Night's Pleasure (17 page)

“Savanah?”

“I don't know what I want.” Her gaze slid away from his. “This is all so new…. Sometimes I want to grab a stake and a bottle of holy water and conquer the world, and other times I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. I don't know what I'm supposed to do! How could my parents keep such a secret from me?”

Rane swore softly. She was so young, so damn young. And remarkably innocent for this day and age. She worked at a newspaper, she had covered stories of rape and murder and incest, and yet she seemed strangely untouched by the ugliness in the world around her. Or she had been, until he came along.

Beside him, Savanah squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and met his gaze. “Yes, I want to try and work things out between us.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

He cocked his head to the side. “What changed your mind?”

“My mom and dad were nothing alike, and yet they were happy together. If they could get along, why can't we?”

“Your father wasn't a Vampire.”

“Well, everyone has a quirk of some kind….”

“A quirk?” He almost choked on the word. A quirk was a funny habit, an odd trait. There was nothing remotely funny about being a Vampire.

“We'll just have to work around it,” Savanah said. “There's just one thing. You have to stop reading my mind. It isn't fair, since I can't read yours. And you can't take my blood without telling me.”

“That's two things,” he mused, stifling the urge to laugh.

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Don't quibble. Do we have a deal or not?”

Rane grunted thoughtfully. She hadn't said he couldn't take her blood, just that he had to tell her. Before or after, he wondered. “We have a deal. Shall we seal it with a kiss?”

“Yes,” she said, a slow smile spreading over her face. “I think we should.”

Rane drew Savanah into his arms and kissed her. She was sweet, so sweet. There was no doubt that they were well-suited in at least one area of their lives; still, as much as he wanted her in his life, he couldn't shake off his doubts. How long would Savanah be content to stay with him now that she knew what he was? He was certain that the only reason Rafe's marriage had survived so long, as well as those of his parents and grandparents, was due to the fact that the women in his family had all chosen to cross the gulf between mortal and Vampire. Would Savanah eventually agree to accept the Dark Gift? If not, he doubted their relationship would last. And if she wanted children…He felt a sharp stab of regret that he could not give her a child. He wondered if Rafe's wife ever regretted marrying a Vampire. Did she secretly long for children her husband could not give her?

He grunted softly as Savanah poked him in the ribs.

“You're awfully quiet all of a sudden,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” His gaze moved over her. What would he do if she decided to leave him? Even before the thought was fully formed, he knew he would not want to go on existing without her. He had known many women in his lifetime. He had cared deeply for one or two but had loved none of them.

“So, do you want to go for a swim?” she asked.

His gaze moved over her, hot and slow. “Anxious to try on that new bathing suit, are you?”

“Maybe.” She had been thinking of him when she bought it.

Rising from the sofa, Rane took both of her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Show it to me some other time,” he said.

“You don't want to swim?”

“I don't want you to feel overdressed,” he said with a roguish grin, “since I'll be swimming sans trunks.”

She felt a blush warm her cheeks as Rane tugged off his shirt.

Head canted to one side, he winked at her, his eyes glinting with merriment. “What are you waiting for?”

With laughter bubbling up inside her, she kicked off her sandals. The walls rang with their shared laughter as they raced to see who could undress and make it into the pool first.

Rane won.

“You cheated!” Savanah accused, diving into the pool a few moments later.

“What do you mean?”

“You used your Supernatural hocus-pocus. That's not fair.”

“I just wanted to warm the pool up for you.”

She frowned as she realized that the water was, indeed, deliciously warm. “How did you do that?”

He shrugged. “I don't really know.”

“Well, since you're Superman,” she remarked, smiling, “it must be X-ray vision.”

Grinning, he swam toward her with long, even strokes that barely made a ripple on the surface of the water.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured. “More beautiful than any woman I've ever known.”

“I guess there have been quite a few.” She tried not to let her jealousy show, but she couldn't hide it completely. He had been a Vampire for over ninety years. The number of women he had known, intimately and otherwise, was probably staggering.

He drew her into his arms and held her close. “But none quite like you.”

His words wrapped around her heart. Pressing herself against him, she lifted her face for his kiss. His skin sliding wetly over her own was remarkably erotic. She twined her arms around his neck, her eyelids fluttering down as his mouth closed over hers. The heat of his kiss, the stroke of his tongue, warmed her from the inside out. She smiled inwardly, thinking she wouldn't have been surprised if the water around her began to boil.

His hands slid up and down her back, pressing her closer. “Have you ever made love in the water?” he asked, licking a stray drop from the tip of her nose.

She looked up at him, a hint of a smile on her lips. “No, have you?”

“Not yet.”

She felt a thrill of anticipation as he backed her up against the edge of the pool, foolishly pleased that they were doing something he had never done before. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she closed her eyes, and surrendered to his touch, every fiber of her being consumed with need as he kissed her again and yet again, his hands caressing her, arousing her past all thought or reason.

When his body joined hers, she thought that, water or no water, she might go up in flames. One thrust, two, and she shuddered in his arms as pleasure and release swept through her.

She was still trembling when he whispered, “A taste, love. Will you grant me one taste?”

Looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, she saw the need shining in his own, a need she would never understand, felt his body tense as he waited for her answer. “Rane…”

“Please, love.”

“Just a taste,” she said. “Promise?”

“Just a taste,” he said, and bent his head to her neck.

She waited for the pain of his bite, but there was no pain, only an odd little tingling sensation that was followed by a wave of sensual pleasure that brought her to climax yet again.

Murmuring, “Thank you,” she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, certain that she understood, at least in part, why his mortal mother had married his father.

“What are you doing here?” Clive asked. “Shouldn't you be checking on the Gentry woman?”

“That's why I'm here,” Tasha said with a shrug. “She's gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Gone where?”

“I don't know. Her car is there, but the house is empty.”

“Has Cordova been there?”

“Yes, recently. They may have left together, but it's hard to tell. There's been a lot of people coming and going, what with the police hanging around and all.”

A muscle ticked in Clive's jaw. He wanted results, not supposition. Suddenly sick of the sight of her, he jerked his head toward the door. “Go on, get out of here.”

“I'm doing the best I can,” Tasha said, unable to keep the whine out of her voice.

“Just get out!”

She knew better than to argue.

Clive slammed the door behind her. Dammit! He never should have trusted Tasha. She was a relatively new Vampire, and not too bright, but she had the heart-shaped face of a Madonna and the body of a temptress.

Frowning, he paced the floor. Where would Cordova have taken the woman? The Vampire hadn't seen his family in decades, so it was doubtful he would show up there with a mortal female in tow. As far as Clive knew, Rane Cordova had no home of his own. Of course, there was always the chance, however slim, that the Vampire had drained the woman and disposed of her body.

He swore again. Only the most trusted of his wolves knew what he was doing; a handful of them were working with him, moving quietly from town to town, sniffing out whatever Vampires and hunters they could find, destroying them when possible. So far, the Vampire community appeared to be oblivious to what was happening. As for the hunters, he had yet to penetrate whatever network they had. But he would. Slow and steady won the race. In time, the Werewolves would not only dominate mankind, but the Vampires, as well.

He was about to call his lieutenant when his cell phone rang.

He flipped it open, his hello more of a growl than a greeting.

“She's here.”

At the sound of Roc's voice, Clive went still. “Where are you?”

“The mountains. The Gentry woman and one of the Cordova twins are staying at Mara's place.”

Clive grunted softly. It was well-known that Mara had strong ties to the Cordova family.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find those books.” Dispatching the hunters would be like shooting ducks in a barrel if he had a list of names.

“What about the woman?”

“Don't worry about her. She's no danger to anyone.”

“And Cordova?”

“Kill him.”

“And if the woman gets in the way?”

“Then kill her, too. But whatever you do, find those books.”

“Will do.”

Clive shoved the phone into his pocket, a howl of excitement rising in his throat.

Soon, he thought. Soon the books and their knowledge would be his.

Mara sat atop the head of the Great Sphinx, her presence cloaked from the tourists who scurried around the base of the monument like ants with cameras. For a moment, she considered what it would be like if she suddenly landed in their midst, a wolf among sheep, so to speak. She felt her fangs extend as she contemplated the slaughter, the harsh cries of panic, the rich coppery scent of blood rising in the air and teasing her tongue. It would be easy, she thought, so easy to take them all, to fill herself with their life's essence until she couldn't hold any more. Oddly, the notion held little appeal, perhaps because she no longer needed to feed as often as she had in decades past. It was with some surprise that she realized she hadn't fed in months.

Sitting there, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her back, she thought how good it was to be home again. She had walked in the Valley of the Kings, made her way through the chambers of Nefertari's tomb in the Valley of the Queens, strolled through what was left of the Karnak Temple with its enormous stone columns. She had wandered along the Avenue of Sphinxes at the Luxor Temple in what had been ancient Thebes, every step resurrecting a memory of days gone by. So much of what she saw and heard was familiar, and yet so much had changed. Little remained of the Egypt she had known so many centuries ago.

Feeling suddenly melancholy, she gazed at the people below, wondering what their last thoughts would be if they knew they were but a heartbeat away from death should she decide to feed.

And then she saw him, a tall man standing at the foot of the Sphinx, a sketch pad in his hand. He was hatless in the sun; his shaggy brown hair was highlighted with streaks of gold. He was tall, with the body of an athlete. His hand was quick and confident as it moved over the paper.

Curious, she floated down to the ground, jarring his shoulder ever so slightly as she materialized beside him with a murmured, “Sorry.”

Kyle Bowden turned toward the woman who had jostled his arm, whatever words he had been about to say forgotten as he gazed into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. Feeling like a fool, he could only stare at the vision before him, his hand itching to get her image on canvas. Would she sit for him if he asked? Did he dare?

He needed to say something, he thought frantically, something witty to make her smile, something mysterious to pique her curiosity, something cool and worldly wise to impress her—but what? He had no gift for small talk. His talent was in his art.

“Good Lord, but you're beautiful.” The words spilled out of his mouth. Mortified, he bit down on his tongue, but she only laughed, the sound deep and rich like ancient temple bells on a summer day. It reached into his very depths, filling a void he hadn't known existed.

“I'm Mara,” she said, offering him her hand.

“Kyle.” In spite of the heat of the day, her skin was cool against his.

She glanced at the sketch pad in his hand. “May I?”

“What? Oh, of course.”

Accepting the tablet, she thumbed through the pages, admiring the sketches he had done of the Pyramids of Menkaure, Khafre, and Khufe, otherwise known as the Great Pyramid of Giza. There were several drawings of the solar barge of King Khufu, which had been sealed into a pit at the foot of the Great Pyramid sometime in 2500 BC, and drawings of the Great Sphinx, as well.

She returned to his sketches of the solar barge. She hadn't seen the ship in years, but the boat in his drawings looked exactly as she remembered. “These are wonderful,” she said enthusiastically.

“Thank you. I intend to paint it when I get back home.” He shook his head. “It's amazing to think that something so old and so exquisite has survived so long.”

“Yes,” Mara murmured. “Amazing.” No one living knew why the ship had been buried. Even Mara didn't know. Some historians postulated that it might have been used as a funeral barge to carry the embalmed body of King Khufu from Memphis to Giza. Others speculated that it had been buried with the king in case he had need of it in the afterlife. Whatever the reason, it had been a remarkable find.

She turned her attention to the other sketches in the book—a child playing with a puppy, an old woman selling spices, the El-Azhar Mosque in Cairo, an old man nodding in the shade of a tree, the statue outside the Temple of Karnak in Luxor.

His work was exquisite. A few strokes of his pen and he had captured the elegance of the Colossi of Ramses II that stood in front of the Sun Temple, the lumbering gait of a camel crossing the desert sand, the whimsical sight of a hot-air balloon hovering over the Nile, the sparkle in the eyes of a little girl as she chased a ball, the hopelessness on the face of a street beggar.

She handed him the sketchbook. When her fingertips brushed his, she was startled by the little current of electricity that arced between them. Odd, she had never felt anything like that before. She took a deep breath. He was neither Vampire nor Werewolf nor shape-shifter, so what had caused that peculiar preternatural spark?

She knew, by the sudden widening of his eyes, that he had felt it, too.

“Do you also paint portraits?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, his gaze probing hers. “I do.”

“Would you consider doing mine?”

“I'd be honored.”

She smiled, charmed by his eagerness and his obvious adoration. He was a handsome man, tall and slender, his skin bronzed by the sun. But it was his eyes that beguiled her. Clear gray eyes, open and honest, with nothing to hide.
A good man,
she thought with some amusement.
A truly good man in an increasingly wicked world.
That, in itself, intrigued her.

“So,” she said, lifting a hand to the heart-shaped ruby pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat, “when can we begin?”

“Whenever you wish,” he said. “Now, if you wish.”

With the setting of the sun, she had intended to find a place to rest, to bury herself in the Valley of the Nile for a year or two, perhaps ten, but the idea no longer held any appeal. Suddenly, the world didn't seem like such a dreary place; the lethargy that had plagued her had disappeared. She wanted to see the world anew through his eyes, to discover what had caused that odd sensation when they touched.

“Come,” she said, linking her arm with his, “let us begin.”