by Nina Mason
Vanessa stirred against his shoulder. “Callum, my father wants you to have lunch with him the day after I leave. At his club. Are you all right with that?”
His suspicion smoldered and caught fire. He could guess which club Lord Bentley belonged to, but couldn’t think why she’d delayed the meeting until after she left town. Shouldn’t they be meeting her father together? He shrugged it off. Maybe she didn’t want to share their last precious few days together with anyone else. He could understand that because, quite frankly, neither did he.
Chapter 12
Feeling like he’d swallowed a scuttle of hot coals, Callum pulled the Land Rover up to the curb outside the international terminal at Gatwick Airport. Except for the paparazzi snapping their picture every time he and Vanessa ventured out of doors, the last few days had been glorious, albeit in a tortuous, living-on-borrowed-time kind of way.
Last night, out of his wits with the thought of losing her, he’d left the imprint of his teeth on her neck in plain view. She hadn’t been too pleased with him upon discovering the mark in the mirror this morning. Though he’d apologized, he wasn’t the least bit sorry. There was more than one way to stake his claim.
He killed the engine and turned to take one long, last look at her, soaking in every detail of her lovely face. Those mental pictures would have to sustain him. Her reluctance to commit to a date for a conjugal visit made his gut churn with fear. So much could happen to ruin everything.
“Do you want me to come in?”
“Don’t bother.” Her voice was tight and she refused to meet his gaze, adding to his vexation.
“It’s no bother.”
“If you come in, you’ll have to park the car.”
“I’ll gladly park the bloody car to see you as far as the security checkpoint.”
“I’m fine getting out here.”
Simmering in a sauce spiced with hurt and annoyance, he shook his head, jumped out, and unloaded her bags. “Are you sure?”
He hoped she understood he meant sure about everything.
“If only.”
What did that mean? Hope stirring, he reached around her waist, pulled her against him, and gave her a lingering kiss. Then, freeing his mouth, he whispered, “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
She bit her lip and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I’m going to miss you. A great deal.”
His throat tightened in step with his heart. “Don’t wait too long to have me for a visit, eh?”
“I won’t.” She touched his face with a tenderness that made him ache. “Don’t forget lunch with my father. And swear to me you’ll take what he has to say to heart.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He gave her another heartfelt kiss and big hug before letting her go. As he stood there on the curb watching her stride toward the terminal, towing her heavy suitcases as if they weighed nothing, he heard his heart break. The sound was quick and brittle, like the snapping of a wishbone. Too bad he’d gotten the goddamned short end again.
* * * *
Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport was modern, clean, and smelled of popcorn, coffee, paprika, and human blood. Vanessa’s new boss had e-mailed to let her know he’d meet her outside baggage claim, which she was on her way toward now. As the throng of greeters came into view, she scanned their signs for her name. Spotting the one with BENTLEY, she adjusted her scarf to cover Callum’s attempt to mark his property while making a quick study of the man with the sign.
In terms of age, Beau Armstrong looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Medium height, good build, chestnut hair flecked with gray, piercing blue eyes, and a ready smile. Attractive in a bookish, Jude Law kind of way, he wore a button-down white shirt, khaki slacks, and loafers.
“Mr. Armstrong?”
He flashed a grin, blinding her with whiteness. “Miss Bentley?”
She didn’t correct him. She didn’t want to be Lady Vanessa any more. She wanted to start afresh, to be normal and innocuous. No more poor little rich girl. No more Madam Butterfly. No more paparazzi. No more playing a role she was unsuited for.
As they shook hands, he said, “Welcome to New Orleans. Did you have any luck with the Vampire of Barrogill?”
“There’s no vampire there,” she said, tasting the lie. “But I did meet a ghost.”
His smile faded as he stepped back. “I’m sorry to hear that. About the vampire, I mean. Ghosts, as you know, are a dime a dozen. How was your flight?”
“A little stuffy, to be honest.”
Stuffy was an understatement. The suffocating cabin had reeked so badly of human blood, she’d used the barf bag to mask the smell, drawing worried looks from her fellow passengers. Little did they know, airsickness was the least of their problems. If people thought snakes on a plane a terrifying prospect, try flying the friendly skies with a hungry vampire.
His smile withered. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Sweet tea? A cocktail, maybe?”
“No, but thank you anyway.”
She wanted blood. And Callum.
“How about something to eat? You must be hungry after all that time in the air.”
“No thanks.” She was ravenous, but not for whatever he had in mind.
“Please tell me you’re not one of those women who refuse to eat anything for fear of putting on a few pounds. Because there’s nothing in this world as good as Louisiana cooking. Fried chicken. Shrimp and grits. Red velvet cake. Pecan pie. My, oh, my. And let’s not forget all the delectable Creole cuisine you’ll find hereabouts.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “Surely, no sane person would deny themselves such heavenly pleasures.”
“It’s not about the calories.” She shrugged to appear nonchalant about it. “I’m just not a big eater.”
She started toward the baggage carousels, located the one for her flight, and scouted for her suitcases.
Mr. Armstrong came alongside and asked, “Is this your first trip to America?”
“Yes,” she replied with a glance in his direction, “it’s my first time on Yankee soil.”
The dazzling grin returned. “A quick word to the wise, Miss Bentley. You don’t want to be calling this here Yankee soil. You’re deep in confederate country now. Confederate and Creole, a fearsomely redneck combination.”
“Duly noted,” she said, fiddling with her scarf. Damn Callum for leaving a mark. He knew bloody well her new boss was a vampire hunter. Was that wily lion trying to ruin them both?
Spying her bags, she grabbed them off the carousel and set them on the floor. Mr. Armstrong picked them up and started toward the exit.
“Come on,” he said, with a nod. “I’m in the short-term parking garage.”
She followed him through the automatic glass doors, stopping short when the humidity hit her in the face like a wet rag. “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, forgetting her manners. “It’s like a bloody armpit out here.”
He tossed a big grin over his shoulder. “This ain’t nothing. Just wait until July.”
As she followed him into the parking structure, she tried to work out what sign he might be. A Leo like Callum? An Aries like her father? Her money was on Scorpio. Beau definitely had the signature piercing gaze, good build, and handsome face of a Scorpion. He also had the disarming demeanor and crackling intensity of someone ruled by Pluto.
“When’s your birthday?” Her voice echoed through the cavernous structure in an unnerving way that made her feel small and ineffectual.
He gave her a funny look. “November. Why?”
“I’m trying to guess your sign.”
While a November birthday might make him Sagittarius, she was quite sure he wasn’t. His answer had been honest yet ambiguous, lacking the blunt zing of an archer.
“You into astrology?” he asked.
“You could say that.”
“That’s cool,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Know anything about voodoo?”
“I’ve read a little and would love to know more.”
“That can be arranged.”
By the time they reached his car, a midnight blue Volvo station wagon, she was drenched in sweat. She’d never experienced humidity like this, hadn’t known it existed. As he loaded her suitcases in the rear, she stole a glance through the windows, looking for clues to his character, since she couldn’t probe minds as well as Callum yet. Scattered rubbish and a black-and-white football were the only things inside.
“You’ve got children?”
“Only the two greatest kids in the whole dang world,” he boasted, grinning at her. “Zack and Crystal. They’re both in high school now.”
She felt a painful pang of envy at the way he gushed about his children, but kept smiling. “Are they away at school?”
“Away? Hell, no. I’m not rich enough to send my kids to boarding school—nor could I bear to be away from them for months at a time.”
Vanessa kept smiling, even as the awl of past hurts punctured her heart. While at boarding school, she only ever saw her parents over the Christmas holidays—when they could tear themselves away from their other “more important” commitments.
When Mr. Armstrong opened the passenger door for her, she slid in and set her handbag on the floor behind her ankles. He strolled around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and closed the door. The scent of his blood clobbered her senses, stirring her entangled appetites. She squirmed, crossed her legs, and kicked herself. What was she going to do without her Simba? She already needed him so much she felt like crying.
Mr. Armstrong started the car, backed out of the space, and drove toward the exit gate. “The house I rented for you is only a couple of miles from the office. It’s an older place, but homey and dirt cheap.”
“Homey sounds good.” In her struggle to breathe as little as possible, the words came out more clipped than intended.
“You must be tired. Or were you able to catch a few winks during the flight?”
“I didn’t, I’m sorry to say.” She gave him a smile. “I’m one of those unfortunate people who can’t seem to sleep on airplanes.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, grinning. “I’m the same way. My wife, on the other hand, goes out when the landing gear goes up and doesn’t rouse till it comes back down.”
She took a breath, the scent of his blood jabbing her nose. “Do you travel much?”
“I’ve been to France a few times to search for the portal into the vampire empire, but without success. What about you?”
“I’ve been to Paris with my mother to buy clothes—and to Greenland and Norway for Greenpeace protests against Arctic drilling—and Scotland, of course—but that’s about it.”
She saw then that he wore something around his neck—a talisman of some sort on a cord. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
He fingered the pouch as he said, “It’s what voodooists call ju-ju or gris-gris.”
Brows puckering, she combed her limited knowledge of voodoo, but came up empty. “What’s in it?”
“Herbs, oils, stones, small bones, hair, fingernails, and pieces of cloth soaked in sweat,” he replied. “All blessed by a voodoo priestess.”
“What does it do?”
“This one wards off evil spirits, but some attract money or love, shield the wearer from gossip, or guard against negative energies. There was a time when every cop in the city carried one.”
As they exited the parking garage, she forgot the talisman in her excitement over the sights and sounds of the fascinating new city she would now call home.
“I thought I’d give you a little time to get settled,” he told her, “and maybe introduce you to some of the lore surrounding our notorious vampire population.”
“That sounds great.”
“Afterward, if you’re not too tired, I’ll take you to Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. Just for fun.”
She shot him a puzzled look. “Why a blacksmith shop?”
“It’s a bar, Miss Bentley,” he said with a good-natured laugh. “The oldest in the city and a local institution. The pirate brothers Jean and Pierre Lafitte used it as a front for their more nefarious pursuits. Since the forties it’s been a popular watering hole for locals, tourists, and even some celebrities. Tennessee Williams, for one, used to hang out there.”
“Really? Wow.” She was genuinely impressed.
“How’s tomorrow night sound?”
“Tomorrow sounds fine,” she told him—as long as she could feed tonight as Nala. The thought of hunting alone in a creepy swamp filled with crocodiles didn’t thrill her, but it sure beat the alternative.
* * * *
The next morning, Callum found himself amid a crush of bodies as he waited to board the tube to Victoria Station. Ten minutes later, the Underground train came barreling up and screeched to a stop. As the doors opened with a pneumatic whoosh, the human current pushed forward, carrying him along with it.
At Victoria Station, the flow carried him out again. As the throng moved toward the exit, it diluted into a trickle. He rechecked his watch, glad to see it was only half past eleven. There was still plenty of time to walk to the exclusive gentleman’s club where he’d be lunching with Vanessa’s father.
Callum ambled outside, surprised to find a chill in the air. June was usually warmer. He headed south toward Buckingham Palace. As he strolled, a fierce wind from the Thames cut like a knife through the conservative black suit he’d purchased at Selfridge’s yesterday to make a good impression. Luckily, it didn’t need any alterations.
When he reached the appointed meeting place, a few blocks from the Houses of Parliament, he headed straight for the lounge, nabbed a choice spot near the crackling fire, and ordered a pot of Earl Grey to warm his cockles. As he poured himself a cup, the peppery citrus scent of bergamot filled his nostrils.
Sipping his tea, he glanced around the room. He’d been there before, though not since his last foray into politics, back when Victoria was on the throne and Lord Melbourne was prime minister. Back then, this was the place where deals were forged and alliances cemented over heated debate, whisky, and cards. It had been the last time the stars shone favorably on Scotland’s bid for independence, though not favorably enough, as it turned out.
The club itself had changed remarkably little. Still the same tawny oak paneling, stodgy furniture, and stuffy aristocrats hiding from their mistresses and wives. Still the same comingled aromas of stale smoke, timeworn leather, and furniture polish. Still so bloody English, sexist, and elitist it set his teeth on edge.
Callum refilled his cup, looking up in time to see Lord Bentley coming through the door. Tall and trim with graying hair, the earl looked commanding in a double-breasted charcoal suit.
The earl was an Aries—Callum did his homework to prepare for the meeting—which made the man smart, passionate, bold, confident, and idealistic, but also maddeningly intolerant, thoughtless, selfish, and demanding when he didn’t get his way.
As the Englishman drew closer, Callum stood, pasted on a smile, and extended his hand. What did Vanessa hope the meeting might accomplish? Was her real agenda political or personal? If personal, he doubted her father would be pleased. A longhaired political astrologer and Scottish nationalist was probably not what he had in mind for his only daughter.
“You must be Lord Lyon.” He shook Callum’s hand with vigor. “I’m William Bentley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thanks awfully for coming all this way.”
“Thanks for the invite,” the Scot replied, gesturing toward the chair opposite. “It’s good to make your acquaintance, your lordship.” Callum reclaimed his seat and reached for the pot on the table. “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”
“Tea?” Lord Bentley scowled in distaste. “Last time I checked, the club still had a bar.”
Callum licked his lips. He could use a drink to take the edge off his nerves. He would have ordered one had he not feare
d making a poor impression. He wasn’t about to reinforce the stereotype that Highlanders were a bunch of sheep-shagging, whisky-swilling savages. “I thought it a wee bit early for—”
Bentley’s jovial chuckle cut him off. “Nonsense, the sun’s over the yard arm, isn’t it?” Turning, he motioned for a waiter. “What’s your poison, Lyon?”
“Oban, if they’ve got it.”
“Ah, single malt. The Scotsman’s water of life. I might have known.”
Callum cringed at the condescending tone of voice and thanked the stars he’d had the good sense not to wear a kilt.
The waiter hurried over and Lord Bentley hastened to order for them both. “I’ll have a gin and tonic—Magellan, please. With a squeeze of lemon. And my young friend here will have a pour of Oban.”
Young friend? Callum fought the smile threatening to sprout. What might the man say if he knew the youthful-looking Scot beside him had once been an adviser to King James IV? Not that he planned to disclose as much.
The waiter shifted his gaze to Callum. “How old, sir?”
The Scot coughed. It took him a moment to realize the waiter meant not his age but the vintage he preferred.
“The fifteen will do.”
The waiter bowed and left.
Bentley took the chair opposite and set his hands on the table. Callum took in every clue in view. The gentleman’s hands were frail, long-fingered, and splattered with liver spots. Expensive-looking links secured the French cuffs peeking out from under the sleeves of his bespoke suit.
Looking up, Callum found his subject studying him in return. “My daughter must think highly of you, Lord Lyon. I believe you’re the first of her chaps to warrant an introduction.”
Before Callum could offer a response, the waiter arrived with their drinks, set them down, and left. Lifting the glass to his nose, Callum drew the sharp, smoky aroma into his nostrils.