Starry Knight (24 page)

Duncan’s eyes brightened. “Did you now?”

“Aye, I did.”

Callum was being vague apurpose so his friend would have to drag the details out of him bit by bit.

Duncan flicked a sharp look in his direction. “Are you going to tell me what Lord Bentley had to say, or keep me dangling like a worm on a hook all night?”

“I’ll tell you in time.” Callum forced a smile through his anguish. “But right now, I’m rather enjoying watching you squirm.”

“Did he agree to endorse you?”

“He did—with a couple of provisos.”

Duncan took a breath. “Does that mean you’ve decided to run?”

“Aye,” Callum confirmed before filling his friend in on the details of the meeting.

The wolver, as expected, was both ecstatic and bursting with ideas for his campaign—speeches, meetings, interviews, posters, billboards, and public appearances at everything from recycling centers to homeless shelters. Callum, feeling like he’d been broadsided by a lorry, took a deep breath and blew it out. It seemed he’d gotten his wish. If Duncan had his way, he’d be far too busy to dwell on Lady Vanessa’s desertion.

“I’ll call Randy first thing and see about setting up an interview.”

Callum, preoccupied with wondering how Vanessa might react to his decision, didn’t know who Duncan meant. “Who’s Randy?”

“Miranda Hornsby from the
Caithness Crier
. You met her at the book signing. Don’t you remember?”

Flinching, Callum called from his memory the journalist and her insult.
I believe your astrology to be—now how can I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.

Bloody hell. If that was Miss Hornsby’s idea of delicacy, what might she be like when she took off the gloves?

“I don’t know, Duncan. I don’t think the lass liked me all that well.”

“She liked you fine,” the wolver countered with a shrug. “She just doesn’t believe in astrology.”

“Or pulling punches, apparently.”

* * * *

Cold sweat broke from Vanessa’s pores when she heard the bang and felt the bumping of the deflating tire. Scanning the shoulder for a safe place to pull over, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and eased the car off the pavement. Shit, now what? Have a go at changing the tire herself or walk somewhere in hopes of finding a phone?

Deciding she’d at least give changing the flat a try, she popped the boot and stepped from air-conditioned heaven into sweltering hell. She found a jack, but no tire iron. After slipping the jack under the chassis, she cranked until there was no weight on the tire. She then attempted to loosen the lug nuts by hand. It should be a breeze with her supernatural strength, right?

Wrong.

Frustration thrummed through her system. So much for self-sufficiency. She now had no choice but to wait for a passing motorist to stop and offer help.

Returning to the car, she folded her arms and settled in for the wait, feeling peckish despite having fed. Maybe she hadn’t taken enough blood from the doe after all. She still wasn’t sure what constituted
enough
. Even when she’d killed before, only because Callum insisted, she got uneasy toward the end. What if she miscalculated when the heart would stop? Callum had told her drinking dead blood would make her violently ill.

The thought of him raked her heart, so she hurled it away. She wouldn’t think about him, wouldn’t indulge the weak and pathetic part of herself that missed him. She was a strong and self-sufficient woman, damn it. She could take care of herself. She didn’t need him or her parents or anyone else to make her feel happy or complete. The flat tire was just a teensy-weensy bump she could easily overcome.

Just as she settled in to wait for a Good Samaritan to stop, she heard a howl in the distance. The haunting sound sent a chill down her spine and raised gooseflesh on her arms. She’d never heard the like before. Wolves had been hunted to extinction centuries ago in Great Britain.

The thought of wolves brought back a conversation she’d had with Callum. She couldn’t remember quite how it’d come up, but she’d expressed, rather vehemently, how much she loathed all forms of hunting.

“It’s vicious and senseless,” she’d insisted.

“Is it? Even when necessary?”

“When is killing a beautiful wild animal
necessary
?”

He’d shaken his head. “How about when you’re hungry? Or when the herd needs thinning to prevent the beasts from destroying the forests? In Scotland, because wolves have been hunted to extinction, deer have no natural predator, lass. And they’ve taken over. They strip the saplings, so the old-growth forests can’t replenish the parts that die off. So, which would you rather? Lose the forests or weed out a few deer?”

“Well, I never quite thought about it like that.”

“Of course you never,” he’d said, smiling as he set his hand atop hers. “Because you’ve got a kind heart.”

She’d felt stupid and tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn’t let her. “And you think that’s terribly naïve, I suppose.”

“Aye, lass. But I also find it commendable.”

Oh, Callum.

If he did wind up in Parliament, she hoped he’d support the initiative to reintroduce wolves into the Highlands. That way, the wolves could keep the deer population under control the way nature intended. Then, the old-growth forests would replenish, hunters would have no more excuse to shoot harmless deer, and all would be right with the world again.

The wolf, or whatever it was, howled again, turning her backbone to tingling ice. Please, God, let it not be one of those half-werewolf, half-vampire swamp monsters she’d learned about from Callum.

Rougarous
.

Swallowing, she pulled the phone out of the cup-holder and tried turning it on. Sadly, it was as dead as her confidence. She shot an anxious glance at the driver’s side mirror. Her heart almost stopped when she spotted a pair of headlights beaming through the rear window. Squinting, she made out a big blue pick-up truck—the kind with elevated wheels only Americans with tiny penises drove.

Her heart sank. How disappointing.

As he hopped down from the cab, she noted he was tall, slender in a good way, dark-haired, and thirty-something. He wore jeans, a thin sweater, and a pair of cowboy boots—the perfect wardrobe for changing a tire. Provided, of course, he was willing, able, and kept a bloody lug wrench in his over-compensating truck.

“Good evening, ma’am.” Bending, he tapped on the glass and offered her a friendly smile. “What seems to be the trouble?”

She sighed forlornly, annoyed to have the role of damsel in distress foisted on her by fate, and cracked the window enough to talk through. “A flat tire, I’m afraid.”

He set his hands on the roof of the car. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up to reveal sinewy forearms with dark hair. He smelled good. Mouthwatering good. Lust shivered through her, hot and electric. Bloody hell, she was in trouble.

“I like your accent,” he said, his lovely eyes crinkling at the corners. “Where are you from?”

As she caught a snootful of his scent, her whole body convulsed. Swallowing hard, she struggled within herself to maintain the illusion of composure. “England. I just moved here to take a new job.”

His nose was long and straight, his jaw square, his forehead high, and his blue eyes pale, clear, and alert.

“Oh? What kind of work do you do?”

“I investigate paranormal phenomena.” She drew in a breath to savor his appetizing scent. She’d never fed from a human, though they smelled as scrumptious as the Christmas roasts the family cook used to prepare when she was a girl. And this bloke smelled even better than most.

“You don’t say?” His manner was easy, his speech slow and measured. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

“We have our share in Great Britain, too, believe me.” As she trained her gaze on the pulse in his neck, an intense dark craving coiled in her belly.

“Shall we have a look in the trunk for a spare?” he asked.

“I’ve already looked,” she told him, pushing open the door. He stepped back and gave her room to exit the car. “There’s a spare and a jack, but no lug wrench. I was rather hoping you might have one.”

She swept her gaze down his body, pausing at his crotch. The size of his bulge was incongruous with the size of his truck.

“I’ll just go and get it,” he said.

Her human instincts told her to get back in the car and lock the door; her faery instincts told her to pounce and drain every ounce of fluid she could from his arteries and testicles. She did neither.

He came back with the lug wrench and squatted before the tire in question, his face level with her crotch. She ran her tongue over her fangs, now fully extended. “What’s your name, kind stranger?”

“Finn,” he said. “Finn MacKnight. What’s yours, pretty lady?”

“Vanessa.”

“Nice to meet you, Vanessa.”

“Same here. Thanks for stopping.”

“Damn.” He brought the hand he’d been loosening the nuts with to his mouth and sucked on a knuckle.

“What’s the matter?”

“I nicked myself, but not too bad.”

“Can I see? I think I might have a first-aid kit in the trunk.”

He showed her the wound—on the knuckle of his middle finger. He was right; the gouge didn’t look too deep. It was, however, bleeding.

When the smell hit her nose, a violent surge of desire shook her to the core. It took everything she had to stand by and watch, hands trembling with the need to touch, nostrils flaring to drink in the tasty scent of sweat and blood, loins throbbing with the need to be fucked good and hard.

Human blood shouldn’t do that to her—not so soon after hunting.

“Where are you from, Finn MacKnight?”

“Here,” he said, “but I was born in Scotland. My parents died when I was a baby—a car accident—so I was sent to New Orleans to live with my uncle.”

As he spoke, she saw that he had that same slight luminosity as she and Callum. He could be faery, maybe Seelie, but she couldn’t think why the faeries wouldn’t have looked after him after his parents died—or what they were doing in the Hitherworld to begin with.

Finn went back to work. With admirable efficiency, he loosened the nuts, pulled off the damaged tire, and laid it aside. When the little donut of a spare was secured in place, she put a grateful hand on his shoulder.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she told him. “How can I ever thank you enough?”

“It was my pleasure.” As he rose to his feet, he swiped his hands across the thighs of his jeans, turned, and leaned back against the side of the car. “But if you’ve got nothing better to do some night, stop by Napoleon House for a drink. I work there as a bartender and make a mean chocolate martini.”

“I’ll do that.”

Stepping closer, she put her hand on his chest and fixed her hungry gaze on that beating blue cord on his neck. Temptation pulled on every cell in her body. God, he smelled good.

Just like Callum.

It had only been one bloody day, and she already missed her sexy lion more than she’d ever thought possible. If only he’d call.

“Just out of curiosity, what sign are you?” she asked, stepping out of range of Finn’s tantalizing scent.

“Libra.”

Libra, a fellow air sign. Not that it mattered. She’d make a note of Napoleon House—as a place to avoid. Whatever kind of paranormal creature Finn MacKnight might be, he didn’t seem threatening. In fact, he seemed quite benevolent. He didn’t need any trouble from paranormal investigators.

“Well, thanks again,” she said, moving toward the driver’s side door. “I’ll stop by for that drink. With my boyfriend. He’s a Leo.”

After sending Finn on his way, Vanessa collected herself enough to start to process what had happened. Clearly she’d underestimated her body’s need for blood and sex. No wonder Callum had been so keen on keeping her close.

Now, he seemed so far away, so out of reach. Had she ruined everything by coming here? She took a deep breath, blew it out, and started the engine. She wanted so badly to talk to him, to tell him about Finn’s tantalizing scent and how much she missed him.

The incident worried her. Although she and Callum had agreed to shag other people if the need arose, she hadn’t expected the hunger to take her over so quickly—especially when she’d taken the precaution of hunting in the swamp. Had not killing the deer maybe been the cause? Still chewing on the thought, she pulled out onto the road in the direction she’d come, praying she’d find her way back to the house without her faithful GPS crutch.

Alone in Barrogill’s library, having just bid Duncan and the twins goodnight, Callum poured himself another single-malt and lit a cigar. As he drank and smoked, he struggled to get a handle on his feelings. He was in a bad way. Every cell in his being ached for Vanessa and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it short of drinking himself numb. Maybe he should just say fuck it and call her. Or fly to New Orleans without an invitation. Show up on her doorstep unannounced—oh, aye, like a total wanker, which would probably go over about as well as a booming fart in church.

Forcing himself on her would only make things worse. She was a freedom-loving Uranian, a skittish butterfly, his temperamental opposite. Grand romantic gestures would frighten rather than impress her.

Feeling lost, he downed the rest of his drink, poured another, and took it to the bookcase where he kept his reference material on horoscopic astrology. Taking down a sizeable manual, he turned to the relevant section:

“The Aquarian need for independence can’t be understated. Although they appear to be friendly and outgoing, they are actually very private and abhor having their privacy invaded. Their outward appearance of sociability stems from a need to be useful, rather than to forge intimate relationships. They love solving puzzles, especially human ones, which they do with logic and detachment, eschewing emotion as much as possible.”

Nothing new there. Nor anything to help with his predicament. Angst gnawing, he skipped down to the paragraphs under the heading
Partnership
.