Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set (133 page)

He sucked in a deep breath. “If anything happens to Macey…” He shook his head, the rest of his sentence left unsaid.

~ Deceit ~

The moment Max motored up the drive of Crenshaw Hall, he realized there were vampires in the vicinity. The back of his neck became cold and prickly in that telltale chill that portended the proximity of undead.

Other than that, one wouldn’t think of Crenshaw Hall as anything other than a quintessential English country manor house. The building sat on a large expanse of neatly clipped grass framed by stands of trees that rolled into small hillocks and, further away, a dense forest. There appeared to be an orchard of some sort to the west of the house, the trees currently studded with blossoms beginning to lose their petals. Near the house were geometrically shaped herb and flower gardens, graceful pathways, angular hedges, rose and peony bushes spilling over low stone walls, arbors decorated by ivy, and even a gazebo tucked near the edge of the lawn.

A gravel drive swept up to the manor house, curled around into a semi-circle, then split off toward the stables and garages. The latter were clearly a recent and necessary addition to the homestead, and as Max navigated the sleek black Model T to a halt, a young man emerged from the garage and dashed over to offer assistance.

Though he’d utterly refused to be mute, Max had agreed to wear a galabiyyah, the loose, traditional Egyptian robe, as well as a fez. His beard and mustache had grown in fairly quickly, and Savina had insisted he let them fill in more of his face than was stylish, then crop all of it short and close. When looking at his reflection, he had to admit Savina was right: with his tightly curling black hair, swarthy skin, and full facial hair, he looked like he’d descended from the pharaohs himself.

He was to wear sunglasses when outside, and once they arrived, he could dispense with the galabiyyah and wear a tailored suit. Max had also been ordered to don round, blue-tinted spectacles when they were inside.

“Your eyes,” she’d told him. “They’re too angry—and intelligent. They’ll give you away in an instant.”

Angry was hardly the word to describe his current emotion.

Irate. Disgusted. Impatient. Violent.

And now…mildly surprised to learn that either Rastingard had arrived early, or perhaps had sent along some of his undead minions to clear the way—so to speak.

Along with that new bit of information, all Max could think about since his conversation with Savina on the train was what if something happened to Macey? What if they found her? What if he’d taken too long to get here, what if Rastingard already had the letter, what if they’d already broken the code?

Damn it all. How had the vampires managed to intercept that letter in the first place? What if they had already sent someone to get her?

And what in the
hell
had Bell been thinking to even be sending and receiving correspondence about Macey? Did he
want
to lead the damned vampires to her?

Before leaving Rome, Max had words with the man about the unnecessary risk—low, dark, angry ones—telling him precisely how he felt about putting his daughter’s whereabouts—coded or not, with precautions or not, via a circuitous trail or not—
on paper
.

But Bell, true to his character, age, and position, did not back down. “She’s eighteen, Max. Anytime now, she’ll be called as a Venator—and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. She will have to make her own decision about accepting the legacy, just as you did. Just as Victoria and Catherine and the other women did. Yes, the letter was intercepted, but it’ll take Rastingard weeks to break the code—if he even can. And the letter itself was mailed via four different locations, in a different envelope at each stage, so its origins are untraceable. They can’t find her, Max. We’re not fools, you know. And meanwhile, Macey is safely in—”

“
Don’t
.” Max held up an imperative hand and turned away. “By God, don’t say another bloody damned word, Bell. I don’t want to know anything. I don’t even want to know what fucking
continent
she’s on, or who she’s with or—”

“Max, I don’t know if anyone has told you this lately, but you’re an ass.” Bell wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked just as disgusted and angry as Max himself felt.

And then he’d left. Walked out of the room and left Max to brood—that is, punch a few things, do a little target practice with his crossbow, and then stalk off the rest of his mad by taking a midnight run around the Colosseum.

Too damn bad there weren’t any vampires lurking in the moonlight.

And then, to add to his mad, there was Savina Eleiasa.

Nellito’s daughter. In control of this entire situation and entirely too…
compelling
. Yes, that was the word. Compelling.

And clearly she was too damn intelligent herself to be fooled for long about anything, and definitely too bossy for Max’s taste. Not that he had any real issue with a self-assured female—after all, he was descended from a whole slew of powerful women, including Victoria Gardella.

But Savina wasn’t a Venator, and her
father
had been the one to steal Hannever’s Chest, which had a number of Venator secrets in it—including photographs of Felicia, as well as of Max’s safe house in London.

Less than a month later, Felicia was killed.

Max shoved away the thought, though the image was rarely absent from his mind on any given day anyway. And the horrors certainly lived in his dreams at night, often waking him.

Which had happened only two nights ago. Loudly enough to disturb his traveling companion.

His lips twisted grimly at the memory as he climbed out of the car, his boots crunching on the gravel as he walked around to open the other door for Savina. His mistress—in the most innocent sense of the word—and the celebrated Miss Sabrina Ellison, Adventure Photographer.

Her photographs had ostensibly appeared in
National Geographic
magazine, as well as
LIFE
and even
The London Times
. Apparently, she specialized in taking pictures of difficult to reach and dangerous locations—such as in the middle of a street during the running of the bulls in Madrid. And from a perilous location at the top of Sacre Coeur in Paris. And—this one had surprised him the most—from the wing of an airborne biplane. He’d been hard-pressed to conceal his shock when he learned it wasn’t merely a cover; she’d actually taken the photos herself.

Savina ducked to keep from catching her befeathered hat on the automobile roof and stepped out of the car in a swirl of furs, jewels, and silk. Her dark, exotic eyes—incidentally, not shielded by sunglasses—sparkled with humor as they swept over Max, clearly enjoying the subservient role to which he’d been relegated.

For Macey,
he reminded himself firmly—just as he had done when he woke two nights ago in London to find Savina struggling to help ease him out of the nightmare. Even now, he had to grit his teeth at the memory.

“Max,” she was whispering urgently. “Max, wake up.”

He became aware of his surroundings, dragging himself from the horror of the dream before he opened his eyes…and then had a moment where he debated between sliding back into the ugly nightmare—which at least he was familiar with—and waking up face-to-face with Savina Eleiasa.

In that brief moment of closed eyes and utter awareness, he drew in that spicy, floral scent that went straight to his middle, stabbing him with pleasure. At the same time, he sensed the warmth of her nearness burning into his bare skin…and a tickling sensation that could only be her glossy, ink-black hair as it brushed over his bicep. Then, he realized she had seen and heard him thrashing around, crying out—and from the dampness on his face, he’d possibly even been sobbing.

Dammit to bloody hell
.

“Max?” She was still whispering, still touching him.

He didn’t have to open his eyes to remember the wide, sensual shape of her lips and the hint of delicate collarbone and throat exposed by the neckline of her frocks. He imagined what her hair would look like, all loose and falling around her shoulders.

Perhaps if he just stilled, steadied his breathing, and appeared to slide back into sleep she would leave him alone. Silently return to the hotel room next to his. Then he wouldn’t have to face her concern or her pity or—anything else.

But the scent, the warmth, the touch remained and at last he was required to open his eyes.

It was even worse than he’d imagined.

Savina was there, much too close, settled on the edge of his bed in a pool of white cotton and lace—how the
hell
had she gotten into his room anyway?—looking down at him. Though the only illumination was from the streetlights below and an anemic moon, he could make out enough of her features to see an arrested expression: wide eyes, parted lips, lifted brows, the shadowy arch of one high cheekbone. The mass of hair, spilling like black water over her shoulders and onto his arm. The deep vee of her nightgown, white against her smooth, scented skin. The curve of her narrow shoulder, the long line of her throat.

Even in the dimness, he saw—sensed—pity. Shock, too, perhaps. And he couldn’t bear it.

Max wasn’t thinking clearly. He realized that later…much later. But at the moment…he had no thought but to change the subject, so to speak.

To touch. To exorcise, and to experiment and…oh, dammit, to
feel
.

He reached for her, his callused hand gliding over her silky skin, up along her bare arm. Vaguely aware of her stilling, stiffening—but not pulling away—Max tugged her toward him: firmly, so that she was off-balance a little. So that one hand landed on the center of his bare chest, while he held the other wrist, drawing it to his side as he curled a hand around the back of her head.

In the recesses of his mind, he was prepared for her to pull away—and perhaps that would have been best after all.

It definitely would have been best.

But she didn’t. Savina gave a dusky gasp of surprise just before he found her mouth…but she didn’t resist.

And what a mouth. Softer than he’d imagined. Warm, sensual, sweet…responsive. Max lost all thought as he slid into the heat of her, half-rising onto an elbow so he could pull Savina closer, kiss her more deeply. She tasted hot and spicy, smelled like heaven, and was sleek and smooth and curvy. Her weight against him was insubstantial, yet it burned into his belly, arm, the side of his hip.

Before he quite realized it, he had his arms full of her, and they were tangled on the bed, beneath and around the sheets, body lined to body, mouth tasting mouth. He was naked, half-covered by the bedclothes, she was wrapped in flimsy cotton and lace. Her hair caught around his shoulders and clung to his sweat-damp skin, heavy and strong. She sighed and shivered and touched him…
touched
him, her fingers brushing his neck, tunneling into his hair, her lips meeting his, slipping and sliding and tasting.

And then all at once, he realized what he was doing.
Christ Almighty
.

His eyes bolted open, and then, terrified, slammed closed as he retreated into one last moment of sensuality. His heart rammed, his body thrummed. He was trapped.

And then, knowing no other way to escape, no other way to explain this mortifying, absurd, terrifying lapse, he gently pulled away from those delicious, satisfying lips and soft, curvy body. And lied.

“Mmm…Fe…
licia
…” He made certain the syllables came out like a soft sigh, but intelligible enough that Savina would understand them…that they would explain his actions, excuse his presumption. “Feli…cia…”

Savina stilled. He swore he heard a soft laugh, or maybe it was a choked curse—Max couldn’t tell, for his ears were filled with a roaring—and she pulled away.

Still in character, though his body was leaping and hot and alive, and his mind couldn’t have been more fully awake, Max sighed and rolled over in his sleep.

When he heard the door close behind her, his eyes bolted open once more to stare at the ceiling.

Bell was right. He was most definitely an ass.

~ Invitation ~

Savina was no slouch when it came to hiding her feelings. She was, after all, nothing more than an actress when in her persona as Miss Sabrina Ellison, Adventure Photographer. Since she’d been playing that role off and on as necessary for a variety of reasons during the last four years, it was second nature to her to hide behind the facade of her character.

Which explained how she was able to face Max Denton the morning after
the kiss
with neither a blush nor an averted gaze.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t have a hot tingle inside the lowest part of her belly when she remembered the whole debacle. How incredibly hard and muscular he was, how powerful and warm his body felt beneath her, how sensual and provoking his kisses were. It was a searing, hot tingle that splintered into embarrassment and aggravation when she remembered how he’d called her Felicia.

He thought he’d been kissing his dead wife. The one he’d been calling out for in his nightmare only moments before.

If Savina hadn’t had the window of her hotel room open to the unusually pleasant, clear London night, she wouldn’t have heard Max and wouldn’t have been stirred to try and comfort him.

She should have known better. He wasn’t a man who needed comforting, no matter what tragedy had befallen him. Their midnight conversation on the train had been awkward and fraught with tension, clearly due to his internal battle. Then, her heart had broken for him.

Last night, her heart had broken further at the sight of him in the throes of hell. It had shivered with lust…and then it turned pragmatically to reality as she returned to her room in a rush of mortification.

And Savina hadn’t slept a wink after. Apparently, neither had he, for moments after thrusting off her blankets—which had suddenly become too hot and cloying as she relived the passionate kiss—she heard Max’s door open and close firmly. Bolting from the bed, she dashed to crack open her own and was just in time to see him striding down the corridor, crossbow in hand, quiver over his shoulder.