipples, and fingered his coarse hair, which looked brassy in the light pouring through the bedroom window. Repositioning herself, Vanessa kissed his neck, his jaw, his chin, and his lips—but only for a glancing moment. She nuzzled his ear, licked his neck, and nibbled his collarbone. She worked her way down, planting soft kisses as she went. When she flicked the tip of her tongue against his nipple, it hardened instantly. He moaned and petted her hair. After teasing his nipples for several seconds, she moved on, slipping to the floor between his knees as she kissed her way down to the waistband of his jeans. Rather than open his fly, she nibbled his bulge through the denim. He groaned and rolled his hips, forcing his erection against her teeth.
“I wonder if this is how a flower feels,” he said with a wistful expression, “when a butterfly sucks the nectar from its stamen.”
“I don’t know,” she said, fighting a grin, “but it might explain why flowers are so cheerful.”
Ever so slowly, she unbuttoned his fly, freeing his erection, which she peppered with kisses before taking his knob into her mouth. As she licked and flicked with fervor, she attempted to tug off his jeans, but couldn’t get them to budge. To make it easier, he lifted his ass off the couch, inadvertently driving his cock deeper into her mouth. Taking advantage, she dragged her tongue and teeth up and down the length of his shaft, causing his breath to hitch. Releasing her oral hold on his sex, she peeled off his jeans and tossed them aside.
Getting to her feet, she met his gaze, which was smoky beneath hooded lids. God, he was sexy. Too fucking sexy for words. And so much more than that, too. If only Sorcha was right. If only he was her one true love. On second thought, he couldn’t be, because there was no such thing. Even if there was a seed of real feeling taking root in the soil of their passion, he would pull it up like a weed and throw it away when he took her memories.
The thought gave her pain, so she blinked it away, not wanting to spoil the mood of the moment. She planted her knees on either side of his hips, bent over him, and stared into his eyes, willing him to see her as more than a sex object. She didn’t know what she wanted or how this could work; she just knew she didn’t want to forget him. He gazed back at her in a way that almost made her believe he did feel something for her. And then, he closed the distance and kissed her softly, tenderly—a brush of the lips, a tiny nip of the fangs.
“Mo dearbadan-de,” he whispered, but didn’t go on.
Instead, he claimed her mouth, doing to her tongue what she’d done to his cock a few minutes before. As she moaned her approval, he took hold of her ass with both hands and dragged her crotch up and down his erection, moving from her clit to her wetness with masterful control. Each time his blood-gorged sex nudged her aching opening, she wriggled with breathless need. The orgasm rose like a great white shark scenting blood in the water. He withdrew the bait, leaving her trembling with hunger.
“You’re a terrible tease,” she said, breathing hard. “Has anybody ever told you that?”
He let out a small laugh. “I’m only a tease if I won’t give you what you want—and, believe me, I will.”
“When?”
Giving her a devilish smile, he moved his hands to her corset, took out one of her breasts, and set upon the nipple. Pleasure pebbled her flesh.
Coming up for air, he met her gaze. “May I?”
“May you what?”
“Drink your blood.”
Her euphoria evaporated. “From my breast?”
He nodded slightly. “The closer to the heart, the richer the blood.”
She scraped her teeth across her lower lip as she considered his request. “Will it hurt?”
“Only the bite, after which it’s intensely pleasurable. I promise.”
“In that case,” she said, more intrigued than afraid, “go ahead.”
He bit down, startling her with the sudden prick. As he drew her blood, he flicked his tongue against her excited nipple. As the first wave of ecstasy crashed over her, he impaled her with his cock. Still sucking the blood from her breast, he thrust upward, again and again and again, driving into the heart of her being until she broke like a germinating seed.
Chapter 9
The week had passed too quickly for Callum. Vanessa was leaving in the morning and, as much as he wished it otherwise, he’d come up with no alternative to taking her memories.
They’d spent their last day together on a bus tour of Orkney. He thought she ought to see the archipelago before she went. The weather was sublime and the coach driver both well-informed and entertaining.
On the ferry over, orcas, seals, and dolphins put in appearances, giving Vanessa thrills he found delightfully contagious. On the trip back, they were treated to a spectacular sunset while snogging at the deck rail. Throughout the day, he strove to savor every moment and not dwell on how soon they’d be saying their good-byes.
Tried, but failed miserably.
At one point, she’d tried again to persuade him to let her keep her memories, but he’d stood his ground.
“I want to remember today,” she said as they stood arm-in-arm looking out to sea. “Take the rest, take what you are, but just don’t take the best day I’ve ever had.”
“Trust me.” He pulled her closer and set his cheek atop her head. “You’re better off not remembering.” With a sigh, he added, “Have you never heard the story of Cuchulainn and Fand?”
“I can’t say I have.”
“Aye, well,” he began, his gaze fixed on the ocean, “Fand was the wife of Manannan mac Lir, the god of the sea. She and Cuchulainn had an affair and fell deeply in love, and when her husband found them out, he shook his magic cloak between them to make them forget one another.” He kissed her softly on the mouth before adding, “Trust me, mo dearbadan-de. It is bet
ter to forget than to remember with regret.”
Now it was night and they were back at Barrogill, stargazing on the roof of the tower. He’d put it off long enough. Vanessa would soon be gone and Duncan was losing patience. The time had come to consult the stars and planets about running against Sinclair.
Callum was on one end of the roof, surveying the heavens through the bigger of his two telescopes, while Vanessa was at the opposite corner, peering through the smaller at Orion.
The night, though spectacularly clear, was brisk. Chilled by a sudden gust, he turned against the wind and adjusted the woolen scarf he’d wrapped round his neck before coming up. She’d put on her coat, but he nevertheless worried if she was warm enough. He’d come to feel very protective of her. And too fond for his own bloody good. His heart wrenched at the sight of her looking through his Schmidt-Cassegrain. It was a picture he’d like to see on a daily basis, but would likely never enjoy again.
The temperature dropped abruptly. Even for changeable Scotland, it seemed unusual. Hugging himself for warmth, he stuffed his hands into his armpits. As he exhaled, his breath made a small white cloud. What the hell? Just like that, it was as cold as December. He scowled around as if the answer would make itself known out of thin air. Then, it did.
Worry gripped his gut and raised a fine sweat around the edges of his hairline. He wiped his brow and finger-raked his scalp. What was Sorcha about? He came up here all the time and had never once felt her presence. He’d always assumed it was because of the way she’d died; that she avoided the top of the tower on purpose.
He turned toward Vanessa. His mouth when dry when he saw she was no longer at the telescope. For some odd reason, she was leaning over the battlement, looking down. He started over, alarm pinging in his chest. The ping crescendoed to a bong when the stone she leaned against gave way. As it tumbled over the side, he shot forward under a surge of adrenaline. Before he could reach her, her feet left the ground.
Panic kicked him in the chest. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Time wound down and stood still. He zoomed toward the broken battlement, arms outstretched, but too late. A scream tore through the night. Ear piercing, blood curdling. It rang inside his head like a bell. He found himself running, trying to catch her. His fingers brushed fabric. It slipped away. She tipped, teetered, toppled. No! The blood left his head. He gripped the stone ledge. It was cold and rough.