A Vampire's Rise (10 page)

“You found evidence of his dissent?”

“But we need more.”

“Which I’m qualified for.”

“We plan to infiltrate his estate.”

“Send in a spy.” He gestured he wanted in.

I liked Salvador, but I loved my sister and with every passing day the threat that loomed over her worsened. And there was now the matter of her son.

“Come for dinner tomorrow night.” I leaned against the wall. “And bring the countess.”

Chapter 15

ON MY ARRIVAL HOME, a dispatch awaited me.

A lump caught in my throat and I hesitated to open the envelope.

Ferring had insisted on using a rich plaster design to line the ceiling. The focal point was an overly ornate fireplace, the hearth still burning. All this sumptuousness was too flamboyant for my taste. I rarely visited what had been intended as a living room, easily more drawn to the modest, quiet corners, where I could sit and think clearly, undistracted by garish décor. No one would disturb me in here.

I read the document.

If signed, it would transfer half of my estate to Felipe. The fist of fate punched me hard and I threw the letter into the flames, watching it flare, then disintegrate.

As I ascended the stairway to my room, I knew I had no choice but to go through with encouraging Salvador to take up residence at Felipe’s manor. I’d never convince Alicia to leave Felipe, and he wasn’t just interested in investing in the business I’d built from the ground up. His demeanor had implied a more sinister scheme, that of full ownership.

I’d grown fond of Salvador, and my plan involved risking his safety. More thought needed to go into my scheme.

My mind teetered on the very edge of reason. My strategy thrust Salvador right into the center of Felipe’s world, and I hated myself for throwing him into the lion’s den. Even though Salvador had expressed his ambition to work for the senator, I was drowning in guilt.

I hesitated at my bedroom door. Through the netting, I could see that someone had crawled into my bed, the rumpled covers pulled up and over them. I grabbed the bed linen and pulled it off, and caught my breath.

Annabelle, wearing only a chemise, shyly reached for the sheet and pulled it back over her. “This house is so big.” She yawned. “I can’t sleep.”

“You get used to it.” I averted my gaze.

“Please stay.”

The corner chair was an uncomfortable option. Annabelle patted the bed with insistence. Fully clothed, and too tired to argue, I slid in next to her. I reached for the cup of water on the bedside table and took a sip. Picking up the nearby book, I opened it and peered down at the last page I’d read. Even her perfume imbued the exotic.

I pretended to read.

Annabelle prized the book from my hands and pushed it off the side of the bed and her laughter rippled. She leaned in, planting kiss upon kiss upon my cheek.

You have the dancer in your bed, came the restless voice of my conscience that I tried to ignore.

Returning her kiss, tasting her sweetness, her soft lips pressing against mine. With my hands on either side of her face I held her there, firmly captured, an explosion of passion. Instinctively, I slipped my hand beneath her chemise and then quickly pulled away, trying to think of something else, somewhere else. I leaned over and reached for my book. Impossible to stay here with her, fearful that I’d take advantage, I found myself in the position of no going back.

I’d lost my page.

She grabbed the book from me again and threw her head back with laughter. As though controlled by a force outside my will, my hand was drawn by some mystical charm.

She arched her back and sighed.

Within me was the desire to protect her, even from myself. At the same time, I couldn’t deny her.

I pulled her chemise up and off her.

I gazed at her beauty, beholden by her perfect olive skin, endowing a flawless complexion, ringlets cascading over slender shoulders.

On and on pleasuring her, I responded to her gasps that begged me to continue, both of us ascending closer to euphoria.

Her affection for me gave me the confidence to find mine, look inside that once scary place and touch the serene. Feeling the purest devotion, I cherished her.

She was lost, gone from me, possessed, shaking her head, whipping dark locks from side to side.

Annabelle’s expressions reflected her vulnerability twinned with joy. Her long lashes fluttered. Her rosebud lips pouted.

To think I’d left her to find her own way from the Moran’s to my house and risked her getting lost, even worse, the thought of Felipe finding her and stealing her away.

We tumbled over and over until we slid off the end of the bed, laughing all the way. In Annabelle’s arms I felt safe and knew that she did in mine. A foreign emotion seized me completely and I knew it could only be love.

* * * *

Trying to wipe off my ridiculous grin, I set about checking that evening’s arrangements. The table had been set with luxurious settings, our finest plates. The chef prepared lamb, accompanied by flavored vegetables, tasty pastries, and a wine selection from our best vintages. I instructed the waiters that Salvador’s glass must remain topped up.

Pacing, I replayed my plan.

Within hours, the countess’ imaginary outline had been realized. She sat next to me, on my right. Salvador, who sat to my left, held his hand over the rim of his glass, gesturing to the waiter he’d had enough. I reached over and filled his glass myself.

The evening flowed as did the Bordeaux. Countess Miranda charmed us with tales of her late husband’s business endeavors. The count had been a successful merchant, traveling to London on several occasions. She’d accompanied him on many of his trips abroad. Salvador and I were intrigued when Miranda recounted reports on life in merry old England. We roared with laughter when told how little the English bathed.

We were enthralled with her morbid tales. Apparently, London’s undertakers frequently dug up caskets for lack of room, and often found markings on the inside of the coffin lids. The undead had tried to scratch their way out. Some of those who’d been laid to rest had not actually been dead, not at their burial anyway.

Salvador howled at my expression. Apparently, my mouth had been gaping.

“Remind me never to step foot on that godforsaken island.” I laughed.

“Oh, but they also have the most wonderful artists.” Miranda turned to face me. “Many of Europe’s greatest works find their way to the capital.”

“Still not convinced.” I cringed at the thought of falling down drunk and finding myself buried alive.

A discreet waiter served us dessert.

I knew how to play Miranda. She’d be used to men fawning over her. This woman had everything—money, power, and beauty. The alcohol loosened her nerve and she let down her guard. Her husband had died at forty, falling ill after a trip to France. He’d left her childless. Now one of Spain’s wealthiest widows, with nothing but time for pleasure, she failed to conceal her desire for excitement, from me anyway.

I ignored her and concentrated on Salvador. When Miranda fidgeted, I fed her sugared almonds, wooing her all over again, pushing and pulling her into a state.

“There’s nothing more interesting than a woman who’s well traveled.” I sighed, my thoughts drifting to Annabelle.

Miranda gave a crooked smile. “Or a man with a mysterious past.”

“Daumia is certainly indefinable.” Salvador downed his wine.

I raised my glass in a toast. “To defining the indefinable.”

They laughed.

“We want to know more about you,” Miranda said boldly.

Salvador leaned forward and broke the silence. “Well, I know one thing, he’s certainly honorable.”

I took a sip. Such regard for myself slipped away. A war between Felipe and I raged just beneath the service. No room for procrastination and no time for cold feet.

“But he’s so coy about revealing anything.” Miranda ran her fingertip around the rim of her glass.

I topped up her wine. “What do you want to know?”

“How you came to live in such a great home?” she asked.

I held her gaze. “Fate dealt me a kind hand.”

“This was once the Bastillion estate?” She patted her lips with her serviette.

My back stiffened. “Right up until the house burnt to the ground.”

“And Roelle Bastillion?” Miranda gave a long stare.

I placed my fork on my plate, my appetite now dulled.

“Such a terrible way to die,” she continued. “No kind hand for Roelle.”

I hated where this was going. “You have French heritage?”

Miranda appeared surprised. “Most people don’t notice, Daumia. And what’s your heritage?”

“Italian father, mother, Spanish.”

“You were born in Santiago de Compostela?”

“Yes. Near the Romanesque Cathedral.”

The butler entered. Never had I been so happy to see the man who’d unwittingly enabled me to change the subject.

“Tell me more about England.” I gestured to the waiters to leave.

“They’re very progressive,” Miranda replied. “Take their architecture for example . . .”

Her words faded as thoughts of Harold Ferring came to mind. After he’d left, I’d come to realize his talent. He’d designed the house so that when the sun rose, it flooded the servants’ quarters and breakfast room. At sunset, the light lingered in my office, the library, and the bedrooms. Masterful, the genius was captured in the details.

With dinner over, Miranda excused herself, withdrawing to powder her nose.

“She’s quite taken with you,” Salvador slurred, and gave a grin that quickly faded.

“Come and sit with me.” I gestured to the couch.

Once seated, his fingers traced the braid on his uniform’s jacket pocket. Don’t go through with it.

“The man who needs watching is Felipe.” I glanced away.

Salvador’s arm stretched out along the back of the sofa. “I can’t believe it.”

“And you were already planning on taking up residence at the senator’s?”

“He’d not suspect anything.”

I was conflicted, but Alicia’s life hung in the balance.

There had to be another way.

“Daumia?” Salvador shifted closer.

Desire surged through me and dragged me with it, possessing me with the thrill of his lips almost touching mine.

The door handle turned.

Miranda entered, barely missing our brush with lust, and Salvador slumped back.

“This . . . conversation will continue,” I said at last.

Salvador sighed.

I rose and filled their half-empty glasses and handed their refreshed drinks back to them, then poured myself my second drink of the evening.

Miranda’s soft flush of cleavage disappeared beneath the lace of her corset. When she caught my stare, she blushed. Salvador had imbibed so much wine that he fell comatose on my couch. The opportune moment was not lost on Miranda, who insisted she accompany me when I mentioned taking an evening stroll.

Halfway across the courtyard, just before reaching the stables, I sensed someone watching us. Annabelle’s silhouette lingered at an upper window. I wanted to signal to her and reassure her, but couldn’t risk Miranda seeing.

I sent the grooms away and led Miranda down the long line of stables, stopping before one of my most treasured stallions.

“He’s beautiful.” She patted his dappled neck, running her fingers through his thick, white mane. “I can see why nobility favors them.” She caressed the horse’s muzzle. “Salvador will be overjoyed.”

I checked his hind leg. “He caught a stone in his shoe earlier.” I lowered his hoof. “No harm done.”

I caught Miranda staring. She quickly turned and patted the horse again.

An edgy, creeping sensation worked its way into my stomach. “I hear that you’re a good friend of the senator’s?”

“More of an acquaintance. I own a summer retreat in Vigo, but I rarely go there since my husband, George, died.”

I nodded my understanding. “Salvador’s been appointed to the senators. I’m concerned.”

“Felipe’s ways are a little heavy handed.”

“You know him?”

“George,” she glanced at me as if to check my reaction, “didn’t really trust him.”

“From what I hear, your husband had good judgment.”

She nodded, but with a distant stare, as though lost in thought. “I have friends in the senate who’ll watch out for him.”

“I’m in your debt.” I strolled behind her.

She was breathing faster now, her embroidered laced bodice appeared so confining, designed to restrict her desires, it seemed. I imagined that as each ribbon loosened, so would her passion.

“I’m going to walk away now,” I whispered. “Forgive me, but you know why.” Barely touching, aware of the tension, I lingered.

I reached up and caressed the fine, blond hairs on her nape, and she shivered beneath my touch. Although the evening was unfolding as planned, I recognized the illusion of this inner stillness. The rippling sensations of pleasure tried to convince me to take her.