Night's Pleasure (8 page)

“Try not to think about it now.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, he bent down and kissed her cheek. “Get some rest. I'll be nearby.”

She grabbed his hand when he started to rise. “Don't go.”

He gazed at her for stretched seconds, then nodded. “All right.” He took off his shoes and socks, removed his shirt, and slid under the covers.

Savanah scooted closer. “Hold me.”

Muttering an oath, Rane put his arm around her and drew her against his side. Did she know what she was asking? Did she expect him to lie there beside her, to breathe in the warm, womanly scent of her body, listen to the siren call of her blood, and do nothing? Of course she did. She had no idea what kind of monster she had invited into her bed. He fought for control as the predator within him stirred, sharpening his senses, urging him to take her. His tongue brushed his fangs as his innate lust for blood sprang to life. Each indrawn breath only added to his desire. Drinking from her would satisfy him on so many levels; he would revel in the sounds of her sighs as he seduced her, in the heat of her flesh warming his own, the enticing smell of her surrender, the rich taste of her life's essence pouring sweetly over his tongue…

He swore again as she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. A moment later, he felt the dampness of her tears on his skin.

Her trust routed the beast within him as effectively as if she had splashed holy water in his face.

Drawing her closer, he kissed her cheek. “Go to sleep, darlin',” he whispered. “There won't be any bad dreams tonight.”

“Make love to me, Rane.”

“Savanah…”

“Please make love to me, Rane. Make me forget…everything.”

He wasn't surprised or shocked by her request. It was common enough in times of grief or stress for mortals to seek forgetfulness, either by drinking themselves into oblivion, or indulging in the primal urge to mate, not as an act of love but of renewal.

Drawing Savanah into his embrace, he kissed her gently, but she didn't want gentle. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, slid one hand behind his neck, and kissed him as if her life and her sanity depended on it. And maybe they did, he mused, as he deepened the kiss.

He trailed his hands over her body, his own absorbing her heat. She was young, her skin smooth and firm, supple as she writhed against him. He slid his hand under her nightgown, his fingertips sliding up her calf, lightly massaging the smooth skin of her thigh, her belly, the underside of one breast. Her moan was one of pleasure and invitation.

He rose over her, his nostrils flaring. She smelled of toothpaste and soap, of woman and musk. It was a powerful combination, but stronger still was the steady beat of her heart, the constant lure of her life's blood flowing just beneath the surface of her heated flesh.

He closed his eyes against the temptation to lower his head to her neck; instead he brushed a kiss across her cheek and tasted the salt of her tears.

Rane swore softly. He had done a lot of despicable things in his life, but he had never violated a woman who was grieving for the loss of a loved one. She might want him tonight, but she would hate him tomorrow, just as she would surely hate him when she knew the truth about his existence.

“Savanah, you should get some rest.”

“Don't you want me?” She ran her hands over his chest, lightly, provocatively.

“Of course, but…” He groaned as her hand dropped lower, covering his arousal.

“Then take me,” she whispered.

And because it was what she wanted, because he wasn't made of stone, he caressed her until she was on the brink and then he sheathed himself deep inside her.

There was a moment of resistance. A telling moment that had Rane cursing himself as he realized he was the first man Savanah had taken to her bed. It touched something deep within him, something he had thought forever dead.

And then she murmured his name, her voice whisper-soft, filled with love and need, and in that instant, he knew he would willingly sacrifice his life and everything he possessed to protect the woman in his arms.

He stood looking out the window, a glass of expensive whiskey in one hand, his eyes narrowed as he watched her cross the room. “Well, is it done?”

“Just like all the others,” she replied with a toss of her head.

“Did you have any trouble getting into the house?”

She crossed her arms over her breasts and then, shoulders slumped, she looked up at him out of eyes swimming with tears. “What do you think?” she asked, sniffling.

He chuckled softly. He defied any man, human or otherwise, to resist her when she looked so pathetic, so helpless. “Ah, Tasha, I was a fool to doubt you.”

She basked in his praise. “I don't understand you. What do you hope to gain by this?”

“I intend to accomplish what we failed to achieve in the war.”

She closed the distance between them. “What do you mean?”

“Why, the destruction of all the Vampires, of course.”

“Then why kill the hunters?” she asked, frowning.

“Because they don't just hunt Vampires.”

“I see,” she murmured, though she didn't see at all. But then, it wasn't important. She was in love with him. She would do anything he asked.

“Did you find the books?”

“No. What made you think Gentry had them?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Why do you want them?”

“Because they're valuable. One of them contains an updated list of hunters. It would be a handy thing to have, don't you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“The other one contains a list of Vampires, both the quick and the dead.”

She hadn't known that, and she didn't like it. She had managed to stay under the radar for the last fifteen years and she liked it that way.

“There aren't as many hunters today as there were twenty years ago,” he went on, his expression thoughtful. “With peace between the Vampires and the Werewolves, there hasn't been any need for them. The schools have shut down. The old hunters are dying off. If my information is correct, there are only a hundred or so left in the world. When they're gone, most of their knowledge will die with them.”

“What of Mara? She won't like it when she hears what you're doing. It was her idea to call off the war.”

“Ah, yes, Mara. We've nothing to fear from her. She's gone to Egypt, most likely for a good long time.”

“And when all the hunters are gone, what then?”

“We'll kill a few important politicians, a few famous celebrities, an innocent or two. It will arouse the populace against the Vampires, and there will be hunts to rival those of the last century.” He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “It will be glorious!”

She nodded, even though none of it made a lick of sense to her. Sometimes she thought Clive was a little crazy, but then, weren't they all?

Moving closer, she ran her hands through his hair. It was thick and brown and curled over her fingers. He was a handsome man, his body tall and compact, his eyes brown with a hint of yellow. She loved being with him, loved it when they both changed into wolves and hunted the night.

His arm snaked around her waist, his eyes burning with lust when he drew her body against his. She didn't care what happened to the Vampires or the Werewolves or the humans or anyone else, as long as he wanted her.

Savanah woke abruptly, her initial alarm at waking in a strange bed with a man quickly fading when she realized it was only Rane, and that he was asleep, one long leg draped over both of hers.

She stared at him, shaken anew by the events of the past night.

Someone had killed her father.

In the middle of the night, she had begged Rane to make love to her.

What had she been thinking? Of course, the real problem was that she hadn't been thinking at all. She had been feeling lost and alone. Caught up in the reality of death, she had reached out to Rane and surrendered her virtue in the most life-affirming act known to mankind. And it had been wonderful, she thought with a guilty sigh. Wonderful, and all wrong.

Sitting up, with the sheet tucked under her arms, she cradled her head in her hands. Lord, what if she was pregnant? Would her child be a shape-shifter? She groaned softly. What had she been thinking, to indulge in unprotected sex with a man she hardly knew? And yet, right or wrong, she had found comfort in Rane's arms.

On some deep, primal level, she had been aware of his presence beside her even while she slept, had taken comfort in having another human being nearby.

Except that he wasn't human, at least not entirely.

Holding the sheet over her breasts with one hand, she studied the man lying beside her, his face barely visible in the faint glow of the night-light he had thoughtfully left burning. He was truly the most amazing-looking man she had ever seen, his features strong and remarkably handsome. Lying there, with one arm folded behind his head, he looked like some pagan warrior prince awaiting the arrival of his favorite courtesan.

The thought brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. Last night, she had played the courtesan. Shame made her cheeks burn hotter. What kind of woman was she, to make love to a man she hardly knew, on the same night her father had been killed and her house had been ransacked? How could she be in bed with a man she hardly knew?

A man who was awake and watching her through dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

He sat up, exposing a pair of broad shoulders and a chest Savanah knew all too well.

Savanah searched her mind for something witty and urbane to say and came up blank, so she waited, hoping he would break the awkward silence between them.

“Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?” he asked, unable to completely disguise the accusation in his voice.

She stared at him, thinking the silence hadn't been so bad, after all. And then she shrugged. “You didn't ask.”

He grunted softly, his gaze searching hers. “Regrets?”

“No. Yes. I don't know.”

“There's no need for you to feel guilty about what happened.”

“Isn't there?” Tears scalded her eyes.

“No. It was a normal reaction. You were hurting and in need of comfort.” What they had shared last night had been more than sexual intimacy. How could he make her understand that?

“Is that what we shared? Comfort?”

“No, it was more than that, and we both know it.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “Go on,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Let it out.”

With a sob, she buried her face against his chest and let the tears flow.

Rane stroked her back, unmindful of the flood of tears dripping down his chest. Gradually, her sobs subsided. She dried her face with a corner of the sheet, then rested in his embrace, her eyes closed.

Rane took a deep breath as he fought the urge to do what came naturally, what he had intended to do since the beginning. He had seduced women before, seduced them and taken their life's blood, and sometimes, when they had been lost and unhappy and tired of living, he had taken their lives, as well. But he couldn't steal Savanah's life. He cared for her too much, feared that if he tasted her again, he would never be able to let her go.

It surprised him to realize he had grown truly fond of her, that he cared more for her future and her well-being than he did about satisfying his craving for her life's blood.

He grunted softly, wondering when he had grown a conscience. Heaven knew it hadn't made itself known in decades.

He was pondering this odd turn of events when his skin began to tingle. Muttering softly, he glanced at the window. The sun was rising. It was time to go.

He stirred restlessly. He hated to leave her, but he had to go now or be trapped in the hotel until nightfall. He glanced down at Savanah's face. Even with her cheeks stained with tears and her hair sleep-tousled, she was the most beautiful, delectable creature he had ever known.

“Rane?”

He was sorely tempted to stay, to take her in his arms and bend her will to his, to bury himself in her sweetness before he surrendered to the Dark Sleep. He swore under his breath. He had to go, now, before he did something they would both regret.

He kissed her, hard and quick. “I'll see you tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don't have time to talk now.” He kissed her again, then pulled on his shirt and trousers and fled the hotel with the sun's light nipping at his heels.

Savanah sat up, frowning as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. One minute they were cuddling and the next he was gone, with no explanation.

With a sigh, she buried herself under the covers and went back to sleep.

 

The ringing of Savanah's cell phone roused her several hours later. She flipped open the phone and heard the cigarette-roughened voice of Mr. Van Black, owner of the
Chronicle.
Savanah accepted his condolences, answered his questions about what had happened to her father as best she could, and thanked him for his offer to take as much time off as she needed.

Breakfast was a cup of hot black coffee, and then, with a heavy heart, she sat down and called the cemetery. She was relieved to learn that her father had made arrangements for his own demise shortly after her mother had passed away, thereby sparing Savanah the stress of picking out a plot and a casket. Next, she called the church and set the date for the funeral.

With that taken care of, she made the necessary phone calls to her father's brother, Arthur, in New York and his cousin, Frank, in South America. Arthur said he would have to rearrange several meetings, but he would be there; a message on Frank's answering machine advised her that he was somewhere in the jungles of Brazil and would be without any means of communication for several weeks. She left him a brief message.

She sat there a moment, blinking back her tears, and then she called the police department, relieved when the officer at the desk informed her that she was free to return home. Home, she thought. It would never be the same without her father. After what had happened, she wondered if she would ever feel safe there again.

With a sigh, she dropped the phone on the bed, only to pick it up moments later to call Rane. She was disappointed when his answering machine picked up.

“Sorry, I can't get to the phone right now. Leave your name and number and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Rane, hello? Please pick up if you're there.”

When there was no answer, she hung up, only to call back a second time just to hear the sound of his voice on the machine, and then she went back to bed and cried herself to sleep.

It was early afternoon when she woke again. She took a quick shower, dressed, checked out of the hotel, and drove home.

She sat in her car a moment, staring at a strip of yellow police tape fluttering from a bush. She could only wonder what her neighbors must think about the goings-on last night. She still couldn't believe it hadn't been some horrible nightmare. If only she could wake up and find her father waiting for her in the kitchen, the morning paper spread out on the table in front of him. If only she could turn back time….

She shook the thought away. Wishing she could change the past served no purpose.

Getting out of the car, she stooped to pick up the newspaper, then unlocked the door and went inside. The house was as she had left it, except that now every surface appeared to be covered with black fingerprint powder.

After tossing her keys, the paper, her suitcase, and her handbag on the sofa, she went into the kitchen and filled a pail with hot soapy water. She pulled an apron from one of the drawers and slipped it over her head, then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began to wash the black powder from the doorknob, glad to have something to do to occupy her mind.

She was cleaning the top of her mother's desk when she suddenly recalled her father's last words, something about his desk and an envelope.

Dropping the gloves into the pail, Savanah dried her hands on her apron, then walked down the hall to her father's office.

She paused outside the door. She had never entered his work space uninvited; her father had respected her privacy, as well.

Blinking back a rush of tears, she stepped across the threshold. The furniture in here had also been dusted with fingerprint powder, leaving a fine black residue on the oak file cabinet, her father's old-fashioned rolltop desk, the bookshelves, and his keyboard.

Savanah blew out a sigh as she looked around. Whoever had invaded their home last night had gone through her father's office with a vengeance. Books had been pulled from the shelves and tossed on the floor. A photo of her parents, taken on their wedding day, had been knocked off its customary place on top of the file cabinet. Fighting the urge to cry, she picked it up and put it back where it belonged. The top two drawers in the file cabinet, always locked, had been forced open. Her father's desk had practically been turned inside out. All the drawers had been opened, the middle one had been removed, its contents strewn on the floor. Had the intruder been searching for the envelope her father mentioned? Had they found it?

Taking a deep breath, she removed the bottom drawer from the desk. Setting it on the floor, she peered into the opening, wondering if the envelope was still there. Reaching inside, she ran her fingertips over the wood. A muffled sound of success rose in her throat as her fingers encountered something taped to the back panel of the desk. Tearing it free, she stared at the long white envelope. Her name was scrawled across the front.

Savanah stared at it for several moments before opening it. Inside, she found a folded sheet of flowered stationery that had belonged to her mother. She recognized it immediately. She had given it to her mother on the last Mother's Day they had spent together.

With trembling fingers, Savanah unfolded the letter. It was dated a month after her father's car accident, and written in his own bold hand.

Savanah stared at the words. Vampire hunter. It wasn't possible. Her mother had cringed at the thought of killing a spider.