Beloved Vampire (34 page)

“How do you know that?”

“Because I
have
been your servant for sixty years,” Enrique said. “Because I know almost everything about you, including the fact that if I push you too hard, you will strike me back down into my place. But I also know that, after Amara, I love no one better.”

He paused when Mason rose now, the two men gazing at each other over the desk. “In fact, I cannot even quantify it that way,”

Enrique continued softly. “You let me have Amara, knowing I needed that kind of love, a true family of my own. I share her with you. My wife. At your behest, yes, but because she is willing and understands my love for you. The love of a human servant for his Master, which is something that cannot be described. And in return, you never take my wife alone, always using me to help sate your hungers. It is to protect your glass soul, yes, but it is a respect for me I have never failed to appreciate.”

Mason came around the desk. When he let his knuckles drift down the man’s sternum, Enrique’s fingers closed on Mason’s biceps with strength, a reminder of past sensual wrestling matches. As he’d told Jessica, women had always been Mason’s preference, but on occasion the power of a man, the aggressive way they fought before willing surrender, had appealed to Mason, perhaps because of how different it was from a woman’s slick heat, her enchanting fragility and yet fathomless maze of desires. Mason had taken Enrique down on his hands and knees in more than one sweaty bout. His servant would offer his body to him, here and now, in whatever manner the vampire demanded.

Given the emotions he’d stirred, it was tempting. But just as he knew where his male servant’s heart truly rested, so, too, did Mason know what called to his tonight.

As if reading his mind, Enrique nodded. “If you need her as much as she needs you, there may be nothing better for you both than to face your demons together. Because that is what two people who love one another do. You make one another stronger, better, more whole. And I see the potential of that, when I see the two of you together.”

Could he believe it could happen twice? If so, why did it have to be a human again, that most fragile of species? And Jessica, who carried a special type of fragility with her?

“Where is she now?” Mason said at last.

The Frenchman’s sensual mouth curved. “You know that even better than I, my lord.”

“Enrique, I can make your life Hell on Earth.”

“Yes, my lord,” he responded demurely, his fingers sliding from Mason’s arms. “I am simply saying I expect you can find her more quickly with your mind. And, on rare occasions, you are not a patient man.”

Mason narrowed his gaze at him. “I am not saying you are correct, but I thank you for your counsel. Ultimately, this decision is Jessica’s.”

“My lord, you left the decision to me as well. It did not make me any less yours, in the end. Perhaps that is the secret of it. There’s no temptation greater than the
choice
of binding yourself to another forever.”

Mason decided not to respond to that, instead returning to their original topic, moving back around the desk. “Contact the Council liaison. Tell her I understand, and look forward to discussing this further when we meet in Berlin. Also, reemphasize their discretion is vital, that it is imperative they don’t discuss this matter with anyone else until then.”

Enrique snorted. “You think they’ll listen?”

Mason allowed himself a grim smile. “Likely not, but lesser miracles have happened. Regardless, it might be wise for me to go as soon as possible. And Enrique?”

“Yes, my lord?” Enrique paused at the door.

“With respect to Robert . . . remind him she’s to be sedated during his work. I don’t want her to feel any pain or anxiety.”

“She might refuse.”

“Which is why I made it a command, not a request.”

With a nod, the servant turned and departed, leaving Mason staring across the desk and out the windows again, toward the border of the property, the depths of the tangled rain forest. It was an accurate reflection of his mind. He was going to have to make amends, because she was still out of sorts about the other night. What she’d seen as an argument, he’d considered simple good manners, especially when he’d decided to leave rather than strangle her. Or worse, take her down beneath him and punish her in a far more sensual way. But women tended to be oblivious to the great sacrifices a male made on their behalf.

It almost made him smile. As he rose, the warmth spreading through his chest told him he’d made his decision, if not to agree with Enrique, to at least give himself the pleasure of spending more time with his troublesome new servant.

028

Jessica stepped away from the wall, trying to hold the posture. It felt odd, all her weight settled back like that, but Amara had said it was essential to learning the foundation steps of belly dancing. She tried a hip bump, left, then right, then a hip twist. Her arms were supposed to float for the time being, but for fun, she tried the snake arm move, because Amara had also said the dancing was best when intuitive. Taking it too seriously could make it stilted.

Jessica moved forward across the empty ballroom. She could have practiced in the staff recreation area, but she’d been too self-conscious. One step, twist, one step, bump. Then she tried a figure eight and botched it entirely, and went back to the twists and bumps again.

Of course, she could have wanted to practice here because of the beauty of the walls, the mural paintings, the reminder of the setting that Amara had created here for her dance for Mason.

As Jess turned, she let her restless thoughts take her into a richly appointed sultan’s tent, deep in the desert. The wind kicked up the sands outside with a soft murmur of sound. She rolled her head back, willing the thoughts to take her away from the darkness that had driven her into some kind of activity as the shadows gathered outside. It was a reflection of what was happening inside her, her psyche on its never-ending, out-of-control roller-coaster ride.

In a few days, Robert would come and do the tattoo design. She had come up with a couple ideas, different from the disquieting image that had first popped into her mind, and Amara had communicated them to him. But her mind’s insistence that she’d been right with her first idea gave her another reason to escape into her faraway imaginings.

She turned and twisted, thinking of Amara dancing, and how Mason had watched her. Drinking wine off her belly, feeding her grapes . . . She pushed away the present, and transformed it into the past. Transformed herself into the past.

The same imagining as she always had. She was Farida, her sable hair loose on her bare arms as she danced for her love, her lord, who lounged on the cushions. His face was in shadows. Because he did not speak or smile, just watched her with that intent expression, it made her determined to please him, increase his desire to the point his reserve would break, and he would come to claim her. It was a sense of power and surrender at once, a dual sensation that took over her movements so she didn’t have to think about them at all as her arms swept gracefully about her, her hips moving in the intricate movements that couldn’t help but draw his gaze there. The heat of his attention gathered desire between her thighs, but she became more languid. Slowing it down like the act of lovemaking itself, drawing out every movement, every offering. She inhaled his scent and her own, as well as the exotic aroma of the candlelight and incense. She’d soon savor the flavor of the wine on his tongue when he brought his mouth to hers, the provocative scrape of a sharp fang.

She came closer, then fell back, using the full perimeter of the tent, as if she was seeking escape, then came back in, teasing him.

She undulated her hips, turning in a flowing movement so the veil she held would stroke his jaw. Using it to hide her face, she swept it over the tops of her breasts, temptingly displayed in the brief top.

In the coup de grace, the one she knew would bring him off the cushions, she worked it into her dance so it became wrapped around one wrist, then the other, each sinuous hip and body movement or turn of the arm taking it in another wrap, until she’d brought her wrists together in a full binding, the finale of an elaborate dance between restraint and freedom. She finished on her knees, her arms extended, the loose end of the scarf trailing, enough length for him to pick it up, draw her to her feet.

Jess stopped, breathing loud, and found herself on her knees, her wrists held together and offered up to the male who stood only a yard away from her. Like her imaginings, his face was wreathed in the shadows of the dim room, but she saw enough to be lost.

The flaming amber eyes, the unsmiling mouth, the jaw flexing as if with some internal struggle. His body was tense, the leashed power vibrating. His arousal was impressively evident, particularly in the snug riding breeches he seemed to prefer as casual wear, thank the gods.

He was every bit the man he’d been when he’d met Farida, as if time had not touched him. Jess couldn’t imagine him on a crowded city street, in a shopping mall, or even driving a car.

“Amara is teaching you to dance.” He broke the silence at last. Reaching down, he came up beneath her outstretched hands so her fingers turned and hooked over his palm like a falcon’s perch. She stared up at him, struggling between her memories and her present existence, not certain in which reality she preferred to handle this moment. “You show promise.”

“I’m still having problem with the figure-eight move.”

“You’re forcing it. It’s a flowing, easy move.” She blinked when he executed it flawlessly, as Enrique had done, with the leashed energy of a warrior rather than the seductive power of an houri. “Here.” Lifting and turning her away from him, he placed his hands on her hips. “It’s also easier if you use someone’s hands, like this, to guide the maneuver. Try it now . . . Yes, like that.”

With his body behind her, her mind shut down entirely, and her body followed on instinct, rendering the movement in a flowing twist that had her blinking again. His hands drew away, slow, leaving her skin tingling. “Good.”

She swallowed, but before she could respond, he’d turned her again, drawn her attention up to the flicker in his gaze. “Your reality is right here, Jessica. Do not fear grasping it.”

“I’m afraid of everything, Mason.”

“But it hasn’t stopped you from reaching this point. That’s courage,
habiba
. A fearless man cannot prove he is brave. Or woman,”

he amended, a trace of a smile crossing his face.

“You know a lot,” she whispered. “But can you tell me what I truly want?”

Those amber eyes flamed, and her lips parted, needing more breath than she could possibly provide herself in the oxygen-evaporating heat between them. “I’m more concerned with what you need.”

“No.” Perhaps it was the spell woven by her dance, imagined in a faraway desert tent, but her gaze lowered with deliberate brazenness, sweeping his body. “You’re not. You’re just trying to tell yourself that.”

His mouth firmed and he took a step back. “And you are trying to make a fantasy come to life.”

“Aren’t you doing the same?” she asked, stung. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

A muttered oath. She didn’t see him move, but then he was gone. Even as she sank back down to her knees, a little overwhelmed by her boldness, the satisfaction seemed a hollow victory without his presence. She’d pushed him, and yet all she’d wanted was for him to stay. The constant push and pull of her emotions was going to tear her into pieces. She wished she could become two people, though she was painfully aware that she may have already done that.

He could be right. She’d created a dependence on Farida, needing to step into a dead woman’s head and be her, in order to deal with her own unbearable memories. That could be the sole reason for her attachment to him, and her pride just didn’t like to hear it.

What if it was a double-edged sword, though? What if that was what drew Mason back to her so often? And why should that bother her? Wasn’t it easier for both of them in a manufactured fantasy, rather than the stark reality where Farida was long dead and Jessica was a victim of trauma, poised on the brink of insanity?

When she got to her feet, the ballroom echoed her movements, underscoring how alone she was. If she even partially believed Mason’s words, the assumption was she would eventually leave here. But where did she go, what did she become, when she’d been what she’d been? How would she ever find anyone who could touch that part of her, so deep inside, that had once known how to love and surrender to another, if they couldn’t understand who and what she’d become to survive?

Feeling the hated tears threatening, and sick of preoccupation with herself, she left the dance behind. Maybe she’d just sleep for a while. A very long while. At least there, she had half a chance of getting immersed in a dream where being someone different wouldn’t be interrupted or questioned. She wouldn’t have to face a solitary existence, seeking purpose in a world where things didn’t happen for grand, cosmic reasons. Where Darwin’s law, of brutality and chaos, was all there was.