Authors: Colleen Gleason
It had been a long time since he’d touched anyone other than in acts of violence or lust.
For an insane moment, he wondered what it would be like to be surrounded by that sensual, spicy perfume she wore, held close against her warm, curvy torso. What it would be like to be touched again. To just let go, to live in a moment of bliss. To inhale, and close his eyes, and
feel
.
Max ground his teeth and looked out the window.
I should go to bed
. Surely she could make her way to the first-class car without an escort.
Savina looked around suddenly, half rising from her seat.
“What is it?” he asked, his senses going on alert. The back of his neck felt normal; no prickling or chill that would portend the presence of an undead, unfortunately.
That
he knew how to deal with.
“I’m hungry, and I was looking for the porter.”
“Again?” He’d never met a woman who ate as often as Savina did. And where did she put it all anyway? She was slender and delicate. Not that the long, loose clothing currently in style showed much of her figure—just hints of high breasts and, occasionally, the shape of her bum (as when she bent over to pick up something she’d dropped). “I think he’s long gone to bed. It’s after midnight, anyway.” There was more than a little pointedness in his voice—maybe she’d take the hint and call it a night.
“I could ring for him.”
“You could.” He settled back in his seat, resigned to the fact that he was going to be there for a while longer.
“Or maybe there’s something in those cupboards there in the back.” She was gone before he could reply, the lace hem of her blue frock fluttering just above her ankles. They were elegant ankles, he couldn’t help notice. And she had small feet to go with her small hands and delicate shoulders.
He grimaced and looked out the window again, listening to her rummaging about in the back of the car. By the sound of it, she’d found something. Not a surprise, he supposed, here in these luxury accommodations. Moments later, she returned, carrying a tray filled with food for an army. A huge apple and a red pear, hunks of three different cheeses (they were in France, after all), a baguette, a pat of white butter, a tiny pot of honey with a spoon, fresh figs, a bottle of wine, and the half-filled bottle of the brandy he was sipping.
“I thought you might want something too,” she said, putting down the offerings with a clink and a rattle.
“Thank you.” He refilled his glass as Savina dove into her midnight repast, tearing off a piece of baguette and slicing a chunk of Montrachet to go with it.
Max acquiesced and picked up the apple, then began to cut it into slender slices for them to share. As he did so, he had a flash of memory from
so
long ago…slicing up an apple just like this for Macey as she sat on a stool, her stubby four-year-old legs swinging, her big brown eyes lit with mischief.
He could see it so clearly: the blue bow atop the riot of her curls, her pink cheeks round and full with an array of tiny dimples, and her little fingers taking the pieces of apple just as quickly as he could slice them.
His little girl had loved apples.
Christ
. Max blinked hard, shoved away the memory. Or tried to. But it clung to his thoughts, just as stubborn as she had been. As he himself was.
“I used to do this for her,” he heard himself say, as if he were someone else merely observing. “She loved apples. And especially when I’d cut them this way, crosswise, so the core looks like a star in the center of each piece. She’d take all the pieces and hoard them, her hands cupped around to hide the pile, and then she’d eat them, one by one. All the while, I’d…” His voice grew rough. “I’d pretend to try and steal a piece.”
Savina looked up at him, her eyes startled and a little wary. “Your daughter?”
He nodded, aware of how tight and flat his lips had gone, how his eyes stung a little, how unsteady his insides had become. Why had he said that? So many words. Too much information. Now he was practically begging her to ask him questions.
“I’ll bet she remembers it too. Even now,” was all Savina said. Her eyes softened. “I have a few sharp images like that of my father—things that might seem unimportant, but very clear pictures of certain things we would do together. My mother died when I was ten, and after that I was raised by Papa and his sister Antonia. Back then, he used to sit on the floor, and we’d roll a ball back and forth between us to entertain my cat. That was when he was still around a lot, still grieving for my mother. After he met Carmella, he…well, I didn’t see him as much. I was really glad he’d found someone, and they were planning to get married, but then…” She shrugged nonchalantly. “He was so much happier…and then he died.”
Savina took a large sip of the red wine she’d poured for herself and added, “I’m sure Macey treasures every memory she has of you, and every letter you write or update she gets about you.”
Max gave a bitter laugh and swallowed the rest of his drink. “I didn’t spend a lot of time at home, as one would imagine. She probably doesn’t have many—if any—memories of me at all. Which is just as well.” He stared down at the amber liquid as he refilled his glass. “I haven’t seen her—since.” He closed his mouth. There was no need to say more.
“But you know she’s safe, and you know she’s being taken care of. Raised by someone you trust. How old is she now?”
“She’s been told I’m—that I died. In the war. So she doesn’t get letters, or…anything. And I…it’s better if I don’t know anything about where she is. Or what she’s doing. I told Wayren I didn’t want to know anything. Ever.” When Savina didn’t respond, Max looked up. Was that censure in her expression? How dare she judge him! “She would be just turning eighteen.”
Just about the time she’d learn about the family legacy. His mood soured even further.
“So you’ve had no contact with her for ten years? And as far as she knows, she’s an orphan?”
Max found he couldn’t speak, so he gave a short nod.
“And you don’t know anything about her—where she is, who she’s with…
anything
? Not even a picture? How can you not…want to know? She’s your
daughter
.” Again, a tinge of censure…and perhaps a bit of pity.
Dammit
. He didn’t need pity or sympathy. A rush of fury spiraled through him, then just as quickly ebbed.
Savina seemed to have lost her appetite, for she’d left a perfectly nice piece of honey-drizzled cheese settled on a hunk of baguette for the last few minutes. “I’d give anything to find out my father was still alive,” she said quietly, lifting her wine. “And I’m certain Macey would too. Are you certain—”
“
No
.” This time, the fury didn’t subside right away, but barreled along to the tips of his fingers as they crushed a delicate slice of apple.
“Whatever she thinks she knows about you—about what you’ve done, about how many people you’ve saved, the way you’ve sacrificed your life—would only be strengthened if she could see you. Get to know you. Her image of you is only a murky memory. How much more would she love and respect you, and your shared legacy, if you came back into her life.”
Max couldn’t quite define the emotions that swamped him, but whatever they were, he didn’t like them. They made him feel hot and empty and ill and
angry
. Savina didn’t understand
anything
. She had no right to say these things to him, to make these judgments.
“I can only surmise,” she continued, “you feel that by cutting her out of your life—and you out of hers—you’ll somehow protect her? And somehow make up for what happened with your wife.”
He rose from the table so abruptly the tray shifted and rattled. “That’s
enough
,” he exploded from behind clenched teeth as he loomed over her. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. And I don’t need a damned lecture from the daughter of the man who ultimately
caused
what happened to Felicia.” Max stared down at her, his hands fisted on the table, fingernails digging into his skin.
To his surprise, she began to blink—rapidly, suddenly—and he saw that her eyes glistened.
Ah…fuck
.
“My father,” she whispered unsteadily, “might not have been the most responsible of men, but he did
not
betray the Venators. And I’m going to prove it when we get to Crenshaw.” Though she was tearing up, she held his gaze defiantly.
Max’s teeth were gritted so hard he felt something painful shoot along the inside of his jaw. “No one would like that better than I,” he said tightly. “Because if I ever had the chance to meet the person who actually did steal that chest, it would take him—or her—a long, painful week to die.”
She glared up at him for a few more beats, then made an aggravated gesture. “Sit back down, why don’t you then, Max. Now that we’ve got that cleared up and realized we want the same damn thing, we might as well get good and drunk in honor of our messed up lives. You’ve been wooing that brandy like there’s a chaperone watching. Maybe it’s time to really turn on the charm.” She smiled a little crookedly and lifted her own glass, filled more than halfway with bloodred wine.
Now it was his turn to blink—but not with fury. That was…interesting. Every time he thought he knew what to expect from her, she surprised him. And she looked as if she might be well on her way to tipsiness anyway. That was her second generous glass of wine.
Before he realized what he was doing, he sank back down onto the red-velvet bench seat. Savina was already pouring him more brandy, and when she finished, she lifted her own drink and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They clinked glasses and he took her suggestion, downing the brandy without hesitation. And then, to his surprise, Max realized he was hungry too, and those figs looked as if they’d be excellent with honey on a piece of cheese.
He ate more than a few pieces, drank more than a few fingers of Armagnac, and managed to avoid any topics that would infuriate him or cause her to tear up (for Christ’s sake) or tell him how he should be feeling.
They were in the middle of a discussion about whether to use a silver-tipped ash stake or merely a very pointed one (he was a proponent of the former, and Savina wanted to know why, when plain wood worked just as well) when she paused and looked at him.
“Uh…right here,” she said, and tapped the corner of her mouth.
Max looked at her, his entire body coming to a standstill, his breath suddenly trapped in his lungs. Surely she didn’t mean for him to
kiss
her there…did she?
“Max,” she said again, touching the corner of her wide mouth. Its dusky rose hue was a little darker now from the red wine, and he’d been watching it move for quite long enough now. And thinking about it. Or, rather, trying not to think about it.
“I…what?” he managed to say, aware that his pulse was galloping and his mind was a little muzzy…just a little.
Savina sighed and shook her head, and suddenly she was moving across the table toward him, her balancing hand narrowly missing the honey pot. With a rush of the sensual scent always clinging to her skin and hair, she reached out and swiped the corner of his mouth with her thumb. The movement was quick and firm, and then she thumped back down into her seat, wiping said thumb on her napkin. “There. That’s better. You had a little blob of honey on your mustache, and I couldn’t concentrate on our conversation for looking at it.”
“Right,” was all Max could say. He was still shell-shocked, because for a minute there, he really thought she was going to lay one on him. Plant a luscious kiss right on his mouth…
“What were you saying?” he said when he realized she was looking at him expectantly. And that it seemed several minutes had passed since she lurched over the table at him.
“I was just wondering if you were feeling the effects of the brandy enough for me to ask you a question.”
He was definitely feeling the effects of
something
. “What?” he asked without thinking, then immediately knew he’d regret it. What the hell was wrong with him tonight?
The last bit of levity evaporated from her expression, and Savina sat back in her seat. She looked at him with those almond-shaped eyes, her hair even more loose and sagging than it had been earlier, her smooth, oval face and arched brows adding to the picture of exotic beauty. Surely her cheekbones could cut ice, and her lashes were so thick and dark she looked as if she were wearing black liner around her eyes. His breath caught a little, then went on somewhat steadily.
“Tell me about Felicia.”
It must have been the brandy combined with the lulling rhythm of the train that stanched Max’s reaction. Instead of bristling and roaring, he merely lifted his glass to taste the brandy—just a sip this time.
His companion seemed to take that as an invitation to press on. “What was she like? What sort of woman was she to have attracted and captured the great Max Denton?” Savina’s lips quirked in a wry smile as she settled back onto her bench seat. “You were rather young, too, when you married, weren’t you?”
“Eighteen. We were eighteen, and she was…” Blond and blue-eyed, delicate and ethereal in her beauty. She loved books, and she loved music, and most of all, she loved children. She told him she wanted a houseful of them. She loved to laugh and to dance around with Max even when he was tired and heartsick over the violence of his life.
Violence she never understood until she experienced it herself.
Max’s vision had gone blurry and his throat hurt when he swallowed.
Felicia.I’m so sorry
.
“Not drunk enough, I guess,” Savina said softly. “I’m sorry, Max. I know you loved her very much.”
He nodded. He managed that, at least. And then he even forced out a few words. “She never fully understood…my life. How could she? I didn’t truly understand it when we first met either. It was…I was young. But I never should have…” He couldn’t believe he was saying these things—things he’d never said to anyone before.
Savina reached across the table and closed her small, firm hand over his. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“I had no business marrying her. She wasn’t…she didn’t…” How could he explain that Felicia had been light and fresh—a stark foil, a refuge from the darkness of violence and evil and duty—and that he’d selfishly dragged her into that world? And destroyed her in the process.