Dead Sexy (8 page)

Santiago lifted his face to the sky. How many nights had he stood thus? After the first few hundred years, he had stopped counting. Mortal time no longer held any meaning for him. Indeed, there was little in his existence, other than the need for blood and a lingering need for vengeance, that held any appeal for him at all.

But now Vasile was here and all that had changed.

Santiago felt his fangs brush his tongue as an old and familiar hatred rose within him. But for Vasile, Marishka would be at his side, as she was meant to be. The Gypsy girl had been his first love, his only love, in all his long years of existence.

He closed his eyes and let her image rise to the surface—tall and slender, with deep brown eyes and ebony hair that fell in thick waves past her hips. Marishka had been his first and only fledgling. She had been but seventeen when, on a foolish whim, he had brought her across. He had immediately had second thoughts about what he had done. He had, however briefly, considered destroying her before she rose the next night, but there had been something about her, some intangible quality, that had stayed his hand, and then it was too late. The bond between them had grown stronger with each night they had spent together. He had loved her as he had loved no other, had planned to show her the world and all the wonders it contained. It had been a wonderful dream, one that had lasted less than a year. A dream that had died a violent and bloody death one bleak wintry afternoon…

The sound of screeching tires and the smell of fear on the wind chased the distant past from Santiago's mind and brought him back to the present.

He recognized the car and the woman's scent immediately. A heartbeat later, Vasile's stink was borne to him on the wings of an errant breeze.

A thought took Santiago to the edge of the park and the curb beyond.

He was waiting for her when the driver's side door flew open and Regan spilled out in a rush.

"Slow down, girl," Santiago admonished, capturing her in his embrace. "I have you."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Someone's following me! I'm sure of it."

"You are safe now." He tried to ignore the rapid beat of her heart, the scent of her blood, but it was impossible. Still, this was not the time to ponder what it would be like to drink of her sweetness, to carry her to his lair and possess her, fully and completely.

Using one hand, Santiago thrust Regan behind him, his gaze focused on the silver-gray Mercedes that was cruising slowly past the park. Due to the dark tint on the windows, Santiago knew Regan couldn't see the man behind the wheel, but Santiago saw the driver clearly enough. It was Vasile, just as he had known it would be.

Santiago's grip tightened on Regan's forearm, but his gaze never left Vasile's.

You will not have this one
, Santiago vowed, and knew in that moment that Regan Delaney had come to mean far more to him than he had ever intended. But then, so had Marishka. Knowing her, loving her, he had planned to spend the rest of his existence with her. Until Vasile found their lair…

"Santiago, you're hurting me."

Regan's voice chased all thought of Marishka from his mind. He murmured an apology as he released her.

"Was that him?" Regan glanced at her arm. His grip had left a red imprint on her skin. There would be a bruise there tomorrow. "Was that the werewolf?"

He nodded curdy. "Vasile, yes."

"Why is he following me?"

Santiago's gaze rested on her face. "Believe me, you do not want to know."

She started to argue with him until she saw the taut line of his jaw, the feral expression in his eyes. Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn't want to know.

"I think you would be wise to spend the night here, with me," Santiago remarked.

Before she could protest, he was taking hold of her arm again, leading her across the sidewalk and into the park's silent shadows.

The hair prickled along Regan's nape as they entered the grounds. A number of men and women, most of them dressed in black from head to foot, strolled through the park or sat on the benches scattered along the walkways. It was like a scene from some bizarre dream, seeing the vampires moving through the park in the middle of the night. She reminded herself that no matter how odd it seemed to her, the night was their day. Sometimes, on summer evenings, mortals paused on the sidewalk, their eyes wide with curiosity or narrowed in morbid fascination as they watched the vampires.

Santiago's apartment was on the top floor of a five-story building. He opened the door with a wave of his hand and then stood aside so she could precede him.

She jumped when she heard the door close behind her. She was alone in a vampire's apartment, and no one knew she was there.

She turned to face Santiago, her heart pounding so hard and so fast she was surprised it didn't burst out of her chest.

"Afraid of me?" His voice was deep and rich and faintly mocking.

Hands clenched at her sides, she lifted her chin. "Yes."

His easy laughter filled the room. "Please." He gestured at a high-backed brown sofa. "Consider my home yours."

She sat down because she wasn't sure her legs would support her much longer. What was she doing here? What made her think being in here, with a vampire, particularly this vampire, was any safer than being outside, with a werewolf? They were both predators. And in the dark of the night, she was prey—for both of them.

Santiago loomed over her, tall, dark, and deadly. The words moved through the back of Regan's mind like a death knell. His mere presence made her feel small, insignificant, and defenseless. She knew all about vampires. She had studied them for years. She knew they grew stronger with age and that most of the things people believed about them were based on myth, legend, and the Transylvanian count made famous by Bram Stoker, and had little basis in fact.

Some things were true. They could change shape. They could travel faster than the human eye could follow. They drank blood to survive. Fire, sunlight, and beheading could destroy them. Silver and holy water burned their skin like acid.

She had yet to meet a vampire who was repelled by a cross, or one who cast no reflection. To the contrary, they seemed to love mirrors and never missed an opportunity to stop and admire themselves.

Of course, she hadn't met all that many of the Undead on a social basis, and certainly none quite like the one who was towering over her.

"It is late," he said. "You should get some sleep."

"Not here." She glanced around the room, wondering where his coffin was. She couldn't stay here, couldn't
sleep
here. No way!

"You will be perfectly safe, Regan Delaney," he said quietly. "Much safer than you would be at home."

"Now why don't I believe that?"

"You have nothing to fear from me. I have already dined. The bedroom is in there."

"Isn't that where you sleep?"

"No." Removing his coat, he tossed it over the back of a chair. "I would not leave here in the morning if I were you."

She frowned. "Why not?"

"He is a werewolf."

She stared at him a moment, then murmured, "Oh, right," as comprehension dawned. Vasile was a werewolf. Unlike vampires, he had nothing to fear from the sun's light. "What's to keep him from coming here?"

"My apartment has infinitely better protection than the flimsy barrier that surrounds the park," he replied smoothly. "And I am here."

Some help he would be, she thought, while trapped in the deathlike sleep of his kind. "Why is Vasile after you?"

"Because I have sworn to kill him."

"You have? Why?"

"Maybe one day I will tell you."

"But not now?"

"No."

She was too tired and too upset by the evening's events to argue. In any case, she didn't think arguing with Santiago would do her a bit of good. With a nod, she murmured, "Good night, then."

Going into the bedroom, she switched on the light, then closed the door. The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was an old-fashioned four-poster covered with a thick black quilt. Several plump red velvet pillows were scattered near the mahogany headboard. Since she was reasonably sure he didn't sleep in the bed, she wondered what he used it for… then quickly put an end to that train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion. The man was a vampire, but still a man, and the bed and its trappings clearly had seduction written all over them.

She didn't like the idea of sleeping in her clothes, but she liked the idea of undressing in a vampire's residence even less. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her shoes, tossed the fancy red pillows on the floor, and crawled between the sheets. Cool, black satin sheets, she noted with a faint grin. Just as he had said.

Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew her gun and slipped it under her pillow. Always better to be safe than sorry.

With a sigh, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes, only to bolt upright a moment later. If he didn't sleep here, where did he sleep?

She glanced around the room, but there was no sign of a coffin, no pile of dirt from the place of his birth. Maybe he had lied to her. Maybe this really
was
his bed! Maybe he was only waiting for her to fall asleep before he crawled in beside her.

That troublesome thought kept her awake for hours.

Santiago paced the floor in front of the hearth, keenly aware of the woman in his bedroom. In his bed.

Damn. After Marishka, he had sworn he would never again let a woman get close to him, never allow one to become important to him. He had seduced them and bedded them, but never, ever, let himself care for them. But this one, this Regan Delaney, had somehow managed to find her way past his defenses. And while his fondness for her might cause him a few restless nights, it could very well cost her a great deal more.

He swore softly. Loving him had cost Marishka her life, and while he had vowed that he would protect Regan Delaney from Vasile, he wasn't all that sure that he would prevail. Vasile was not trapped inside when the sun rode the sky. It was Vasile's very freedom of movement during the daylight hours that had given the werewolf the power to destroy Marishka while she took her rest. Had Santiago been new in the life, he had no doubt that he, too, would have died that day so long ago. But he had been an old vampire, even then. His age and his instinct for self-preservation had served him well that day.

He paused in midstride, listening as Regan kicked off her shoes, drew back the covers on his bed, and slid beneath the sheets. With his preternatural senses, he could hear each breath she took, each beat of her heart, hear the whisper of blood flowing through her veins…

His fangs teased his tongue. She was here, in his house, in his bed. His for the taking.

He resumed pacing, his hands clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and succumb to the hunger burning through him. Every breath he took carried the scent of her hair, her skin, her life's blood. She would be sweet, so sweet. He could almost feel her in his arms, taste her on his tongue.

One taste. She need never know. She would never miss it.

A thought carried him to the bedroom door. He looked down to find his hand on the knob, unable to remember how he had gotten there.

Swearing a vile oath, he stormed out of his apartment, down the stairs, and across the park. He came to an abrupt halt when his foot touched the sidewalk. What was he doing? He couldn't go haring off into the night, couldn't leave Regan alone, unprotected, while Vasile was in the city.

Santiago's gaze swept right and left. The werewolf could be here now, waiting, watching.

Blowing out a deep breath, Santiago returned to his apartment. Entering his bedroom, he made sure the woman was sleeping peacefully. With a sigh, he settled down in the chair beside the closet, his every sense attuned to the mortal female in his bed. He was aware of every breath she took, every beat of her heart, the faint, flowery scent of her hair, her skin.

His hunger rose, and with it a growing desire to crawl into bed beside her, to take what he wanted, by force if necessary.

When his fangs pricked his tongue, he fled the room, afraid he would succumb to the sweet temptation she presented.

In the living room, he flung himself onto the sofa and closed his eyes.

It was going to be a long night.

Regan woke slowly, surprised to find that it was still dark outside. She stretched her arms over her head and out to the side, then paused with the sudden certainty that she wasn't alone in the room.

Heart pounding, she glanced slowly to the left. There was nothing there. Hardly daring to breathe, she slid a glance to the right, felt her blood freeze in her veins when she saw a pair of hell-red eyes staring at her from out of the darkness.

It was him. She knew it. The creature who had killed the people in the park.

The werewolf. And he had come for her.

She opened her mouth to scream but no sound emerged from her throat.

The eyes grew larger—and closer.

She had often watched movies where women in peril seemed unable to move. She had always thought of them as being weak-willed and too stupid to live as she mentally screamed at them to get up and run, for goodness' sake! She knew now why they didn't. She couldn't move, could scarcely breathe past the tight knot of fear growing ever larger and colder within her.

She was going to die. Quick visions of the mutilated bodies she had seen in the park rose in her mind, filling her with renewed horror. Where was Santiago when she needed him?

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than the bedroom door flew open and the vampire was there, fangs gleaming in the moonlight, his eyes glowing as hellishly red as the werewolf's.

They came together in a rush, two preternatural creatures viciously lashing out at each other with gleaming fangs and razor-sharp claws.

She screamed as the werewolf's claws gouged a great hole in Santiago's chest and then, with a mighty roar, the werewolf ripped the vampire's heart from his chest…

She screamed and screamed again as strong hands folded over her shoulders, shaking her lightly.