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

by Sarah Piper

  Her uncle returned a few minutes later with fresh drinks and a kitchen towel. He took one look at Travis, sulking at the far end of the couch in a soaked shirt, and laughed. “I see the reunion is going well.”

  “Smashing. What’s on the agenda tonight?” Charley asked, forcing a smile. She wasn’t interested in reunions or laughs over a few drinks. She’d bailed on the rest of girls’ night with Sasha, turned off her phone during a perfectly delicious text volley with Dorian on the cab ride up, and endured the filthy, unwanted advances of her sleazy ex. The least Rudy could do was get to the fucking point.

  “A new assignment, possibly. But believe me when I say there’s no room for error here.” He sipped his martini so delicately it looked like a kiss. Over the rim, he exchanged a glance with Travis that Charley couldn’t decipher. “We need to be certain you can handle it. We have… concerns.”

  “What about Bones and the guys?” she asked, wondering when the fuck Rudy and Travis had become a ‘we.’

  Where was the rest of the crew?

  “This is more of a… side project.” Rudy and his pet snake shared another cryptic glance. “We’re counting on your discretion.”

  Charley nodded, forcing herself not to push. She knew better than to challenge Rudy or go behind his back to the others, but this kind of secrecy was bad news. The fresh churn in her gut went well beyond her usual attack of conscience; something about this gig was off.

  “Are you interested in the details?” Rudy asked.

  What I’m interested in, you son of a bitch, is dumping this drink in your face, setting you on fire, and shooting your charred corpse out of a cannon over the East River.

  “Of course,” she said brightly, setting her drink on the coffee table. “What’s the job?”

  Travis retrieved an envelope from the back of his waistband and handed it over. “Shindig upstate on Friday night. You’re an attorney attending at the behest of your client.”

  The envelope was still warm from his body heat. Charley tried not to grimace as she thumbed through the contents: a satellite map of a sprawling estate in Annandale-on-Hudson, a ticket to the event, and a few details about her temporary identity.

  “What am I bidding on?” she asked.

  “No bids,” Travis said. “This one’s a fundraiser for some kiddie art charity. A thousand bucks a head too. You’d think they were trying to adopt those fucking rug rats.”

  “You shelled out a grand for this?” Charley raised her eyebrows at her uncle. “Must be a pretty sure thing.”

  Rudy sprayed her with his machine-gun laugh. “Not a cent. That ticket is Travis’ handiwork.”

  A forgery. Great. Let’s hope they’re not checking these against the guest list.

  “According to our sources,” Rudy said, “the estate is one of only a handful of private residences in the hamlet. It’s allegedly furnished with rare artifacts and art dating back to ancient times.”

  “The guy also collects vintage cars,” Travis said.

  “Sounds like you’ve got this one locked down.” Charley stuffed the paperwork back into the envelope and tossed it onto the coffee table, retrieving her drink. “What do you need me for?”

  “An inside look,” Rudy said. From a leather folio, he pulled out a stack of surveillance photos and a detailed floor plan of the house. “We’ve got a good handle on the external points of entry,” he said, pointing out the red Xs marked around the perimeter, “but we don’t know the precise security situation, or how many people have access. Preliminary surveillance suggests two groundskeepers, a cook, a driver, and at least three housekeepers on a rotating weekly schedule.”

  “How many residents?” she asked.

  “One man, with only occasional guests, some of which may be there now.”

  “The alarm system was upgraded about six months ago,” Travis said, pointing out a photo of a security company van parked in the driveway, a pair of contractors standing next to it. Charley wondered if the contractors were on Rudy’s payroll.

  With so much intel, it was clear Travis and Rudy had already done a ton of digging.

  She brought the drink to her lips, covering her frustration with a long pull. It was just like Rudy not to involve her until the last minute. That’s all she’d ever be to him—a pawn. If anything went south, she’d be the first to go down and the last to talk, because she had the most to lose.

  Even more than the money, the penthouse, the credit card bill he paid without fail, Sasha’s life would always be Rudy’s true bargaining chip, and everyone in that room knew it.

  “In addition to the security details,” Rudy went on, “we need more intel about the cache itself. We’ve traced a lot of artwork to this location, but we can’t be sure exactly what’s there. When we go in—not if, but when—we need to be prepared for anything. We won’t get another shot.”

  Charley spread the photos out on the table, giving everything a closer look. The property featured a 20,000-square-foot Elizabethan manor home on fifty acres of lush gardens, with stunning views of the Hudson River and the Catskill Mountains beyond. There was also a massive garage, a guesthouse, and several smaller outbuildings, everything pristine and perfect.

  It was breathtaking.

  Also, a ridiculous amount of property for one man.

  It was situated far away from the main roads. If Charley needed to make a quick escape, it wouldn’t be a simple matter of dashing out into the street and hailing a cab.

  Worse, fundraisers required a lot more social interaction than auctions. With no main event to keep people occupied, everyone would want to talk and network and generally pry into one another’s business—all things that could get her noticed if she didn’t keep her story straight. She’d have to really be on her game, and the “attorney” cover felt too complicated, too easy to screw up.

  It was a lot to consider.

  But like all of Rudy’s “requests,” refusing wasn’t really an option.

  “I want a driver,” she said finally. “He has to stay within a mile of the home at all times.”

  “Absolutely,” Rudy said.

  “I’m not sitting in weekend traffic on I-87, either. Get me a room in town for Thursday night.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “I’ll need a new dress.”

  “Of course.”

  “Shoes and accessories too.”

  “You’ve got the credit card—go crazy.” Rudy sipped his drink, eyes sparkling over the rim of his glass. “Any other demands, kiddo?”

  “Just one.” Charley leaned back on the couch and crossed her arms over her chest. “After this job, I want a vacation. Three weeks in Spain, all expenses paid. And that’s for me and my sister. Nonnegotiable.”

  Rudy narrowed his eyes, but he was already nodding. “Do the job right, and you’ll be rewarded.”

  He swept the surveillance photos and floor plans back into his folio, leaving Charley with the envelope containing her fundraiser ticket, map, and details about her identity. She stuffed it into her purse, glancing once more at Travis.

  “I’m so glad you’re getting in bed with us on this,” he said, flashing another creepy grin.

  Other than the forged ticket and surveillance details he’d provided, she couldn’t figure out why he was still here.

  “What’s your involvement, exactly?” she asked.

  The look in his eyes was so gleefully menacing, she half expected him to unhinge his jaw and swallow her whole.

  “I’m your driver, baby.” He reached over and squeezed her knee, a promise and a threat. “Just you and me, like old times.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The cool, white bedding was the best invitation Charley had gotten all night.

  After following her into the elevator at Rudy’s, Travis had spent the entire ride down groping and pawing, pressing her against the wall like a dog in heat. He’d stopped short of climbing into the cab with her, but that was only because she’d slammed the door in his face.
>
  A long, hot shower helped calm her nerves, and now Charley sank into her luxurious down pillows, ready to put that part of the evening squarely in the rearview.

  But the oblivion of sleep wouldn’t take her. Her mind was too busy racing through the details of the fundraiser: the cover story she’d have to embellish, the risks she’d have to anticipate, the contingency plans, the backup contingency plans. With Travis as her driver, she couldn’t leave anything to chance.

  After an hour of tossing and turning, she finally got out of bed, clicking the remote to open the blinds. Thirty stories below her windows, the streets of Park Avenue pulsed with nightlife, the car horns a muted symphony through the glass.

  She wondered if Dorian was awake. He’d said he had a house upstate as well as a penthouse in Tribeca, a Manhattan neighborhood she couldn’t see from her place on Park Avenue. As the cabs raced by below, she imagined one of them ferrying her downtown to his apartment, straight into the blissful heat of his touch.

  Her cell phone taunted her from the nightstand, silent and black, nothing but pure, untarnished potential. Before she could talk herself out of it, she grabbed it and pulled up his number.

  You awake? she texted.

  Yes, he replied immediately. Thinking of you, actually. What are you doing Friday night?

  Hmm. That sounds suspiciously like a lead-up to a date.

  So?

  We said no dating!

  When she’d finally agreed to exchange numbers at the museum, she did so on one condition: that they’d keep it casual. Flirty texts were risky enough, but under no circumstances could they actually date. She thought she’d made that clear.

  So why was he asking her out?

  It’s not a date, he replied. It’s a party. A terribly boring party. Please come.

  Why would I come to a terribly boring party?

  Not come TO. Come AT.

  Charley cracked up. Assumptions, assumptions!

  We’ll have access to at least a dozen closets.

  Hmm… this party is sounding less boring by the minute.

  So… it’s a non-date?

  Disappointment settled into her stomach. Can’t, she replied. Work thing.

  Cancel.

  I wish. Rain check?

  Charley froze, her fingers hot over the screen. Why did she ask for a rain check? She was the one who’d made the no-dating rule in the first place, and now she was encouraging him.

  God, what is it about this guy?

  Her phone buzzed with his reply. I’ll hold you to it. The hot dog cart isn’t the same without you.

  I’ll bet. Charley smiled, but as much as she was enjoying their texts, she knew they couldn’t lead anywhere. Eventually, she and her Mr. Redthorne would hit a dead-end, and he’d become nothing more than a memory.

  With a soft sigh, she texted her response. Ok, gotta go. Time for bed.

  Alone?

  Wouldn’t you like to know?

  Seconds later her phone vibrated with a call. DORIAN REDTHORNE flashed on her screen, and the angel on her shoulder shouted a firm warning.

  Don’t fucking answer it. Hit ignore, delete his number, block him, erase him from your mind…

  But in the end, the devil won out, and Charley hit the answer button, a grin spreading on her face. “Good evening, Mr. Redthorne.”

  “Yes,” the man said firmly.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I would like to know. I would very much like to know if you’re in bed alone.”

  “I am,” she admitted. “Unfortunately. And before you get your hopes up about what I’m wearing, it’s just boxer shorts and an old T-shirt from—”

  “Take them off. Now.”

  The command, so firm and delicious after all their earlier jokes, made her instantly hot. She set the phone on the bed and stripped off every last scrap of fabric. She thought about closing the blinds, but decided against it, her body basking in the glow from the neighboring towers. With her bedroom lights turned off, no one could see inside, but the thought that someone might be watching anyway sent a forbidding thrill to her core.

  Charley grabbed the phone. “Okay. I’m here.”

  “Are you naked?”

  She lay back on her bed, stretched out over the top of her soft down comforter, grateful that Sasha’s room was on the other side of the penthouse. “Naked and alone on this huge king bed, and I’m very, very wet.”

  “Bloody hell,” Dorian said. “Do you have any idea what I’d do to you if I were there right now?”

  “I’m a little hazy on the details.” Charley was playing with serious fire, but she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just the museum run-in; she hadn’t stopped thinking about Dorian for more than five minutes since she’d first seen him in the Salvatore lobby. After that, he’d rescued her from that Duchanes dickweed, bought her drinks, made her laugh, touched her in ways that no other man had ever dared, and saved her from a mugging in Central Park.

  Just seeing his name light up her phone made Charley ache with a desire that pulsed hot through her veins.

  Now, Charley’s fantasies would never let her be free of him.

  She didn’t want to be free of him.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, her hand trailing over her belly, down to the smooth mound below. She stroked a finger lightly over her clit, shocked at how wet she really was. “Tell me what you’d do to me if you were here right now.”

  He groaned in her ear, a deep vibration that made her stomach flip.

  “Are you touching yourself?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch yourself last night, all alone in that great big bed without me?”

  “Yes,” Charley moaned, her fingers slipping inside. “I thought of you, your face buried between my thighs, fucking me with your dirty mouth.”

  “I’d tie you to the bed first, though, good and tight. Then I’d lick every inch of your flesh, sucking and tasting until I had my fill, until you were writhing on the bed, begging me to let you come. Would you like that, Charlotte?”

  “So much,” Charley breathed. She stroked herself, slipping her fingers in and out of her pussy as she pictured his face, his lips, imagining him sucking her nipples, licking a hot path down her belly. “You have no idea.”

  “You’re getting close, love. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Dorian moaned softly, a sound that raised goosebumps on Charley’s skin as she drove her fingers inside, then pulled out, massaging her clit in slow, tantalizing circles as the sound of his deep, delicious voice made her even wetter.

  She was almost there, her muscles clenching, her heart beating wildly as she stroked faster and harder…

  “That’s it, gorgeous,” he purred. “I want you to come hard for me, come like it’s my tongue between your thighs, sucking that exquisite—”

  “Dorian! Oh fuck, yes!”

  The orgasm hit her hard and fast, and Charley damn near exploded, gasping into the phone as waves of white-hot pleasure slammed through her body.

  It took her a few minutes to come back down, and when she finally did, Dorian was still on the phone, waiting patiently for her return. In the neon blaze of the city lights, her skin glistened, her body warm and relaxed.

  Charley let out a deep sigh, thinking again of the ocean. Dorian was the tide, pushing her past her limits, dragging her to the very edge, making her feel powerful and alive.

  It was terrifying.

  It was beautiful.

  It was addicting, and now that she’d gotten another taste, Charley didn’t think she’d ever be able to stop.

  “I wish you were here,” she whispered, an unplanned admission that felt a hell of a lot more needy than sexy, but Charley didn’t care. She did wish he was there, lying next to her in that great big bed, whispering about all the naughty things he wanted to do to her. Kissing her. Holding her close as she drifted into a dreamless, worry-less sleep, carried away by the surging sea.

  “Me, too.” Dorian’s breath w
as slow and even, his voice gentle and a little sad when he finally spoke again, the last words she heard before she finally passed out. “Sweet dreams, love.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Thank you for accommodating me on such short notice, Marlys.” Dorian held open the door, ushering the Darkmoon witch into Luna del Mar, a witch-owned café in Staten Island that served as neutral territory for all supernaturals.

  She flashed a radiant grin. “You know I’m always honored to serve House Redthorne, Dorian.”

  Yes, and he’d just paid $150,000 and a good amount of his own blood for that honor. It was extortion, plain and simple, but Dorian couldn’t proceed without a high-level witch at his side.

  Chernikov had finally requested an audience. Playing politics with the demon lord was the very last place Dorian wanted to be, especially with all the preparations he still had to do for tomorrow’s ridiculous fundraiser, but refusing the demon’s invitation would’ve been taken as a slight.

  For now, Dorian was eager to keep the peace.

  He followed Marlys to the private room at the back of the café, where Chernikov sat alone, looking every bit the Russian mobster he fancied himself—dark, slicked-back hair, graying at the temples. Bespoke suit. No tie. The demon kept the top three buttons on his shirt open, making sure everyone could see the snake tattoo wrapped around his neck, eating its own tail.

  “Ah, Mr. Redthorne. Is good to see you,” Chernikov said in his thick Russian accent. He rose from his chair, gesturing for Dorian to take the seat across from him. “Or do I call you highness now? So many titles, I lose track.”

  “Call me Dorian. I insist.” Dorian took a seat, Marlys standing right by his side, ready to smoke the demon’s ass to oblivion if he made a wrong move.

  “You are Dorian—fine. Then I am Nikolai. Yes?” He picked up a half-spent bottle of Russian vodka from a healthy stash beside him and gave it a swirl. “Let us drink to our newfound camaraderie.”

  “I would be honored. But first, precautions.”