Blood and Bondage (5 page)

Anaïs must have slept for hours. The next thing
she recalled was the buzz of a cell phone. She remembered placing it on vibrate
moments before she’d tumbled onto the pristine-white comforter and drifted off
to sleep.

Her eyes at a puffy half-mast, Anaïs reached for
the phone on the end table. Her voice was groggy and strained as she spoke into
the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Good evening, sunshine. Rise and shine,”
Oliver’s annoyingly cheerful baritone echoed in her ears. “I’m taking you out
for a night on the town.”

Cocky bastard, like I’d agree to that.

Of course, she knew the snoopy son of a bitch
had probably picked those words out of her brain. Glancing at the clock next to
the bed, she took note of the time. Five thirty-seven. Much too early for a
vampire to be awake.

“No way. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

She hated his irritatingly smug demeanor. If
only she could get her hormones to agree with that assessment. On the contrary,
at the sound of his husky voice, her nipples had already gone taut, her panties
damp with moisture. After last night’s dirty dancing, the mere suggestion of
seeing him again almost drove her insane with lust.

Truth be told,
Anaïs was attracted to Oliver,
ball-busting BPA agent and all. Sure, he’d attempted to seduce her with his
mind-reading mumbo jumbo. But that prince charming maneuver he pulled after
Pierre
had threatened
her, no doubt made up for it. In spades. The two of them had chemistry and
there was no reason to fight it. Besides, it had been two days since Anaïs had
fed. She needed Oliver’s blood.

“Tsk. Tsk. Stop being such a sour puss,” Oliver teased her. “We’re
going to the opera to see La Bohème. I hear it’s one of your favorites.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Research, my dear. I can’t help it. I’m an information whore,” he said,
his sexy laugh sending shivers down her spine. “Come with me. Please. Since
Eva’s out of town, my second ticket will simply go to waste.”

A whore, huh? Not a bad quality for a man to
possess. “I haven’t got anything to wear.”

“You won’t need to worry about clothes. At least
not for long,” Oliver said, then paused as if waiting to gauge Anaïs’s
response. No doubt, he’d sensed her desire in the unspoken words.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” The hitch of her
breath gave away her shock and embarrassment.

“My dear, I rarely jest. In fact, I’ll have an
outfit and all the accessories sent up to your suite.” The blatant sexual
innuendo, along with the generosity of his gift, momentarily threw her off guard.
The scoundrel had thought of everything and now she had no excuse to turn him
down.

Anaïs groaned aloud as she rolled over onto her
back on the bed and stretched her tired, achy limbs. “Fine. I’ll meet you in
front of the opera house at eight,” she conceded, then hung up the phone with
the press of a button.

Anaïs hopped into the shower and took a quick
rinse off. Still in her robe, she towel dried her long, burgundy tresses. Then
she applied a splash of color to her cheeks and a dollop of pink, iridescent
gloss to her lips. Never big on face paint, even in her days at Moulin Rouge,
she preferred to keep her appearance au natural.

Once she was satisfied with her reflection,
Anaïs stepped away from the mirror. She plopped down on a chair and began flipping
through the television channels. But before she could find anything interesting
to watch, a soft knock sounded at the door. It was Adam, the muscle Oliver had
sent to keep an eye on her. He greeted Anaïs with a handsome smile and set a
large rectangular box in her hands. She thanked him, and then waited for the
acknowledgment that came with a nod of his head.

Closing the door to the suite, Anaïs’s feet
skipped to a happy beat. She laid the package down on the bed; all the while her
stomach did a series of somersaults. She had no idea why, but the fact that
Oliver had picked out a dress especially for her, caused a bundle of nervous
excitement to build to a peak. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the corners
of the box. Then she pushed the layers of gauzy tissue paper out of the way to
reveal a gorgeous, pale pink ball gown.

The bodice of the dress was breathtakingly
beautiful. Its edges were curved into the shape of a butterfly with a row of
opulent pearls etched around the seams. Without hesitation, Anaïs slipped into
the magical frock. She felt like a princess. Long and flowing, the gown fit
perfectly, hugging her bosom and hips, as it cascaded down her curves like a
waterfall pooled at her feet. Yet the best parts of the ensemble still lay nestled
in the oversized box. A delicate pair of satin heels dyed to match the color of
the dress and a pear-shaped pink diamond necklace. The jewelry came in a pale
blue box with a simple white bow tied around the edge. The word Tiffany’s had
been written in script across the center. Damn, if Oliver didn’t have great
taste.

As Anaïs put the last touches on her hair and
makeup, another knock came from the opposite side of the door.

“Miss Moreau, there’s a car waiting for you
downstairs. It’s time to go.”

Of course there is, Anaïs thought. Again, Oliver
thought of everything. That controlling bastard won’t let me out of his sight
for a minute.

****

Oliver tapped his foot nervously as he waited
for the limousine to pull up in front of the steps of
Lincoln
Center
.
It was five minutes to eight and patience wasn’t his most redeeming quality. Rather
ironic, considering he had a tendency to show up late wherever he went. Oliver
breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when the brakes of the car finally screeched
to a halt.

 
Anaïs
stepped out of the back seat, and Oliver’s body reacted in full force. Nothing
could have prepared him for the onslaught of desire that whipped across his
senses. One sleek, sultry leg slid out of the limousine, and gifted him with a
glimpse of luminous, bare skin. The vivacious vampire had all the glamour and
glitz of beauty queen. Instantly, his cock grew achy and hard. Lucky for him,
his tuxedo jacket masked the evidence of his undeniable lust.

Oliver approached, offering his hand to help her
out of the waiting vehicle. Even though she felt cool to the touch, their
skin-to-skin contact made his shaft burn with need.

“You look amazing,” he said as he kissed her softly
on the cheek, then stepped back and guided her to the main entrance of the
building. Trying his best to tamp down his libido, he led Anaïs inside and up
the spiral staircase to the balcony level. When it came to the opera, Oliver
splurged on the best seats available. After all, he practically lived for its
soul searching sounds and authentic, period-themed costumes. It was a love
that’d been passed down for her beloved mother.

For some ungodly reason, Oliver yearned to share
the surreal opera experience with Anaïs. Graceful and refined, he knew the
beautiful ballerina would appreciate the arts, even before Eva and Andreas had
given him a glimpse into the woman’s storybook life. They had been the ones to
suggest he take her as his date. True to form, Anaïs seemed as eager as he did,
giggling giddily as they climbed into their seats and waited for the house
lights to dim.

The curtain went up and the actors took their
places on stage, while the orchestra strummed the chords of the first song.
Anaïs squeezed his fingers and smiled, then turned her gaze below, as if mesmerized
by the elaborate musical pageantry of
La Bohème
. They both
watched intently, until the end of the second act, when intermission commenced.
Oliver had to relieve his bladder, so he made his date accompany him to the
handicapped restroom and wait outside the stall by the wash basin. He refused
to leave her unattended even for a minute, lest her stalker might reveal his elusive
presence. Oliver never refused an opportunity to take a killer off the streets,
but it was more than that. Somehow, he felt responsible for Anaïs, concerned
about her safety.

As they returned to the balcony, Oliver’s sixth
sense stood on high alert. Once in their seats, a
maître de
approached
their box. In his hand, he carried a glass of what appeared to be red wine. He
set it down on the small marble table between the two chairs. Next to it, he
placed a small rectangular object Oliver assumed was a napkin.

“Compliments of Monsieur Gaucher,” the man said
with a bow of his head.

At the words, Oliver shot to his feet, shoving
the server against the wall while his fingers wrapped around his throat. “Where
is he? Tell me before I strangle you with my bare hands.” But the servant couldn’t
speak, not with Oliver choking the life out of him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver saw Anaïs
pick up the napkin, and read the distinct handwriting scrawled in the center.

Having fun? Me too.

P.G.

That was it. Short and sweet. Oliver watched her
turn the card over onto its back, and stare at the grotesque image. A
photograph, not a napkin. On it, the reflection of another female vampire with
her throat mercilessly slashed, red oozing down her naked flesh.

The sight left Oliver teetering on the edge,
ready to murder the messenger for his part in provoking the woman he felt
compelled to protect. Yet with a firm hand to his bicep, Anaïs helped still his
rage.

“Please. Stop. I just want to go home.” He
sensed the fear in her voice, and saw bloody tears swimming in the depths of her
amber eyes. When he didn’t release his grip on the server, Anaïs let out a
growl, revealing two serrated canines at the corners of her mouth. The
vampire’s turbulent emotions rolled over him and he knew that he had to get her
out of there before she lost all semblance of control.

Oliver unclenched the fist that held onto the
man’s throat, and yanked Anaïs by the arm, dragging her down the stairs. On the
way out of the theatre, he pulled out his phone and screamed a command to one
of his men.

“Bring the car around to the front. Now.”

****

Pierre
peered through the binoculars he’d brought with him to the opera
house. Thus far, he hadn’t used them to view the show. It hadn’t been necessary
since his seat was situated smack dab behind the orchestra section. He did,
however, need them to spy on his former flame, who sat high above him with
another man in a pair of swanky balcony seats.

Anaïs looked as beautiful as she had the night he’d
met her more than a hundred years before at the Moulin Rouge cabaret. The pale
pink ball gown she wore highlighted her lustrous red locks. They spiraled in
waves down the sides of her face, while the swell of her bosom flounced over
the edge of her slightly flushed skin.

Pierre
’s heart raced, captivated by her breathtaking loveliness. For innumerable
days and nights, he’d fantasized about the naughty escapades they’d once wrought
and yearned to be reunited with the ravishing red head. Like him, Anaïs’s
tastes bordered on the sadomasochistic side of things. Over a few short months
at the turn of the twentieth century, they lived together in blissful coupledom.
The two of them had run amuck all over the streets of
Paris
, leaving a trail of mangled, lifeless
bodies in their path. Even after they’d parted ways,
Pierre
stayed abreast of her whereabouts.

Anaïs was a creature of habit and rarely left
her Parisian flat. Spying on her as he often did,
Pierre
was surprised when his former lover hopped a plane to the
United States
. From
what he could gather, she’d made the trip to
New York City
in order to attend the nuptials
of her infamous godson, Andreas Kristopolous.

Pierre
felt compelled to follow her. He’d been able to sneak into the
wedding reception without raising suspicion. For more than an hour, he lurked
from the corner of the Four Seasons ballroom, a bottle of plasma resting on the
far end of the serving table where he sat. Glass after glass, he’d gorged
himself on blood. With Anaïs dancing arm-in arm with the same human male all
night long, he needed something to help keep the beast inside him leashed.
Pierre
had refused to
lose his cool because when that happened, bad things often ensued.

He’d eyed the couple as they swept across the
dance floor, their heated sensual touches forcing him to chase down another
bottle of the intoxicating brew. The more he drank, the more belligerent he had
become.

Every fiber inside
Pierre
had screamed at him to scoop up the
scrawny bastard glued to his lover’s side and shank him in the neck. The urge
to draw blood increased tenfold once he realized the guy with Anaïs worked for
BPA. But with a roomful of vampire assassins in tow, he’d opted to stall his burning
rage. Besides, it’d be infinitely more exciting to exact his revenge on some
random female, then use her as bait. Of course, Anaïs was the one he truly wanted
to ensnare.