My Reluctant Warden (5 page)

“How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

At my answer, he poured coffee and added milk and sugar. I was sitting again when he handed me the cup. The porcelain warmed my hands. The coffee was hot but not burning, strong and flavorful.

“Thank you. That hits the spot.”

I was acutely aware that I was the only one drinking, but what could I do? Offer a cup to Camille? There wasn’t another one on the tray. The coffee was for me, like the improvised shoe store was for me. After spending five years as a personal assistant taking care of the needs and whims of Miss Delilah, being on the other side of things was, to say the least, odd. I was used to fetching coffee for people, not having people fetch it for me.

When Stephen asked “Any progress?” I wasn’t sure if the question was for me or Camille, and even less certain what it was about.

“We’ve found two pairs so far,” Camille said, pointing at the ballet flats and a pair of black, kitten-heel shoes that had felt like walking on a cloud.

“Very well. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

I guess watching me try on shoes wasn’t exactly Stephen’s idea of a fun afternoon. Or maybe he had other things to do, like clean Mr. Ward’s vampire cape or perform whatever duties the butler of a vampire might have.

I couldn’t have cared less where he was going, because I was in Shoe Heaven.

No, I’m not one of those women who spend more than they should on shoes. But I don’t judge them. Not at all. Because it really wouldn’t take much for me to be one of them. My problem is that I can’t rationalize spending hundreds of dollars on footwear or clothes or… well, on most things, really.

I splurged a couple of times when I first arrived in New York, bought two pairs of high heels to die for. But then, every time I thought of wearing them, I’d see the price tag again, and tell myself I didn’t want to scuff them or damage them in any way, not unless the occasion was truly special.

I’ve been in New York almost six years. I’ve never worn those two pairs. The extra special occasion never came.

I’d learned to stay away from expensive shoe stores. Even when I went to Miss Delilah’s penthouse, I forced myself not to look at the shoe wall in her dressing room. I’d trained myself into avoiding temptation, like I’d trained myself to hold my breath when I passed by someone who was smoking. It worked better for shoes than for cigarettes.

But today there was no avoiding anything. After all, what else was I going to do? Sit in my room until Miss Delilah returned to New York? Call 911 and report that my boss had ordered me to remain in her brother’s house and that he was trying to buy me shoes? Who would take me seriously? And what could they do to help, anyway?

So, I let Camille put pair after pair on my feet, walked around the room in all the gorgeous shoes, and talked with her about what clothes or accessories would work best with any given pair.

She didn’t have to insist much to get me to put on the dominatrix boots. It wasn’t something I’d ever wear in ‘real life,’ but just for kicks it was fun to try them on. They were tighter than they should have been because I was wearing jeans and, according to Camille, “Usually these are worn with a mini skirt, or even shorts. In an intimate setting, with a leather corset and a nice thong, they’d make any man fall at your feet.”

She said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that it took a second or two for the visual to strike me. And when it did, it wasn’t just any man I saw at my feet. It was Mr. Ward, of course. He’d knelt in front of me on the balcony, and…

I shook my head and stopped that train of thought. No, he hadn’t knelt in front of me. He hadn’t ducked under my dress or made me come with his mouth and fingers. It hadn’t happened at all.

It hadn’t, even if every inch of me remembered exactly how he’d made me feel when it had.

“You don’t like these, then?” Camille asked when she saw me shake my head.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous,” I said as I sat down again. “I just don’t think they’re my style.”

She made a little sound, half chuckle, half snort, and didn’t look up as she unzipped the boots and pulled them off me. “Would you say they are
my
style?”

It was hard to imagine such a severe-looking woman in those boots—or even in the corset she’d mentioned a minute ago. But when I caught her slight smile, I had a feeling she hadn’t randomly guessed what would work with the boots. She knew from personal experience. She’d had a man, men, maybe, kneeling at her boot-clad feet.

Stephen’s return saved me from answering her question. And from giving more thought than I was comfortable with to Camille’s personal life.

“We’re just about done,” Camille informed him. “Only this last pair to try.”

And what a last pair it was!

I’d loved most of what I’d tried on, but these… They weren’t shoes. They were art. I knew right away that it wasn’t a coincidence I was trying them last: Camille had kept the best for the end.

Sky high heels, of course, narrow and elegant. A raised platform that didn’t look chunky. A rounded toe. All that in a gleaming, metallic, red shade that caught and reflected every bit of light in the room. And on top of it, they were more comfortable than a pair of high heels had any right to be.

I had no idea what anyone would wear with them. Not even my gown from last night would have worked, because the shoes would have been hidden the entire time, and these were too out-of-this-world to hide.

As I took a few steps and back, I found myself thinking of Dorothy and Oz. They weren’t anything like her ruby slippers, but maybe if I clicked my heels together…

I had a hard time resisting the urge to try.

When I sat down again, I kept both feet on the floor rather than giving the shoes to Camille to take off, just so I could wear them a little longer.

“I trust you know where to send the bill?” Stephen asked, addressing Camille.

“Of course. And please convey my thanks to Mr. Ward for thinking of us today.”

She stood and started to pack the pairs I hadn’t liked back in their boxes. And only those pairs.

The entire time I was trying on shoes, I hadn’t let myself wonder about prices. I’d figured I’d be asked to pick a pair or two, something to wear around the house. The ballet flats or kitten heels would have worked fine. But now I realized I had picked a lot more than that without even realizing I had. Every time I’d said something favorable about a pair of shoes, Camille had set them on her right. On the ‘yes pile,’ although instead of a pile, they were all lined up next to each other.

I counted them, afterward. Thirty-two pairs. Including the dominatrix boots and the ruby slippers.

When I finally understood what was going on, I tried to protest and tell Camille and Stephen this was too much and I didn’t need so many pairs of shoes. Camille told me it’d been lovely to work with me and left, carrying the few rejects with ease. Stephen gave me one of his small smiles.

“Technically,” he said, “you don’t need any shoes at all until the restrictions on you are lifted. I’ll get these up to your suite. Will you need anything else?”

I didn’t. And I wouldn’t let him carry them all on his own. Despite his protests, I helped him bring my—thirty-two!—new pairs of shoes upstairs. Or rather, thirty-one. I was still wearing the last pair.

When Stephen turned to leave my suite, I blurted out the words that had been running through my head for the past few minutes before I could talk myself out of it. I was about to break the promise I’d made to myself, but really, I had to. When someone buys you thirty-two pairs of shoes, the least you can do is thank him. Even if he is a vampire or your reluctant jailor. Or both.

“Would you please show me where I can find Mr. Ward?”

Stephen gave me a long look, and for a moment, I thought he’d ask if I was sure or even tell me that it wasn’t a good idea—the same things I was telling myself. All I knew from vampires I’d learned from movies, TV shows and books, and even if some of these things had already been disproved, I was certain of one thing: vampires were dangerous.

Despite his claim that he wouldn’t kill me, so was Mr. Ward. He had to be. And that was certainly why Stephen was hesitating now.

In the end, though, he nodded and said, “This way.”

The corridor wasn’t paved in yellow bricks, but I followed it with the same trepidation Dorothy must have felt when she went looking for the wizard. It seemed like we walked for miles before stopping in front of a door, but it couldn’t have taken more than a few moments.

To be honest, I had hoped that Stephen would come in with me. Not that I was afraid, exactly. Just... wary, I guess is the best word for how I felt. I didn't know what to expect from Mr. Ward. Would he be pleasant this time? Or would he be the rude man I'd first met on the balcony?

Stephen, however, left without a word. I guess he didn’t have to report on the monetary damage of my shoe-shopping spree—not that he'd asked Camille for an actual number. Would Mr. Ward want to know? What should I say if he asked? Suddenly coming here felt like an even worse idea.

I considered the door in front of which I was standing. It was no different from the dozen doors we'd passed in the corridor. Nothing to say that this was a vampire's lair. Or maybe it was an office? A gym? Did vampires need to exercise? Mr. Ward’s abs certainly hinted that he took care of himself.

Shaking off that mental image, I looked back, but Stephen had already disappeared down the hallway. I wished I had asked him where he was leading me exactly. What was I stepping into with my fancy new shoes?

I raised my hand to knock. One inch from the door, I froze. This wasn't a bad idea. It was a terrible idea. Better to go back to my room and write Mr. Ward a thank you note nice enough to make Emily Post and Dear Abby proud. Yes, better that than to face him with my damp palms, my dry mouth and my heart trying to jump out of my throat.

I was about to turn on my heel and return to my room when the door opened. Mr. Ward stood there in a dark room, bare-chested and blinking repeatedly. It was his low-riding, draw-string pants and bare feet that clued me in. He'd been sleeping.

“What do you want now?” he asked in a gruff voice.

I tried to keep my eyes on his face; tall order when my fingers were prickling with the phantom feel of his skin. I'd caressed his chest and back. I'd pressed my body against his. I'd—

“Angelina? What do you want?”

Him. I wanted him again, and not merely in a fantasy. Or rather, I wanted the man from my fantasy. Not the annoyed, annoying, short-tempered man from this reality.

“I wanted to thank you,” I said, standing stiffly. “For the shoes.”

He blinked again, then looked down at my feet. Whatever he thought of the stilettos, he didn't say. He looked up again and raised an eyebrow at me.

“So, you've been standing here making all this racket for five minutes just to say thanks?” He snorted. “You're welcome.”

He started to push the door closed, but I reacted without thinking. And let me stress again how unlike me that is. I am not an impulsive person. I'd even say I have a tendency to over-analyze things. But all that flew out the window whenever I was in front of him. I threw my hand out and stopped the door.

“What is that supposed to mean, all this racket?” I tried not to wince at how high and loud my voice was. “I didn’t make a sound! I didn't even say a word to Stephen!”

“Your heartbeat,” he said blankly. “It's as loud as drums.”

I must have looked as confused as I felt because he added, “Vampire. Extra-sensitive hearing, among other things. Now if you're done shouting at me, I'll go back to bed. Unless you wanted anything else?”

Extra-sensitive hearing... Other things… What about his other senses, I suddenly worried. Could he smell me? Was it why his eyes were boring into me as intently as when we'd been on the balcony?

When I was in high school, I once did a biology project on pheromones in animals, and I'd furthered my research with a few articles about what humans can smell without really being aware of it. Desire has a scent. So does lust. Need. Arousal.

What can I say, I was standing in front of a man that part of me was convinced was my lover... and he was half naked to boot! As unpleasant as he was at times, he could also be considerate and—dare I say it—thoughtful. The two sides of him were hard to reconcile. I certainly knew which side I liked best. Which side I was attracted to.

Looking at him, I had no doubt that he knew the effect he had on me. What he thought of me, on the other hand, was well hidden.

Not that I wanted him to make a move on me, mind you. Like he’d said, what had happened on the balcony had only been a fantasy. Nothing more. Just an expression of desires I’d never have acted upon in my right mind. Desires I certainly wouldn’t do anything about now.

Not even if a little voice I’m not proud of kept reminding me what an attentive lover he was.

Little voice be damned, I stood my ground and held my chin high.

“No, I do not want anything else,” I said, and turned away.

I could feel his eyes on me all the way down the corridor, long after I’d heard his door close again. No, I wasn’t disappointed that he didn’t call me a liar or try to stop me. Not at all.