“Just take care of Mara,” Rane said. “That’s payback enough. How’s she getting along, anyway?”
“She’s doing all right, I guess. I think she’s starting to like being mortal. She’s even learning to cook.”
Rafe muttered an oath. “Cook? Mara is cooking?” He shook his head ruefully. “Next thing you know, the rivers will be turning to blood.”
Grinning, Rane slapped his brother on the shoulder. “Hey, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, now, would it?”
Mara was pacing the floor when a sudden coldness whispered past her. Whirling around, she came face-to-face with a woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Who are you?” Mara asked. “How did you get in here?” The woman smiled, displaying even white teeth. And fangs.
Mara stifled the urge to make a run for the door. The worst thing you could do when faced with a predator was show fear. She remembered all too well the thrill of the chase. “Who are you?” she asked again.
“Sasha. I’m a friend of Ed’s.”
“I see.” Mara knew now why the woman looked so familiar. She was the redhead who had been sitting at Rogen’s blackjack table earlier.
“Ed told me you’d lost your powers. I didn’t believe him.” Sasha lifted her head and inhaled sharply. “But it’s true, isn’t it?”
Mara didn’t say anything, merely stood there, her mind racing as she glanced surreptitiously around the room. If the vampire attacked, she had no way to defend herself. It suddenly occurred to her that if she got out of this alive, she needed to stock up on holy water and a couple of sharp wooden stakes.
The vampire laughed softly. “Ed said the three of us are going to party after he destroys your boyfriend.”
Mara lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “We’ll have a party, all right,” she said with more bravado than she felt, “only you’ll be the main course.”
The redhead snorted derisively. “I can’t wait to tell my friends that we brought you down. Of course, since you’ve lost your powers, it won’t be much of a coup. But then . . .” She fell silent, her eyes narrowing as she gazed toward the door.
“Then what?” Mara asked, stalling for time.
“Then we’d . . .” Sasha stilled, her words abruptly cut off as Logan materialized behind her, one hand locked around her throat.
“You wanted a party,” Logan said, his voice gruff. “Are you ready to play?”
The redhead struggled in his grasp, her nails digging into Logan’s arm, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he tightened his hold.
Mara took a step forward. “Logan . . .”
He glanced at Mara over Sasha’s head. “Did she hurt you?” he asked, his voice silky smooth with menace.
Mara shook her head. “No.” But she could see that Logan was hurt. His face was bruised and bloody, his clothing bloodstained and shredded. In the aftermath of the fight with Rogen, his eyes still burned red.
“Rogen’s dead.” Logan hissed the words in the redhead’s ear. “You can join him, or you can get the hell out of town now, tonight. What’ll it be?” He loosened his hold on her throat so she could speak.
Sasha took a deep breath, then cried, “Damn you! Let me go!” She clawed at his face, her nails raking down his left cheek, laying it open to the bone.
“Dammit!” Logan roared, and threw her across the room as if she weighed no more than a child.
Sasha landed against the wall, her head snapping back hard enough to crack the plaster, but it didn’t slow her down. Fangs bared, she sprang toward Logan with murder in her eyes.
In spite of his injuries, he was quicker, stronger. Catching her in midair, he hurled her out the window. There was the sound of breaking glass followed by a horrible, blood-curdling cry, and then silence.
Mara stayed where she was, her arms crossed over her stomach, her gaze on Logan as he walked across the room and glanced out the window.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper as that last, agonized cry replayed itself in her mind.
“There’s a little white picket fence in the side yard.” He didn’t have to say any more. A picket fence made a very fine wooden stake. She tried not to imagine Sasha’s body impaled on the wooden spikes, but the harder she tried to ignore it, the clearer the image became.
Logan turned away from the window. “Who the hell was she?”
“A friend of Rogen’s.”
He snorted softly. “More than a friend, I’d say.” He lifted a hand to his cheek. “Damn, that hurts.”
Nodding, Mara went into the bathroom, turned on the taps in the tub, and dampened a washcloth. Returning to the other room, she pressed the cloth to Logan’s cheek. “Hold that,” she instructed, even though it wasn’t really necessary. The nasty gashes were already healing. “I’m sorry you had to kill Rogen.”
Logan lifted one brow. “You’re sorry he’s dead?”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant, I’m sorry you had to fight him because of me.”
“Well, I fought him, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Oh?” Her gaze slid away from his. “How did he die?”
“Old man Cordova drove a stake through his heart.”
“Vince was here?” she asked, surprised.
“Yeah, and the twins, too. I should be angry with you, you know, thinking I needed backup. Even though I did,” he added gruffly.
“What happened?”
He tossed the bloody wash rag on the dresser. “I was whipping Rogen’s ass when he sent out a call for help and four other vamps showed up. Rogen was about to rip my heart out when the Cordova boys arrived on the scene.” Logan cupped her face in his bloody hands and kissed her. “How’d you know I was in trouble?”
“I’m not sure.” Taking his hand in hers, she led him into the bathroom. “I just had a feeling something was wrong.” She unbuttoned his shirt, slid it over his shoulders and down his arms, and tossed it into the trash can.
“Hey, I paid over a hundred credits for that shirt!”
“Yeah? Well, it’s beyond repair. Kick off your shoes. Anyway,” she went on, unbuckling his belt, “I tried to sense your whereabouts. I couldn’t, of course.”
She unfastened his trousers and pushed them down over his hips. Logan stepped out of them and kicked them aside.
“So I called Rane and asked him to find you. He wasn’t supposed to let you know he was there, unless you needed help.” She slipped her thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and slowly dragged them down his legs, chuckling softly as she did so. The man had just been in a brutal fight, had almost lost his life, but it hadn’t affected his libido in the least.
Catching her amused gaze, Logan shrugged. “Hey, sex is life affirming. Everybody knows that.”
“Maybe later,” she said, turning off the water. “Right now, you need a bath.”
“Are you gonna wash me?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’d refuse me?” he asked with feigned astonishment. “Don’t you know that in my weakened state, I could drown?”
“Oh, please,” Mara said, fighting the urge to laugh.
He groaned softly as he sat on the edge of the bathtub. “I could have been killed.”
“You’re a vampire, remember? You’ll be your old self by tomorrow night.”
She was moving toward the door when he said, “My last thought was of you.”
His words, quietly spoken, went straight to her heart. How could she refuse his request? Blowing out an exasperated sigh, she said, “Oh, just get into the tub.”
Stifling the urge to gloat, Logan slid down into the water. Resting his head against the edge, he watched Mara through heavy-lidded eyes as she pulled a clean cloth from the stack on the sink. Dropping to her knees, she leaned forward and washed the blood from his face and neck.
Heaven, he thought as her hands moved over him. Or at least as close to it as he was likely to get. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to her touch.
Mara gl
anced at the water, which was turning bright pink with blood. She should have run the shower for him instead, she thought, but it was too late now. She washed him as gently as she could. So many bites and scratches, some of which would have been fatal if he had been a mortal man, while others would have taken weeks to heal. Yet even as she watched, the bruises and less serious gashes he had sustained were knitting together, fading, disappearing.
Logan opened one eye. “Why don’t you join me?”
“I don’t think so.” She grimaced at the water, which was now an even darker shade of pink. “You’ll need a shower when you get out of there.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
She ran the soapy rag over his broad shoulders and down his arms, over his flat belly and his long, muscular legs, and all the while, she tried to ignore the growing evidence of his desire and the rush of heat that pooled low in the pit of her stomach.
She wondered how many women had shared his bed. She wanted to hate them, all of the nameless females who had made love to him in the past, but it was impossible. How could she fault them for wanting him when she was aching for his touch, hungry for the taste of his kisses? When she yearned to feel the weight of his body on hers, to hear his voice whispering sweet love words in her ear?
She frowned when she met his knowing gaze.
“Aching for my touch, are you?” he asked with a roguish grin.
“Oh!” She threw the washcloth in his face. “Stop reading my mind!”
“Hungry for my kisses?” Laughing softly, he grabbed her wrist when she would have retreated. Rising to his knees, he drew her closer to whisper, “Ti amo, il mio angelo, il mio cuore, la mia vita.” I love you, my angel, my heart, my life.
And then he kissed her.
Her eyelids fluttered down, all thought of resistance melting away as his mouth covered hers in a hot hungry kiss. His hand slid under her hair to cup her nape as he deepened the kiss, his tongue mating slowly, sensuously, with hers in an erotic dance older than time itself.
“Mara.” His breath fanned the curve of her throat. “You make me weak.”
She smiled inwardly, thinking that, in spite of his wounds, he was anything but weak.
In a single, fluid movement, he rose from the tub. Lifting her with him, he carried her into the bedroom. She didn’t protest when, using his preternatural power, he bared her body to his gaze and then, murmuring her name, he lowered her to the bed and stretched out beside her.
“You’re all wet,” she murmured. “The bed . . .”
“Will dry.” He nibbled on her earlobe, raked his fangs, ever so lightly, along the side of her neck. “Let me.”
She had no thought to refuse. Whether he wanted to taste her or make love to her or drain her dry, she didn’t care, so long as he eased the need burning deep inside of her.
He was the warrior, victorious in battle, and she was the prize. He claimed her boldly, his hands worshiping her beauty as he stoked the flame of her desire and then, feeling her shudder beneath him, he uttered a wild cry reminiscent of men going to battle as he thrust deep within her, felt her silky heat surround him, carrying him to victory yet again.
Some time later, Logan rained kisses along her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the point of her chin. “So, how’s that ache?”
Mara punched him on the shoulder. “As if you didn’t know.”
He laughed softly. “I’ve got to say, this night ended up a lot better than it started.” He placed his hand on her belly. “How many other enemies do you suppose you’ve got out there?”
“I don’t know,” she said, smothering a yawn, and then, as a new thought occurred to her, she sat up, her arms folded over her belly. What if she ran into others she had turned against their will? Or if some mortal man attacked her? In her current state, she was helpless to protect her baby.
“What’s wrong now?” Logan asked, tugging her back down beside him.
“Maybe I’m making a mistake in keeping the baby.”
Logan blew out a sigh. She was as changeable as the wind. “What brought that up . . . ? Oh, never mind. Meeting Rogen. Right?”
“If you hadn’t been here . . .” She didn’t want to think of what might have happened if she had been alone.
“Stop worrying, darlin’,” he said, running his knuckles down her cheek. “I’ll always be here.”
Chapter Eighteen
Logan and Mara returned to the house in Tyler the following night. After seeing Mara safely inside, Logan kissed her on the cheek, then left to go hunting.
Mara curled up on the sofa. She was glad to be home again, away from the crowds and the lights. On her last visit to the doctor, Ramsden had advised her that he intended to induce her on the eighteenth of October. When she had asked why he thought it necessary to induce the baby, Ramsden had reminded her that he was a vampire and as such, he would have to deliver the baby at night, in his office.
“Don’t worry,” he had said, “I have a complete hospital room set up downstairs. And if there should be complications . . .” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “I think it would be better for all concerned that no one else be aware of it. It wouldn’t be wise to have blood samples fall into the wrong hands, or for people to ask questions we’d rather not answer.”
She wondered why he hadn’t mentioned inducing her before, and why the idea of having the baby in his office filled her with such trepidation.
Four more weeks until she held her baby in her arms. She could hardly wait. She just hoped the next four went by faster than the last.
The sound of laughter drew her to the window. Across the street, a handful of teenage boys were playing basketball in the driveway. A couple of fathers sat on the front porch, watching. Her neighbors were friendly, nodding and waving whenever they saw her.
Soon after she and Logan had moved in, their next-door neighbor, Louise, had invited Mara over for coffee and donuts. Mara had been hesitant to go at first. Making small talk with human females was something she had rarely done. She was even more diffident when Louise invited her inside. In the big family kitchen, Louise introduced her to three other women who lived in the neighborhood. The women had welcomed Mara like an old friend as they introduced themselves. Sally Blankman had nine-year-old twin boys and lived across the street. Her husband, Terry, was a dentist. Judy Michaels lived next door to Sally. Judy had a three-month-old daughter. Her husband was an airline pilot. Monica Sorenson lived next to Mara. Monica had three teenage daughters. Her husband was a Marine.
As soon as Mara had settled at the table with a cup of hot coffee and a chocolate donut, the ladies asked about the baby. Was this her first? How far along was she? Did she know if it was a boy or a girl? Once she had answered all their questions about her pregnancy, they had shared their stories of childbirth with her, stories of eighteen-hour labors and emergency C-sections that had given Mara nightmares and made her wonder why any woman, having gone through childbirth once, would willingly do it again.
Now pressing a hand to her aching back, Mara went into the kitchen for a glass of milk, which led to a couple of cookies and another glass of milk. She thought about trying to write more on the story of her life, but she just didn’t have the energy. Maybe it had been a silly idea. Who would believe it, anyway?
With a sigh, she put the glass in the sink, then waddled into the living room to watch TV. She had gained so much weight, she would probably never be thin again. Logan told her repeatedly that she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant. Easy for him to say. She had weighed a hundred and ten pounds for as long as she could remember. Well, those days were long gone. The last time the doctor had weighed her, she had gained almost forty pounds. When she was standing up, she couldn’t even see her feet anymore, which was just as well, because they were all fat and swollen, too.
Of course, she couldn’t blame it all on the baby. Ever since she had discovered that mortal food didn’t make her sick, she had devoured practically everything in sight, but after over two thou
sand years on a warm liquid diet, who could blame her?
Because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she went into the bedroom and booted up the computer, then called up her life story. She read it from the beginning, adding a few paragraphs here, rearranging a few sentences there, reliving each chapter as she read. It needed a lot of work, she thought, but then, she wasn’t a writer, and if she decided to keep the baby, there would be no reason to hurry. She would have the next eighteen years or so to finish it.
If she decided to keep the baby. Logan had said he would always be there. But would he? And if he left, how would she manage without him?
She tapped her fingers on the desktop as she gathered her thoughts, and then she began to write . . .
I moved to Georgia just before the start of the Civil War. It was an era I dearly loved, a time of quiet elegance and Southern charm, of chaperones and nannies. With its rigid rules about propriety and its quaint customs, it was like a make-believe world, so different from anything I had ever known before.
I bought a plantation, complete with a few servants who were warned of dire consequences if they intruded on my rest during the day. I knew they gossiped about my peculiar ways, about the fact that I didn’t eat in their presence, but it was of no consequence. I treated them well and they had no reason to rise against me.
It was an elegant time. I loved playing the part of a Southern belle, adored the clothes of the period, the long dresses and longer courtships, the dainty hats and gloves, the enormous petticoats, the balls and cotillions, the country barbeques. And, most of all, the handsome young men clad in Confederate gray. What dashing creatures they were. Innately polite, they treated their women like porcelain dolls, to be displayed and treasured but never taken too seriously.
Life changed with the coming of the Civil War, a war the South embraced, but had little chance of winning. In spite of the War, the South clung to the old ways.
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