Even if she didn’t invite him back to her bedchamber—though he’d do his best to make certain she did—he could always find an excuse to visit it later. He had few concerns Lord Glennington would be an impediment to either his wife’s plans or Max’s, for it was rare for the lord and lady to share a bedchamber, even in these times. God knew the house was large enough for them to have separate suites of rooms. And if Glennington hadn’t put a stop to his wife’s overt flirtations, then obviously he wasn’t the jealous type.
“But my lady,” Max murmured to his hostess, “you have no idea what sort of teasing of which I am capable.”
As Justine gaped in surprise, then smiled with barely contained delight, Max looked up and across the table at Liam Stoker. He spoke directly to him for the first time this evening. “Tell us, Mr. Stoker, how do you find it, having such a modern woman for a wife? I understand Mrs. Stoker is quite a celebrity in her own right. Do you accompany her on her photography travels, or do you have your own career to manage?”
Of course, Max knew exactly how Liam Stoker spent his time—in the Consilium, the secret hideaway belonging to the Venators in Rome, where he worked on gadgets and weapons and other machines. But despite the fact that they were distantly related, he hadn’t known Stoker very well and he was certain the man would hardly recognize him even if he weren’t in disguise.
“Most of the time, aye, I do travel with Sabrina. Although since we’ve been wed, she’s only been on one excursion,” replied the younger man.
“That’s right. It was Paris, in September. Very romantic,” explained Savina unnecessarily.
“Och, romantic, aye, but also wee a bit nerve-wracking for your husband. After all, I was the one who had to stay on the ground while you clambered all along the turrets of Notre-Dame in search of the most unique photographic angle.”
Savina lifted her wine glass, smiling over the rim at him as if the two of them were the only ones in the room. “And how I had to hear about it for hours afterward,” she said just before she drank. “But you were the one who’d rigged up the device that kept me propped just so, and I knew I’d be safe—thanks to you and your engineering technique.”
Where was the next course? Max’s frustration was back. The sooner this bloody, interminable meal was finished, the sooner he could do something enjoyable. Like find out where the bloody hell the vampires were in this house.
He really needed something to happen before he lost his patience.
He really needed to do something violent.
“Now enough about us and our honeymoon,” Savina said, and he felt her turn her large, dark eyes on him. “You aren’t really from Amsterdam, are you, Dr. Melke?”
Max’s world screeched to a halt. Fortunately, he was in the middle of cutting a piece of roast beef, so he was looking down. Hopefully that obliterated any shock that might have flared briefly in his eyes.
“I mean to say,” Savina continued as if she hadn’t just given him a heart attack, “that you aren’t originally from Amsterdam. If my ears serve me correctly, that’s not a Dutch accent I’m hearing.”
Max began to breathe again, and he glanced at Savina and then across the table at Stoker and deVos. “Your ears are correct, Mrs. Stoker. I am originally from Vienna, in fact, but I went to school in Rome—which is where I acquired my love for all things ancient. In fact, I met Jelle deVos at an antiquities auction in Amsterdam several months ago when we were bidding on the same objet d’art. It was a small pencil study by Rembrandt, and the bidding became quite heated.” A very neat redirection of the conversation if he did say so himself, and he was particularly pleased when deVos picked up the thread as if it had been scripted.
“Elton won the bidding, to my consternation, so when we found ourselves fighting over another piece—this one, an exquisite parure said to have been worn by Catherine the Great—I stepped up my game and managed to swipe that one from beneath his greedy nose.” DeVos told his story with relish and a jab of his fork. “And at that point, we decided it would be best to introduce ourselves and to discuss our future acquisitional intentions so as not to waste each other’s money or time.”
“I didn’t particularly care that Jelle beat me out for the parure,” Max said, spreading his hands in mock dismay. “I merely enjoyed making him pay through the nose for it.” He launched into a much louder and more boisterous laugh than he would ever have done before, knowing deVos would join him.
Once the levity died down and the conversation moved on to other antiquities they’d both admired, Max realized with relief that the dinner plates were being removed and dessert forks were being distributed.
He leaned slightly toward Lady Glennington and murmured, “How long will the men be in the study with cigars and brandy?”
As he’d hoped, she took his innocent question precisely the way he meant it. “Not long at all, Elton. For tonight,” her voice lifted as she spoke to the table at large, “I decree there shall be no cigars and brandy in the study, and we shall all move as one into the conservatory for the beginning of our Christmas festivities.”
It was less than a quarter of an hour later, after ten o’clock, when the Glenningtons and their guests filed into the plant-filled conservatory, which was located off the music room. A large, high-ceilinged space, the room was defined by steel-gridded glass panels. The full moon beamed down through the peaked, transparent roof, and the space was warm and close due to the humidity.
A dozen pine trees had been outfitted with ornamental bulbs, garlands, glittering strands of silver, and bows. Candles and low lamps burned everywhere, and flowering tropical plants added color and fragrance. Somewhere in the depths of the room, a fountain tinkled, and several birds rustled in the leaves of full-grown trees.
Max had taken his time following behind his fellow diners, and as such, he was the last person to enter the conservatory. In fact, he found himself stopped inside the doorway as the others had clustered just beyond the threshold to select glasses of champagne from a waiting footman. Savina was directly in front of him, and if he took one more step, he’d bump into her. To his dismay, when he looked down, he couldn’t help but notice how nicely the loose, beaded frock shaped her hips and arse. Not to mention the tempting curve of her neck and shoulders.
Crumbs in the bed, he reminded himself. No more crumbs in the bed.
“Oh, dear, now look what’s happened.” Lady Glennington was looking over at Max with a combination of delight and distress in her voice.
“What is it now?” her husband demanded wearily, holding onto his great-aunt’s arm. He looked like a nanny gripping a mischievous toddler: determined and tense.
“But look at Dr. Melke!” Lady Glennington said, and everyone turned obligingly to stare at Max. “Do you not see where he is standing?” She pointed to the area over his head.
A very bad feeling sank over him as he, along with everyone else in the room, looked up to find a gay sprig of mistletoe hanging just above him.
“The nearest lady must kiss him!” crowed Lady Glennington—clearly delighted that her festive plans were coming to fruition—just as Max realized what was about to happen. “And that would be you, Mrs. Stoker. You must bestow the first Christmas kiss upon our wonderful Dr. Melke.”
Chapter 4
~ Escape ~
MAX COULDN’T BREATHE. There were too many reasons this couldn’t be happening. But Savina was already moving toward him, a friendly smile on her face and a hint of color in her cheeks. And not the least bit of recognition in her eyes, thank God.
“Don’t be shy now, Dr. Melke,” urged Lady Glennington. “Surely you don’t mind being kissed by such a lovely young woman.”
“Of course not,” he said brightly. “As long as her husband doesn’t object.” He gave a nervous laugh that was only partially exaggerated, and the others chuckled as well—including Liam Stoker, the bloody twit.
But Max still couldn’t breathe, and Savina was right there, moving toward him, her hand touching his
arm as she leaned in—and he was the gentleman, he couldn’t just stand there, he had to react somehow, for it simply wasn’t done for a woman to kiss a man in public while he froze like a statue.
The world slowed, becoming a murky pond that closed in around him, and Max stood there like stone, not daring to breathe or feel or think. She was there, touching him, bringing with her the warmth and scent and presence he’d known so well. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t know whether he could taste her lips, allow them to touch his, without dragging her up against him and taking a hell of a lot more than a quick buss—
And suddenly it was over. Savina pressed a sweet, loud, but impersonal kiss on his cheek, and then she was gone, and Max was breathing again and everyone was talking and laughing and no one seemed to notice he’d been paralyzed for what seemed like an eternity.
His cheek burned, his arm felt tingly where she’d touched him, and Max turned and snatched up a glass of champagne from the tray at the door. Even as he downed its contents in a large swallow, he turned to rejoin the remainder of the group and tried to appear interested in the conversation about the rest of Lady Glennington’s plans for the evening. They droned on and on…and all Max wanted to do was make an exit.
And by God, if he didn’t find a bloody damned vampire or two—preferably a whole tribe of them—and do something to relieve the rage and tension and frustration that simmered inside him, he didn’t know what he was going to do.
What the hell sort of Venator was he that the mere kiss from a woman was enough to loosen all thoughts from his mind, to cause him to be unable to think or move? What the hell was wrong with him?
Max tried to tell himself his paralysis had been due to the fear that Savina would recognize him at such close quarters, and by touch, but that mental lecture fell flat. He knew better.
It was time to get away from all of this.
He eyed Lady Glennington speculatively. He still needed to play the game with her in the event that he needed access to her chamber—and possibly elsewhere. But he was not going to waste any more time playing Christmas kissing games or any other parlor activities.
Likely feeling his eyes on her, his hostess looked up at that moment, and Max took the opportunity to wander over.
“I’m afraid I must excuse myself for the evening,” he murmured, leaning in much closer than he preferred to a woman in whom he had no interest.
“What do you mean?” She was not pleased and appeared ready to argue.
Max cut her short. “Not for the night,” he said, holding her gaze meaningfully. “Just for the evening. I think it best if I…well, it would be more discreet if everyone believed I had retired for the evening.” He managed to add more heat and suggestion to his smile, and even went so far as to trail one of his fingers over the back of her gloved hand. “I am always extremely discreet in my…nocturnal affairs.”
“Very well then, Dr. Melke,” she replied in a normal tone of voice. But the message in her eyes told Max she read him loud and clear. “I do hope you feel better in the morning. We will see you at breakfast.”
As soon as he escaped the conservatory, its eager hostess, and its bloody damned mistletoe, Max took refuge in his chamber. Though the last thing he wanted to do was be quiet, he climbed in bed in case one of the servants was sent to check on him.
Though his mind was racing and his muscles were tense with frustration and pent-up adrenaline, Max forced himself to be still, relax, and even to close his eyes.
If he happened to sleep for a while, that wouldn’t be a bad thing. The servants were still about, cleaning up and closing things down for the evening, and so were his fellow dinner companions. Perhaps in an hour or two, he’d be able to slip through the house unnoticed and track down whatever undead were in the vicinity…or, barring that, find his way to Lady Glennington’s bedchamber. That option held little appeal for him but remaining in his chamber held even less.
If he rested now, that would allow him to leave his room when Mr. and Mrs. Stoker returned to theirs…which he’d discovered was exactly across the hall from his. He didn’t want to hear them coming to bed, and he certainly didn’t want to hear anything that might go on inside their chamber.
Max must have relaxed enough to sleep, for all at once, he became aware of his surroundings…and that someone had just opened his door.
It was dark, and he could see only a hint of shadow…the barest shape of a person as he—no, she—moved toward his bed.
In the split second before she spoke, he saw the glint of metal in the moonlight.
Savina was there…and she was pointing a gun at him.
Chapter 5
~ Crossroads ~
“WHAT IN THE HELL are you doing here?” Savina hissed. She had a two-handed, solid grip on the pistol, and her stance didn’t waver as she pointed the barrel at the man she was pretty much ready to murder.
Of course, the weapon wasn’t actually loaded, but he didn’t have to know that.
No, Max Denton—the slimy, cowardly idiot—could have a few moments of terror and self-examination while she decided the best way to flay the skin from his body.
She pushed the light switch and a soft glow came from a lamp on the fireplace mantel. Savina wanted to see the expression on his face…and she wanted him to see hers as well.
His was blank, which was no surprise. The damned man gave nothing away, ever.
Hardly ever. There had been a time when she thought he loved her…when he’d begun to soften and open himself up to caring about her. But that hadn’t lasted long. And after all, here was the man who’d refused contact with his daughter for more than thirteen years.
Too damned bad she’d loved him more than he ever loved her. Too damned bad it had come to this—where all she wanted to do was tear him into pieces and scatter them in the Thames—or whatever body of water was nearby. Or hang him by his feet and peel the flesh from his body.
“I beg your pardon,” replied Max. His voice and expression—what she could see from behind his disguise—gave nothing away. “What are you doing in my chamber?”
Savina moved closer to the bed and appreciated the way his gaze grew more wary as he tracked the pistol pointed at him. She wanted him to sweat. Oh, she did.
“Did you really think you could fool me?” she said from between gritted teeth. “That I wouldn’t recognize you the moment I set eyes on you?” Actually, she’d wondered if Dr. Melke was Max before she even met him. That’s what happened when you knew someone well enough to truly love them—you knew how they thought. Her throat burned, and she focused on her hatred and fury instead of her loss.
Max’s eyes flickered. “I don’t think your husband would appreciate you sneaking into another man’s bedchamber, Mrs. Stoker. Perhaps you should leave.” He shifted warily, pulling himself upright against the pillows behind him.
Savina’s fury grew when she saw his broad shoulders and bare chest revealed by sagging sheets and a stab of lust and longing shot through her. His muscled arms were so sleek and powerful, and his hands—
“Damn you,” she hissed. “Damn you to hell, Max Denton. I thought you were dead.” To her horror, her hands began to tremble and furious tears stung her eyes. “I ought to put a bullet into you right now, but I don’t think even that would make up for—for everything.”
“I repeat,” he said in a stilted voice that might have shaken a trifle, “perhaps you should leave.” Behind the graying mustache and triangular beard, the odd shape to his face, and the white streaks in his hair, there was still Max. But his eyes were dark and cold, and tension vibrated from his body. “You are a married woman, after all.”
“So is Lady Glennington,” she snapped. “I didn’t see you turning down her advances. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, you were eagerly inviting her here.”
He shrugged, those beautiful shoulders shifting and moving deliciously. Damn him. “Then perhaps you ought to make your exit before she arrives. Surely your husband is wondering where you are.”
The bite from his words resonated through her, and she lost the last bit of her control. “It’s been two years, Max. Two damned years and I haven’t heard a thing from you. You left me. You ran away. I thought you were dead.”
“I had work to do,” he snapped, his voice still low. “I had to do it alone. Wayren knew—”
“No word for two years, Max. I don’t call that work. I call that simple bloody cowardice. You couldn’t even let me know you were alive?” Then a shaft of horror plunged through her and she caught her breath. What if she’d been wrong? What if he hadn’t left her because he loved her…but because he didn’t love her? Because he didn’t want to be with her, and—
“Savina,” he said, and damned if she didn’t feel a quiver at the sound of her name in his pained, rumbly voice.
“Just be quiet,” she said. Now her throat really burned and her insides were churning violently.
“What are you doing here?”
“Probably the same thing you are—oh wait, maybe not. I have no interest in an affair with a married woman.”
“Yet here you are, a married woman yourself, in my bedchamber.”
“With a gun pointed at you, don’t forget. Even you couldn’t imagine I have any amorous thoughts when I’ve got a gun pointed at you.”
“It’s not even loaded,” he replied.
“Is that what you think?” Now Savina was even more furious. Damn the man. How could he know that? “Try me, Max. Just try—”
“All right, all right,” he said, holding up a hand. “Maybe it is. But you still haven’t answered my question—what are you doing here?”
“Here at Knotwood? Probably the same—”
“Here in my bloody bedroom.” He was clearly having difficulty keeping his voice low.
Savina let the gun fall to her side. He really didn’t get it, did he? The man goes missing for two years and she finally learns he’s alive, and he doesn’t understand why I’m upset? She gritted her teeth and forced herself to be calm. “Since I suspect you’re at Knotwood Abbey for the same reason I am—”
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