“Fuck!” came from Oliver’s mouth.
“Swerve!”
Just as Oliver yanked the steering wheel to the left to avoid the excavator, the light of another car speeding toward them, blinded them. In vampire speed, Quinn jerked the wheel back to the right, just as Oliver slammed on the brakes.
The tires screeched, and the back of the car fishtailed out. Loose gravel from the construction site suddenly made the tires spin without finding purchase. The car advanced, virtually unimpeded, heading straight for the excavator. Wildly turning the unresponsive steering wheel and pressing down the brakes, Oliver tried to avoid the inevitable. With a loud thud, the car crashed into the side of the small excavator, which toppled to its side. Only now, Quinn noticed the crane next to it.
The power of the impact deployed the airbags, but the windows blew out and with horror, Quinn saw how Oliver was thrown out of the car. He hadn’t worn his seat belt.
Quinn was held back by his own seat belt, the air bag suddenly obstructing his view.
He fumbled for the release of the belt and realized that it was jammed. He forced his fingers to turn into claws, but just as he sliced through the material, he heard a snapping sound and looked around him when he perceived a movement outside the passenger window. As he whirled his head to look through it, he saw a large plate of steel, suspended from the beam of the crane, swinging toward him.
He froze in mid-movement. Shit! There was no way out of this. The steel plate would decapitate him. It was over.
His life didn’t flash before him; maybe it wasn’t that way for vampires. Only one thought filled him now. He was finally going home.
Rose.
With a last breath, he sighed.
Rose, we’ll be together again. Finally.
Then he felt the impact as the car got hit. He was knocked sideways, hitting the steering wheel to his left. All went black.
3
London, 1813
“Rose,” Quinn whispered from behind a hedge as he saw her emerge from the ballroom and step onto the quiet terrace, where at present nobody else sought refuge from the crowd.
She looked lovelier than ever. Her golden hair was piled high on her head, soft ringlets pulled from it to surround her perfectly oval face. Her skin was alabaster—not a single wrinkle anywhere, flawless. Her dress was cut fashionably low, her small bosom enhanced by the bodice that pushed up her flesh as if presenting it on a platter. With each step she took, it threatened to escape the silken fabric of her dress, bouncing merrily up and down, driving any breathing man insane in the process. More so Quinn, for he was in love with the delightful creature.
“Rose.”
When she heard his voice, she hurried in his direction, cautiously throwing a glance over her shoulder toward the ballroom, making sure nobody had followed her.
In the seconds it took her to come to him, he admired her graceful walk, which seemed as light as that of a gazelle. The sound of her slippers was absorbed into nothingness as soon as she stepped off the terrace and onto the manicured lawn below.
Quinn reached for her and pulled her behind the hedge with him, hungry for a touch. A kiss even.
“Quinn.” Her voice was breathless as if she’d danced one of the more energetic country dances the lower classes enjoyed and not the sedate dances their hosts, Lord and Lady Somersby, preferred.
When he dragged her against him, disregarding all manners and decorum, the rays of the moon lit her face, presenting her heated cheeks to his gaze. But his eyes dipped lower to those lips that waited, slightly parted, for his touch.
“Oh, Rose, my love. I couldn’t wait another moment.”
He sunk his lips onto hers, taking in her pure scent, her innocent response. With a sigh, he slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her closer. When he nudged his tongue against her lips, a soft whimper issued from her mouth. He welcomed it and slipped his tongue between her lips, sliding it along her teeth, coaxing, tempting, urging. Her taste was intoxicating, her scent mouthwatering.
Finally, her timid tongue met his, and life stood still.
“My Rose,” he mumbled and slanted his mouth, diving into her, his passion unleashed, his control shattered. This was the third time he kissed her, and just like the first two times, the moment she responded to him, he was lost.
His other hand went down to her buttocks, palming her curves through the thin layers of her ball gown. A shocked gasp escaped her, but a moment later, she molded her heated body to his, her soft breasts rubbing against his evening coat. And lower down, where his trousers were bulging with a shaft as hard as a blacksmith’s iron rod, he nestled against her soft center. Was it the summer air or the fact she’d danced all night that he perceived her so hot there? Or did the heat have an altogether different reason?