Dark Deception: A Vampire Romance (Vampire Royals of New York Book 1)

by Sarah Piper

  The hosts called for everyone to take a seat in the main room, and Dorian held out his arm. With a soft smile, she reached for him, but then hesitated, a silent war waging in her eyes.

  “It’s all right, love,” he teased. “I don’t bite—not until the second date.”

  Whatever her reservations, they vanished in an instant. She flashed him a look so fierce and wanton, it left no doubt about their common interests.

  “In that case, we’re counting drinks as our first.” She wrapped her hand around his arm and leaned in close. “Let’s hope you’re a man of your word.”

  With her firm breasts pressed against him, it was all Dorian could do to keep his cock in check.

  If I didn’t want that painting so badly, I’d drag her into the nearest coat closet, tie her up, and—

  “Come on,” she asked, leading him into the auction room without another word.

  Leading him. Dorian Redthorne. Like a damn puppy.

  Bloody hell, how had she managed to turn the tables so quickly? In her captivating presence, Dorian was powerless to resist—a state that agitated him greatly. The last time he allowed a woman to get the upper hand, he’d lost complete control, and a hundred and forty-nine people died in the aftermath—a bloodbath Dorian was still paying for and not keen to repeat.

  Despite the warning echoes of the past, there was something about her—a physical magnetism he couldn’t ignore. She’d intrigued him from the moment she stepped into the lobby downstairs, and every moment he spent in her presence drew him in deeper.

  Entranced. It was the only word for it.

  Stupid was another one, perhaps, but he pushed that thought aside.

  As they settled into adjacent seats, he rested his arm around the back of her chair, inhaling another breath of her intoxicating scent, wondering at her strange contradictions. Despite her passion for art, her intelligence, the way her eyes danced with laughter, the darkness he’d noticed downstairs was still lurking, roiling beneath the surface like a tempest she could barely contain.

  What secrets are you harboring, love?

  If she felt his intense gaze, she didn’t show it. The woman kept her eyes on the artwork at the front of the room, her jaw set, looking determined as hell.

  He wondered what piece she was after today. Hopefully not the Whitfield. If Dorian was going to do battle with her, he’d much rather have it unfold in his bedroom.

  The very thought of her creamy flesh against his dark silk sheets made his cock stir, and he pulled his jacket closed to hide the evidence, affixing a polite smile to his face as the rest of the guests filed in.

  Duchanes strolled in dead last, taking a seat directly in front of them, acknowledging them both with a curt nod.

  His woman stiffened, and Dorian moved closer, protective instincts kicking into overdrive. Despite her bravery, the relief in her eyes when he’d barged into that bedroom… It was a look Dorian wouldn’t soon forget.

  Duchanes wasn’t the only vampire in attendance tonight, either. Two women from House Connelly sat a few rows away, and he’d noticed a man from House Pritchard at the bar earlier. He also counted two wolf shifters in the crowd, along with a witch from Darkmoon coven whose services he’d occasionally employed.

  The presence of supernaturals at private human auctions wasn’t unheard of, but it was unusual. Mostly, his kind preferred to avoid the company of humans in large groups—less chance of violence, less chance of discovery. To see this many gathered at the same auction—so soon after his father’s death, no less—left him uneasy at best.

  At worst? Well, Dorian preferred not to think about that, choosing instead to glare at the back of Duchanes’ head, imagining it popping right off his neck and rolling along the floor like a bloody bowling ball.

  With everyone finally seated, the auctioneer got down to business, starting with a small but richly colored painting of a Parisian sidewalk scene—A Moment’s Pause, the last known work of Johan Saccari. Dorian didn’t recognize it.

  “What do you think it’s worth?” he whispered to his companion. “Fifty thousand?”

  “Not even close.” The woman leaned in, a conspiratorial grin lighting her face. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “After Saccari’s death, his apprentice sold a dozen of his own paintings under his master’s name. When he was finally caught, he admitted that A Moment’s Pause was Saccari’s final painting, and its value skyrocketed. It was stolen from the Louvre in the thirties, returned in the forties, and stolen again in the fifties. After they recovered it the second time, it was sold to a private collector for three million dollars.”

  “No kidding?” Dorian was impressed by her knowledge. The bidding had already gone up to $80,000, and it was climbing steadily. “Think it’ll go for six figures?”

  “Probably. But here’s the real secret: it’s worthless.”

  “You said it was Saccari’s last—”

  “This one’s a fake. You can tell by the flat texture. Saccari was known for mixing foreign matter into his paints—sand, glass, stones, even hair. The real Moment’s Pause is hanging over a fireplace in Spain, still with the family who purchased it from the Louvre.”

  “Sold!” the auctioneer said. “Four hundred thousand dollars from bidder seven.”

  “Wow,” Dorian said. “Poor bastard.”

  “You know what they say about suckers, right?”

  Dorian grinned. “Bet bidder seven wishes he was sitting next to you.”

  “Bidder seven wouldn’t stand a chance with me. He probably doesn’t bite until the fourth date.”

  Heat flared in her eyes, sending another bolt of desire to his cock. But with a frightening realization, Dorian’s blood went cold.

  “The Whitfield painting,” he said urgently. “Do you know it?”

  “Of course. Are you interested?”

  “I am if it’s really the Whitfield.”

  “Oh, that one’s totally authentic. I was relieved to see it, actually. For years it’s been… unaccounted for.” Her face clouded, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows, her heart rate spiking ever so slightly. It looked as though she had more to say on the matter, but when Dorian pressed, she waved it off.

  “Now that’s an interesting piece,” she said instead, drawing his attention to an ancient alabaster bust that just went up for bid. “Also authentic. It’s King Darius the First, carved in the late period Egyptian style. Egypt was part of the Achaemenid Empire by then. The piece was probably commissioned by one of the king’s local wives.”

  The auctioneer opened the bidding at $8,000. “Eight, to the gentleman in front. Do I hear eight five?”

  “Nine,” his woman called out. She was all business now, the playfulness gone from her voice.

  A third and fourth bidder entered the game, his woman keeping pace through a volley of bids. The price climbed to $55,000 before she finally dropped out. In the end, it sold for $72,000 to the Darkmoon witch.

  Dorian wasn’t surprised. Witches often collected antiquities, using them to tap into ancient magic. And at the rates they charged for their services, they could certainly afford the bids.

  “I’m sorry, love. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

  “Nah. It’s a great piece, but not a stellar example of late period Egyptian art by any means. Certainly not worth seventy grand.”

  “Someone disagrees with you.”

  “What did I tell you about suckers?”

  “After all your talk of pretense,” Dorian said, nudging her knee with his, “could it be you’re an art snob?”

  She pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “I’m a bit of an art snob too.”

  “You don’t say?” She fingered the cuff of his suit jacket, stroking the fine Italian wool where not too long ago the evidence of his father’s demise glowed white in the setting sun. “Here I thought you were the type to have a trophy room full of dea
d-animal heads.”

  “To be fair, the live ones are a bit harder to mount.”

  Her unabashed laughter attracted more than a few impatient glares, but Dorian couldn’t get enough of it. She was even more beautiful when she laughed; her entire body glowed with it.

  The curve of her bare shoulder glimmered—a temptation Dorian could no longer resist. With his arm still resting on the back of her chair, he reached out and risked a delicate caress. Her skin rippled with goosebumps, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her heart rate kicking up.

  Dorian traced a soft path from her shoulder to her neck, fingers dancing over the pulse point near her throat. Beneath her satin-smooth skin, warm blood stirred at his touch, calling to that dark, ancient beast inside him, drawing his cock to painfully abrupt attention.

  All this, from a mere shoulder and neck. He could only imagine what the rest of her body felt like, what it looked like under that dress, what it tasted like.

  He drew his hand back, unleashing a sigh from her lips, a gentle shiver trembling across her shoulders like a wave kissing the shoreline.

  Dorian’s mouth quirked into a smile. With nothing more than a touch, he’d commanded such a response. It was as if her body had already foreseen its destiny, already resigned itself to a future pinned beneath his hungry, insatiable mouth.

  The dizzying scent of her desire washed over him anew.

  And in that moment, he knew with utter certainty—despite his vows, despite his responsibilities, despite everything—tonight could only end in one of two ways.

  He was going to fuck her.

  Or he was going to feed on her.

  “…Desolate Rains by Hans Whitfield.”

  The announcement cut into his carnal thoughts, bringing the auction room back into sharp focus. His painting was up for bid—a moment he’d been working on for years. He couldn’t turn his back on it now—not even for her.

  The woman glanced up at him, her eyes dark with unfulfilled need. But she quickly blinked it away, forcing a smile and wishing him luck on the bidding.

  Clinging to the last vestiges of his control, he returned her smile and whispered a quick retort. “I don’t need luck, gorgeous. I’ve got money.”

  Sliding the bid card from his suit jacket, he quickly scanned the room, assessing the competition. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, but to Dorian it looked more like curiosity than commitment.

  He hoped that wasn’t the case. He needed the adrenaline rush of a good fight to take his mind off the throbbing ache below his belt.

  “We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars,” the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a priceless piece, and several bid cards floated lazily into the air. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.

  “Fifty-five,” he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it wouldn’t get close to that.

  “Sixty,” Duchanes said, turning to offer a smug smile.

  Irritation burned in his chest, but Dorian nodded politely, holding off on raising the asshole’s bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with a few others until it reached $100,000.

  Dorian raised it by ten.

  “Do we have one twenty?” the auctioneer asked. “One twenty for Hans Whitfield’s Desolate Rains, Series Two?”

  For a moment it seemed no one else had any interest. Disappointment settled into Dorian’s stomach—the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000.

  “One ten, going once,” the auctioneer said. “Going twice—”

  “One fifty,” Duchanes said.

  Before Dorian could respond, another bidder jumped in at one seventy-five.

  The woman.

  He glared at her, unable to hide his surprise.

  She raised her eyebrows, offering Dorian her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was clearly anything but. “I couldn’t let him get away with that.”

  Heat raced through Dorian’s veins. “You’re after my painting, love?”

  “I’m after a lot of things. Care to raise the stakes?”

  “One seventy-five,” the auctioneer said. “Do we have one eighty?”

  “Two hundred,” Dorian said.

  His woman squared her shoulders. “Two fifty.”

  “Two seventy-five,” Dorian said.

  “Three.”

  So she likes to play hardball too.

  He grinned, filing away the information for later. “Three fifty.”

  Duchanes jumped in at $360,000, and then another bidder offered $400,000. Dorian’s pulse kicked up with each new bid.

  This is more like it.

  He leaned forward, eager to keep his head in the game. His mystery woman might feel differently about what made these events bearable, but Dorian loved this part—the hunt, the strategy, figuring out when to jump in and when to ease up, knowing exactly when to deliver the final blow.

  But by the time the bidding reached $600,000, the other bidders bowed out, leaving only Dorian, Duchanes, and his woman.

  “Six fifty,” she said.

  Dorian narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out her game. This wasn’t a tag sale. You didn’t show up at an exclusive art auction to browse the shelves, pick up a bit of this-and-that for the summer cottage.

  What are you playing at, darling?

  “Do I hear six seventy-five?” the auctioneer asked.

  “Seven,” Dorian said.

  “Eight,” the woman countered.

  “Nine.”

  “Nine fifty,” Duchanes said.

  Dorian’s heart banged in his chest. He didn’t know what the woman was after, but Duchanes was clearly antagonizing him.

  “One million dollars,” Dorian said.

  The woman held her bid card against her chest, nibbling her lower lip, contemplating her next move.

  Dorian leaned in close, whispering hotly in her ear. “Is that all you’ve got for me, love?”

  Her eyes blazed. She waved her card with renewed vigor. “A million five.”

  “Two million,” Duchanes said, sucking the last of the fun out of the game.

  Dorian was already well past his intended max, but he couldn’t quit now. Not while Duchanes held the winning bid.

  “Three million dollars,” he said firmly.

  Everyone held a breath as they awaited another volley.

  “Three million dollars for the Hans Whitfield,” the auctioneer said. “Do I hear three million five? three four?” She scanned the room, waiting for another bid that never came. “Going once. Going twice. Sold, to bidder twelve for three million dollars.”

  The room erupted in applause, and Dorian closed his eyes, momentarily lost in the rush of victory such conquests always brought him… and a wave of relief they usually didn’t.

  By the time he regained his senses and turned to face her again, his mystery woman was gone.

  “Ah, but they fly the nest so quickly.” Duchanes flashed a smarmy grin Dorian wanted to carve from his face. Then, with a slight bow of his head, “Mr. Redthorne, I’d like to request an audience.”

  Dorian didn’t bother hiding his displeasure, but Duchanes kept right on grinning.

  Since he’d issued the request on neutral ground, honor and tradition prevented Dorian from refusing—especially in the presence of other vampires.

  But he didn’t have to like it.

  “What do you want, Duchanes?”

  “It’s not so much what I want, as what I can offer.” The twat’s eyes darkened with his unchecked lust for power, and Dorian knew before the words even graced his lips what was coming next. “In your time of need, House Duchanes extends the invitation of an alliance.”

  Chapter Five

  “An alliance. With House Duchanes.” Dorian paced before the bar, the thin veneer of his patience finally shattering. His woman was still on the premises—her scent was all around him now, driving him to the very brink of sanity—but rather than h
unting her down and devouring every silky, forbidden inch of her body, Dorian was here, listening to a bloodsucking opportunist he’d been swatting away like a gnat since Prohibition.

  Duchanes swirled his bourbon, his gold signet ring glittering on a fat finger. “Consider your predicament, Redthorne. Your father’s gone. You’ve no sired heirs in your line. Your family’s power is waning. And last I heard,” he said, lowering his voice as if he actually gave a damn about decorum, “there isn’t a witch in all five boroughs willing to bind herself to the Redthorne royals.”

  Dorian seethed. He didn’t need Renault Duchanes to articulate his predicament; he could feel his very cells dying with each passing heartbeat. Tonight’s curbside meal, which should’ve been enough to sate him for a week, had done little to ease the burn of hunger in his gut. Even in low light, his eyes constantly ached. And every day the sun rose, the fog in his head lingered a bit longer, dulling his senses by degrees.

  Such was the nature of creatures of the night—a nature that could only be mitigated by a skilled witch, and only by vampires that could afford one.

  Through spells and enchantments that enhanced their powers and muted their limitations, witches allowed vampires to live as humans in all the ways that mattered most, sparing them the agony of an immortal life in a dank cave or tunnel, hunting one another like so many of the wraith-like creatures Dorian had encountered when he’d first been turned. Such creatures could never venture into the light, never taste human food, never love.

  In return, a family of witches who bound themselves to a vampire line received protection, housing, more money than they could spend in a lifetime, and unlimited access to one of the most magical ingredients in the known world—vampire blood.

  But as much as it burned Dorian’s balls to admit it, Duchanes was right. Aside from selling him the occasional one-off spell or hex, there wasn’t a witch on the entire eastern seaboard suicidal enough to align herself with House Redthorne.

  Dorian couldn’t blame them. The last Redthorne witch hadn’t survived past her twenty-third birthday.

  Memories of his brutal failures wrapped their cold fingers around his heart, but he wouldn’t give Duchanes the satisfaction of showing a shred of vulnerability.