Angel's Guardian: A Contemporary Vampire Romance (12 page)

CHAPTER
22

Angel had known sex in all its forms and variations. She'd been bought, sold, raped, shared, and loved. She had never seen its luster, never felt its pull. From the first time it was wielded against her, she had learned to disconnect. She had taught herself not to exist in the sexual moment.

How else to bear the stench of it? It had not been the first violent rendering of her virginity that so impulsed her. She'd not had the opportunity for repulsion then, only fear and pain, and fear of pain occupying her thoughts and emotion. Later, lying naked, used, cold, bruised in the small, bare cot, there was relief, exhaustion, and more fear.

The weeks and months passed. Angel accepted her lot, stopped fighting a battle that was not within her to win. The beatings, the rapes, the pain stopped. The first time she entered her new bedroom and felt the touch of silk sheets, she cried for joy. She was allowed to sleep for hours and hours.

She remembered the day she first discovered her talent. It was her first job as a whore.  She stood dressed in a lovely, very short white dress that hugged her young body like a second skin.  Her four-inch heels and the pony tail set high on the crown of her head, made her seem much taller, like a young model.

Her client was an old man. He walked away from her to put his folded clothes on the back of a chair, his buttocks empty and hanging like the sagging skin under old women's eyes. His back was slightly stooped, and ugly back moles dotted his back.

When he turned around, she could see the long, flaccid, pale penis sprouting from a heavy thatch of grey hair. The nest of hair was so thick and obscene, that the male organ was only visible by reason of its generous length. The grey of his pubic hair matched the grey of his chest hair and the grey of the thinning hair on his head. Angel felt  the first stirrings of insupportable revulsion.

The old man sat on the bed to begin undressing the lovely fourteen-year-old whore he'd paid a fortune to have. His hands, covered in age spots and dry, crusty sores, trembled as they slid under her short dress, up her thighs, squeezing her young flesh as he made hungry, guttural sounds in his throat.

He reached roughly for her pubic mound, and the girl tensed and tried to pull her thighs together, but he would have none of that. He pulled her thong down, forced her thighs apart,  and probed her expertly with quick, unrelenting, gnarled fingers.

“Oh my, so tight, so young. Just what I need to get this old dick hard and happy,” he chuckled. “At my age, Viagra is out of the question.”

It had been a night without physical pain, but one of unimaginable mental horror. His mouth made wet, sucking sounds as his cold, reptilian tongue  flickered feverishly over her clitoris. His limp, long penis slid over her thigh, flopping heavily over her belly as he climbed over her body to insist she take it into her mouth. The nest of dull, grey hair was up against her face, smelling of decay and old age. She fought the urge to gag and choke.

His flaccid penis hardened to a degree in her mouth. She wanted desperately to spit it out. He cried out in joy and moved quickly to feed it, with difficulty due to its semi hardness, into her vagina. The old man stretched out on top of her, and began a tortured rhythm punctuated by his short, labored puffs of breath.

She lay in that bed with her legs apart and knees raised to make it easier for him, trying desperately not to cry or puke or die. He was a cold snake slithering over her body. His brittle, papery skin was like cold sandpaper over her warm, young one. His manhood bended, folded as it was forced to enter her tight vagina. His breath smelled of dead leaves and cobwebs.

When he lowered his mouth to hers and forced her to take the tongue that had minutes before lathered in her  folds, Angel felt herself leave her body. Her mind floated away from the degradation, the filth, the shame, and found her place of peace. It had been the same, ever since. She smiled for the clients, young, old, ugly, pretty, deformed, male, female, kind or cruel. She took off her clothes, and then she flew away.

But not this time. Not with Max. This time she remained tethered to his world, held there by something powerful, sublime, something she'd never known before. Never with Marco either. He'd loved her and died for her, but he'd loved the whore, and he'd made love to the whore in the same way he made love to all the whores before her.

Maxim laid her in bed reverently, his eyes gazing into her eyes. There was in him no rush to taste, to suck, to squeeze, to mount, to consume. He touched her face tenderly, traced every line lovingly, kissed every inch of it, and bent to share her breath before kissing her lips. He had eternity in his hands and was willing to spend it in one kiss.

His hands traveled over her body in a slow, curious  quest to learn every hollow, every curve, each and all the mysteries of her flesh and bone. Where his hands went, his lips followed.

Angel gave herself up to the bliss of his loving, her own hands seeking and touching the smooth, warm flesh that smelled of honey and dusky whiskey. She kneaded the supple, well-defined muscles at his shoulders, the corded strength of his neck, the firm slope of his buttocks. She opened her thighs and felt the virile, thumping  hardness of his length upon her mound and belly.

When his tongue discovered her hidden little knob of pleasure, it took long, languorous sweeps that caused a sensation so intense, she arched off the bed in tortured delight.  Later, when it was her turn to pay her homage, she took him in her mouth and suckled him as if she was a hungry babe and he the milk-rich teat. She caressed, rubbed, sucked, milked, his soft murmurings and moans of ecstasy  fueling her own need to give pleasure.

Still, nothing she had imagined could compare to the joining of their bodies. The vampire held her hands firmly in his own, above her head. His heated gaze sought hers as he moved into position between her legs. She felt the head of his cock slide like silk over her folds, seeking her entrance.

He bent his knees, bringing them deep under her bottom, causing her own body to tilt slightly up.  His eyes never left hers as he slowly, inexorable, pushed his stone-hard, beautifully large cock deep into her. The instant he filled her, the maelstrom engulfed her.

It was a feeling like no other she'd ever experienced, nothing like human sex.  She felt herself floating in a sea of intense pleasure that did not pulse or come in waves, but was seamless and constant. Her body felt lighter than air, and it did not respond to her mind's commands. She was unable to move, not wanting to move, blissfully enslaved to the sweet, unending waves of pleasure that her lover played on her.

Max took her mouth with his lips, his tongue slid around hers, his arms held her prisoner while his body moved languidly, in a lazy rhythm over hers. There was no hurry, no frenzied thrusting, no pounding, no eager race to the finish. Each second, each moment was infinite in its pleasure,  the sensation intense, paralyzing, lasting for ever.

Angel knew she had arrived at that place in time where she was meant to be forever. This was not sex. She knew sex in all its faces and flavors. This was  something humans did not know, could not understand without its experience.   This was something only Max could give her.

CHAPTER
23

Max stood high above the city lights, the cold wind buffeting his coat about him, the light of the full moon showing him in stark relief. The pain in his heart threatened to rip his chest open, and he wanted to howl his misery at the moon, like wolves often did.

Tonight he'd sent them away. Jonathan and his people had procured the forged identification papers, passports, and birth certificates for the children. Max deposited a hefty sum of money into an account he opened for Angel under her new identity, and tonight he put her and the children on a plane bound for a new city and a new life. Jonathan had arranged everything under the strictest secrecy and confidence.

Little Nina had cried and clung to him, refusing to let go until her mother literally peeled her away from him. Angel, her arms full with a sleeping baby and a desolate Nina, had kept her eyes averted and bit down on her lips to hide their trembling.

At the gate, she stood holding the children and looking forlorn and miserable. He gave her one last, longing kiss and pushed her gently on her way. She walked without looking back, but by the slight shaking of her shoulders, he knew she was crying. Nina kept looking back at Max, her tearful little face begging him to go with them.

Max did not bother taking a cab back. He chose instead to run, climb, and bolt from roof to roof, the bitter bite of the cold wind on his face, the workout driving his body to exhaustion. For the first time in years, he doubted himself, but he knew it was his emotions causing the doubt.

Thinking logically, using common sense to make the decision, he knew he had done the right thing. Still, his heart told him differently, made him doubt the decision to put the family away from him.

He finally found something he wanted, something that made him happy, something he deserved, and he’d given it up. What was the good in loving a woman if it placed her in danger? How much more pain would he suffer if death were to come to her or the children because of him?

He must hunt down her enemies and destroy them, or she would never be safe. That he would do, and that would give him pleasure. After, he must deal with his own enemies, and that meant returning to his people.

******

“Jonathan, you have news for me?” They were back in Jonathan’s penthouse, the lights of the city spreading like a blanket of gems across a bedspread of black velvet.

“This,” said the human as he handed a thick folder to the vampire, “is the dossier on the person of interest. The information has been compiled from various reports from several international and domestic law enforcement agencies.  Carlos Eduardo Van Daal Pretto is a powerful and dangerous man, my friend.”

Jonathan was a man that few women would pass by without doing a double-take. His clean-cut Armani suit, his sexy, dark-eyed gaze, his youth and casual demeanor, all belied his keen intellect and shrewd character.    

“I already know that he’s a powerful criminal.”

“No, he’s a powerful man outside of his criminal circles. He’s very rich, owning interests in many legal and profitable endeavors. He has been very successful at funneling his lucrative illegal earnings into legal holdings.  He keeps homes in Madrid, Rio, and Tokyo, owns a huge luxury yacht and his own private plane.  Travels on a Brazilian passport. Getting to him will not be easy.”

“Time and planning. That’s all it will take.”

“Maybe you should consider a professional hit. His associates will assume it was the competition.”

“I want more than just him. I want his closest associates. I want Angel totally safe.”

“You can contract an explosion at his yacht to happen during a meeting or a party.”

“That will mean collateral damage and other innocents being killed. Besides, I want him to know the why of it, and the other parties involved to understand that if they pick up the gauntlet where Angel is concerned, the same will happen to them.”

“You’re asking for something difficult, my friend. All I can do is advise you and help in any way I can. Be cautious. Study the dossier and plan carefully.”

“Yes, of course. If I do it myself, as I’d like to do, then I must bring him to me.”

“Such a man is used to other people running his errands. It may not be easy to get him to come to you.”

“Perhaps with the right bait?” Max leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him.

“The only bait I can see is Angel. Would you be willing to do that?”

“I would never place her within five hundred miles of him, but he need not know that.”

Jonathan sipped his scotch and tapped his fingers on the glass as he gazed thoughtfully at the skyline through the glass wall. “There are possibilities. Yes, there are.”

CHAPTER
24

Carlos Pretto, son of a long-dead Dutch sailor and a Brazilian house maid, rose from the bed and slipped on the robe that his manservant held out for him. On the bed, a young girl lay on her stomach fast asleep, her generous, firm buttocks the color of golden honey glowing in the light of the morning sun streaming through the open porthole.

“Coffee,” he said to his man.

“Yes, Sir. That envelope came for you this morning.” The servant tilted his head towards the large manila envelope on the nightstand and left.

Half an hour later, Pretto sat savoring his second tiny cup of thick espresso, deep in thought. He’d read the contents of the envelope, and was now mulling over the unexpected information it contained.

“Joseph,” he addressed his servant. “Call Felix and Claus. Tell them to drop whatever they’re doing and report to me at once.”

“Yes, Sir.” The old man hurried out to do his master’s bidding.

******

“It seems that deep inquiries have been made into your background recently. This isn’t unusual. You have always been the subject of investigations, from the American law enforcement agencies to the European Interpol, Europol, etc.  What is different is that it seems to be a private endeavor. According to our well-placed sources, a low-profile New York City law firm has been discreetly investigating you.”

“New York City,” repeated Carlos Pretto. “I have seldom set foot in it, yet in the last few weeks, it has figured prominently in my affairs. First, we track Angelica Ferrars to it. Then, the team sent to deal with my missing asset disappears  from what should have been a simple job. The professional I sent after to deal with the problematic bitch, takes a dive from the twelve-storey Howard Johnson where he was staying, after having his throat cut. Now, a strange law firm is making inquiries into my affairs. You know what I think?” Pretto looked around at his gathered associates.

“I think that my asset found herself a protector. Someone is helping her, someone powerful and ruthless. Someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Now, this is a challenge I welcome.” Pretto sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs.

“How do you want to handle this?” His second in command, Felix Gunther, stood to serve himself a scotch at the side table. He was tall and fair, his blond hair and light-blue eyes a striking contrast to Pretto’s dark looks.

“Trace the investigation back to its source. I want to know who ordered the inquiry. Find the man, and we’ll find my asset. Can it be done?”

Felix’s younger brother Claus, nodded his head. “With today’s technology, everything can be found. We know the law firm involved. A few payoffs in their IT department, a little hacking. Should be a matter of days if not hours.”

“Good. I expect results within a few days. Once I have a name, then it will just be a matter of “hosting” our connection and encouraging him or her to tell us what we need to know.” Pretto looked about him and smiled.

“We’ll need to be close to the target. It will be inconvenient to have to move an unwilling package across several borders.” Felix was always one to look ahead to the little details of a plan. “Luckily, New York City is surrounded by water. We can get as close as we want.”

“Yes, give the order. We have a new destination.”   

******

Jonathan pulled the coat collar up around his neck, hunched into the wind, and quickened his pace. He had joined a couple of friends at the upscale pub down the block for a couple of drinks after a late day at the office and was now regretting it. He should have left earlier, he thought, as he crossed the street and hurried to enter the underground parking garage, desolate and dim. He made his way quickly to his own private spot, wondering at the lack of lighting.

Normally, the garage was well lighted, but tonight it seemed that it was darker than usual. He looked around nervously, the hair on the back of his neck standing. He’d been nervous for a couple of days now, some vague alarm system kicking in, the sense that he was being followed nagging at him. He slid his hand inside his coat pocket, the feel of the small Glock giving him a sense of security.

Twenty paces from his classy, understated, cream-colored Mercedes, he clicked the electronic key to unlock and start the car. He slid into the driver’s seat feeling a sense of relief. When he felt the sudden sting of the needle as it pricked his neck, he tried to reach for the gun, but it was already too late. Five minutes later his car left the garage at a sedate, cautious speed. The attendant that was normally at the booth was nowhere to be seen.    

******

Max paced back and forth in his kitchen, sipping his whiskey and growing ever more restless. The house was silent and cold without the little family. Gone was the comforting sound of Nina playing with her dolls and the background noise of her movies. He missed the gurgling mewlings of her baby brother, the sight of the little legs kicking.

More than anything, he ached for the comfort of Angel’s smile and the welcoming warmth of her eyes. He ached to run as fast as he could and go find her, to lie again in that warm embrace, to taste her heated, sweet passion. The ringing of his cell phone momentarily pulled him out of his misery.

“Yes?” he answered brusquely, his unhappiness reflected in his voice.

“Sir, this is Armand. We have a problem. Mr. Travers never came home last night. He does not answer his cell phone.”

“He could be with a woman, some private tryst. Surely, that’s not uncommon.”

“Sir, Mr. Travers is very particular about his private affairs. He always brings his dates to the penthouse, where he’s in an environment he can control. No, I’m afraid that something has happened to him. He would never turn off his cell or not answer it.”

“Have you contacted anyone else?”

“Yes, Sir. I contacted two of his colleagues who told me that he left them about a quarter after eleven last night after a few drinks at the pub across the street from his office building. He was tired and looking forward to his bed. They watched him cross the street and disappear into the parking garage. I’ve also had inquiries made at local hospitals and the police department for accident reports. Nothing shows up.”

Max felt a stab of concern. Jonathan was not the type to ignore a phone call, especially since his man would not bother him for trivia. He would never just take off without letting Armand know. Alarms went off in Max’s mind.

“You were correct to call me. I agree something isn’t right. Now, you can’t report him missing for at least forty-eight hours, but there is something you can do. Report the car as stolen. Call the police and tell them where the car was parked, and that now, it is gone. Tell them that although it is in Jonathan’s name, it is assigned to you for your personal use. You parked it at the garage, but you had a few drinks, and you had a friend drive you home. Now the car is gone.”

“Yes, they will not look for him, but they’ll  be on the lookout for the stolen car. I will do that, Sir. Meanwhile, what else can we do?”

“Send one of your guys to the pub and the garage, find out if anyone saw him meet or pick up anyone. As soon as the sun goes down, I will try to pick up his trail.”

“Sir, I’m afraid something bad has happened to him. For the first time in years, I’m worried.”

“Yes, so am I.”

It was near noon, and Max was trapped indoors and feeling helpless. Still, he was convinced of one thing: Jonathan was alive and unhurt. He could feel him, vaguely, as if he was far away or deeply asleep. As soon as the sun went down, Max would follow his trail, the blood-bond guiding him like a beacon in the night.