Blood on Silk (30 page)

“The sweetest,” he said softly.

Blood surged through her, suffusing her face and neck.
You mean I was hotter than my great-great-great-great-grannie?
She swallowed the words before they spilled over her lips. There must have been a few more greats in there anyway.

Wildly, she reached for a safer rant. “You have to leave Konrad alone.”

“Do I?”

Shit, she was just annoying him now, putting Konrad in danger.

“So,” he said, “you’re going home to Scotland. Why?”

“I have a job to go to, a thesis to write. A life.”

His gaze had never left her face. “You’re angry because they didn’t tell you. No matter, you didn’t belong with them. But you don’t need to leave like this.”

“Like what?” she snapped.

His lips twitched. “Angry. Hurt. What has made you like this?” His hand lifted, as if to touch her face.

She couldn’t hit him. She wasn’t that good or that fast. Not yet. But she could, and did, block his movement with her arm and step back.

“Elizabeth.” Chiding, mocking, he closed the distance again. “You weren’t so averse to my touch before.”

“Before you drank my blood?” she snapped.

Flame flared in his eyes and burned, yet still he didn’t move. “I’m a vampire. Your blood was good, and I enjoyed it. So did you. Along with everything else.”

“Arsehole!” Only unpalatable truth could have made her lose her composure, and she struggled desperately to bring it back. “I slept with you to save my life.”

Through the fury, something hurt. Looking at him hurt. Without warning, his eyes dropped. For an instant, she wondered if she’d actually managed to inflict pain of her own. But of course, she hadn’t. His gaze was on her hips, her breasts.

“Next time,” he said, “it will be different.”

But at least he’d swallowed it. Triumph spurred her on. “There won’t be a next time. Good-bye, Saloman. I hope we never meet again. If we do, I’ll kill you.”

It was a good exit line. Unfortunately, she couldn’t follow it up by spinning on her heel and sailing downstairs to the open front door. He stood too close, and even as she moved to make a less dramatic exit, he swayed with her, blocking her path.

His head lowered. Awareness flooded her, made her dizzy. And yet he didn’t even touch her. There was no body heat to arouse her, just simple, overwhelming presence. He moved his head, inhaling her as he’d done several times in the past.

“I love a worthy opponent,” he whispered. “Remember that, along with all the rest.”

His throaty, husky voice seemed to vibrate inside her body. Before she obeyed him and allowed memory to flood to her, she threw dignity to the wind and edged past him. There was an instant of flaring contact, a brushing touch that had the effect of anyone else’s most intimate caress, and then she was past him and rushing down the stairs.

This is me not running away. . . .

She half expected him to do one of his supernatural leaps and appear in front of the open door. When he didn’t, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder as she crossed the hall.

Although she hadn’t heard him move, he stood halfway down the stairs watching her. His face was serious, almost . . . lost.

But if he was sad, it was a deeper emotion than any she could inspire. Watching her go, he clearly thought of something else.

She would have liked to slam the door, but dignity—and spite—won the day. She left him to work out how to shut it while staying out of the sun.

She was still shaking by the time she found her car. But hell, she’d driven in worse conditions, namely after her first terrifying encounter with Saloman. She was stronger now, and more than capable of driving herself to the airport and the welcoming sanity of home.

She just couldn’t work out why she still felt guilty, like a deserter. Or why the tears kept running down her cheeks.

Saloman watched until her shadow had gone, and the sound of her quick, light footfalls had faded into the distance. Only then, when the sunlight had lost its charm, did he blow the door closed with the power of his mind and turn to walk back upstairs.

Considering it was the first time he’d been strong enough to use this trick since his awakening, he wasn’t as pleased with it as he should have been, because he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d confused a certain empathy with knowledge and understanding of Elizabeth. He hadn’t expected her to be so appalled by the blood drink; he hadn’t expected her to leave. He’d meant her to stay in the protection of the hunters until he was ready.

He hadn’t been awake two weeks. After three hundred years of total isolation, perhaps it wasn’t surprising he’d lost a little reality in his dealings with humans. But to confuse her moment of love with trust was a basic error.

Saloman didn’t like errors; nor did he care to be thwarted, or to lose the initiative in a moment of uncharacteristic hesitation. He could have made her stay. Whatever she was trying to pretend, she wasn’t immune to him. Her body still trembled at his nearness, and it wasn’t all fear. It wouldn’t have taken long in his arms to reduce her to pliant surrender, or so he
thought
. But he’d made a mistake before; he still didn’t know her and he’d hesitated. Because her body was no longer enough.

I slept with you to save my life.

It had never entered his head. He had never meant there to be a possibility of that. Her death was inevitable; he’d just wanted to make it sweet for her, to give her life before he took it. He’d never pretended anything else. God knew what had induced her to believe she could change his mind with sex.

Isn’t that exactly what she did?

Saloman stepped across the muddle of books and papers in his drawing room and sat down cross-legged in the middle of it, where he’d been as he’d sensed her unexpected approach. The human woman who’d awakened him, touched him, and obsessed him was beginning to churn him up. He didn’t like that either. He needed a clear head and less, not more, distraction. Why couldn’t she just
accept
and
wait
?

They’d meet again, of course, whatever she imagined, and whatever game they were playing was far from over. It wasn’t one she could win in the end. He rather admired her unexpected spunk in visiting him, just to tell him as she’d told the hunters, to go to hell. She was a complex creature, Elizabeth Silk. And he’d miss her presence.

Displeased, he picked up the nearest book and scanned the spread-out newspapers to regather his thoughts. He needed a human identity. Gone were the days when he could stand beside a throne and advise and influence the course of history. This was a hands-on era, like the good old days, and he thought he’d rather enjoy it.

He was most drawn toward the radical, socially active rock musician identity with enough clout to influence governments as well as ordinary people. Two Irishmen seemed to have rather cornered the market there, but they were looking a trifle craggy these days, and perhaps the world was ready for someone a little younger.

He gave a twisted smile. Younger looking.

The other, less self-indulgent idea—and one that probably had greater certainty of achievement—was politics. He rather liked the notion of being president of the United States of America, although the difficulties of achieving this for an eastern European immigrant with no documentation were not insubstantial! Perhaps some kind of adviser would be more sensible. After all, one only got to be president for four years, eight if one was lucky, and he had a lot more time to give.

Shifting countries and identities with the decades would not be easy in this new world, and even harder for anyone with a highly visible profile. But the more he discovered about modern life, the greater his excitement. There were possibilities here. He just needed to know more, much more.

The learning would distract him from his unpalatable emotions surrounding Elizabeth Silk, and would continue while he resumed control of the supernatural world and wreaked the last of his vengeance. He could take the hunter Konrad anytime, but before he could move on with his plans, Maximilian and the other human descendants of his “killers” had to be found.

Saloman.
The voice in his head was faint, familiar, and filled him with pain. Another betrayal to avenge, another vengeance to savor, if he could.

What?
he responded without obvious interest.

Zoltán has left the region.

I know.

A pause, then,
Do you also know that he’s on visiting terms with a Romanian government minister? And dined with a Hungarian industrialist in Vienna?

Saloman’s smile was twisted.
Dined with, not
on
him? He’s taking my idea of a human alliance seriously, then.

And excluding you!

Yes, I got that bit,
Saloman said patiently
.

Another palpably disgusted pause.
Don’t you want to know where he’s going now?

If the information’s of any use to me. I’m busy.

Judge for yourself. . . .

Elizabeth stared out of the airplane window as it climbed through the blackness of the night sky. She was too exhausted to feel relief at leaving this craziness behind, to look forward to seeing old friends and taking up the challenges of her new job. For three nights, she’d barely slept, except for the troubled, feverish sleep of the unconscious after he’d bitten her.

She closed her eyes.
Saloman. Saloman.

Deep in her gut was a pain that wouldn’t go away. She didn’t know what it was; she didn’t want to know. She wished it had a physical cause, so she could take some medicine and make it stop. Saloman was evil. He was a vampire who drank human blood to survive, and he’d survived a hell of a long time. He’d drunk hers, and she hated him for that as well as for what he was. The inconvenient lusts of her body, the sexual magnetism that tugged at her in his presence, were quite separate from that, as were the sensual pleasures of their night together.

Hatred. Fear. She was confused by a little lust because she was lonely, frustrated, and inexperienced with attractive men, let alone vampires.

A spurt of laughter surged in her throat, threatening to choke her if she didn’t let it out. When she swallowed it down, it felt like tears.

I’m too tired to deal with this. . . .

She would always be too tired to deal with this because it went too deep. Hate, fear, lust—they were just words, and they had little to do with whatever it was she felt now. She couldn’t and wouldn’t name it, though she knew it would take time and effort to overcome it.

But I will. I will.

“T
hink about it,” Elizabeth said. “Take down some notes, and we’ll talk about it next week. Enjoy your lunch.”

Thus dismissed, her first-year tutorial group grinned at her and began to depart in a flurry of scraping chairs and books and folders thrust into bags. Elizabeth made a grab for the coffee cups distributed around the table, which some of the students remembered to push toward her with quick words of thanks.