Authors: Nina Mason
“How interesting,” Vanessa said, her gaze fixed on his throbbing pulse.
A different woman brought their drinks and took their order—a salad for Vanessa and a cheeseburger for Beau. While waiting for their food, they sipped their drinks and made small talk whilst Vanessa wrestled the beast within. The alcohol seemed to be helping, but she still felt too close to the edge.
When the food arrived, she eyed Beau’s burger—a one-pound mountain of meat topped with gooey orange cheese—with the contempt of a die-hard vegetarian. When the smell hit her nose, the alcohol-sedated beast roared to life. Swallowing hard, she squeezed her thighs together, hoping to smother the sudden powerful ignition of sexual longing.
Beau slid his plate across the table. “Want some? Like I said, there’s enough here to feed a whole platoon.”
“No thanks,” she said, spearing a clump of lettuce with her fork.
Just as they settled into eating, a loud group of people came in. Goths with dyed black hair, multiple piercings, flowing black garments, and funky Doc Martens.
“They’re part of vampire reality,” Beau said in a low voice.
“What’s vampire reality?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He put down his burger, wiped his hands on his napkin, and leaned closer. “Here in New Orleans, there are quite a few folks who call themselves vampires—humans who mimic what they perceive to be the lifestyle of a vampire based on books and movies. They dress in black, dye their hair, and even go so far as to drink blood from willing donors.”
“And those are some of them?” She nodded toward the new patrons.
“Yeah,” he said. “Real vampires look like everybody else, which makes sense. I mean, if you were a vampire living among humans, wouldn’t you try to blend in?”
She swallowed her spiking guilt. “I would. Absolutely.”
Returning to their food, they ate in silence for several minutes before Beau, nibbling on a fry, glanced up at her. “This place used to be a tailor shop whose owner was a real prankster. He loved to mess with the local kids on Halloween. One year, he decided to scare them with a realistic-looking hanged man—himself—but something went wrong and he ended up dying. His ghost still haunts the place. If you see him, let me know.”
Vanessa forced a smile. The dark hunger was taking her over. She felt feverish, clammy, and not at all like herself. She also felt more reckless, to a dangerous degree, and like the natural evil she normally struggled against had magnified tenfold. Disturbing images flashed through her mind; pictures of her doing things to Beau—things she found wickedly arousing.
The waitress cleared their plates, Beau paid the check, and they left Fat Tuesday. As they walked through the humid night toward the club, the beast claimed more of Vanessa with every step. Her joints pulled as if she was shifting, but she was still her human self. Or was she? She held out her hands to make sure.
Yes, they were still her hands, and yet, she didn’t feel at all the same. All fear, all inhibition, all conscience, had fled.
Beau stopped outside a narrow passageway below a sign—a coffin inscribed with the club’s name. The building looked dodgy to the point of dereliction. Her fangs descended as he led her down the claustrophobic corridor, which opened into a small graveyard of weathered crypts and monuments. She followed him through it, across a footbridge, and into a creepy courtyard.
It took every ounce of will she possessed not to pounce right then. Stopping to take a restorative breath, she looked up at the night sky. The moon was full and the stars reminded her of someone—a golden-haired knight she’d read about in a storybook. His name meant “bringer of peace,” but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was.
* * * *
Callum, as restless as a caged lion, stared out the airplane window. Worry over Sinclair’s blackmail attempt had tied his intestines in knots. Should he tell Vanessa or did she already know about her father’s affairs?
Things between them were strained enough without him dropping a bomb like that on her. He just hoped Duncan could get rid of the evidence without resorting to means requiring him to invoke his alibi.
Outside the window, the lights of Atlanta were fading into the darkness. At long bloody last, he’d reached the final leg of what had been a long, arduous, and expensive journey. Still, if it saved their relationship, the trip might prove worthy of the trouble.
* * * *
If Ozzy Osbourne owned a nightclub, Vanessa quickly decided, it would look just like The Crypt. Creepy dead things covered stone walls stained with substances she’d rather not contemplate. Coffins hung from the ceiling. Heavy metal music pounded out of the jukebox like a sledgehammer on speed. Damp, mildew, and alcohol mingled in the air with bodily fluids, not all of them human.
Sticking close to Beau, she scanned the mosh pit of marching, shoving Goths, punks, bikers, and BDSMers for Jack St. Germain. She didn’t see him, but she did see plenty of other anemic-looking characters who could easily be paranormal.
“When I was a kid,” Beau said as they queued up for the bar, “I imagined this place as some mysterious realm of evil where all kinds of dark and mystical things went down.”
Vanessa glanced around circumspectly at the skulls and other funerary
objet d’art
. “And is it?”
He shrugged. “There are some big cages upstairs where dancers go through the motions of having sex, but it looks pretty forced.”
After procuring their drinks—two plastic cups filled with something called Midnight Potion—they carried them to an empty booth and slid in on opposite sides.
Picking up her cocktail, she regarded it with skepticism. It was purple and smelled alarmingly sweet and lethal. She took a sip and made a face. It tasted as deadly as it smelled.
“What’s in this thing?” she asked Beau.
“Grape Kool-Aid and Everclear.”
As she nursed the vile concoction, she pictured herself suck-fucking Beau in one of the go-go cages upstairs. Shedding her right shoe, she set her foot atop his knee. He looked up, clearly startled by the come on.
“I’m flattered,” he said, brow furrowed in bewilderment. “But I’m also married. Not that my wife seems to share my concern.”
“She cheats on you?”
He grinned, but there was sadness behind it. “Only all the damn time.”
“Do you ever cheat on her?”
He arched an eyebrow. “Would you call it cheating under the circumstances?”
“I guess not,” she said, shrugging. “Why don’t you divorce her and find someone who treats you better?”
He heaved a sigh. “After you’re married for a while, you learn to survive on the scraps.”
That was the problem with marriage in her book. She never wanted to live on the leftovers of a once great passion. With tantalizing slowness, she inched her foot up his inner thigh. Just before her toes reached his crotch, he wrapped his hand around her arch, halting her progress.
His eyes narrowed and grew serious. “I like you, Vanessa. You’re very pretty, very smart, and you’ve got a good heart. I’m no saint, believe me, and were circumstances different, I’d go for it in a heartbeat. But they’re not different. You work for me and you’ve had too much to drink. You also have a boyfriend, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, dear.” He let her foot fall to the floor. “I think it’s time I took you home.”
* * * *
Callum, pumped like a shotgun, sprang to his feet the moment the plane parked at the gate. After collecting his gear, he hurried toward the forward hatch. The few minutes he waited for the stewardess to let him out felt like a century. He was suddenly grateful he’d flown first class, despite the astronomical price tag.
The minute he set foot in the accordion tunnel, he dug out his mobile and turned it on. There was a text from Vanessa—an unannotated response to his request for her address. There also was a voicemail from her father congratulating him on a job well done. Angst spiked. Should he ring the earl back to warn him about Sinclair’s threat?
Aye, well. There’d be time for that later. First, he needed to speak to Vanessa. He called her, got voicemail, and left a short message letting her know he’d landed and was on his way to her house. He then stuffed the phone back in his pocket and speed-walked the length of the terminal.
After locating the cabstand, he jumped into the backseat of a waiting yellow taxi and barked the address at the driver. When they started rolling, he sat back and closed his eyes. Bloody hell. The humidity was suffocating.
By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the house, his shirt was stuck to his back. He paid the driver, hefted his bag over his shoulder, and climbed out into the feverish night. There were two cars in the driveway—a dark blue station wagon and a champagne sedan.
How odd. Did she have company? Jealousy lanced his heart. It was after midnight. Who would be here at this hour apart from a pick-up? The last thing he wanted was to walk in on her fucking some other guy. As he approached the porch, he listened for sounds from inside the house. If there were any, he couldn’t hear them over the cacophony of insects.
Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t point to anything specific. Though the house was dark and quiet, his gut pulsed with unease. Senses alert, he climbed the steps, his footfalls sounding hallow on the boards. He knocked on the door, stepped back, and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again. Still nothing.
If she’d gone out, why were there two cars in the driveway? He pressed the buzzer for longer than was strictly polite. If she was with another guy, he’d rather she came to the door alone. He waited. She didn’t come to the door, alone or otherwise. By the might of Jupiter. He was losing patience and his cool. Something definitely felt wrong.
Blood pressure skyrocketing, he pressed his ear against the door. Someone was in there, moaning softly. As his concern turned to alarm, he pounded hard on the door.
“Vanessa? It’s Callum. Answer the fucking door.”
Nothing.
He tried the knob and, finding it unlocked, let himself in. The disturbing bouquet of blood and sex punched his nose like a fist.
“Vanessa?”
Still no response.
He slammed the door, leaving his suitcase outside. The noise he’d heard was more identifiable now. He’d been right. It was a groan. Jealousy damn near ripped him in two.
Though the lights were out, he could make out shapes. A sofa, an easy chair, oatmeal drapes over a sliding glass door. He followed the sounds to the sofa as his vision adjusted to the dimness. He saw the curve of her hip and the serrated ridge of her spine. She was naked and fucking someone. For a long moment, he stood there, paralyzed, gutted, and numb. Then, his senses returned.
“Vanessa, what the hell?”
As he screamed it, he fisted his hands against the urge to kill them both.
Her head popped up and snapped around, teeth bared. Her eyes were slits, her hair a wild nest, and her mouth and chin dripped with blood. He took a step toward her, but stopped when she hissed, a warning to keep his distance. Jesus, she was out of her senses. The beast had taken her over.
“It’s Callum,” he said in the soothing tones he’d use on a snarling dog. “Let him go, darling.”
“Help me.”
Her victim’s feeble plea was at once alarming and relieving. Crouching, Callum slunk toward the sofa. He planned to grab her and pull her off while her fangs were disengaged. Being bigger and stronger, he could overpower her, but could also do serious damage—to her and her prey.
Closing in, he tried to grab her. She swung at him wildly, landing blows on his arms, chest, and face. Ignoring the pain, he got his arms around her and hoisted her into the air. She fought like a demon, thrashing and gnashing. He tackled her, pinning her under his weight. When she began to calm down, he turned his attention to her victim.
The man was flat on his back on the sofa, buck naked and barely conscious. Shit, if he died, they were royally fucked. With rising panic, Callum flipped her onto her back and held her down. The crazed look in her eyes told him she was still in the throes of the bloodlust, out of her mind.
“Get off me,” she bit out, trying to throw him off.
He sat down hard on her pelvis and tightened his grip on her wrists. “Fight it, Vanessa. Come back to me.”
She bared her fangs and hissed like a cat. Fuck, there wasn’t time for this. He needed to help the poor sod on the couch before he was too far gone.
“Calm down, lass. It’s Callum. I’ve come to help, but I need you to snap out of it.”
She hissed again and tried to bite his arm. He slapped her, hoping the shock would bring her around. She laid there for a moment, unmoving, her tangled hair strewn across her face. Then, striking like a snake, she sank her fangs into his wrist.
Pain shot up his arm, but he didn’t let go. “For the love of Venus. I’m trying to help you.”
She withdrew her teeth and looked at him. The hatred in her eyes cut him to the quick, but he held her gaze. Little by little, her body relaxed beneath him and the Vanessa he knew returned to the she-devil’s eyes.
“Callum?” She squinted at him as if she’d only just seen him. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to sort out.”
She gaped at him, blinking. “You cut your hair.”
“I had to. For the campaign.”
She made a face. “I liked it better long.”
He glowered at her, exasperated. “Oh, aye? Well, I did as well, but I think we’ve got more important matters to attend to right now than the length of my hair. When I came in, you were feeding on some poor bastard, who I’ll probably have to turn to keep you free of scandal and prison.”
Climbing off her, he climbed to his feet and helped her to hers. Rather than pleasing him, the sight of her naked body filled him with anguish. He shifted his focus to the unconscious man on the sofa.
“Who is he?”
“Beau Armstrong. My new boss.”
“Bloody fucking hell.” He balled his fists as fury hurtled through him like a fiery meteor. “What happened to picking up a stranger in a bar?”
“I was trying to be faithful.”
“While I appreciate the sentiment, I’d much rather you’d stuck to our agreement and stayed sane.” Callum dropped to his knees beside the couch. “Or, better still, stayed in Scotland where I could keep an eye on you.”