A Vampire's Honor (2 page)

B
y the time I walked out of the bathroom, Gabriel was gently ushering a mildly protesting Claudia Benton through the front door. I caught a glimpse of her face, and the expression she wore was not going to get her nominated for Realtor of the Year. It occurred to me that perhaps she was worried about losing her commission. Oh well, the bitch should've thought about that before trying to put the moves on my man.

“She had another appointment,” Gabriel told me, seeing the questioning look on my face. “I told her we'd lock up.” Another appointment this close to midnight? Yeah, right, of course she did. Still, I knew better than to say anything. “I think I saw a decent bottle of wine in the cooler,” Gabriel said. “Would you like some?”

“That would be nice,” I said with a smile. “I seem to have worked up quite a thirst.”

I know next to nothing about wine, and Gabriel's efforts to educate me on the subject have not been a stellar success. He took me to a nighttime tasting event at some posh winery, only by the time I realized the operative word was
tasting
and not swallowing, it was too late. A half-dozen glasses, all on an empty stomach, and I was the life of the party. Who knew fermented grape juice could be so intoxicating? Or so sneaky. I was in the middle of a perfectly wonderful conversation with a very nice gray-haired man who was a professor of something at a college somewhere, when the next mouthful of Cabernet du Plonk had me slurring my words and sliding off the bar stool. According to the general consensus, I was the most delightful drunk they'd had at this particular winery in years. Something my lover made certain he shared with me once my head stopped spinning. But now I knew better. Accepting the glass of wine, I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the oversized couch, tucking one leg under me.

“So what do you think?” Gabriel asked, taking up his own sizable amount of space at the other end of the couch.

“About what?”

“The apartment.” He made an expansive sweep with the hand that wasn't holding his wineglass. “Do you like it?”

To be honest, I hadn't really paid that much attention to it. I'd been too busy letting myself get annoyed by Ms. I-really-wanna-get-in-your-pants realtor, but as she was no longer an issue, I viewed my surroundings with a new perspective. Something about the way Gabriel was looking at me set a red flag waving in my head.

The building was close to the Greenley Heights financial district, and if the décor was anything to go by, the target buyers were young up-and-comers in banking or a similar profession. Clean lines, lots of white, with expensive neutral rugs covering the hardwood floor. All the appliances were top of the line, but I doubt the wall oven would ever get used and the range top only minimally. However, I could see the fridge and microwave getting quite a workout.

Whoever bought this apartment would be still hungry to make their mark. I imagined them to be single with no children, working long hours, and spending very little actual time inside these walls. Which was a shame, because the apartment had a lot of potential. Personally I loved the sections of open brickwork that made otherwise plain walls interesting, and the huge picture windows were a wonderful feature. As was the view, which I could now fully appreciate. But the feature that was the apartment's crown jewel was the floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcase covering one entire wall.

“Yes,” I said, nodding and taking a satisfied sip of my wine. “It's very nice.”

“Would you like it?” Gabriel asked in a low voice.

“Would I like what?”

“This apartment. Would you like to have it?”

Normally when Gabriel makes my stomach roll, it's a good thing—an indication that I can expect some heavy-duty skin-on-skin contact taking place—but what my stomach was doing now was nowhere near that pleasant. A sudden jolt of anxiety made it curdle, causing a tremor that, if it reached my hand, would guarantee the light-colored couch would be wearing an abstract splash of the not-too-shabby merlot Gabriel had poured me.

You're being ridiculous!
my inner bitch scolded.
What was that in the bathroom just now? A pity fuck?

No, at least that's not how it seemed to me, and Gabriel would never be that cruel. So why did he want to give me an apartment?

Living with Gabriel had its own unique challenges, and while I had very little difficulty getting my head around most of the ones that related directly to his being a vampire, it was the human ones I found harder to deal with. Like the fact that he was beyond stinking rich.

“I need you to close your bank account,” he'd told me a few days after I'd moved in with him.

“Why?” I was in the kitchen, trying to figure out how the coffeemaker worked. The damn thing had more lights and switches than a flight-control desk at NASA.

“It will make dealing with your finances easier,” Gabriel said, coming up behind me and pushing the button that made the brew cycle kick into life. “Besides, isn't that what married people do?”

“Not necessarily,” I murmured, frustrated that I'd missed which button he'd pressed. “And, anyway, we're not married.”

The open cupboard door did a wonderful job of distorting his comment, which was probably just as well. I had no doubt he was making some pithy remark about my inability to set a wedding date.

“I still need you to close your bank account,” he said, handing me a mug.

“Um, you do realize I don't actually have any finances, right?”

Being with Gabriel meant I now lived a nocturnal life, which pretty much wrote my pink slip for me. With no job, and having more or less given my house to my BFF Laycee and her boyfriend Jake to live in, I had less than a thousand dollars to my name. I'm ashamed to say my sudden lack of income hadn't crossed my mind . . . until now.

“That's what we need to talk about,” Gabriel told me. “Are you going to have a problem with me providing for you?” It was an old-fashioned phrase that sounded as if it belonged in the Victorian era, but it was also something I would expect Gabriel to say.

He wants to provide for you?
I could almost see my inner bitch rolling her eyes.
What does that mean . . . exactly?

I filled my coffee cup with premium roast, added a splash of half-and-half, and sat down at the breakfast bar while Gabriel stood, waiting for my response. What he was really asking was whether or not I was going to have a problem taking his money. Truthfully, I didn't know. I'd never had a man offer to provide for me before, and from the way Gabriel was looking at me, I was pretty sure it wasn't something he made a habit of. “You're not going to leave a wad of bills on the bedside table, are you?”

He tried hiding his grin behind his mug, but the dimple in his cheek gave him away. “Only if that's what you prefer.”

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “No, I'm more of a cookie jar type of girl.”

A puzzled frown replaced the grin. “I know what a cookie jar is, but what's a cookie jar girl?”

I explained. “Every payday we both put an agreed-upon amount of cash into an empty cookie jar, so either of us can take what we need, as we need it.” He seemed surprised by the concept, and I could almost hear the cogs turning inside his head as he weighed the practicality of such an arrangement. “Of course, it's not going to be exactly fair in this situation, because only one of us is going to be putting anything
into
the jar.”

“Hmmm, well, I was thinking of something more along these lines,” he said, fishing something out of his back pocket.

He placed a credit card on the marble countertop and pushed it toward me with his forefinger. It was copper-colored and had what appeared to be a smart chip embedded in it and my name etched on the front. I recognized the familiar Visa logo, but the moniker in the top right-hand corner was something I'd only seen in my schoolbooks. I picked it up and stared at Gabriel. “J. P. Morgan? Is this like the banking guy?”

“
The banking guy,
” Gabriel repeated, chuckling softly. “I think John Pierpont would have liked you very much.”

My heel slipped off the lower rail of the breakfast bar stool I'd perched my butt on. “Did you . . . did you . . . are you saying you actually
knew
him?”

“We met a couple of times,” Gabriel said, shrugging his wide shoulders nonchalantly, “when he wanted some advice.”

“About what?”

“Mergers, acquisitions, financial investments.”

“What did you do?” I was fascinated as my brain went on a trip through high school history lessons. “Tell him to create U.S. Steel?”

“No, that I can't take the credit for, but I did mention that I thought electricity was definitely a sound investment.”

I was stunned. “You're responsible for General Electric?”

Gabriel laughed out loud. “Of course not! I just offered an opinion when it was asked for.”

“And that's why you have an account at his bank?”

“I have accounts with many banks.”

If there was some other meaning in his statement, I had no idea what it was. Instead, I looked down at the credit card in my hand. “What's the limit on this thing?”

“There isn't one.”

I might not be that savvy about finances, and certainly no banker is ever going to ask for my advice about anything, but I do know that credit cards with no pre-set spending limit are issued only to accounts with a lot of numbers coming before the decimal point. As if it might suddenly sprout teeth and bite me, I put the card back on the countertop and pushed it in Gabriel's direction. “I don't think so,” I told him.

He folded his arms and stared at me for a full minute before asking, “Why not?”

“It's too much, Gabriel. Too big. I don't think I can handle it.”

It wasn't just the card we were talking about, and we both knew it. It was accepting the lifestyle his wealth was going to give me. Of course, I knew he had money. He didn't just live in the penthouse of the swankiest apartment complex in town, he owned the building itself. His shirts were made in England, and he wore watches with names like Rolex and Patek Philippe. And then there were his cars. I'd been stunned to learn there was a second sub-level garage for his vehicles only.

I read an article once about people who won multi-state lotteries. Seventy percent of the winners either lost or spent their entire fortune within five years. I remember thinking I would never squander such an opportunity; only now I could truly appreciate how terrifying a sudden fortune could be. Gabriel wanting to give me a J. P. Morgan Palladium credit card was like winning the lottery, and like that seventy percent of overnight winners, I wasn't equipped to deal with the reality of such an abundant cash flow.

“You sure we can't do the cookie jar thing?” I muttered wistfully.

Gabriel said nothing as he took back the plastic bearing John Pierpont's name, but the next evening a colorful jar was sitting on the breakfast bar. Next to it was a note written in his beautiful copperplate script.

Inside the jar was an assortment of tens and twenties, with a few fifties thrown in for good measure. And a credit card. A black American Express with my name stamped on the front. Smiling, I took a couple of the twenties and slipped them with my new credit card into my wallet.

And now he wanted to buy me . . . an apartment?

“What do I need an apartment for?” I asked, trying to sound conversational while at the same time doing my best to ignore the seasick feeling washing through me. I looked up and found myself gazing into a pair of neon blue eyes, and I turned my head away. Gabriel's ability to move quickly—and silently—was still unnerving.

“What is it, Rowan?” he asked, placing a finger under my chin and turning my head back so I was looking at him once more.

“N-nothing.”

My response was met with a raised brow. “You're not being truthful with me.” He began stroking the side of my jaw with his thumb. “If you don't like this apartment, we can always look for another.”

Oh yeah, like that was going to make a difference. It wasn't the apartment that was a problem, it was the reason for it. Apparently the novelty of living with me had lost its charm. Oh, I didn't doubt that Gabriel loved me and would want to keep seeing me. I was his Promise, after all, but being around me twenty-four-seven was an entirely different prospect from being able to pick and choose as the mood—or hunger—struck him.

I leaned back, pulling my face out of his grasp, and shook my head. “The apartment's fine,” I said, although I already knew the bathroom was going to have to be gutted and redecorated. It already had the wrong sort of memories.

“If it's not the apartment,” Gabriel said, “then what are you upset about?”

I downed the contents of my glass in one go and, emboldened by the sudden rush of fermented grapes, blurted out, “Why don't you just say you want me to leave?”

He looked startled. “What? Who said anything about you leaving?”

“Well, isn't that what this is all about?” I wasn't sure how much boldness I was going to find in one glass of wine, but I was determined to make the most of it. “It's okay, Gabriel, you can be honest with me.”

“Aw, shit, Rowan—no! You've got this all wrong.”

He jumped up from the couch and proceeded to pace. I watched him do an entire circumference of the open living space before coming to a stop in front of me. He dropped his gaze to the floor, and I watched his chest move as he took in a deep breath. My thighs twitched in appreciation of his muscle control.