Authors: Nina Mason
She planted her hands on his chest and ground against him each time he plunged into her. Slow at first, then fast, relentless, both of them pumping in wild, mindless abandon. While wonderful, it also tasted bittersweet. He was melting, drowning, slamming into her with a mixture of joy and anguish that tore him like parchment.
Lowering his face to her neck, he bit down, sinking his fangs into skin and muscle. As her blood bubbled salty and sweet over his tongue, her sex convulsed around his, calling him to join in. He obliged with a pulsating eruption of ecstasy.
He shuddered into stillness, gratified and panting, his overheated face and disheveled hair dripped with sweat. He looked down at her, into her eyes, sure he saw a glimmer of affection. Or was it doubt? He said nothing. What was there left to say?
Once they’d sorted themselves out, he pulled back onto the motorway, her head parked against his shoulder. He twisted his neck to kiss her hair, flaring his nostrils to take in the fresh herbal scent of her shampoo.
God, how he was going to miss her. He missed her already.
Eager for a distraction, he switched the radio to BBC Scotland. An Edinburgher was praising the virtues of Scotland remaining in the U.K.
Callum’s blood began to boil. He might have been made a faery drone, but that didn’t make him any less a Highlander. He’d agitated for independence for decade upon decade and still yearned for freedom with every fiber of his being. How could he now sing
O Flower of Scotland
without wanting to weep?—for all the wrong reasons.
And we can still rise now
and be the nation again
that stood against him
Proud Edward’s army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again
Callum might have laughed at the irony if it wasn’t so bloody depressing.
The possibility of running for Parliament, he was less keen on. On the one hand, he didn’t like the idea of giving up his privacy or the risks of exposure involved. On the other, he’d love nothing better than to raise holy hell on the floor of the Commons about the way they’d been grasping Scotland’s resources with one hand whilst slashing her public services with the other. He’d also love to hold the prime minister’s balls to the fire to ensure he kept his promises about shifting more power to the Scottish Parliament.
Plus, there were the celestial influences to consider. The planetary forces in his tenth sector—the portion of his chart pertaining to career, fame, and reputation—seemed to favor an entrée into politics at this time. What didn’t help were the daily calls from Duncan haranguing him for a decision.
Vanessa stirred against his shoulder. “Callum, my father wants you to have lunch with him the day after I leave. At his club. Are you all right with that?”
His suspicion smoldered and caught fire. He could guess which club Lord Bentley belonged to, but couldn’t think why she’d delayed the meeting until after she left town. Shouldn’t they be meeting her father together? He shrugged it off. Maybe she didn’t want to share their last precious few days together with anyone else. He could understand that because, quite frankly, neither did he.
Feeling like he’d swallowed a scuttle of hot coals, Callum pulled the Land Rover up to the curb outside the international terminal at Gatwick Airport. Except for the paparazzi snapping their picture every time he and Vanessa ventured out of doors, the last few days had been glorious, albeit in a tortuous, living-on-borrowed-time kind of way.
Last night, out of his wits with the thought of losing her, he’d left the imprint of his teeth on her neck in plain view. She hadn’t been too pleased with him upon discovering the mark in the mirror this morning. Though he’d apologized, he wasn’t the least bit sorry. There was more than one way to stake his claim.
He killed the engine and turned to take one long, last look at her, soaking in every detail of her lovely face. Those mental pictures would have to sustain him. Her reluctance to commit to a date for a conjugal visit made his gut churn with fear. So much could happen to ruin everything.
“Do you want me to come in?”
“Don’t bother.” Her voice was tight and she refused to meet his gaze, adding to his vexation.
“It’s no bother.”
“If you come in, you’ll have to park the car.”
“I’ll gladly park the bloody car to see you as far as the security checkpoint.”
“I’m fine getting out here.”
Simmering in a sauce spiced with hurt and annoyance, he shook his head, jumped out, and unloaded her bags. “Are you sure?”
He hoped she understood he meant
sure
about everything.
“If only.”
What did that mean? Hope stirring, he reached around her waist, pulled her against him, and gave her a lingering kiss. Then, freeing his mouth, he whispered, “It’s not too late to change your mind.”
She bit her lip and looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I’m going to miss you. A great deal.”
His throat tightened in step with his heart. “Don’t wait too long to have me for a visit, eh?”
“I won’t.” She touched his face with a tenderness that made him ache. “Don’t forget lunch with my father. And swear to me you’ll take what he has to say to heart.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He gave her another heartfelt kiss and big hug before letting her go. As he stood there on the curb watching her stride toward the terminal, towing her heavy suitcases as if they weighed nothing, he heard his heart break. The sound was quick and brittle, like the snapping of a wishbone. Too bad he’d gotten the goddamned short end again.
* * * *
Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport was modern, clean, and smelled of popcorn, coffee, paprika, and human blood. Vanessa’s new boss had e-mailed to let her know he’d meet her outside baggage claim, which she was on her way toward now. As the throng of greeters came into view, she scanned their signs for her name. Spotting the one with
BENTLEY
, she adjusted her scarf to cover Callum’s attempt to mark his property while making a quick study of the man with the sign.
In terms of age, Beau Armstrong looked to be somewhere in his fifties. Medium height, good build, chestnut hair flecked with gray, piercing blue eyes, and a ready smile. Attractive in a bookish, Jude Law kind of way, he wore a button-down white shirt, khaki slacks, and loafers.
“Mr. Armstrong?”
He flashed a grin, blinding her with whiteness. “Miss Bentley?”
She didn’t correct him. She didn’t want to be Lady Vanessa any more. She wanted to start afresh, to be normal and innocuous. No more poor little rich girl. No more Madam Butterfly. No more paparazzi. No more playing a role she was unsuited for.
As they shook hands, he said, “Welcome to New Orleans. Did you have any luck with the Vampire of Barrogill?”
“There’s no vampire there,” she said, tasting the lie. “But I did meet a ghost.”
His smile faded as he stepped back. “I’m sorry to hear that. About the vampire, I mean. Ghosts, as you know, are a dime a dozen. How was your flight?”
“A little stuffy, to be honest.”
Stuffy was an understatement. The suffocating cabin had reeked so badly of human blood, she’d used the barf bag to mask the smell, drawing worried looks from her fellow passengers. Little did they know, airsickness was the least of their problems. If people thought snakes on a plane a terrifying prospect, try flying the friendly skies with a hungry vampire.
His smile withered. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Sweet tea? A cocktail, maybe?”
“No, but thank you anyway.”
She wanted blood. And Callum.
“How about something to eat? You must be hungry after all that time in the air.”
“No thanks.” She was ravenous, but not for whatever he had in mind.
“Please tell me you’re not one of those women who refuse to eat anything for fear of putting on a few pounds. Because there’s nothing in this world as good as Louisiana cooking. Fried chicken. Shrimp and grits. Red velvet cake. Pecan pie. My, oh, my. And let’s not forget all the delectable Creole cuisine you’ll find hereabouts.” His eyes twinkled as he added, “Surely, no sane person would deny themselves such heavenly pleasures.”
“It’s not about the calories.” She shrugged to appear nonchalant about it. “I’m just not a big eater.”
She started toward the baggage carousels, located the one for her flight, and scouted for her suitcases.
Mr. Armstrong came alongside and asked, “Is this your first trip to America?”
“Yes,” she replied with a glance in his direction, “it’s my first time on Yankee soil.”
The dazzling grin returned. “A quick word to the wise, Miss Bentley. You don’t want to be calling this here
Yankee
soil. You’re deep in confederate country now. Confederate and Creole, a fearsomely redneck combination.”
“Duly noted,” she said, fiddling with her scarf. Damn Callum for leaving a mark. He knew bloody well her new boss was a vampire hunter. Was that wily lion trying to ruin them both?
Spying her bags, she grabbed them off the carousel and set them on the floor. Mr. Armstrong picked them up and started toward the exit.
“Come on,” he said, with a nod. “I’m in the short-term parking garage.”
She followed him through the automatic glass doors, stopping short when the humidity hit her in the face like a wet rag. “Holy shit,” she exclaimed, forgetting her manners. “It’s like a bloody armpit out here.”
He tossed a big grin over his shoulder. “This ain’t nothing. Just wait until July.”
As she followed him into the parking structure, she tried to work out what sign he might be. A Leo like Callum? An Aries like her father? Her money was on Scorpio. Beau definitely had the signature piercing gaze, good build, and handsome face of a Scorpion. He also had the disarming demeanor and crackling intensity of someone ruled by Pluto.
“When’s your birthday?” Her voice echoed through the cavernous structure in an unnerving way that made her feel small and ineffectual.
He gave her a funny look. “November. Why?”
“I’m trying to guess your sign.”
While a November birthday might make him Sagittarius, she was quite sure he wasn’t. His answer had been honest yet ambiguous, lacking the blunt zing of an archer.
“You into astrology?” he asked.
“You could say that.”
“That’s cool,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Know anything about voodoo?”
“I’ve read a little and would love to know more.”
“That can be arranged.”
By the time they reached his car, a midnight blue Volvo station wagon, she was drenched in sweat. She’d never experienced humidity like this, hadn’t known it existed. As he loaded her suitcases in the rear, she stole a glance through the windows, looking for clues to his character, since she couldn’t probe minds as well as Callum yet. Scattered rubbish and a black-and-white football were the only things inside.
“You’ve got children?”
“Only the two greatest kids in the whole dang world,” he boasted, grinning at her. “Zack and Crystal. They’re both in high school now.”
She felt a painful pang of envy at the way he gushed about his children, but kept smiling. “Are they away at school?”
“Away? Hell, no. I’m not rich enough to send my kids to boarding school—nor could I bear to be away from them for months at a time.”
Vanessa kept smiling, even as the awl of past hurts punctured her heart. While at boarding school, she only ever saw her parents over the Christmas holidays—when they could tear themselves away from their other “more important” commitments.
When Mr. Armstrong opened the passenger door for her, she slid in and set her handbag on the floor behind her ankles. He strolled around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and closed the door. The scent of his blood clobbered her senses, stirring her entangled appetites. She squirmed, crossed her legs, and kicked herself. What was she going to do without her Simba? She already needed him so much she felt like crying.
Mr. Armstrong started the car, backed out of the space, and drove toward the exit gate. “The house I rented for you is only a couple of miles from the office. It’s an older place, but homey and dirt cheap.”
“Homey sounds good.” In her struggle to breathe as little as possible, the words came out more clipped than intended.
“You must be tired. Or were you able to catch a few winks during the flight?”
“I didn’t, I’m sorry to say.” She gave him a smile. “I’m one of those unfortunate people who can’t seem to sleep on airplanes.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, grinning. “I’m the same way. My wife, on the other hand, goes out when the landing gear goes up and doesn’t rouse till it comes back down.”
She took a breath, the scent of his blood jabbing her nose. “Do you travel much?”
“I’ve been to France a few times to search for the portal into the vampire empire, but without success. What about you?”
“I’ve been to Paris with my mother to buy clothes—and to Greenland and Norway for Greenpeace protests against Arctic drilling—and Scotland, of course—but that’s about it.”
She saw then that he wore something around his neck—a talisman of some sort on a cord. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
He fingered the pouch as he said, “It’s what voodooists call
ju-ju
or
gris-gris
.”
Brows puckering, she combed her limited knowledge of voodoo, but came up empty. “What’s in it?”
“Herbs, oils, stones, small bones, hair, fingernails, and pieces of cloth soaked in sweat,” he replied. “All blessed by a voodoo priestess.”
“What does it do?”
“This one wards off evil spirits, but some attract money or love, shield the wearer from gossip, or guard against negative energies. There was a time when every cop in the city carried one.”
As they exited the parking garage, she forgot the talisman in her excitement over the sights and sounds of the fascinating new city she would now call home.
“I thought I’d give you a little time to get settled,” he told her, “and maybe introduce you to some of the lore surrounding our notorious vampire population.”