by Jenna Black
“So what you’re telling me is because I was raped I should never have sex again in my life?”
Now she was being deliberately obtuse. “I am not a gentle man,” he said, putting a hint of a growl in his voice to emphasize his point. “The games I enjoy in the bedroom are not the thing for genteel women.”
She snorted. “Since when have I been a ‘genteel’ woman? Gabriel, you’re reaching.”
“Damn it! No, I’m not. I’m trying to tell you I might very well hurt you. And that’s something I don’t want to do.”
Her brow puckered as she thought that one over, but she didn’t look as alarmed as she should have.
“Don’t you get it?” he asked. “I’m a sadist.” As everyone had been telling him since he was about twenty years old, though, of course, they hadn’t had a word for what he was back then. “I like hurting people. And I like hurting people in bed.”
One corner of her mouth lifted. “I got it, all right? I gather I’m supposed to be shocked and horrified. You’re forgetting my oh-so-genteel upbringing. If there was an alternative lifestyle I could attach myself to, I attached myself to it. The more it horrified my Gram, the more I was into it. I couldn’t participate, not with my illness, but believe me, I’ve been thoroughly exposed.” She gave him an impish grin. “Some of my best friends are sadists, and you’re not shocking me.”
Maybe not, but she was shocking the hell out of him. She must have sensed it, or seen it on his face.
She raised her eyebrows. “You do know that lifestyle exists, right? That there are people out there who like pain during sex?”
He squirmed uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “Uh. Yeah. I know.” But in a severe case of the pot calling the kettle black, he’d always thought of them as “deviants.” He looked into Jezebel’s ingenuous face. “Are you saying you’re one of them?”
“How should I know?” Another mischievous grin lit her face. “I could be a lesbian for all I know. After all, you’ve given me the only real kiss I ever had.”
He couldn’t help answering her grin. And despite all his warnings to himself, he reached down with his index finger and brushed lightly over her nipple, feeling it bead under his touch.
“I don’t think you’re a lesbian,” he said, his cock hardening yet again.
Boldly, she reached out and put her hand behind his neck, drawing him to her. He could have resisted. But he didn’t.
“No, I guess not,” she murmured as their lips brushed.
His conscience screamed at him to stop before things went too far. Despite Jezebel’s tough words, seeing something and doing it weren’t the same. She was an innocent, and he was … Well, he wasn’t an innocent, anyway.
Despite the screaming of his conscience, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her closer, until her breasts were pressed up against him and she had to bend her head backward to let him kiss her. He speared his fingers through her silky hair and thrust his tongue into her mouth.
They moaned in unison, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue playing with the delicate fangs that had descended. The taste of her went to his head, made him dizzy.
He’d never felt anything like this before.
Not the desire. Desire he’d felt before. But this was different. For one thing, he didn’t want the kiss to end. Usually, he’d allowed only the most perfunctory of kisses, and had never much enjoyed them.
Jezebel climbed onto his lap, straddling him as she knelt on the couch. The position pushed her skirt up, revealing more of her thighs, which he stroked with one hand while the other held her head in place. She put both hands on his chest, her fingers caressing him through his T-shirt, finding his nipples. His cock lurched at the sensation, and she gasped.
His hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt, and the way she pressed herself harder against him proved that she liked it just fine.
Underneath her skirt, he found a tiny pair of silk panties, soft and cool to his touch. But cool wasn’t what he wanted. He slipped his hand inside to cup her hot little bottom. She shivered at his touch, but there was no mistaking her reaction for anything but pleasure.
The phone rang.
Jez pulled away from the kiss with a mewl of displeasure, glaring at the offending machine.
“You’d better answer it,” he said, reluctantly removing his hand from her panties.
“Yeah,” she murmured, but she didn’t move from her place on his lap. Her eyes were dark and dazed, her lips swollen from kissing, her fangs still descended.
Much as he enjoyed having her right where she was, he knew she had to answer that phone. “Come now, my sweet,” he said, picking her up and moving her to the side, where the phone was in reach. “You wouldn’t want anyone worrying about you.”
With a long-suffering sigh, she answered the phone, while Gabriel tried to calm the desire that still pounded through his veins. Then, his keen vampire hearing picked up the voice on the other end of the phone, and all hints of arousal vanished.
“Would you be so kind as to come visit with me tonight?” Eli asked.
Jezebel gave Gabriel a doubtful, worried look. She knew he could hear that voice. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl.
“Does it have to be tonight?” she asked.
“You have something more important to do?”
Gabriel snarled again at his father’s condescension. Of course, no one could have anything important to do if it didn’t revolve around him and his fucking Guardians!
Before he even knew what he was going to do, Gabriel had snatched the phone from her hand. Her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“Yes, Father. She has something better to do,” he said.
Dead silence on the other end of the line. Jezebel crossed her arms over her chest and looked worried. He covered the mouthpiece on the phone and whispered very softly.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to blow your cover.”
The reproachful look she gave him told him that wasn’t what she was worried about. He moved his hand away from the mouthpiece.
“Well, Father? Have you nothing to say? It’s been, what, two hundred years? Give or take.”
Eli sighed heavily. “What can I say that you’d want to hear? I’m not going to hurl threats at you over the phone. I don’t expect to be able to talk you out of your vendetta. What does that leave?”
Fire burned in Gabriel’s chest and belly. Jezebel winced and hunched over. He’d have liked to spare her the pain of his turbulence, but it was well beyond his control.
“Won’t you beg me for the life of this pretty little Guardian? She’s been quite the fount of information, but I’ve no more use for her. Perhaps I should leave another calling card at your doorstep. I’m sure you’ve enjoyed my others.”
“If I thought begging you for her life would save her, I’d do it,” Eli said, and there was not a hint of emotion in his voice, while Gabriel was awash in it.
“You cold-blooded, cold-hearted bastard. You don’t give a goddamn about anyone, do you?”
“I care. I just—”
But Gabriel couldn’t listen to that impassive, unexcitable voice for a moment longer.
“Fuck you, old man!” he raged, then threw the phone across the room so hard it left a gaping hole in the drywall.
Jezebel reached out toward him, but he couldn’t stand any more of her sweet compassion, either. He seized her with his glamour, and her eyes went blank.
He didn’t release her until he was so far away he couldn’t hold her anymore.
12
THE MAÎTRE HAD RENTED a suite of rooms in the Rittenhouse Hotel, one of the finest hotels in the city, with a breathtaking view of Rittenhouse Square. The Maître, Camille, and Brigitte each had their own private rooms, with the entourage occupying a pair of much more modest rooms one floor down.
Camille had barely had time to settle in before Bartolomeo demanded entrance. With a soft sigh, she let him in. For a long moment, she considered the possibility of kill
ing him where he stood. She was older and more powerful than he, and his guard dogs were downstairs. Then she could return home to Paris and try again.
If it hadn’t been for Brigitte, she might very well have done it. After she’d finished him off, she could take out his companions, and when she returned to France she could claim Gabriel killed them all.
But Brigitte was an unknown quantity. Camille had had no idea just how powerful a born vampire could be, hadn’t realized how much of his strength Gabriel concealed from her until it had been too late. Although Brigitte was considerably younger, Camille couldn’t be sure how powerful she was. And if Brigitte lived, she would no doubt tell La Vieille about Camille’s treachery, and La Vieille would order her death.
So for now, Bartolomeo would live, and Camille would cooperate to the best of her abilities. And if he could help her get her due from Eli, she might even feel a slight stirring of remorse when she killed him.
She smiled. Probably not.
“Is there something funny, Madame?” Bartolomeo asked, giving her a hard stare.
She schooled her features. “Not at all. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Maître?”
He made himself at home in her room, striding to the window and throwing open the curtains. The lights of the city glimmered and twinkled before them. Camille came to stand beside him, looking out into yet another city that had once been hers and that she had lost because of Eli.
“Where will we find your son?” the Maître asked.
Camille lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug. “He didn’t leave me an address where I could reach him. I don’t know where he is.” She glanced sidelong at Bartolomeo. “And when we find him. What then?”
Bartolomeo crossed his hands behind his back, raising up slightly on the balls of his feet. His eyes shone with unmistakable hate. “Then, we play. For as long as we like, in as many ways as we like.”
Camille wrinkled her nose. While she wouldn’t mind seeing Gabriel suffer, “playing” with him herself would seem somehow … incestuous. “You can have my son. Do with him what you wish. I want Eli.”
He turned those glittering eyes toward her. “First, you give me Gabriel. Then, I will aid you in your own endeavor.”
Unfortunately, she had to take what she was given. She lowered her head in a hint of a nod. “Understood. But I’m still not clear on how you plan to take Gabriel when the two of us together are not strong enough to overpower him.”
“We don’t have to overpower him. We’ll use this.”
Caught completely unprepared, Camille didn’t even get fully turned around before the Maître jabbed something into her upper arm. Something stung, hot and sharp. She gasped and tried to muster her power for a fight. Nothing happened, and her knees started to wobble.
The Maître had his hands behind his back once more and was smiling at her. “You’ll find your glamour useless, I’m afraid,” he said.
Her wobbling knees collapsed, and Camille dropped to the floor, catching her fall with her hands. The floor seemed to buck and pitch beneath her. Her upper arm where he’d jabbed her burned fiercely, the heat spreading slowly from a pinpoint source, crawling down her arm and over her shoulder. And it intensified.
“I’ve given you a fairly low dose,” Bartolomeo continued. “I’ll give your dear son more.”
The pain continued to creep over her, climbing up her neck and sliding down her torso, until it was all she could do not to scream. She bit her tongue to keep herself silent.
Bartolomeo knelt before her, sliding a hypodermic needle out from the inside pocket of his jacket. When he reached for her, there was nothing she could do to stop him. He pulled the cap off the needle with his teeth, then turned her over onto her stomach and hauled her skirt up. She tried to issue a protest, but found even her mouth didn’t want to work, and all that came out was a garbled mumble.
A sharp sting on her hip, and then he pulled her skirt back down.
“Antidote,” he said. “It will take a minute or two to work, but you’ll be good as new soon enough.” He tucked the used syringe back into his jacket, then rose to his feet once more and dusted off his knees. He took a seat on a chair near the window and just watched her, a malicious little smile on his face.
Sweat beaded her brow as she gritted her teeth harder and fought to contain the pain. She glared at the Maître, hoping Gabriel had used a dull knife and gone slowly when he’d removed his cock and balls. But as the pain dwindled, then died, she had to admit this demonstration had been most effective. No matter how great his power, Gabriel would be helpless under the influence of this insidious drug.
She just hoped that once Eli and Gabriel were dead, there’d be another dose or two left for Bartolomeo, just to show him what he was missing.
JEZ DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER trying the phone that Gabriel had flung against the wall. It was clearly dead. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to do now, except that she had to call Eli back and let him know she was okay.
She retrieved the phone from her bedroom and dialed, wondering what on earth Gabriel expected her to tell the Founder about his little visit with her.
“Jezebel?” Eli answered on the first ring. If Gabriel thought his father didn’t care about anyone, he’d never heard that particular tone of voice before.
“Yes, and I’m fine. My phone and my wall will never be the same, but he didn’t hurt me.”
Perhaps Gabriel expected her to tell Eli some bullshit story about how he’d tortured her. If he did, he should have stuck around and told her so.
“I want you to call a cab immediately and come straight to my house,” Eli said.
Ugh. She’d really have loved a little time to pull herself together, but she didn’t think Eli had meant that as a request. “All right,” she agreed. “You said you wanted to talk to me anyway, right?”
“Yes, but that can wait until you get here in person. Please hurry. Gabriel might come back.”
She really hated this shit. “I’ll be out of here in five minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
Great.
She hung up the phone and took a deep breath. It wasn’t Eli’s fault he’d interrupted her attempted seduction, and it wasn’t his fault Gabriel had gone ape shit. But right now, the last thing she wanted to do was tap dance around the truth, trying not to blow her cover while her head was spinning with more thoughts than any one person should be allowed to have.
Of course, if she didn’t go, Eli would send someone to bring her to him, so she had no choice.
Reluctantly, she called a cab, then tried to think of what story she should tell Eli about what had happened tonight. She’d learned to be a fairly good liar over the years, as she made up ever more outrageous tales to shock her Gram with. Of course, it might not have been her skill as a liar that made Gram believe her. Perhaps she was just an especially receptive audience.
Eli, on the other hand …
Just before she left the apartment, her eyes lit on the printouts she’d made of the stories of Gabriel’s victims. He would absolutely hate it if she showed those to his father. He’d chosen those victims for maximum hurt value, making his father believe he’d killed innocent, upstanding citizens. But he hadn’t specifically forbidden her from showing them to Eli, which meant she wasn’t directly disobeying his orders.
One corner of her mouth lifted in a grim smile as she folded up the papers and stuck them into her purse. Why did she somehow think he wouldn’t see it that way?
But Eli deserved to know his son wasn’t quite the monster he pretended to be. And although she knew her own Gram would never have believed that she wasn’t completely corrupted by her mother’s influence, she thought Eli might be open-minded enough to see the truth and to accept it.
Jez paused with her hand on the doorknob, suddenly recognizing the direction her thoughts were spiraling in.
She was doing it again. Casting herself as the knight in shining armor, the superhero who would save
the day. Time and time again as she was growing up, she’d tried to save her mother from herself. She’d begged her to give up the drugs. She’d cried, she’d pleaded, she’d made endless promises to be the best little girl ever if only her mother would stop making herself so sick.
And you know what? It hadn’t done a damn bit of good. Once or twice, her mom had seemed to hear her, had checked herself into a rehab and made vows that from now on everything would be different. And every fucking time, she’d gone back to business as usual. Teaching young Jezebel one very important lesson—you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
It wasn’t her job to save Gabriel from himself. It wasn’t her job to reconcile father and son. Certainly it wasn’t worth facing Gabriel’s wrath to do something that probably would have no effect on his relationship with Eli anyway.
Face it, Jez. The two of them are just too fucked up to save.
Trying to ignore the little voice in her head that told her she was being a coward, she pulled the articles out of her bag and left them on the table beside the door.
WHEN CAMILLE HAD FULLY recovered from the drug that Bartolomeo had injected her with, she excused herself to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. He smirked at her, knowing she was stalling, giving herself a few minutes to recover her composure as well. But if she didn’t get out of his sight, she was going to forget all the reasons she shouldn’t kill him, and that would be … unfortunate.
In the bathroom, she slipped off her suit jacket and examined her arm, where an angry red patch of skin surrounded the injection site. She touched it gently, and found the skin tender and hot to the touch.
When she emerged from the bathroom, she’d regained enough control over herself that she didn’t fear she’d kill the Maître at the first ill-considered word.
She took a seat on the room’s second chair, sitting stiffly upright, her back not touching the back of the chair. Bartolomeo lounged in his own chair, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. His face looked oh-so-smug, and she had to fight fiercely against an urge to wipe the smugness from his expression.