“It may have been mentioned once or twice.”
She didn’t pull away, so he brushed his lips over hers, nibbling on the full lower lip he adored. In seconds, it was his hunger that was spiking.
“Sadly, our rooms are not ready yet,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d steal you away for a private conference before our meeting tonight.”
“A private conference? Is that necessary?”
“Very necessary, Dr. O’Dea.” He spoke against her lips, teasing her mouth with fleeting touches and heated breaths. “It’s imperative that Ireland be of a single mind during this summit.” Murphy slid a hand around her waist, ignoring the rush of servants and security that bustled through the hallway. He pulled her closer, pressing his body into hers.
“A single mind?” Her eyes were clouded and her fangs had fallen.
“Indeed. Coordination is key. We’ll need to work very, very closely throughout any negotiations. Proper discourse is vital.”
“Discourse? I’m not sure the discourse you’re interested in is proper at all.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Nonsense. I am a consummate professional in all things.”
“You consummate professionally? That’s fascinating. And possibly illegal. You’ll have to check the local regulations.”
He’d managed to back her into the wall, but Anne wasn’t trying to escape. Bloody hell, he’d missed playing with her like this. He almost growled when the fluttery human cleared her throat behind him.
“Ahem. Mr. Murphy?”
Anne was biting her lip to hold in a laugh while he cursed under his breath.
“Yes, Judith?”
“Mr. Ramsay has requested that you join him for a drink in the billiards room of the main house when you’re able.”
He frowned. “I have to travel for a meeting later tonight,” he told Anne. “I should meet with Terry before it gets too late.”
She nodded. “Fill me in later? I believe Gemma has a shop or two she said would open for us. I don’t want to delay choosing a wardrobe. I’m sure everything will need to be tailored.”
Murphy ran a hand just under her ribs and down her waist, spreading his fingers over the full curve of her hip. “Buy some suits like the one you first wore to Dublin. You looked stunning in it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“In red.”
“Bossy.”
“And appropriate dresses. Or inappropriate ones. Either will do. I want to take you out while we’re here.”
The hunger touched her eyes again, so he stole a kiss before he turned to Judith.
“Judith, this is Dr. O’Dea. Please see to her needs while I am meeting with Mr. Ramsay.”
The human almost curtsied. “As you wish, Mr. Murphy.”
“Presumptuous,” Anne called. “Very presumptuous, Patrick.”
TERRY handed him a full glass of blood-wine when he entered the room. “What’s your game?”
Murphy looked around the room. It was a proper billiards room with three tables and a long wall of racks, balls, and the various accoutrement needed to play any billiard game one could think of. Noting the almost imperceptible layer of dust on the large snooker table, he made his choice.
“Snooker.”
Terry raised an eyebrow but told the servant standing in the corner, “Set it up, then leave.”
Murphy sipped the wine and waited for his host to speak.
“How are your rooms?”
“Sufficient. Thank you.”
“Let Gemma’s people know if there’s anything you need. They’re far more efficient than my crew.”
“I will.” He took another sip of the wine, noting with satisfaction that the copper bite of the blood hadn’t oxidized as it usually did in attempts to preserve it. “This is very good.”
“Is it?” Terry drank from his own glass. “Christ, I miss beer.”
Murphy let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t need to drink it on my account.”
“Gem’d have my head if I didn’t. I’m a winemaker now, she says. Need to be selling the product.”
“I’m no snitch, Ramsay.”
“Thank Christ.” He walked over and set his glass on the bar in the corner, pulling a dark bottle from the fridge below. “It’s not bad stuff.”
“It’s not. In fact, it’s quite good.”
“And it gets better every year. I’m just bloody sick of the stuff, no pun intended.”
“You’ve solved the preservation problems?”
He shrugged and walked to the wall of sticks. “So my winemaker tells me. Bloody Frenchman. Opinionated as hell, but worth his weight. A bottle of what you’re drinking will sell for five hundred pounds.”
Patrick almost spit it out and grabbed a bottle of beer. “So much?”
Terry turned and smiled wickedly. “And we’ll make more than that, my friend.”
Murphy walked over and chose his cue stick. “Vampires will pay.”
“They will.” Terry motioned toward the carefully set table. “Guests first.”
Murphy walked around the table, scoping out the angles and noting the minute imperfections of the baize, the age of the cushions, and the weight of the stick in his hand. He chalked the tip of his cue and leaned over to break the pyramid of red balls.
“So, Ramsay. I can assume this isn’t just a friendly game.”