She pushed through the door and sucked in a lungful of filthy airport air. “Perfect,” she muttered and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Scott. “So, do I need cab?"
He blinked at her for a moment, as if he hadn't yet caught up with her rapid fire diatribe. “The Four Seasons, right?” he said finally.
"Yes.” She smiled.
"The car's right over here."
As they pulled away from the curb, Scott caught her reflection in the mirror. “You should try a sleeping pill,” he said.
Cyn met his eyes. “I have. I've tried them all. My doctor won't give me anymore, which is saying something in L.A. You can get pretty much any pill you want out there; all you have to do is ask."
"Meditation, maybe,” he suggested, his attention on the long line of cars passing them by.
"There's an idea,” Cyn said absently. “Find myself a guru.” She didn't need a pill and she didn't need meditation. She needed Raphael to get the hell out of her life. Not that he was exactly in her life. Not anymore. Oh, no. Lord Raphael had taken what he wanted and run as far and as fast as his considerable money and power could take him. She'd thought it was love. Turns out it was simply a roving buffet with her as the entree du jour. She closed her eyes against the too familiar pain of loss and knew it wasn't that simple. Raphael hadn't left her because he didn't want her. He'd left because he did. Hundreds of years old and he still hadn't evolved past the male fear of commitment to one woman.
Of course, the full truth was probably even more complicated, but that was the nub of it and there was nothing for her to do but get over it. Over a month had passed since she'd seen him, since he'd walked away without looking back. She'd never been in love before; how long did it take to heal a broken heart?
Cyn leaned her head back against the soft leather and closed her eyes. In the front seat, Scott took the hint, popped a mellow CD into the player and let soft music fill the silence until they reached the hotel.
* * * *
She rolled over in her sleep, the hotel's soft bed adjusting to her movements, cradling her in its warmth. A weight settled behind her and she smiled, catching the scent of his aftershave—a hint of spice, barely there. She felt the glide of his skin as he stretched out next to her, as he reached to pull her close and tuck her within the curve of his big body, making her feel safe, protected. He was the only man who had ever made her feel that way, like someone worth fighting for, someone to cherish. His cheek was rough against her face, his lips soft as they explored her jaw, nipping at her ear lobe before kissing a path downward to linger over the curve of her neck. She stirred, her body responding to his touch as strong fingers slid between her legs and began to stroke gently.
A small moan passed her lips as he bent her leg forward and slid his cock down the cleft of her ass into the wetness between her legs. With the first stroke of his shaft inside her, she gasped, arching her back to open herself further, welcoming his intrusion, beginning to move with him. His rhythm gained urgency and he seized her hips, holding her firm against him as he drove ever deeper within her slick folds. She reached down and covered his hand with hers, pressing hard, crushing her clit, feeling his thick sex sliding in and out, opening her wide, stretching her tight around him. He groaned with hunger, bending to the curve of her neck once more. For a split second the warmth of his breath brushed her neck and then his teeth slid into her vein. She cried out, her orgasm sudden and overwhelming, rising from a quiet pool of need to a tidal wave of ecstasy in the space of seconds. She screamed as it swept over her, carrying him in its wake, leaving his roar of completion to vibrate in her very bones.
She lay within the circle of his arms, flushed with the passion of their lovemaking, her muscles relaxed, her desire sated. For the moment.
As if he knew what she was thinking, he chuckled low and sensuously, his breath soft on her cheek. “Sweet, my Cyn,” he murmured. “So sweet."
* * * *
The phone trilled, jarring Cynthia awake. She blinked in the darkened room, reaching automatically for the hard, male body that should have been behind her and finding nothing but empty space. She closed her eyes and willed away the tears, curling her body around the ache in her chest. The phone jangled its wake up call again, and she reached out irritably, knocking the receiver away, listening to the automated voice spilling out. She lay there for a moment more, feeling the arousal of her body, the fine sheen of sweat that covered her skin. It was so real. So very real. And it was all a lie.
Throwing aside the covers, she forced herself to stand and head for the shower. One day at a time, wasn't that what all those anonymous help groups said? One day at a time. She wondered what they'd think about her using their mantra against the memory of her vampire lover.
* * * *
Cyn swore as the hotel lobby's automatic doors opened and she stepped outside. “It's fucking freezing out here,” she said to no one. “I thought Texas was warm."
"Cynthia Leighton?"
She stiffened, swinging around to stare at the man standing next to a long, black limo parked in the porte-cochere. No, not a man. A vampire. Not that most people would have noticed. The small things gave him away—a bulge in his upper lip concealing fangs emerging in an instinctive show of aggression, the too still way he watched her over the bulk of the limo. Cyn knew vampires, knew that as much as they might resemble humans, they were definitely different—better, stronger, faster. The Six Million Dollar Man, but without the plane crash. This particular vampire was looking at her with distaste, as if he desperately hoped he was wrong about her identity. She grinned, happy to ruin his night. “That's me!"
The vampire didn't crack even the shadow of a smile. “Lord Jabril Karim is waiting."
Cyn made a point of checking her watch. “My appointment is at seven.” It was six o'clock, and Jabril Karim's estate was about forty minutes outside the city. She knew because she'd checked.
The vamp merely looked at her. Cyn opened the limo door and slid across the soft leather seat. It was going to be a long forty minutes.
Chapter Three
Mirabelle woke. It was not a slow wakening, not a gradual return of the senses, as if from sleep. It was the clarity of difference between black and white, life and death. She was Vampire and she was awake.
Remaining perfectly still, she listened to the small sounds around her—a car moving slowly away from the house, a bird singing outside the window, voices from the kitchens beneath her rooms. But nothing closer. Safe. For now.
She sat up in the near perfect dark of a walk-in closet, throwing off blankets she no longer needed but used anyway. They comforted her, perhaps a memory of better times. The darkness itself was no impediment; her eyes compensated for the absence of light, making do with the small amount leaking from beneath the door, showing her the outlines and shadows of shelves and hangers, clothes and shoes. She sighed and climbed to her feet, pulled open the closet door and hurried into the bedroom beyond.
It was a spacious room, elegantly furnished with a huge four poster bed and heavy satin and velvet furnishings. Elaborate brocade drapes covered the wide windows, dark burgundies and blues to match the bed coverings. It was all very beautiful and very expensive ... and nothing she would have chosen for herself. But then she never slept here. It felt safer, somehow, to hide in the closet. It was foolish, and ultimately pointless. But she did it anyway.
A tug on the thick rope and the drapes drew away. Beyond the window, the night was driven back by the bright, almost garish, artificial lighting of the estate grounds. Mirabelle stared out without seeing and wondered why she was so unsettled tonight. It was a night like any other. Wasn't it?
A knock sounded on the door and she turned, heading across the room with a smile. It was probably her sister Elizabeth who was her only real friend and the one bright spot in her nights. Only seventeen and still human, Liz lived in a separate building on the edge of the estate, along with the housekeeper and other servants. It had been days since they'd seen each other. Liz couldn't come every night, but she did try, and—
Mirabelle stopped before she reached the door and scented the air carefully. Her visitor was definitely human, but...?
She glanced down nervously at her silky nightgown. It was a secret indulgence to her femininity, the last one left to her. She rushed back to the closet and drew on a long, thick robe, tugging it closed around her neck and tying it securely before going over to pull open the door.
"My lady.” The servant outside lowered his eyes, unwilling to look upon her, even in the all-encompassing robe. “Lord Jabril Karim requests your immediate presence.” He glanced up at her night clothing and tightened his mouth in disapproval. “That is, my lord requests your presence as soon as you are decently clothed."
Mirabelle flushed, more from humiliation than anger. Even the servants presumed to judge her, though it was her money that fed and clothed this man and his entire family. And because she was feeling unhappy and unsettled tonight, she did something she rarely did. She threw courtesy to the wind and closed the door in his face, locking it with a loud click.
A petty defiance, she admitted as she hurried back to the closet, and one that would probably come back to haunt her in the form of small holes in her clothing and erratic visits to her room by the cleaning staff. Not that she cared either way. She hated the so-called modest clothing Jabril Karim insisted she wear, and the rooms were little more than a prison cell. What did she care if they were clean or not? Still, if the old bloodsucker had sent someone to fetch her, it was probably important—to him anyway. And he had ways of punishing her that were far worse than anything the cleaning staff could dream up.
She stripped off the robe and nightgown, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the room fill with steam while she brushed her teeth. Jabril might complain she'd taken too long, but she'd be damned if she'd go without a shower. He knew very well that she woke long after he did, long after the other vampires in the house did. She was very young, as such things were reckoned. She'd been barely eighteen when she was turned, and that was only five years ago, a century or more younger than any of the other vampires living here. The sun had to be well below the horizon before she began to stir, which meant everyone else had been awake a good hour by the time she drew her first full breath of the night.