Immortal Obsession (7 page)

She froze, unable to break his gaze.

“You speak as if you are—”

“You need to leave now.” He whispered. “We have spoken long enough of such things.”

The pull of his dark eyes made her feel dizzy and she grabbed his coat for balance.
I can’t let him leave now.
She searched his face for answers, yet found his eyes suddenly bottomless and cold. How could he be both inviting and perilous?

“Please, Christian, I—”

“I will not talk with you again, Ms. Perretti.”

He was suddenly standing at the end of the bar.

“Just tell me you were there that night. God damn it, be honest with me.”

“I will not ask you again to leave!”

She tried not to shake as she paused at the door, angry at being dismissed by the very man who intrigued her.

“Fine, I’ll go. But this isn’t over between you and me. Not by a long shot.”

The loud music slammed against her as she rushed back down the hallway, dodging people on the stairs. She hoped Bethany was still waiting for her at the bar yet dreaded having to meet up with her there. She wanted just to duck out into the cold night and go home.

How could I have let this go so poorly?

In the soft light of the side bar, Christian felt himself losing control over the young woman he was sworn to protect. He fought the pull of her beauty and his very nature, a nature born of power and lust filtered through the constant need for blood. He wanted to both shield her from harm and bury his fangs in her beautiful neck. He had fought hard to master control of his vampire nature, to be more than a parasite with a beautiful face who could take what he wanted with no rules or laws to govern him. It had been a hard fight that had cost him much, and here before him was the fruit of his self-restraint and his self-control.
She is not afraid of me. She questions whether we are blood drinkers, intrigued by the idea of surrender.

He had studied her face in the mirror, the tilt of her eyes, the curve of her lips and her high cheekbones framing thick wild hair. Her skin had a warm brown glow as if she had spent the day at the beach. Her hands were long and narrow and he noticed that she chewed her fingernails. She was quiet yet direct, feminine yet strong-willed. Her attire made his blood boil, embarrassed by the thoughts racing through his head. He thought she looked good next to him.

If only it could have been different.

Christian put his face in his hands and closed his eyes, willing himself back from the rage that threatened to consume him. For a moment, he thought about catching up to her and bringing her back. She could not have gotten too far. He could sit her down, and explain how the present intersection of their lives had been forged over two hundred years ago with the birth of his daughter, Solange Du Mauré; the child of a mortal woman and a vampire.

Yes, she’ll buy that one
, he thought.
Then I’ll tell her I am a vampire, that vampire.
He tried, but he could not squelch his fury. It was born of rage and fueled by guilt over hating his only daughter, the bringer of so much pain and suffering to his life.

He picked up a glass ashtray and threw it at his reflection. The ashtray shattered against the back bar, like falling snow.

Chapter Ten

C
HRISTIAN CURLED UP
in the large leather chair in the office of the Grey Wolf. He so hated grand displays of emotion and tonight had rattled him. Distracted, he took apart a paper clip, while the music of Beethoven played in the background in an attempt to calm his frazzled nerves.

The walls, floor, and the ceiling of the small office were lacquered black, giving the room a cold, cave-like feel. A glass-topped desk filled up the far right corner of the room, a hint of Michel’s preference for modern decor. A gray leather couch faced the desk on the opposite wall. Behind the couch, a framed black and white poster held the image of a lost-looking Humphrey Bogart. The word
Casablanca
scrawled across the top of the poster. Christian knew it was Michel’s favorite movie and had made a concession.

On the far left wall were two framed lithographs. The first was an 1870 map of Central Park. The second was the Bois du Boulogne in Paris, dating from 1790. Both were lit, giving the room the feel of a library. They were the only hint of Christian’s influence in the office. Below the maps stood a tall bookcase overflowing with CDs of numerous musical styles, a small stereo system, and a portable TV. The bookcase was Plexiglas, so the objects appeared to float in space.

Hung on a door at the far end of the room was a color poster of the Rolling Stones, circa 1972. The door led to a bedroom that Michel used frequently for the seducing of the young women who came to the club. The instinct for self-preservation demanded they keep their Upper East Side townhouse private, away from the prying eyes of mortals. Tony, a male barfly, lived with them and handled the daily activities required to retain an air of normalcy for the two vampires.

Michel gently closed the office door behind him. “How did she find you?”

Christian had never lied to Michel, but he could not admit to himself why he had lured her here.

Michel went to sit down. “I never realized how beautiful—”

Christian grabbed his best friend. They had shared many women between them, but his stomach twisted in a knot at Michel’s words.

What it would mean if he tried to take the young mortal away from him?

“Don’t even think about touching her, Michel.” Christian could barely force the words out.

“I meant no harm, my friend.” Michel raised his hands in surrender.

“My job is to protect her, though I am not sure how to anymore.”

Michel sat down on the edge of the desk. “What did you say to her? She looked frazzled yet determined when she left, and I imagine she will keep coming back until you thoroughly convince her you are not the madman who beheaded her brother’s murderer and saved her life.”

Michel was joking, but Christian was not in a jovial mood. He had tried to hypnotize her that night yet she had described everything, including Christian, in disturbing detail. Ross had shown him the police report. She was more powerful than he had anticipated; more powerful than Ryan.

“She handed me this before she left.” Michel reached into his pocket for the envelope.

Christian stared at it as if it were on fire, hesitating to touch it.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” Michel shoved the note into Christian’s hand. He tore open the envelope.

Dear Christian
,

We need to talk. I am not afraid of you. Please call me at 555-232-7717 or come by the museum any time.

Amanda

Frustrated, he tore up the note and tossed the pieces into the air.

Sure, and we’ll do lunch too.

The paper shreds floated to the floor like snow and reminded him of his choices, both the night he followed Michel into darkness and now, as his long-ago promise to Josette haunted him.

“What does she want?” Michel impulsively began to pick up the pieces of paper.

“What I cannot give her: the truth.” He began to twist a strand of his long hair around his finger, a habit born in his youth.

“Why won’t you just talk with her?” Michel looked up from the floor, still scooping up pieces of the note.

“And tell her what, Michel? I broke my own rules and interfered. In trying to protect them both, I failed, and now he’s dead and she is in mortal danger. Christ, I wouldn’t even turn Solange when I found out she was dying.”

“Stop torturing yourself, Christian. You have watched over them all in homage to Josette, but who knows, Amanda may be the last of them.”

Michel’s declaration twisted a knot in Christian’s stomach as he realized that something could happen to her, and then what would he do? His entire existence had been devoted to Josette and the descendants of his daughter, Solange. London. California. New York. All because of them. He had never allowed himself to consider Amanda’s premature death, but he could not imagine her future as a wife and mother. In his mind’s eye she was forever young and beautiful, existing only for him.

“I made a promise to Josette, Michel. I suppose that would mean nothing to you.”

“Let it be over, Christian.” Michel got up and dusted off his knees. “Their attack is inevitable, so turn her or kill her.”

Christian grabbed him by his jacket. “Are you worried? Let them try to slaughter us.”

“It is not me that I worry about.” Michel brushed a strand of hair away from Christian’s face. “You have become obsessed with her.”

“I have an obligation to Josette, or have you forgotten?”

“It is you who have forgotten that we have the power to turn her. Then she would stand a fighting chance.”

“Are you out of your mind, Michel?”

“Don’t tell me that you haven’t thought about taking some of her precious blood for yourself?”

“I would rather kill her first,” Christian hissed, reaching for his coat.

“You may just have to, because the way I see it, there are few options here,” Michel snapped back as Christian slammed the door.

Christian left the Grey Wolf and headed toward Seventh Avenue. He touched the leather strap at his chest for reassurance. Michel had suggested he take Amanda’s blood for himself, but the thought of ever taking advantage of her was inconceivable. Michel could no more imagine being responsible for anyone other than himself than Christian could imagine abandoning Amanda now.

How dare Michel perceive his need to protect her as something sordid and lustful! That was the way he viewed women, objects to be seduced and discarded and just because his life had been filled with sex and blood alone, Christian could not condone it. It was where they differed and yet Michel had followed Christian from Paris to London, and then to the New World. He loved Paris and could have easily stayed back, but he had come along. Still, Michel had always been a
roué
and that was not about to change now.

He walked faster, trying to clear his head. Let Michel stay behind at the club with all those mortals. Michel had always loved being amongst them. He found comfort and life’s meaning in their world. Christian could never understand his continual fascination with them. He thought Michel would outgrow it, but he never did, and Christian had given up trying to convince his best friend otherwise. He headed up Seventh Avenue through Washington Square Park. The temperature was dropping, and a thin blanket of snow covered the sidewalks.

Maybe Ross was around, or he could sneak into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loved to walk around the museum alone at night, something he had done since coming to New York in 1901. Art was his passion, and although he sometimes walked the halls of the Met amongst mortals, he delighted in sneaking past the guards and the security cameras. Being cold-blooded, he could not set off the heat sensors in the galleries. Though he would never see the masterpieces in the daylight, he still treasured these visits.

He took secret pleasure in knowing this was Amanda’s sanctuary, the place she spent most of her days and many a Friday night. He knew of her passion for eighteenth-century France. When he found himself there one Saturday night, wandering the galleries in the hopes of seeing her in person, he knew he was getting too involved in her life. Saturday night was date night at the Met. Couples floated through the dimly lit galleries, holding hands and gazing at the priceless art.

One night he saw her there with a well-dressed older man whose manner seemed distant; a frown marred his otherwise handsome features. Christian sensed a deeper connection between them.

A lover perhaps
?

Amanda looked dazzling, in a low-cut, long black dress with a triple strand of pearls. He stood a safe distance and watched them at a table for two, listening to Chamber music, drinking wine by candlelight.

How romantic
, he thought, although they barely spoke to one another. He imagined himself sitting with her, talking and laughing, yet this man said little. He seemed bored. Christian was surprised at the jealousy he felt well up within him as he spied on them.

When they left the museum he followed them back to an apartment on the Upper East Side, not too far from his townhouse. He lingered outside the building and imagined being alone with her, slipping her out of her elegant, black dress, running his lips along her warm neck, past the pearls—

His ringing cell phone jarred him out of his fantasy. He knew who it was before he opened his phone.

“Hello, Ross.” He looked both ways before crossing 14
^th
Street and headed north on Sixth Avenue. “Don’t you ever sleep?” Christian asked, hearing the familiar sound of Ross exhaling a cigarette.

“I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake.”

“And I’m a vampire, but I probably get more sleep than you.”

“We need to finish our conversation. Can you meet me now?”

“I’m on my way.” The vampire snapped his cell phone shut. The temperature had fallen, and the layers of snow coating the sidewalks had turned to ice. Most people took cabs or public transportation this time of year, leaving the sidewalks empty and the streets congested and noisy. Christian cut across Broadway and continued uptown toward the Museum of Modern Art. He stuck to the side streets rather than the avenues. He hated getting his hair windblown.

He had known by the look on Ross’s face earlier that something was on his mind, but then Amanda had shown up, startling them both. His emotions were getting the better of him and he hated himself for it. The machete against his back reminded him of their plight. When he glanced at his reflection, he reminded himself of a dark angel with his leather coat flowing out behind him; sword strapped to his back.