A Hunger Like No Other (9 page)

The car downstairs.
Holy shite, was she really going to do this? As she descended, she did a quick mental tally of the pros and cons of cooperating and leaving with him.

Pros. She could possibly use him to finally understand more about herself and her nature, and he would kill any other vampire in sight, thereby protecting her from them.

Cons. He'd never told her whether he ultimately planned to kill her or not. The Lykae might protect her from the vampires, but who would have her back against him?

Her aunts might never run—but Emma excelled at it. Until she got into the car with him, she thought, she still had a chance . . . .

When she exited the elevator, she spotted him through the lobby as he waited in the drive. His gaze was already locked on her. She took a steadying breath, glad for once that she and Regin had bickered—it always fired her up, sometimes enough to make Emma throw down her pompoms and toe the sideline.

He was standing beside a black sedan, a black . . .
Mercedes
? She raised an eyebrow. He'd rented what looked like a 500 series that was going to cost her a fortune to drop off in a different country.
Werewolf couldn't find an S6
?

Yes, he was a Lykae, but seeing him like this, she realized
that no one would ever know he was of a different species. When he casually leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his chest, he appeared human, just taller, stronger, with some kind of inexplicable pull.

Although he appeared relaxed, his eyes were watchful, and the streetlamps lit an expression that was intent and never wavering from her face. She suppressed the urge to glance behind her for the woman he was truly devouring with his eyes.

Was this whole scary situation worth it just so she could experience that look? Just so she could have the knowledge of what it was like to have a man like that look at her as if she were the only woman in the world?

All her life she'd lived in the shadow of her aunts, who were so stunningly lovely that eddas were written about them. Though Emma's mother was dead, Emma was still overwhelmed by universal tales of her fabled beauty.

Emma was scrawny, pale, and . . . befanged.

Yet a man this handsome was giving her a look that could smelt metal. If he hadn't terrified her and attacked her—if he could be the gentle lover who'd cupped her breast and rumbled in her ear that her skin was soft—would she leave with him? Her eyes met his. This male had touched her and made her feel things she hadn't before, things she'd envied others. Merely nestling her face against his naked chest had been a new experience that she would never trade for anything.

Feeling bolder, she allowed her gaze to flicker over his body before slowly inching back up to his face. He wasn't smirking or scowling, but looked as if he was thinking the same thoughts she was.

She found herself drawn to him, her mind and thoughts
shutting down, like she was disconnected from reality. As her heels clicked across the lobby's marble floor toward him, her body seemed to come alive. He stood fully, visibly tensing.

Her breasts seemed fuller. Her ears were uncovered in public, with only her long, freed hair to conceal them. She felt as though she'd gone out without a bra—she felt a little . . . naughty. When the sudden urge came to taste her lips, she did. He clenched his hands in response.

She wanted one thing from him, and if he could give it to her, shouldn't she risk the rest? She'd risked the shower with him for the same reason, and he hadn't hurt her then. No, in the end, he had kept his promise—

The spell was broken when a Ferrari, reeking of burned clutch, screeched to a stop behind the Mercedes. Two European starlets with perfect bodies clad in tight dresses spilled out. Perplexing, but Emma grew dismayed knowing he would appraise them just as he had her. The leggy blondes with bubble breasts spotted him and stopped in their stilettoed tracks, finally recovering enough to giggle loudly in a bid for his attention.

When it wasn't forthcoming, they pouted, and one “dropped” her lipstick to roll by his feet. Emma gaped as the woman bent down before him, then checked for his reaction.

Between her and Lachlain, she was the only one watching the scene—he'd never taken his gaze from her. But she had the impression that he was well aware of their antics. His eyes bored into hers as if saying,
I'm looking at what I want.
She shivered.

Having been completely ignored, the two finally gave up and shot Emma venomous looks as they passed. As if he was
hers? As if she was keeping him from them? She was a prisoner—more or less! “You can have him, kitties,” she hissed for their ears only. They blanched before scuttling away. She might be a coward against Lore creatures, but with humans she could hold her own in the tabby arena.

Now, how would she fare traveling with a wolf?

*  *  *

Lachlain had watched as Emmaline glided through the lobby, moving too gracefully to truly look human. He'd been struck by how wealthy and coolly composed she appeared—like an aristocrat. One would never imagine her timorous nature, because she seemed to have donned a cloak of confidence.

Then she'd changed.

He didn't know what caused it, but her gaze turned heated. She gave the impression that she needed a man—and he'd responded.
Everything in him
responded. But others had, too. Though she seemed unconscious of it, her sensual walk and movements lured every male gaze to her. In mid-conversation, they turned and stared, enthralled. Even the women did. Lachlain pinpointed each of their focuses. The women stared at her clothing and shiny hair; the men ogled her breasts, lips, and eyes, their hearts and breaths speeding up at her mesmerizing beauty.

Did each of those fools think he'd be the one to give her what she desired? Fury fired in him. She'd told him with a steady gaze that deep down he was a monster. She'd been partly correct, and right now that beast wanted to kill every male that dared look at her when he had not claimed her. This was a vulnerable time, and the Instinct was screaming at him to get her away—

Realization hit him. Female vampires had always been
born beautiful—as a defensive and predatory tool. They manipulated with it and used it to kill. This one was at work even now, doing what she'd been born to do. And he'd been reacting just as she'd known he would.

When she stood before him, he cast her a black look. She frowned at his expression, visibly swallowed, then said, “I'm going to go with you. And I won't try to run or escape.” Her voice was silky and seductive, a voice made for wicked murmurs in bed. “I'll help you, but I'm asking you not to hurt me.”

“I told you I'd protect you.”

“You told me the night before that you might kill me.”

His scowl deepened.

“Just please, um, could you try
not
to?” She looked up at him with those blue eyes that appeared so guileless.

She thought to use her wiles to handle him? To gentle the beast inside him?
He
couldn't even control it—

An odd, chill wind blew, batting a curl against her cheek. Her eyes narrowed. A second later, they widened and her hands flew to his chest. He glanced down and saw her shell-pink claws go from curling to straight—like little daggers.

She'd perceived a threat. His eyes scanned the area; he was feeling something, too. But it was fleeting, and his senses weren't as keen as they normally were. Not yet. In any case, a menace of some sort near her wasn't surprising. As a vampire she had many blood enemies—a fact he'd once applauded. Now he would have to fight them because he would destroy anything that sought to hurt her.

Instead of telling her that, he removed her hands from his chest with an expression of distaste. “I'll bet you're better off with me than alone out here.”

She nodded,
agreeing.
“Then can we go?”

When he gave her a tight nod, and drew away from her to go to the passenger side of the car, the valet opened the driver's door and helped her in. Lachlain cringed at not having assisted her, then grew angered over his chagrin.

After a brief grappling with the door handle, he joined her, sinking into the plush seat. The interior was luxurious—even he would know that—though it was strange that the accents in the car looked like wood but didn't smell organic.

She peeked at the back seating of the car, no doubt noticing the cache of magazines he'd had the concierge amass for him, but without even a questioning glance she faced forward. “I can get to London”—she pushed a button that said
OnStar
—“but after that I'll need help.”

He nodded, watching as she hurriedly adjusted her seat far forward before strapping a harness over her front.

At his look, she explained, “It's a seat belt. For safety,” then reached down to move a lever to D.

So help him, if that stood for “drive” and that was all it took to engage this machine, he was going to fall out. When she glanced at his
seat belt,
he raised his eyebrows and said simply, “Immortal.”

He knew he'd irritated her. She moved her foot to the longer of two pedals on the floor, stomping it, and the car surged forward into traffic. She glanced at him, no doubt hoping to have startled him. Not possible—he could already tell he was going to love cars.

Her tone defensive, she said, “I'm immortal, too, usually, but if I get in a wreck and get knocked out till morning, that sun allergy card my aunts make me cart around won't do jack. Okay?”

“I understood fifty percent of that,” he observed calmly.

“I can't afford this car,” she retorted, clenching the steering wheel as she directed the vehicle around other cars.

Why this concern about money? Who would dare withhold funds from her? The vampires had always been wealthy and had just begun investing in seep oil when he was imprisoned. Obviously, the market had grown. Not surprising, since everything their king, Demestriu, touched turned to gold. Or died.

Thinking of Demestriu made rage flare, nearly choking him. Pain radiated through his leg, and he clenched his hand on the handle above his head, crushing it.

She gasped, then locked her gaze straight ahead, murmuring to herself, “How much can a handle cost? Really.”

Her unnecessary worry over something that would have no bearing on their life irritated him. His wealth—their wealth—was in his,
their
home. They need only get to it.

Their home.
He was returning to Kinevane, his ancestral estate in the Highlands, with his woman. Finally. And if she weren't a vampire, he might feel pleased about that fact.

Instead of slighted.

He wondered how the clan would react to the incredible insult of her presence.

“H
ow fast are we going?”

“Eighty kilometers an hour,” Emma answered in an offhanded tone.

“How long is a kilometer?”

She'd known he was going to ask that. Sad but true—she didn't know. She was just matching the dial on her speedo to the kilometer-an-hour limit posted on the signs.

Many of his questions over the last half hour were making her feel stupid, and for some reason she felt it vital that he didn't think that.

The questions accompanied the stockpile of news magazines he'd acquired, no doubt from “the man downstairs” who'd mapped out this journey. Emma had seen Lachlain flying through them, realizing he was reading them that quickly because he would ask her for definitions every few pages. Acronyms seemed to stump him, and though she'd nailed NASA and DEA and PDA, she came up short on MP3.

After he'd read the magazines cover to cover, he took up the car manual and the questions resumed. As if she could define “a transmission.”

Even with her limited assistance, she could
feel
him learning, could perceive how intelligent he was. And his
questions indicated that he was deducing much, reasoning out his own answers as he soaked up knowledge in a way she'd never imagined was possible.

The rental car's copy of French traffic rules followed the manual, but he skimmed it, then tossed it away as if unimpressed. At her look, he explained, “Some things doona change. You still put on the parking brake on a hill, horse carriage or no.”

His arrogance, his easy dismissal of things he should be awed by, rankled. A car would terrify her if she'd never been in one until she was an adult. Not Lachlain. On the road, he was too pleased with himself. Too comfortable in the leather seats, too curious about his window and air controls, flicking them on and off, up and down, and mauling the German technology with his huge paws. If he'd been locked away for so long, then shouldn't he be discombobulated?

Shouldn't he still be shaken? She believed nothing could shake his colossal arrogance—

Great, he's found the control for the moon roof.
Her patience was ragged. Open . . . close. Open . . . close. Open . . .