Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  “I rather think that you are right.” Sorrow wove through her storm-grey gaze like a colour. Cobalt, he thought, though equating emotions to the hues of her eyes shook him to the core. “They’ve changed the knock. And the password.” When she demonstrated softly on the bar, he found himself memorizing the cadence. Then she leaned in to whisper the word in his ear, and pleasure spilled through him, so fierce it felt like fear.

  He had to get out of there.

  Zane stood and knocked back the last of his drink. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes,” she said. “You will.”

  Four

  He stayed away almost five days. Ysabel knew he would return, but the time between visits told her something about the strength of his will. That made a pleasant change in an age where people made a life of self-indulgence.

  In the end, though, Zane had no choice, for she’d laid her scent upon him, and it drove him back towards her with a quiet compulsion. But he’d struggled against the inevitability. She imagined him denying the pull, finding other things to do to prevent his feet from retracing the steps back to her. For the first time in a long while, the game promised more than basic satiation. Anticipation coiled through her.

  This time, she kept him waiting a full hour before she came down to the public rooms. Her kinsmen – Galen and Cyrus – lounged in a corner booth, cultivating the acquaintance of two bar hags who would feed them before the moon waned in the sky. Ysabel shook her head when they started to slip away, indicating she did not require their attention.

  The place was nearly full this evening. Their regulars liked the cachet of belonging to a private club, one that didn’t choose its membership based on pedigree, lineage or bank accounts. No, Ysabel prided herself on operating the most eclectic – and the most deliciously varied – members-only club in the city. Whatever the pleasure, whatever the vice, one could find it here.

  She was careful not to seek him out immediately, though she was aware of his every movement. Instead she flitted from group to group, making small talk with each party. It was her responsibility to make everyone feel welcome in her establishment. In some regards, things had not changed so much since she held intimate salons for the intellectual aristocracy several hundred years before.

  By the time she made her way to the bar, he looked more than a little impatient. It was almost charming, the way he wore his emotions transparently. He’d never learned to school his face, and his gaze tracked her movements, as if he were a wolf with a rabbit in his sights.

  The analogy amused her, when so clearly the opposite was true. Once more, he wore faded denims and the ancient army jacket. Beneath it, a black T-shirt clung to the lean muscles of his chest. Ysabel sat down beside him, and the bartender poured her usual, a glass of white wine. Red would make a stronger statement, but she didn’t favour the taste.

  “Thank you,” she murmured to the server, then she shifted on her stool to face Zane. “I see you could not resist our charms.”

  “Apparently not.” But he wasn’t happy about it.

  This time, instead of the diamond in his nose, she noticed the fierce, electric blue of his eyes. He looked angry and dangerous, not someone who would turn into a docile pet. But instead of deterring her, it only intrigued her further. To captivate someone like him would require a great deal of guile and effort. Her breath came a little faster, and she tasted his essence through parted lips: fierce, questing, savage. The modern age very seldom offered specimens like him.

  “Are you ready to tell me what you want, Zane?” It was a direct challenge, and she would not have employed the tactic with anyone else.

  By the way his head came up, he was torn on how best to answer. “I’m just hanging out,” he finally muttered.

  She was disappointed. Of all things, she would not have reckoned him a coward. Ysabel slid off her stool. “Then I shall leave you to it.”

  “Wait.” The word sounded as if it came against his will.

  She turned, one brow lofted in query. “Yes?”

  Zane wore a hungry, frustrated look, as if he no longer understood what he wanted. “Can I talk to you? In private?”

  Ysabel smiled. In answer, she curled her fingers around his wrist. The others knew what that meant: This one is mine. Touch him at your peril.

  A little ripple went through the room as they speculated. What did she see in this one? How long would she keep him? Ysabel ignored the whispers.

  She led him to her lair.

  Five

  Her touch felt unbelievably good.

  Though she’d let go of him once they reached her room, the skin of his wrist still tingled. The heat seemed to be rising as well, spiralling out through his nerve endings to fire his entire body to a state of aching readiness. Zane wanted to strip naked, lie down on her luxurious white rug, and beg for her hands on him.

  The strength of the desire left him suspicious. It couldn’t be natural or right. He had to fight it. He had to remember what he wanted of her – a story, not sex. That was getting harder to recall since he’d spent the last four nights dreaming about her.

  She was every bit as delicious as he thought, that first night. Tonight she wore black, a striking contrast to her pearly skin and the moonbeam glimmer of her hair. He’d never encountered anyone more sensual, more able to set him aflame with a simple touch.

  Zane tried to make good mental notes. If she turned her back for a minute, he’d snap a few quick pictures with his phone, but she didn’t seem inclined to wander away. Quite the opposite. She seemed downright intrigued by him, though he had no idea why.

  They stood in an old-fashioned sitting room, decorated with gold and white striped damask chairs. There had to be several hundred books on the golden oak shelves that lined the walls. No mirrors, though. Was that more than an old wives’ tale? How could she possibly look so gorgeous if she couldn’t see her own reflection? A matching hutch offered basic wine and spirits. He’d give a lot to rummage around her room and learn her secrets.

  This room had two doors, the one they’d entered through, and another on the opposite wall. He didn’t know where that led, but he could guess.

  “My bedroom,” she said, smiling, as if she could read his mind. “Did you want to see it? I thought you wanted a word in private.”

  Zane felt his cheeks heat. What was it about her that made him feel fourteen and tongue-tied in the presence of the head cheerleader? God help him, he did want to see her bedroom – and not for the story. He reined himself in.

  “I do,” he muttered.

  “Then why don’t you have a seat?”

  Heartbreakingly graceful, she eased into the chair opposite him and sat waiting. Zane had no idea what he was going to say. He couldn’t start with, Are you a dangerous, immortal bloodsucker? Plus, even writing for Weird Weekly News, he still carried a certain burden of proof: blurry photos, bite marks, something.

  Maybe that was how he could trap her. If he pretended to be into blood play, she might buy it. There were enough vamp fetishists who chased the lifestyle to make it plausible anyway. The only question was whether he could sell it.

  He sat down, feeling more confident. At least he had an angle now. “Downstairs I couldn’t help but notice your teeth.”

  Both her brows lofted. “And you want the name of my dentist?”

  “I – no. I was just wondering what it meant.”

  “It’s a cosmetic vanity,” she said, smiling. “It lends the place a certain mystique, don’t you agree? People like to feel they’re in the presence of something miraculous.”

  “So they’re caps?” Of course she wasn’t going to admit she was the real deal, not until they’d built up some rapport – or maybe after she had him so enthralled he couldn’t conceive of outing her. Zane thought about the man’s face, Steven he thought his name had been. His eyes spoke of terrible addiction.

  She gave a little nod. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “It’s OK,” he said. “I should’v
e known it was nothing.”

  “So that’s what you’re seeking? Someone to bite you?”

  Zane kept his face impassive. “Is that so surprising?”

  “A little,” she said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you want someone to command your will.”

  He didn’t, of course. The very idea sent a thrill of horror through him. As a kid, he’d been subject to other people’s whims, a victim of capricious fate, and he never intended to let it happen again.

  “Maybe I just want to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “Do you truly think you can lie to me?” Her voice carried a queenly resonance, and he wanted to fall at her feet.

  He didn’t.

  “Why not?” he asked. “You seem to think you can lie to me.”

  That surprised her. He saw it in the faint widening of her storm-cloud eyes. “You are a strange creature.”

  “Lady, you don’t know the half of it.”

  “I know this – you pose a danger to me and mine. If I owned equal measures of caution and prudence, I would bar you from this establishment.”

  “But you won’t,” he said, smiling.

  He saw her gaze linger on his mouth and he realized he was not without resources in this battle.

  “I will not,” she agreed. “The game is met, and I stand eager to learn who rises as the conqueror.”

  Zane touched her hand, his fingers light as the first snow in winter. “I am your undiscovered country, Ysabel. You have never met anyone like me.”

  Six

  Within a week, Ysabel knew everything about Zane Monteith. He had lost his mother young, and his father drank. At fourteen, his father perished in a car accident, and his relatives passed him around – aunts, uncles and distant cousins – until he turned eighteen. Despite the odds, he landed an academic scholarship and went to Salem State College, where he majored in journalism. He’d found it challenging to get a job as a real journalist with no experience, so he wound up working for Weird Weekly News.

  Now he wanted a scoop on vampires.

  She smiled over that. Writing for such a rag, it was a little surprising he’d had the investigative skills to track them down. If he worked for a more reputable periodical, she might have needed to do something distasteful. But this . . . this could function in her favour.

  Ysabel did not wait for him this week. One of the advantages of the modern age was that she didn’t need to sit demurely in a tower, so she went to Marceau just before the club opened. By his tight expression, he didn’t anticipate liking her plans.

  “I won’t be in tonight, Marceau. Leave Galen in charge. If he has any trouble, dispatch Carvalo to assist him.”

  “Noted, m’selle.” Marceau hesitated, and she wagered with herself how long he’d take to voice his disapproval. No more than fifteen seconds; she counted. “Perhaps you should reconsider going out alone. Cyrus would be delighted to escort you.”

  Cyrus raised his ash-blond head, fixing jade eyes on the two of them. Once she’d thought him beautiful beyond belief, like an angel from a Renaissance painting.

  “I would?” he asked, raising a brow at Marceau. “Pity. I had intended to cultivate the lovely Lily this evening.”

  “I do not think her garden requires any attention,” she said dryly.

  His green eyes sparkled. “You only say that because you know me.”

  Ysabel smiled despite herself. “True. But I will not interfere with your plans.” She turned to Marceau. “I’m afraid Cyrus will not prove of any use to me in this endeavour.”

  “When have I ever proved of any use?”

  “Fourth of January, 1857.”

  He thought for a moment, and then his smile slipped. “Yes. I suppose you’re right. Be careful, Ysabel. It’s been a long time since you went out alone.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “Things are different. The world has changed.”

  “But no less dangerous for a woman alone,” Cyrus pointed out.

  Her look chilled. “Then I misspoke. What I meant is that I have changed.”

  “True enough.” Cyrus returned to his drink.

  She left Marceau gazing after her, his brow furrowed in concern. If it were up to him, she would never leave the club without a full complement of bodyguards. But over the years, she had learned that sometimes all that did was give ruffians the notion that she possessed something worth guarding.

  Ysabel did not go out the public entrance. Instead she passed through an inner door and stepped onto the street, rather than emerge in the alley. She had found that people enjoyed the hint of subterfuge as much as the exclusive feeling of the club.

  Anticipation sizzled through her as she measured her steps along the damp pavement. If Zane had lived more than eight blocks away, she would’ve called for her driver, but he had a flat within walking distance, even on a night like tonight – perhaps especially on a night like tonight.

  Rain drizzled on her lightly, leaving no marks on the white coat. She had bought it many years ago, after seeing Grace Kelly wear something similar in a film. She wore a pair of dark glasses to protect her eyes from the city lights. The world had become a place of neon and garish fluorescent beams when she could best tolerate candlelight or softly diffused bulbs specially purchased for their low wattage.

  No one who passed her on the street would remember her tomorrow, though several men took a second look. She smiled as she paused at the crumbling brownstone. There was no security to speak of, not even an intercom system. Marceau would have a fit if he saw her entering such a place.

  Smiling over that, she tugged the front door open. Inside, the air reeked of onions and peppers, underscored by a faint hint of mildew. The building reminded her a little of the tenements in New York at the turn of the century. They had left that city just after the last Great War. As she sought the stairs, she calculated. They had been in Boston for over six decades then, and she had not anticipated a diversion so soon in twice as many years.

  Ysabel found the stairwell without mishap; Zane lived on the second floor. The second storey was divided in half. He had the flat at the end of the hall, 2A. She stepped lightly to the door and knocked.

  When he answered, he wore nothing but a pair of old denims. They hung loose on his hip bones, showing the gently concave curve of his abdomen. His chest was lean and well muscled, fading bronze as if he had worked outdoors during the summer. Night-dark hair tipped in plumage stood in messy spikes; she could envision his restless hands working through it. He hadn’t shaved in several days, so his jaw bristled. She should’ve been repulsed by the pure animal dishevelment of him.

  She wasn’t.

  Seven

  “You,” he said stupidly.

  Surprise didn’t even come close. He felt like he’d been hit with a ball-peen hammer. Zane had thought Jablonski had come to ask him to fix something in her apartment again. Instead, he found an angel. It was madness that she would seek him out.

  She looked like something out of an old movie: the debutante slumming with the gardener’s son. Zane had never seen anyone so lovely. He’d wanted to believe it was the romance of the club that made him feel so helplessly captivated. But no, seeing her on the worn carpet in his own building left him reeling the same way. Raindrops lay on her moon-kissed hair like a fine web of diamonds.

  It hurt him to breathe, his chest oddly tight. This reaction had kept him away from her out of a desperate sense of self-preservation. He’d feared the challenge she’d thrown down and, instead of pursuing the better story, he wrote a throwaway piece about how a butter stain on a pancake looked like the Virgin Mary. But even as he avoided her, he’d thought about her, about the way her skin felt beneath his fingertips. Such a trivial touch – he didn’t trust wanting anything this much.

  “Me. You’ve been thinking about me, have you not?”

  Arrogant, he thought. But true. He nodded.

  “I thought it time to give you what you want.”

  Did that mean she was going to
bite him? A shudder of reaction racked him, horror commingled with desire. That was the last thing he wanted. He could not imagine anything so wrong as living off other people like a ghoul, a parasite.

  At length Zane recovered his composure. “Then I suppose you’d better come in.”

  She brushed by him, smelling sweet and clean. He wondered what perfume she was wearing, for surely nobody smelled naturally of peaches, citrus, honeydew and water lily. He drew in a deep breath and fought the urge to touch her.

  By the time Zane closed the door, he had himself more or less under control. He stood with his back to it while she strolled through his apartment, touching odds and ends as if she could know him through her fingertips. God knew, he wanted her to try, but not this way. Not through his things. His skin.

  Distantly he knew she must be using vamp mojo on him. He’d never reacted to a woman like this in his life. Maybe he could use that in the story, make it a personal piece: I was a vampire’s love slave. His editor would love the confessional slant.

  “Still working the angles?” she asked quietly.

  “Always.” He managed a grin. “Now then, what really brings you to my humble abode? I kind of doubt you’re going to hand me a story on a silver platter.” It was a calculated gamble. If she knew where he lived, she likely knew other things as well.

  Maybe things he’d rather she didn’t.

  “I am, actually.” She shrugged out of her white coat, revealing a sapphire dress that clung to her lithe body.

  His apartment looked dingy and cluttered in comparison with her gentle elegance. She drew off the glasses last, her eyes full of storm clouds. Ysabel gave off an air of fragility, but some women made an art of concealing their strength.

  “What do you want?” Cynicism spiked his tone. He couldn’t help it. Nobody offered something for nothing.

  Her gaze skimmed his bare chest. “You,” she said softly.

  Every instinct leaped at the word. She could take her sharp little teeth to his throat as she rode him. It took all his self-possession not to say yes and reach for her. To take her to his bed with its sagging mattress and rumpled sheets. But caution came hard won, and trust, for him, not at all.