Books by Maggie Shayne (87 page)

She hooked a finger beneath his chin, and stared into his green, liquor-clouded eyes for a long moment.
 
She focused her mental energies on calming him, and gaining his utter cooperation.
 
By the time she lowered her head to his throat, the man would have gladly given her everything he owned, had she asked it.
 
She sensed no evil in him.
 
In fact, he seemed a perfectly nice fellow, except for his heavy drinking.
 
She supposed everyone was entitled to one vice, though.
 
She was about to indulge in hers.

She parted her lips and settled her mouth over the place where his jugular pulsed beneath the skin.
 
She wished the man no harm.
 
She only needed to get a rise out of Roland.
 
Her willing victim moaned softly, and let his head fall to the side.
 
She nearly choked on her laughter.
 
She was glad one of them was getting some pleasure out of this.
 
The act had lost its luster for her long ago.

"Dammit Rhianikki, let him go!"

Roland's hand closed on her shoulder, and he jerked her roughly away from the drunk's throat.
 
The man sank to the ground, barely conscious, but from her entrancement of him, not from blood loss.
 
"You could have killed him," Roland whispered harshly.

Rhiannon allowed the corners of her lips to pull ever so slightly upward.
 
"Always so eager to think the worst of me, aren't you, darling?
 
And it's Rhiannon, now.
 
Rhianikki is too--" she waved a hand "--Egyptian."
 
She gave the man on the ground a cursory glance.
 
"It's all right, Paul.
 
You may go now."
 
With her mind, she released him, and he rose unsteadily.
 
His puzzled expression moved from Rhiannon, to Roland, and back again.

"What happened?"

"You've had a little too much Chablis,
mon cher
.
 
Go on, now.
 
Be on your way."

Still frowning, he stumbled back into the tavern, and Rhiannon turned to Roland.
 
"You see?"

"Why are you here?"

She lifted her hands, palms up.
 
"Not even a hello?
 
A how are you?
 
A glad to see you're still drawing a breath?
 
Nothing?
 
How rude you've become, Roland."

"Why are you here?"
 
His voice remained impassive as he repeated the question.

She shrugged.
 
"Well, if you must know, I heard about a certain DPI agent, rather nasty one, too, who'd traced you here.
 
They say he's already in the village.
 
I was worried about you, Roland.
 
I came to warn you."

He looked at the ground and slowly shook his head.
 
"So, knowing an agent of the Division of Paranormal Investigations is in the village, you naturally flaunt your own presence here to the utmost possible degree."

"What better way to flush him out?
 
You know how keen they are on vampire research."

"You might've been killed, Rhiannon."

"Then you'd have been rid of me at last."

He was silent for a moment, scanning her face.
 
"I would find no joy in that, reckless one."

From beneath her lashes, she looked up at him.
 
"You do have an odd way of showing it."

He placed a hand on her shoulder.
 
She slipped one around his waist, and they moved together along the winding road, toward his castle.
 
"You need to take more care," he went on, his tone fatherly... and utterly maddening.
 
"You've no idea what DPI is capable of.
 
They've developed a tranquilizer that renders us helpless."

"I know.
 
And I know about your scrape with them in Connecticut, when they nearly took Eric and his fledgling, Tamara."

Roland's brows shot upward.
 
"And how do you know all of that?"

"I keep track of you, darling."
 
She smiled.
 
"And for years I kept track of that scientist, St. Claire.
 
He held me for a time in that laboratory of his, you know."

He sucked in a sharp breath, gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him.
 
She could have laughed aloud.
 
At last, some emotion!

"My God, I had no idea.
 
When... how..."
 
He broke off and shook his head.
 
"Did he hurt you?"

Warmth surged within her.
 
"Terribly," she confessed with a small pout.
 
"But only for a short time.
 
I had to break his partner's neck, I'm afraid, when I made my escape."

Roland shook his head, and closed his eyes.
 
"You could have summoned me.
 
I would've come--"

"Oh, posh, Roland.
 
By the time you could have arrived, I was free again.
 
No human can hope to get the best of Rhianikki, princess of the Nile, daughter of Pharaoh, immortal vampiress of time immemorial--"

His laughter burst from him involuntarily, she knew, and she drank in the beauty of his smile, wishing she could elicit its appearance more often.
 
There was a darkness in Roland's eyes at times.
 
Some secret that troubled him, one he'd never shared.

When his laughter died, he turned and began walking once more.
 
"Tell me how you know about the DPI agent in L'Ombre?"

"Since St. Claire came so close to having me, I've kept a close watch on the organization.
 
I have spies inside.
 
They keep me informed."

He nodded.
 
"Then you are a bit more sensible than I gave you credit for being.
 
You know, of course, St. Claire is dead."

She nodded.
 
"But his protégé, Curtis Rogers, is not."

Roland stopped walking again.
 
"That can't be.
 
Tamara shot him when he was trying his damnedest to kill Eric."

"Yes, shot him.
 
And left him for dead, only he wasn't.
 
He was found a short time later, and he survived.
 
It is he who has come to France looking for you, Roland.
 
He wants vengeance."

"On me?"

"You, Eric, Tamara... and the boy, I'm afraid."

She saw the pale coloring drain from Roland's face.
 
She'd known already of his attachment to the child he'd rescued two years ago.
 
The boy was one of The Chosen, a human with an unseen bond to immortals.
 
DPI knew it, and attempted to use him as bait in their trap.
 
No doubt, they would not hesitate to do so again.
 
Rhiannon knew all of this, but seeing firsthand his obvious reaction to a whisper of a threat to the lad, brought home to her the intensity of his caring.
 
She felt the rush of turmoil that coursed through him, and she placed a calming hand on his arm.

"Jamey," he whispered.
 
"The bastard had him once.
 
Nearly killed him."

"And so you know why I've come."

His brows rose inquiringly, and she rushed on.
 
"To offer my help in protecting the boy."

"Noble of you, but unnecessary.
 
I can protect Jamey.
 
I won't have you putting yourself in harm's way for my sake.
 
It would be far better if you left France at once."

"For your peace of mind, you mean?"

She searched his face and she knew when his gaze fell before hers that she'd hit on the truth.
 
"Then you are not so indifferent to me as you pretend?"

"When have I ever been indifferent to you, oh goddess among women?"

She almost smiled.
 
"Well, your peace of mind is of no concern to me.
 
In fact, I find a certain pleasure in keeping you off balance.
 
And I am staying, whether you like it or not.
 
If you won't let me help you watch over the boy, I'll simply seek out this Rogers character, and drain him dry.
 
That should solve the problem."

"Rhianik--Rhiannon, surely you are aware that the murder of a DPI agent would only serve to instigate further trouble."
 
He drew an unsteady breath.
 
"Killing rarely solves anything."

She shrugged, keeping him always in her sight with sidelong, lash-veiled glances.
 
How she delighted in baiting him!
 
"They'll never learn what became of him.
 
I'll grind him up and feed him to my cat."

Roland grimaced and shook his head.

"Perhaps I'll torture him first.
 
What do you think?
 
Bamboo shoots under the nails?
 
Usually effective.
 
We could learn all DPI's secrets, and--"

"For God's sake, woman!"
 
He gripped her shoulders hard as he shouted, but his horrified expression faded when she burst into helpless laughter.

He sighed, shook his head and eased his grip on her shoulders.
 
Before he took his hands away, though, she caught his forearms.
 
"No, Roland, don't."

He stood motionless, his face devoid of expression, as she slipped her arms around his waist, and drew herself to him.
 
She rested her head upon his sturdy shoulder.
 
With a sigh of reluctant compliance, Roland's arms tightened around her shoulders and he held her to him.

Rhiannon closed her eyes and simply allowed herself to feel him.
 
The contained strength in him, the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breaths stirred her hair.

"I have missed you, Roland," she whispered.
 
She turned her face slightly, and feathered his neck with her lips.
 
"And you have missed me, though you are loath to admit it."

She felt the shudder she drew from him.
 
He nodded.
 
"I admit it, I've missed you."

"And you desire me," she went on, lifting her head enough so she could study his eyes as she spoke.
 
"As you have no other... nor ever will.
 
You disapprove of everything I am, and everything I do, but you want me, Roland.
 
I feel it even now, in this simple embrace."

"Subtlety has never been your strong suit, Rhiannon."
 
He took her arms from around him, and stepped away, resuming the walk without touching her.

"You deny it?"

He smiled slowly.
 
"I want to walk in the sunshine, Rhiannon, yet to do so would mean my end.
 
What one wants is not necessarily what one should have."

She frowned and tilted her head.
 
"I hate when you speak in metaphors or parables or whatever you call those silly words you use."

He shook his head.
 
"How long will you alight here this time, little bird?"

"Changing the subject won't make you feel better, you know."

"It was a simple question.
 
If you cannot answer it--"

"Answer mine, and I'll answer yours.
 
Do you want me?"

He scowled.
 
"She is a fool who asks a question when she already knows the answer."

"I want to hear you say it."
 
She stopped, and looked into his eyes.
 
"Say you want me."

Roland's glance moved slowly down her body and she felt his gaze burn wherever it touched her.
 
Finally, he nodded.
 
"I want you, Rhiannon.
 
But I will not--"

She held up her hands.
 
"No more.
 
Don't ruin it."

He chewed his inner cheek, and she felt his anger begin to boil up.
 
"Now my question, temptress.
 
How long will you stay?"

"Well, I've come to help protect the boy.
 
I suppose I will stay until the threat is gone, and..."

"And?"
 
His brows drew close and he scanned her face.

She tried not to smile as she answered him.
 
"And until I've given you exactly what you want, Roland."

Roland felt as if he were the Bastille, and she the revolutionaries.
 
For a single instant, he was certain he'd never stand a chance.
 
He attempted to remind himself of all of her faults.
 
She was impulsive, impetuous, and as unpredictable as the weather.
 
She acted without first thinking through the consequences of her actions.
 
And sooner or later it was going to cost her.
 
Hell, it already had cost her, and dearly.
 
He sensed she was glossing over the details of her time in St. Claire's hands.
 
Yet he knew better than to press her for more.
 
He'd have killed the bastard years ago, had he known.
 
He'd kill him now, if the scientist were alive.

Studying her faults did little good.
 
Already, the beast inside was wakening.
 
Already, her presence had him thinking in terms of murder and retribution, had him fighting to control the violent side to his nature.
 
He studied her and shook his head slowly.
 
She was so much the way he'd been once, in his mortal lifetime.
 
All the things he'd fought for years to suppress.

Perhaps he'd not succeed in dampening his desire for her by counting her faults.
 
Perhaps instead, he ought to count his own.
 
Even better, he should remind himself what had become of the other woman he'd lusted after.

"You're guarding your thoughts, Roland.
 
Are they so unflattering?"

"I guard my thoughts out of habit.
 
Do not take it personally."

 
"I think you lie.
 
You don't wish me to see something."

He shrugged noncommittally.
 
If she was determined to stay and taunt him, he'd resist her as best he could.
 
For her sake, as well as his own.
 
He would keep his distance.
 
Never would the beast he held within be unleashed upon her.
 
She'd done nothing to deserve that.

And perhaps while she was here, he'd teach her to act maturely and sensibly.
 
He'd show her the differences between a true lady, and the untamed child she was now.
 
Like changing a cactus flower to a rose, he thought.
 
He refused to acknowledge that the results would benefit him, as well.
 
For he could never be as inflamed with longing for the rose, as he'd always been for the prickly flower.

No, he told himself the lesson would be for her, to get her to exercise some caution from time to time.
 
He liked Rhiannon, sometimes in spite of himself.
 
He'd truly hate to see her come to grief because of her nature... the way he once had.

He frowned, and wondered briefly how long her visit would be.
 
She hadn't told him.
 
Her habit was to flit in and out of his life at will.
 
She never remained long enough to do more than stir up a whirlwind, to pummel his senses--as well as his sense--with her vivacious nature, and then she would vanish.
 
She was a desert sandstorm... a whirlpool from the Nile.

"Roland, darling, you are ignoring me."

He had been doing anything but that, though he would never admit it.
 
Instead, he glanced down from the corners of his eyes, and gave her a sharp nod.
 
"Precisely."

She sighed in exasperation.
 
"I suppose if you refuse to discuss our relationship--"

"We have no relationship, Rhiannon."

"We'll simply have to discuss the boy."
 
She kept on speaking as if she'd never been interrupted.
 
It was another of her maddening habits.
 
When speaking to Rhiannon, you either say what she wants to hear, or you are ignored.
 
Maddening!

"What about the boy?"

"Where is he, Roland?
 
Is he safe?"

He felt his spine relax a bit, now that they were on a neutral subject.
 
"At first, he and his mother lived in the castle."

"That ruin?"

Roland stiffened.
 
"The east wing, Rhiannon.
 
It's perfectly habitable."

"For a monk, perhaps.
 
Do go on."

He scowled, but kept on speaking.
 
He had no desire to engage in verbal skirmishes.
 
"Then Kathryn took ill."

"No wonder, in that drafty place."

Roland ignored the taunt this time.
 
"It was cancer, Rhiannon.
 
She died eight months ago."

Rhiannon's hand flew to her throat and she drew a quick, little breath.
 
"Then, the boy is alone?"

"Not entirely.
 
He has me, and there is Frederick, of course."

"Frederick?"
 
She tilted her head slightly.
 
"That bear of a man you found sleeping on the streets in New York?
 
Roland, can he be trusted with the boy?"

Roland nodded without reservation.
 
Frederick was slightly slow-witted, but he had a heart of pure gold.
 
And he adored Jamey.
 
"Yes.
 
If I didn't trust him, he wouldn't be in my household.
 
Jamey needs someone with him in those hours between school dismissal and sunset."

Still walking beside him, she stroked her long fingers across her forehead as would a Gypsy fortune-teller preparing to do a reading.
 
"Mmm, you enrolled him in a private school, no doubt."

"He refused a private school.
 
Said he was not a snob and had no intention of becoming one."
 
Roland shook his head.
 
"He does have a strong will.
 
At any rate, he's known as James O'Brien.
 
It's the closest I could come to Jamey Bryant."

"And where is this boy of yours, now?
 
Tucked safely into his bed at your chateau?"

"He had a soccer match tonight.
 
Ought to be arriving any time now."
 
He glanced ahead of them, to the tall, gray stone wall that surrounded Castle Courtemanche, and the portcullis at its center.

"You provided Frederick with a car, as well?
 
Can he maneuver one?"

He frowned, and turned to follow the direction of her gaze.
 
"Damn it to hell."
 
He gripped Rhiannon's arm and drew her nearer the cover of the brush along the narrow road's edge.

"Whatever are you doing?"

"Hush, Rhiannon."
 
Roland moved slowly, silently, approaching the gate, and gazing toward the Cadillac that sat just outside it.

"That car should not be here."

"It isn't..."
 
She bit her lip, and her eyes narrowed as she stared hard at the dark colored vehicle.
 
"There's a man behind the wheel."

Roland nodded.
 
Already his mind scanned the intruder's but he found it closed to him.
 
Most humans were so easily read it was child's play to scan their thoughts.
 
This one had deliberately closed his mind off.
 
Roland was certain of it.
 
In the darkness, even with his preternatural vision, Roland couldn't see clearly enough to make a positive identification.
 
The hard knot in his stomach was the only indication Curtis Rogers occupied the car, and that he was watching, waiting... for Jamey.

Rhiannon whispered.
 
"But I get no sense of the boy."
 
She shook her head in frustration.
 
"Is that Rogers?"

"I don't know, but if it is, and it's truly vengeance he wants, then Jamison is in danger."

Rhiannon sucked in a breath.
 
"You believe this Rogers would kill the boy simply to hurt you?"

Roland shook his head.
 
"More likely kidnap him, and wait for me to come to his rescue.
 
But while he had the boy, Rogers wouldn't hesitate to perform tests on him, experiments to discover more about the link between The Chosen, and the un-dead."

"I know about DPI and their love of... experiments."
 

Roland slanted a glance toward Rhiannon, sickened anew by the knowledge of what had befallen her while in DPI's hands.
 
Truly, he felt an urge to protect her from them, just as he was forced to protect Jamison.
 
Foolish notion, he knew.
 
Rhiannon would never stand for being protected, not by anyone.
 
Moreover, were she with him constantly, stirring his mind to such turmoil, she would need protecting not by him, but
from
him.

"Where is the boy?
 
It's late."

Roland shook his head, freeing his mind of its distractions, focusing again on the matter at hand.
 
"When they win, they usually stop for a meal on the way back.
 
They are sometimes quite late."
 
Even as he spoke, Roland searched for Jamey with his mind.
 
It came as a blow when he found him, and realized he was ambling along the road from the opposite direction, completely oblivious to the threat that awaited him.

The man in the car saw the boy, too, for the door opened and he stepped out.
 
Jamey drew nearer, and before Roland could decide on a course of action, Rhiannon shot to her feet and ran toward the man.

"Oh, thank goodness, I've finally found someone!"

He turned to face her, wary-eyed and suspicious.
 
Roland had a perfect view now, of the man's face.
 
Curtis Rogers had changed little in the past two years.
 
His blond hair still hung untrimmed and too long in the front.
 
His pale brows and light eyes gave him the look of a weakling, and Roland knew that was precisely what he was.
 
Yet with the resources of DPI and their constantly innovative arsenal of weapons and drugs, he was an enemy not to be taken lightly.

And right now, Rhiannon was standing within his reach.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Just a woman in need of assistance.
 
My car went off the road a few miles back.
 
I've been walking forever, and..."
 
She continued moving forward, affecting a rather convincing little limp as she went.
 
"You simply must offer me a ride."

Get into that car with him, Rhiannon, and I'll remove you bodily!
 
Roland made his thoughts clear to her, and his anger with them.
 
Had the woman no sense?
 
If she got herself killed, he'd...

Posh, Roland, you can be such a stick in the mud
.
 

She smiled up at Curtis as she stepped closer.
 
"You wouldn't dream of leaving me out here on my own, would you?
 
I'd never forgive you if you did."

Her voice was a virtual purr now, and Roland felt his hackles rise.
 
Rogers's gaze moved slowly, thoroughly down her body, not missing a curve, and lingering too long on the enticing expanse of cleavage her dress exposed.

"I'd like to help you, lady, but I have some business to take care of."

Roland began to step out of hiding.
 
Enough was enough.
 
If he let it go on much longer--if Rogers laid one finger on her--

No, darling!
 
Her mind reached out to his with silent fingers.
 
Your Jamey is getting too near.
 
Slip around us and intercept the boy.
 
I'll keep this one distracted
.

If he realizes you're an immortal--
Roland began to warn her.

Her low, husky laugh floated to him, and caused Rogers's brows to raise.
 
Look at him, Roland.
 
He's far too busy noticing I'm a woman
.
 
As if to prove her point, she stepped still nearer the man.
 
Her hand floated upward and she traced the edge of his lapel with her nails.
 
Rogers's attention was riveted.
 
Roland thought he could have danced a jig around the fool and not gained his notice.
 
Jealousy rose like bile into his throat to replace the fear for her that had been there before.
 
He slipped into the trees along the roadside, and quickly emerged again when he'd passed them.
 
Jamey approached him now, only a few yards distant.

"Jamison... it's Roland.
 
Come here at once."

Without a moment's hesitation, Jamey ducked into the trees where Roland waited.
 
"What's up?"

Roland frowned, noting the soon-to-form bruise under Jamey's left eye, and the slightly swollen lower lip.
 
"What in God's name happened to you?"

Jamey shrugged in the carefree way only a fourteen-year-old can manage.
 
"Soccer's a rough sport."
 
He glanced farther along the road and the carefree demeanor left his face.
 
"Who is that?"

He had a maturity that at times went far beyond his years, and he'd grown as protective of Roland as he had once been of Tamara.
 
"I hate to upset you, Jamison, but the man in the car is--"

"Rogers!"
 
Jamey recognized Curtis when the man moved into a more advantageous stance, and the boy lunged.