You Both (Vampire Assassin League Book 29) (5 page)

And something worked. They all heard the sounds of a large door opening. It echoed through the fuselage. She turned toward the sound. Ethelstone didn’t. He couldn’t seem to move his eyes from her. She grew more precious with every passing moment. The emotion loomed larger. As did his problem. His mind was besieged with images. Her lips crushed against his. Her long, shapely legs wrapped about him. Her breasts melded to his chest. Her woman place open. Wet. Ready. Everything on him demanded he toss her onto her back, rip his way through her jeans, and take her.

Exactly like an Icelandic Viking on a raid.

And what did he have for defense? He was wearing little more than a ripped and blood-stained thigh-length tunic.
Wait
. He had two, equally blood-stained blankets. Fur cuffs. Boots. He’d been premature. A gurney sounded like an excellent idea right about now. The purr of an engine resounded through the space outside the jet. Vaughn spoke up.

“Well. Well. Will you listen to that? The kid really did send a car. And his timing is excellent. Ethelstone? You need a hand up, buddy? Maybe a swift kick?”

“I need a cloak.”

His voice was gruff. Deep. It snagged Stephanie’s attention. She straightened, and all he could do was remain locked in place. Trembling. He didn’t need to see Stephanie look him over. Her silver-hued eyes considering. Evaluating. He knew she looked him over. He could feel her regard.

“Oh. Right. Blood-soaked clothing is not the best attire for an arrival to the Ice Hotel. That’s bound to attract attention. Even in Iceland. Here. I’ve got a nice, large, fur coat in the cockpit, because unlike some guys, I came prepared, and I didn’t trash my work area...”

Vaughn’s voice faded. A few moments later, a length of fur dropped onto him. Thick. Concealing. Stephanie slid out from beneath it and he somehow resisted the urge to clamp onto her. He couldn’t move his eyes, however. He watched her just stand there. Dressed in figure-defining skinny jeans and thermal top. Rubbing at her arms. Shivering.

“Stephanie needs a cloak, too.”

“I only got one, man.”

“Here.” Ethelstone hefted the fur toward her.

“No. Please. I can’t take it.”

“Oh, come on. This is getting complicated. Why don’t you just share it?” Vaughn asked.

“Don’t ask. Just. Don’t.”

Ethelstone managed to move to a squat, and then slowly stood. He stayed against the wall, hunched forward due to the lack of ceiling height, while leaning heavily against the structure as if he needed to. And then Vaughn had to go and state the obvious.

“Oh. Shit, man. You’re mat—?”

“Finish that and I’ll knock you into next week,” Ethelstone swiftly interrupted him.

“Oh. Wow. That’s what this is all about? No wonder Athlerod went crazed. Man, oh man, am I ever late to the table. As well as completely blind. Deaf.”

“You better start going mute,” Ethelstone lowered his voice even further.

“Okay. I don’t get it.” Stephanie spoke. She looked from one to the other of them.

“Put the cloak on her, and see her to the car,” Ethelstone ordered.

“You’ll follow?”

“I’m getting tired of being ignored, gentlemen,” Stephanie inserted.

Ethelstone glanced toward her and then quickly away. She didn’t know what he was dealing with, while Vaughn might have been informed about what mating meant, but he was woefully ignorant. The pilot probably resembled Ethelstone from a few hours ago. Blissfully unaware. There was no succor. No release. No quarter. No help. The only thing that mattered was joining with his mate. Fully. Massively. Powerfully.

Stephanie was extremely close to getting snatched up.

And mauled.

He needed his focus on something else. Anything. His glance touched on all kinds of things. Blinking lights. Uprooted chairs. The broken partition. The pile of items Athlerod had dumped atop a ripped section of carpeting.

“You got it, big fellow, but I have to say it. You Icelanders are severe pains in the ass. Singularly. As well as together. You know that?”

“Get moving, Vaughn or—”

“I know. I’ll see next week a lot sooner. Heard it. Come on, sweetheart. Take the cloak.”

“Call me that again, and I’m going to hit you,” Stephanie replied.

“You, too? Is it something in the air? Everybody is looking for a fight? Here. Take the fur. You heard him.”

“Jerk.”

“Look. Lady. Thank you for flying VAL airlines. Allow me to see you to your ride. Bid you adieu. Good-bye. Farewell. And good riddance. I will be supremely glad to wash my hands of you
and
your Icelandic Viking dude.”

“He isn’t my Icelandic Viking anything.”

Vaughn laughed. “Right.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m mute, lady. Remember?”

Stephanie made a frustrated sound, but her shadow moved as if donning the fur cloak. Ethelstone didn’t look toward her again. He was too busy mustering every bit of strength he possessed.

He didn’t plan on following anyone anywhere.

He was going to beat them there.

Well.

If any of this was true, she’d happened upon the story of the decade! No. The revelation of the century! And she was actually
living
it. Who’d have guessed when her editor gave her that phone number that she’d discover something this unbelievable? She’d thought the assignment was an executive brush-off. She’d even imagined his thought process as he’d downloaded the file to her:

‘
I’ll just give the new kid a fantasy-fiction job. That should keep her occupied and out of my hair for a few weeks.’

She’d been annoyed, but what had happened? She was onto something that would knock the reading public’s socks off...if it was true. That Ethelstone was pretty believable, even if what he said was off the chart on the believability spectrum. Was it actually possible that vampires were real? And, if so...that led to more possibilities. There really could be a covert organization called the Vampire Assassin League. It was overseen by a fellow named Akron Profit. She knew one thing for certain. He existed. She’d met him. Stephanie searched her memory.
Dang.
She couldn’t remember much. He’d worn a dark cape. He was big. He had mesmeric dark eyes. He’d cast some sort of hypnotic trance over her that lasted most of a flight from New York to Reykjavik, Iceland.

Holy hell!

How long was that?

She’d give anything for her phone right now. Or a recording device. At the bare minimum, she needed a notepad and pen. This was going to get tricky. She’d have to rely on memory and recall and those were always subject to question.

This story was going to make her career. It would definitely go viral. She’d be famous! She’d get her own segment...maybe her own show. Stephanie rubbed her hands together gleefully. The possibilities were endless. It was almost too much to consider.

Akron Profit must be a vampire. Nothing else made sense. And if that was true, couldn’t it also mean he had an entire cadre of undead beings working for him? As assassins? And they didn’t just drain blood. They drained bank accounts. They
killed
for profit. It looked like there was a lot of it. They were powerful. Rich. Organized. Dangerous and fascinating. And one thing she truly hadn’t counted on.

They were sexy as hell.

Oh. Shit.

She didn’t need to ask that question again. She knew the answer. She’d been in physical contact with one. Every moment had been a new experience. Something really weird happened. At a cellular level. There’d been some sort of electrical impulse involved. A lot of warmth. Stimulation. It was intangible but impossible to deny. She’d been turned on.

Massively.

Oh. Hell
.

She still was.

What was wrong with her? She was a professional. She’d done a couple of articles on male strippers just last summer. Blown the lid off how competitive, narcissistic, and all-out fragile their egos were. That exposé wouldn’t get her invited back anytime soon, but it had gotten her noticed. She was hardnosed, played hardball, and wasn’t afraid to ask hardline questions. And then write about them.

But the reason she remembered that now? She’d been up to her eyeballs in barely clad, handsome, muscled, sexy guys. None of that had raised one iota of interest in her. Yet, with this Ethelstone fellow, she was nearly panting? This level of arousal didn’t make sense. He wasn’t even her type. She didn’t fancy super-tall guys. Steph liked men closer to her height. Nose-to-nose, toes-to-toes. She was also drawn to brunettes, the swarthier the better. And she liked her guys on the lean side. She wasn’t interested in a muscle-bound hunk.

Actually...

She had to rephrase that. Despite her research on male strippers, she’d never even seen a man with as much muscle and definition as Ethelstone. And he wielded it so easily! Every time he’d tensed his thighs beneath her, she’d fought one hell of a reaction. She only hoped she’d been good enough at hiding it.

At the thought, more weirdness happened. The world about her did a slow rocking motion. Her knees wavered. She stumbled as a big dose of warmth slipped through her midsection, leaving a tingle in its wake. Her eyes widened. She had to conquer this. She was on the story of a lifetime. All she had to do was get some hardline questions answered, get proof...and hope like hell that she wasn’t dreaming here.

That was a deflating thought, but she had to consider it.

Dreams did transcend reality. She could be locked in one now. The pampered luxury of a limousine ride while she snuggled in an ankle-length mink coat might be imaginary. Or maybe the fur was sable. Steph didn’t know furs, but the coat was unbelievably soft and warm. This had to be how royalty was treated, starting with the greeting at the front door of a very classy hotel by not one, but three fellows, in sharp suits. One carried a bottle in a bucket of ice in one arm. His other hand held two champagne flutes. Another fellow had an armload of blood-red roses that blocked his entire upper body. The last one had offered her his arm.

Wow.

If she was dreaming, it was some dream. The only thing missing was the massive hunk named Ethelstone, and...

Oh shit.

There went the weird physical episode again, only this time the tingle stayed a lot longer. If she was on a story, it just got difficult. Ethelstone was sex appeal atop muscle atop more sex appeal. She was in major trouble. And getting escorted there.

The suited fellows accompanied her to an elevator and from there to double doors that fronted a probable penthouse suite. She checked out the black lacquered doors as one of the gentlemen tapped some code in the side wall. She looked up. There was a placard above the door. She read it aloud.

“The Inferno Suite.”

“Yes. We fondly call this room ‘Fire on Ice’,” the champagne guy informed her. And then the doors opened.

Steph’s jaw dropped, rendering her speechless for the moment. Mister Roses walked in first, followed by Mister Champagne. Stephanie trailed them slowly. Her hand tightened on her escort’s arm for stability. Balance. The floor was a span of black tile, covered intermittently with pristine white furs and woven rugs of black and dark red. The ceiling matched the floor in shade –extremely glossy, and glinting with a thousand little lights from dimly lit crystal chandeliers. A span of dark rock fireplace took up the entire inner wall on her right, a fire within it beckoning warmth and shedding more light. The back section was a mass of blackness that probably led to the rest of the suite. But that wasn’t the most stunning part. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The walls looked like ice. Real ice. But that wasn’t possible. Flames were flickering within them.

“Welcome to the Inferno Suite.”

Her escort said it. The roses’ guy had walked across the room to a span of black lacquered table. Her eyes followed him. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was an arrangement of chocolate-dipped goodies in a silver dish in the center of the table. He moved the sweets to one side to place his burden in the table center, arranged the blooms slightly, and then walked past her toward the door. The champagne guy was next. The only sounds were the slight tinkle of the bucket and wine glasses as he placed them next to the bouquet, and the snap and crackling of the fire in the fireplace. He followed Mister Roses with his exit.

Steph didn’t even acknowledge their departure. That was incredibly rare and wholly disconcerting. If she was sleeping-walking, this just hit wet-dream level. She
never
wanted to awaken. Her escort lifted her hand from his arm, releasing her. He tipped his head slightly before following the others. Stephanie turned to watch. He stopped at the door, turned around, and smiled. She still hadn’t closed her mouth.

“Enjoy your stay, Miss Bowker. Call if you need anything.”

He exited, shutting the door behind him. A log fell. Stephanie jumped. Her heels thumped quietly against the floor. She considered the noise as it faded. It was extremely quiet in here, the silence broken only with the sound of the fire. It was also growing warm. She unhooked the coat as she walked toward one of the walls. Touched it. And had her answer. It wasn’t ice. It wasn’t remotely cold. They’d incorporated a lot of little lights and mirror shards within clear material.

Wow.

No.

Double wow.

Stephanie shed the pilot’s fur and draped it over her arm. She had to pull it close to her body. She hadn’t realized it was this heavy. It was almost unworldly quiet. She approached the table with a stealth that matched. She’d been right. The silver platter held a selection of chocolate-dipped fruit. She’d never seen strawberries that large and luscious. She selected one and had it halfway to her mouth, when a muffled click sound came from the depths of the suite.

Stephanie dropped the fruit and spun, holding the coat at her belly. Mist poured into the room, rolling out along the floor before dissipating. Her eyes widened as the large hulk of Ethelstone strode through it, muscles rippling. He came right for her. He’d obviously been in a shower. A hot one. He wasn’t quite dry, either. His hair was slicked back, his skin glistened, and he was a lot more defined than she’d given him credit for. She couldn’t help noticing all of that. He was wearing a little towel tied low on his hips.

That was it.

A towel.

“You’re here. Finally.” He spoke as he neared. As if that helped.

Holy hell
.

Her throat closed off and her mind went on hiatus. The man was way too masculine and entirely too naked for conscious thought processes and verbal action. Motor skills were malfunctioning, too. Stephanie backed into the table, rocking it so that the floral arrangement fell. The silver platter rattled and the ice bucket tipped over next, spewing crushed ice onto her backside. She didn’t know where the champagne bottle went. Stephanie squealed and shimmied sideways, hugging the fur coat to her. Ice slid off the table like a waterfall of crystals. And none of that stopped Ethelstone. The guy smelled wonderful. That same blend of scents she’d caught earlier. Woodsy oak. Warmed amber. Vanilla. Caramel. He hovered inches from her, breathing heavily onto her forehead and nose from his height, and sending all kinds of electrically charged pulses from the proximity. And all of it was accompanied by a truckload of heat.

“And you took forever.”

His upper lip lifted with the words, displaying two long, sharp fangs where his canine teeth should be. Stephanie gasped, and held the exhalation back but her eyes went so wide, the air stung.

“My brother was wrong.”

His hands slammed onto the table at her sides, effectively caging her. Each of his breaths came hard and fast, the match to hers, while his towel proved absolutely worthless as a covering. The man was as turned on as she was. The towel delineated it. He was huge. And hard. Stephanie moved her glance before she did something completely wild. And raw. Her heart became a wild thing. It was going to leap right out of her breast at the rate it was pounding.

“You are not pretty. You are very. Very. Beautiful.”

He lowered his head to breathe the last two words onto her throat, raising all kinds of shivers. They targeted and then found every erogenous zone she possessed. This was unbelievable. Completely out of her scope of experience. Beyond dream-worthy. Her mind wouldn’t form intelligent words. And even if it did, she wasn’t sure her throat could utter them. But she had to say something. Anything.

“You...showered.” She stated the obvious.

“I was covered in blood.”

“I know. I was there...and—.” She gulped. “You need...to get dressed. Okay? I can’t, um. Talk like this.”

He smiled and sun-kissed laugh lines crinkled at the sides of his eyes.
Damn
everything! He was already rocking her world sideways. That grin of his was complete overkill.

“Oh. I don’t think so.”

His voice could sculpt stone. Without a chisel. Or any other tool. Her thighs quivered. Her knees sagged. It was a good thing the table was stoutly made. It only groaned slightly as she leaned into it. She felt what actually might be his lips at her throat, his tongue sliding along the skin.

Or his fangs.

“You don’t...understand. I...can’t concentrate.” She swallowed. “Ethel...stone.”

Her voice had become a breath-filled caress. A low murmur of sound. A well of passion. She was close to lunging for the wealth of skin he was displaying. Pushing his towel aside. And grabbing absolute heaven.

She didn’t even question that she’d find it, either.