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

by Sarah Piper

  It was the real deal.

  It was priceless.

  And—mindfuck of all mindfucks—it was another piece from her father’s missing cache.

  Charley’s heart hammered, her palms sweating inside the satin gloves. Why did Dorian Redthorne—her Dorian Redthorne—have two pieces of art from the heist that had basically killed her dad?

  Had Rudy known about these pieces?

  Was he home sipping his martini, laughing his ass off as he sent her out to chase after her father’s ghost?

  Was this all a fucking game to him?

  Questions rushed at her from the deepest, most fearful parts of her heart. Charley was so lost in thought and worry, she didn’t even hear the man behind her until it was too late.

  “Is something wrong, Ms. D’Amico?” he asked. “You seem a bit… confused.”

  Charley jumped and spun around, coming face-to-face with Malcolm, his mistrustful gaze boring straight through her.

  “No, I…” She took a step back, bumping against the glass-topped table, her mind whirling as she tried to recalibrate.

  She should’ve apologized. She should’ve acted drunk. She should’ve turned the charm on full blast, forced out a nervous giggle, and invented another excuse about getting lost on the way to the powder room.

  But with Malcolm towering over her, all she said was, “I need to speak with Dorian.”

  “And you thought you’d find him down here?” He glanced over her shoulder at the table behind her. “Under the glass, perhaps?”

  “Please, Malcolm. If you could let your brother know I’m looking for him—”

  “Well, well,” he said suddenly, his gaze shifting to the elevator. “It seems the devil’s ears are ringing.”

  The door slid open, and Dorian walked out alone, his tie undone again, eyes red, jaw tight. His hair was a hot, sexy mess.

  “Dorian,” she whispered, fingers curling at the thought of running her hands through it.

  And though he shouldn’t have been able to hear her all the way across the room, he glanced up immediately, his eyes and mouth softening at the sight of her.

  “Ms. D’Amico,” he said, approaching them so gracefully, he practically glided. “Is my brother harassing you?”

  “Hardly,” Malcolm said. “I found her here, looking as if—”

  Dorian cut him off with a raised hand, the two brothers glaring at each other over the top of Charley’s head.

  Were they always at odds, or was it just her? She was starting to get a complex.

  After another few seconds of silent dick-measuring, Malcolm finally retreated, heading back upstairs and leaving them blissfully alone.

  “What’s wrong, love?” Dorian asked. “He didn’t frighten you, did he?”

  Charley had a million questions now—where were you? What’s down there? What’s up with your crazy family? Why didn’t you tell me about your father?—but she couldn’t hold his gaze.

  Instead, she turned toward the table and pointed at the statue beneath the glass. “Where did you get this?”

  “Hermes?” Dorian slipped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. Then, sliding his hands across the front of her thighs, “Care to make a bid? I’m willing to part with it for the right offer.”

  This can’t be happening…

  Charley wanted nothing more than to sink into the warm comfort of Dorian’s strong embrace, to lean back against him and feel every muscled ridge of his body molding to hers. She wanted him to reach up and cup her breasts, to growl into her ear with that deliciously deep, commanding voice. Maybe then she could forget about what she’d found. About where she’d come from. Who she was.

  But when she turned around in his arms and met his eyes, Charley knew she couldn’t forget. She was casing her almost-lover’s house, and she’d just discovered another piece of art connected to her father’s murder.

  She couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening, no matter how badly she wanted to surrender. “Where, Dorian? Tell me where it came from. I need to know.”

  Dorian backed Charley right up to the glass, pressing his hands against the case and trapping her inside his arms, his gaze narrowing suspiciously. “Why?”

  Charley’s heart rattled in her chest, the voice in her head screaming for her to forget about Hermes, forget about the LaPorte, and seduce her way out of yet another sticky situation with Dorian.

  But she couldn’t let this go.

  “Tell me,” she pressed.

  “I don’t know what your interest is, Charlotte, but obviously you’re upset.”

  She didn’t need to confirm it—every muscle in her body was vibrating.

  “Clearly we’ve got some things to discuss,” he said.

  “You think?”

  “It’s settled then.” A hint of his rakish smile broke through. “You’ll stay the weekend.”

  “I’ll… what?”

  Disarmed. That’s how Charley felt. Despite her racing heart and the mistrust swirling between them, Dorian’s smile drained the fear and tension from her body, replacing it with that mind-erasing desire he was so damn good at igniting.

  “Something tells me this isn’t about what we need to discuss.” She pressed her hand against his firm chest. “You’ve got ulterior motives, Mr. Redthorne.”

  Dorian leaned in close, dragging his lips down the long column of her neck, pressing a hot kiss into the hollow of her throat. “And you’ve been dodging me, Ms. D’Amico.”

  Damn. Her list of regrets was growing exponentially by the minute, but telling Dorian her last name was no longer one of them. She’d never get sick of hearing it on his lips.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she breathed.

  “It would be futile, I assure you.” Dorian fisted her dress, slowly lifting it to reveal her bare legs. The cool basement air teased her skin, casting her flesh in goosebumps even as Dorian’s touch flooded her core with molten heat. “I can be very persuasive.”

  Charley sighed, eyelids fluttering closed as Dorian slipped his fingers inside her underwear for the second time that night. He was totally distracting her, leading her dangerously away from her purpose, but all she could do was follow him right off the path, straight into oblivion.

  She craved his touch. Needed it.

  “Always ready for more,” he whispered, nipping at her earlobe. “I love that about you.”

  Before she could respond, Dorian claimed her mouth in a violent kiss. He slid his other hand behind her head, bringing her closer, teasing and biting until she was certain he’d draw blood…

  The sudden pinch of sharp, eager teeth on her fleshy lip made her gasp, but she didn’t pull back, not even as the warm, salty blood leaked into her mouth. Dorian moaned into the kiss, his fingers thrusting deeper between her thighs as he sucked and licked and devoured and claimed.

  Tingling heat gathered in her core, but suddenly, Charley couldn’t breathe. He was destroying her with his kiss, marking her flesh, and she couldn’t fucking breathe.

  She tried to speak but managed only a muffled plea.

  Dorian ignored her.

  Panic flooded her limbs, and she shoved against his chest, desperate for air. But they were too close, her resistance easily mistaken for play, and Dorian persisted, his grip tightening in her hair as he plundered her with his tongue and fingers.

  Stars danced before her eyes, her legs weakening, the slide of his fingers relentless as he licked and sucked and stole the very last breath from her lungs.

  The edges of her vision turned gray.

  She couldn’t hold herself up. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even see.

  She collapsed in his arms, and Dorian crushed her against his chest, moaning into her mouth as he thumbed her clit and fucked her with those mad, unabating fingers.

  What is happening to me? I can’t… This is… I’m going to… holy shit…

  The orgasm tore through her in a blinding rush, her body clenching around his fingers, heat spreading dow
n her thighs and up through her chest, the intense pleasure mixing with the fear of certain death—a cocktail that sent a surge of raw adrenaline shooting through her veins.

  With her last bit of strength, Charley shoved hard against his chest, finally breaking the kiss.

  She gasped and sucked in air, her heart ready to explode.

  Dorian pulled his hands away and stumbled backward, staring at her like he had no idea what the fuck had just happened. He glared at her mouth, his own streaked with her blood, his gaze drunk and delirious.

  He was so far gone she wasn’t sure he even recognized her.

  Crazed laughter bubbled up through her lips, and Charley pressed a hand to her chest, panting.

  “Wow. Gave me quite the scare, Mr. Redthorne.” Not to mention the hottest five minutes of my life. “Okay, then. Still breathing. Good sign.”

  “I’m… sorry.” He shook his head, muttering to himself. When he looked at her again, the haze had cleared from his eyes, replaced with something that looked a lot like guilt. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away. It… It won’t happen again.”

  He turned on his heel, about to walk away.

  Charley was more than ready to let him go, desperate for a literal and figurative breather from his unwavering intensity, but then she remembered the statue.

  “Dorian, wait! Aren’t you going to tell me about Hermes?”

  He stopped and let out a deep sigh. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

  Heat burned in her cheeks, but she couldn’t stop now. “I need to know. It’s important.”

  “Fine. I’ve got another deal for you, then.” Dorian glanced toward the upper floor, where the din of revelry still floated above them—laughter and clinking glasses, classical violins, footsteps echoing on marble. “As soon as I clear these wretched people from my home, I’ll fix us a nightcap, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know about Hermes, as well as anything else in my collection.”

  Charley did some quick calculations, hoping she had enough time before Travis came sniffing around. With a little more of that luck she’d been banking on all night, she could get the scoop on Hermes, finagle a tour of the upstairs, and sneak in some questions about the LaPorte painting too.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Redthorne.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest of the terms, Ms. D’Amico.” He finally turned to face her, running his thumb across his mouth and wiping her blood from his lips. His eyes held a dangerous spark.

  Suddenly, Charley felt like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a predator. “Terms?”

  “Think of it as a confessional. I’ll tell you about the art. And you, my little prowler…” He gripped her chin and lowered his gaze to her own still-bloodied mouth, the deep tenor of his voice buzzing across her skin. “You’ll tell me why you’re casing my home like a common thief.”

  Chapter Thirty

  What. The fuck. Was that?

  Charley could barely get her legs to work as she stumbled out of the manor, sucking in the cool night air like her life depended on it.

  They hadn’t even had sex. Yet somehow, every encounter with Dorian Redthorne made her feel like she was drowning.

  And Charley was really, really developing a taste for drowning.

  “You’re out of your damn mind, girl.”

  Taking another steadying breath, she walked along the cobblestone path behind the manor, past the spot where Dorian had ambushed her earlier, past the guest house, past the brambles and bushes and trees until the imposing Elizabethan giant was no more than a blur of stone and warm yellow light behind her.

  With every step, her mind cleared a bit more, refocusing on the stolen artwork she’d discovered, unleashing a dozen new impossible scenarios in her mind.

  She was so wrapped up in her art-world conspiracy theories, she didn’t even see the man on the path until she’d crashed right into him.

  “Whoa, easy.” He reached out to steady her just before she fell and twisted an ankle, cold hands gripping her elbows.

  “I’m so sorry!” Charley plastered on a smile, slipping the socialite mask back in place as she found her footing.

  But when she glanced up and met his gaze, all bets were off.

  Her blood went cold. Even a fine tux couldn’t hide the asshole inside.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  “Mr. Duchanes,” she ground out, taking a step backward and shoving a hand into her purse. Beyoncé 2 awaited her command, and this time, Charley wouldn’t drop her.

  Duchanes bowed slightly, clasping his hands behind his back and giving her wide berth, as if he wanted to appear as meek and non-threatening as possible. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. And watch your step.”

  Without another word, he scooted past her and disappeared up the path toward the house, clear out of sight.

  Charley released her grip on the stun gun and blew out a breath.

  Two events in a row with that creep. God, sometimes she really hated the art crowd. At least he hadn’t tried anything this time; Dorian’s implicit warnings at the auction must’ve really gotten to him.

  Rattled but undeterred, she continued along the path in search of a quiet place to rest her bones and figure out what she was going to tell Dorian about her “prowling” tonight. Clearly, he’d spotted her snooping around upstairs, and despite the intense moments they shared in the basement, he had to be wondering why she’d gone down there in the first place. She didn’t want to complicate things with more lies, but it’s not like she could spill her guts and beg for mercy, either.

  God, what a fucking mess.

  A soft snick caught her attention, and she glanced up to see another man leaning against a sycamore tree several paces off the path, half hidden in shadow.

  Gabriel.

  Perfect. There was no way she could pass by the tree without him noticing, and she didn’t want yet another Redthorne brother to accuse her of sneaking around.

  Locking her smile back in place, she said, “Looks like I’m not the only one looking to escape the crowd tonight.”

  He turned to her slowly, his movements as liquid and graceful as his older brother’s. When he met her gaze, his eyes held the same coldness she’d spotted earlier.

  But it wasn’t his cruel gaze that pinned her in place.

  The sudden, unexpected flash of the blade in his hands paralyzed her, unlocking a flood of memories Charley had dammed up years ago.

  Where you off to, little girl?

  Not so tough when Daddy’s not around, are ya?

  Don’t struggle, D’Amico bitch…

  Instinctively she pressed a hand to her abdomen, just above her left hipbone, where the ropey, silver scar burned fresh.

  “Yet here you are,” Gabriel said with a sneer, “crowding.” His tone dripped with impatience, but he didn’t move toward her—just pressed the knife to a round, red object in his hands.

  An apple. Just a damn apple.

  Charley let out a breath as a long curl of apple peel fell to the ground. Gabriel carved off a slice and brought it to his mouth, eating it right off the blade.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

  “Then don’t.” Glaring at her with that unnervingly cold gaze, he carved off another slice, then turned back toward the view of the rolling hills and the Hudson River beyond, dismissing her.

  She didn’t need to be told twice.

  Leaving Gabriel to his brooding, Charley ambled further down the path, finally finding an unoccupied stone bench with a perfect view of the river. There, slipping out of her uncomfortable high heels, she sat down and gazed out across the expansive landscape, trying to catch her breath.

  Rudy.

  Travis.

  Ravenswood.

  Dorian.

  His brothers.

  Duchanes.

  Hermes.

  LaPorte.

  Her web was getting stickier by the minute. Charley didn’t know how many more twists and turns s
he could handle tonight, but she couldn’t bail now. Not with so much on the line.

  Charley took out her phone, laughing when she saw the latest artistic endeavor from Sasha—a picture of two perfectly round grapefruits topped with cherries, a huge zucchini sliding between them. Thinking of you! she’d texted.

  A+, Charley replied now. Sadly, the conference is bereft of photo-worthy fruit. I’ll have to up my game later.

  Up your game all you want, Sasha texted back. I’m still the reigning fruit-smut champion. ;-)

  I’m soooo not worthy.

  Keep practicing! I have faith in your dirty mind! Hey, chat later, k? Heading out for a late dinner with Darcy.

  Have fun! Love you.

  Love you too, Chuck.

  Charley smiled. Sasha sounded so happy, and that made Charley happy, bolstering her for the work ahead. Sasha might be the reigning champion of fruit smut, but Charley was a champion too—of disguises, of lies, of sleuthing, of playing each and every role assigned to her like a god damned queen.

  For her sister, Charley could endure anything.

  In that moment, she made her decision. She’d take Dorian up on his offer and stay the weekend. Maybe her acceptance would disarm him a bit—distract him from the fact that he’d caught her sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  Besides, spending the weekend with Dorian Redthorne was a much better option than sitting in traffic, fending off Travis’ bad breath and questing hands.

  Confidence sufficiently boosted, Charley sent a quick text to Sasha that she wouldn’t be home until Sunday night, then shot off another text to Rudy, who’d miraculously given her some breathing room tonight.

  Still having a great time, she said. Can’t wait to tell you about all the sightseeing I’ve been doing!

  Thank you for the update, he replied. Looking forward to catching up later.

  She bit her lip, knowing this next part wouldn’t go over well, but hoping to spin it in her favor anyway.

  Actually, she replied, I’ve decided to stay the weekend. Still so much to explore! Why don’t we touch base Sunday night?

  The telltale dots flickered across her screen, and Charley’s insides bubbled. She really hoped he wouldn’t make a big deal out of this, but Rudy didn’t like it when she went off-script, even if it led to better intel. He liked thinking everything was his idea.