And his chest, golden and broad, with sleek, hard muscles so different from her own soft and curvy torso. Hair grew there… She’d never imagined hair on a man’s chest, a generous patch of gold and bronze over slabs of muscle. His shoulders, square and smooth, the skin soft and hot, called her back to his side. So beautiful.
What am I doing? she asked herself again.
But she closed her mind to the worries, the concerns, the propriety. Let herself feel.
She was in control. Safe. And she wanted to touch him, taste him. He wanted her to. His eyes begged her to, yet his face drew tight with pain. White near his lips, his skin shiny and damp from struggle.
This time when she came to him, he moved a bit, as if some of the restraint was eased. It had worked, then, she thought dimly as she bent to kiss him again. The necklace flipped forward, and he jolted when it hit his skin. His body whipped taut beneath her hands, bowing sharply. Angelica pulled away, slamming her hand over the plant stem, smashing it against her chest.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she breathed, horrified at the red mark that now appeared across his throat. Like a burn.
“Kiss…me,” he managed to say, his fingers trying to close around her arm. “Just…kiss…me…Touch…me.”
She did. She slid her hands up and over the flat planes of his chest, into his hair, kissed the salty warmth of his skin. It trembled and shook beneath her touch, and when his hand moved slowly and awkwardly to cup her breast, Angelica pushed into him.
His finger shifted, finding her nipple, somehow easing its way down beneath the fabric to touch it. She snatched in a breath of surprise and pleasure as he moved, just so slightly, over the very sensitive tip. Little shocks shot down into her belly, down into the heat between her legs, where her quim felt full and ready. Ready.
Oh, she said silently as he moved his finger, swirling around in delicate circles, his eyes fastened on her. Red hot. His breath came faster and his face darkened, tightened into a shiny mask. Folding into themselves, his lips disappeared into a grim line. His great effort was evident as he shifted his other hand, moving down her belly, toward the throbbing center of herself.
“Please,” she managed, still holding the necklace away from him, tempted to tear it away…but the sight of his fangs, long and sharp, so close to her kept her from doing so, even in that fog of pleasure.
He’d warned her. She wasn’t a fool.
Then somehow, his hand found its way between her legs…there, in the hot, swollen place, he slipped and slicked long, elegant fingers. Angelica gasped again in surprised pleasure, and then she couldn’t think of anything but the heat building inside her.
Her legs shifted; she half fell against him on the bed, barely remembering to hold the necklace at her throat. His breath came faster and more ragged, as if he were running, his skin heating and dampening against her…his fingers moving in faster and faster strokes.
Angelica couldn’t breathe. She closed her eyes; her body swelled and suddenly exploded into something indefinable. Something that set her to trembling and shuddering, billowing and hot and suddenly…softness.
Release, pleasure, a smile settling over her whole body.
***
Voss’s hand fell away from Angelica and her hot, sleek warmth, and he lay there, her sated body collapsed against him, the searing pain from the necklace she’d forgotten about burning into his bicep.
Pain such as he’d never experienced blazed through his body, pounding into his shoulder and beyond, to the very tips of his fingers and toes…hot and sharp, constant, unrelenting agony. His eyes could no longer focus, sweat trickled from his hair. He was swamped by the musky, sweet scent of Angelica’s pleasure…felt the sleekness of it on his fingers.
Please, someone, please, God, help me.
I’m ready.
His body burned and radiated with streaks of pain; his cock was filled to bursting, his mouth swollen with need. He was weak, breathless but needing desperately to breathe, wanting… He truly thought he would die. Please…help me.
Angelica shifted next to him, lifting herself after what seemed like an eternity, blessedly taking the hyssop from his skin. The pain lessened, but barely. He could hardly focus, but fastened on her eyes, heavy-lidded and sated, her lips full and lush, half parted. Incredibly beautiful.
His heart hurt. Deep inside him, his heart hurt.
“Please,” she whispered, and leaned forward, leaned to brush her lips against his, holding his gaze.
He moved, using his last bit of strength and awareness to lift his face up and taste her, so desperate, needy. Their lips met, his rough and demanding, taking…her hand settling onto his chest, his heart thumping erratically beneath her palm.
And then it happened. Their mouths and tongues slipped and slid together, mashing and molding and he moved too sharply and cut her lip.
Instantly the tang filled his mouth, slid over his lower lip, the thick, heavy blood. It was just a nick, just a tiny slice, but the taste of it was as if something exploded inside him: relief, pain, pleasure, madness. He cried out against her mouth.
More.
He licked her lip, tasted, sucked, and suddenly she pulled away. Her eyes, moments earlier, had been half closed and soft…now they looked at him in question. A bit of fear shone in her gaze.
Please…please… The flavor of her was still on his tongue, the scent in his nose. Ambrosia, water to a dying man.
The loud pounding on the door penetrated his consciousness, and set Angelica to stumbling off the bed, away from him.
“Dewhurst!” Something slammed against the door, heavy and strong.
Voss tried to focus, to bring himself out of the depths of dark pain. He could hardly pull himself to a sitting position. Unlock it, he wanted to say. He knew full well what awaited him. But he couldn’t find the words.
Angelica’s eyes were wide with fear and shock now, and as she looked over, the door bowed threateningly. Gathering the robe close over her chest, she moved nearer to Voss just as the doorjamb gave way.
With a loud, fierce splinter, the frame pulled from the wall and the door burst open. A figure burst into the room with a swirl of cloak.
“Chas!” Angelica cried.
Before Voss could react, before Angelica could say another word, Woodmore was there, over him, a stake resting in the center of his bare chest.
Eyes blazing, Woodmore stared down at Voss. “The only reason you aren’t already dead,” said the vampire hunter softly, “is because you succeeded in getting my sister away from Moldavi.”
Voss scrambled to gather his thoughts, what little strength he had left and to rise above the shattering pain. “I should have known…you wouldn’t give me…two days.”
Woodmore’s face darkened further. “You seem to have accomplished enough in the short time you had.” He looked over at Angelica, who stared at them with wide eyes. “Are you hurt?”
“No. Chas, I—”
“There’s blood,” Woodmore said flatly. “And you are barely clothed. Both of you.” His voice heavy with distaste and loathing, he turned back to Voss and the stake poked harder. “You truly are a bastard. It’s a damned good thing I didn’t trust you.”
Voss met the man’s deathly gaze with his own burning one: straight and fearless. He would not explain himself.
Do it. Put me out of my damn misery. I’ll face whatever comes. Judgment. Condemnation.
Woodmore’s muscle flexed and the stake pierced Voss’s skin. Blood oozed, dark and red. “I’ll take it slow, draw it out a bit. Wouldn’t want it to be over too quickly. Make it too easy.”
“Chas, no!” Angelica had flown to her brother’s side, and now curled her slender hands around his stake arm.
Woodmore turned on her, his face dark and angry. “This is not your concern, Angelica. Get back.” He turned back to Voss. “What is it with my sisters pleading for your miserable life?”
Very aware of the point being made into his breastbone, Voss merely lo
oked up at his opponent. Boldly. Waiting. He tried to force his lips into the familiar smirk, but couldn’t manage more than a twitch. Yet the feel of wood driving into his skin was hardly more than an annoyance in comparison to the pulsing of his Mark, and the terrible weakness from the hyssop.
It would be a relief when Woodmore shoved it through.
“Chas,” Angelica said, pulling at his arm. “Leave him be. He saved me from Moldavi.”
“With…the help of your…clever smoke explosions,” Voss said, trying not to sound too breathless and weak. He failed miserably. Glancing at Angelica, he managed to add, “That was how…your brother…nearly killed me once before. Took me…by surprise.”
Woodmore responded to Angelica as if Voss hadn’t spoken. “He might have saved you from Moldavi, but it appears no one saved you from him.”
“Chas, no. Please. He did nothing.” Her voice sounded calm and steady, but her eyes were filled with fear.
Voss could do little but lie recumbent and try to ignore the bloodscent from Angelica that still lingered in the air. The essence was long gone from his tongue, and his fangs had slid back into place. Even his raging erection had eased. But the Mark still writhed and burned white agony through him.
“You cannot call this nothing,” Woodmore snapped, gesturing to her bloodied lip and the sagging neckline of her robe. “This is a world you do not understand, and a man who is no longer a man…He hasn’t a conscience, Angelica. None of them do. They live only for themselves, for their moment of pleasure. They do nothing but take.”
“And yet you love one of them yourself. You’re one to talk,” she responded.
Woodmore blanched as if slapped, then acknowledgment flared in his eyes. “You don’t understand. And I’m not about to let you—”
“It’s too late, Chas. I—I love him,” Angelica said. Her voice was still calm, but sad.
“Then all the more reason for me to rid you of him,” Chas said. And pushed the point harder. It had gone through flesh and muscle. Blood pooled enough that it ran down the side of Voss’s torso onto the bedding. One sharp thrust and it would go through his sternum and into the heart.
“Do it,” Voss managed to say.
Their eyes met, his and Woodmore’s. He dared not look at Angelica. He just wanted the torture to end.
And he could never really have her. Not without fear in her eyes. Not without having to battle the pain and agony and the devil on his back. Not without hyssop and his betrayal and her blood between them.
Suddenly he remembered the blond woman. The voice in his head. Are you yet ready?
Another excruciating wave sliced through him, and his fingers and toes curled against it. Just end it. I’m letting her go. I haven’t taken her. Isn’t that enough?
“Chas,” whispered Angelica. “I will never forgive you. Please…take me away. Let’s go. Leave him here. Please.” She gestured to the sun blazing through the thin curtains. “He can’t follow us.”
“You’ll never see him again,” Woodmore said, lifting the stake a bit, turning to look at her. It was the first time his voice and expression had softened since he entered the room. “I won’t allow it. Get any thought of it out of your head.”
Angelica didn’t look at Voss. “It’s gone. Please. Take me home.”
Woodmore turned back to Voss one last time. “I’m doing it for her, not for you.”
“If you were doing it for me,” Voss managed with every bit of strength he had, “you’d finish it.”
“Damn you to hell, Voss,” Woodmore said, taking Angelica by the arm and starting toward the splintered doorway.
Already done, Woodmore. Already done.
CHAPTER 16
THE ORDEAL
Voss didn’t know how long he lay on the bloodstained, Angelica-scented bed after they left. Hazy, dimmed beams of sunlight still streamed through the windows. A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains.
Damned Parisian summer day.
At least Moldavi wouldn’t be out, searching for them. Woodmore and Angelica would be safe.
He was forced to stir, to try to move his abused body, when a knock came on the sagging door. At his bidding, a chambermaid entered, carrying the new clothing he’d ordered for Angelica.
The pain had eased a bit; enough that he could rise from the bed, holding a pillow to the wound on his chest, and pretend that all was well. Even though it was certainly not. His body felt as if it had been stretched beyond its limit, as if it would never work the same again. The Mark continued to haunt him, to needle and slice. But now that Angelica was gone, Voss thought it might forgive him.
Eventually the pain might ease.
Because Luce would never let him go. He’d been foolish to even think it.
Voss noticed the small metal case that had held the hyssop necklace while protecting him from its power still rested on the small table. But she’d walked out of the chamber still wearing the necklace. Thank Fate she’d kept it on during their—he stopped his mind, forced the images away—during it all. Or Woodmore would have had all the reason in the world to execute him.
Voss’s neckcloth was on the floor, that horribly unfashionable strip of fabric he’d forced himself to wear. He pulled on a clean shirt, but wrapped the neckcloth loosely around his throat, for it was the only one he’d brought. The awful dark coat he’d brought from America was a bit dusty and smelled like smoke, but he donned it anyway. He had traveled very light, and very quickly.
He’d done what he’d come to Paris for. Angelica was safe. Woodmore and Corvindale would see to it that she remained thus, and Giordan Cale, too.
The sun was too bright and strong for him to leave, though he was desperate to quit the room. Leave Paris and put it, and England as well, far behind him. He packed up the meager things he’d brought in his satchel, slowly, still weak.
At first he dismissed the strained cry. But when it was repeated, Voss paused to listen. It was coming from outside the open windows.
He ignored it for a moment, but it became louder. More urgent.
Someone was calling for help. Thin, frightened, young.
Frowning, he went to the wafting curtains, staying out of the bolt of sunshine. Peering around them, maneuvering in shadow, he looked out and saw nothing but dazzling light and a nearby tree.
Another cry caused him to look up, and then he saw two small feet dangling…from above. Nearly a man’s height away, and off to the side.
Luce’s dark soul, it was a girl! Hanging from the balcony on the higher floor, holding on by two dainty hands. The balcony wasn’t directly above his; the platforms were staggered for privacy. If the girl released her death grip on the railing, she would fall three stories down.
He glanced around—down, up, behind. There was no one else about. No one to notice.
Odd. So very odd.
Something prickled over his skin. Something happened inside…a burst of right.
He hesitated only a moment.
Part of him knew it would kill him as he darted out onto the sunny balcony with its red geranium pots. Another part thought if it didn’t, at the least it might take away some of the impact of the swollen Mark, spreading the pain, so to speak.
The blaze of sun on his bare skin was instant and excruciating, and it stole the breath from him, weakened him to a stumble. Voss held back a scream of pain as he reached up and over, keeping himself from being paralyzed by it.
Please…
Fire blazing over him, his flesh singeing and tightening, he staggered to the edge of the balcony and reached up. Couldn’t reach. Half blind, unable to force his breath to speak, he grasped the railing of his own porch and steadied himself against the brick wall as he climbed onto the rail somehow sensing his way. As if in a dream.
A nightmare.
When his fingers closed around the ankle of the girl, he couldn’t speak to warn her. He couldn’t see. He could barely sense what he was doing through the white pain…but somehow guided, he managed a good, hard yank
, and pulled her to him…
She screamed, high and childlike, and they tumbled back off the rail, onto the balcony, Voss miraculously managing to vault her into his arms so she didn’t flip face-first into the side when she fell. He felt her warm body, slight and struggling, as he collapsed onto the tile floor. The girl pulled away, babbling something that he couldn’t comprehend. But then, their eyes connected for a moment as time seemed to pause, and he was struck by familiarity there.
Peace and serenity in pale blue eyes. He’d seen them before.
And through the door and away, she was gone, suddenly, and he was alone. Paralyzed. Burning in the sun.
His Mark was going to explode… He felt Lucifer’s fury filling, swelling, radiating like it had never done before…and he buried his face into the hard floor, grinding dirt and grit into his cheek and chest.
Stop it…stop…
The sun blazed down and he couldn’t move. The slender ropes on his back bulged, teemed with hot pain, and he screamed in agony, dirt in his mouth and teeth, his nails digging desperately into the surface on which he lay.
And, at last, with one last silvery-hot blaze, he succumbed to the darkness.
But just before he did…there were those pale blue eyes…and a face.
The face of the blond woman. She was smiling. You were ready.
CHAPTER 17
OF MUSICALES, PROPOSALS AND FAT FINGERS
“I don’t want to sit in the first row this time,” Angelica hissed, pulling out of Maia’s grip. Her sister always made them sit in the front at musicales.
How would you feel if no one sat in the first row or two when you were playing piano? she’d say. As if they were afraid to get too close?
Since Angelica didn’t play piano—or anything else— she wouldn’t have the foggiest notion.
Maia paused in her attempt to direct Angelica to the front row at the Stubblefields’, annoyance shining in her pretty face. But then it faded. “All right, then,” she replied. “Where do you want to sit?”