Darkest Desire of the Vampire: Wicked in Moonlight\Vampire Island (Harlequin Nocturne) (19 page)

He had started his real estate empire several centuries earlier. It had changed names and forms many times over the decades, but he had had the benefit of time when it came to turning a profit on properties. He had even held on to one small Irish castle for nearly a hundred years before selling it.

He considered the advantage as karma’s payback for the fact that he now had to drink blood to survive.

When he’d decided to take some time off, he’d left the decisions of the company in the board’s hands. He trusted them implicitly, but right then they could have run the business into the ground and he wouldn’t have cared.

They could wait, and so could the boat. He intended to make sure that Isla remained safe until she left the island.

* * *

Isla stormed across the resort in the direction of her bungalow. Though her first instinct had been to question why she wasn’t good enough for him, and to wonder what she could have already done to drive him away, the feelings faded quickly.

He wanted her. Dammit, he liked her. She felt the same way. So what was his problem?

Isla ground her teeth as she pictured shoving Sloane off the upper deck of his boat and into the surrounding Tahitian waters.

In her mind’s eye he looked like a drowned rat when he emerged.

Sighing as she admitted to herself that he wouldn’t look like anything of the sort, Isla slowed her pace and tried to calm down. She considered it progress that, instead of falling to pieces over the rejection, she had gotten mad.

Feeling somewhat shortchanged by the aborted yoga session that morning and now craving the peace of it more than ever, Isla decided to return to her bungalow and work through some postures on her own. In no mood for company, she grimaced when she found Gaspar waiting at the end of her dock in one of the sleek black golf carts.

“Miss Miller.” She nodded stiffly, not sure how to behave around the man after his flirtatious overtures the night before. Though she saw the man’s eyes roam over the expanse of skin visible in her yoga spandex, he made no comment on her appearance.

“The owner of the resort has invited you to brunch in his chambers.” Isla noted a hint of something she thought might be reverence in Gaspar’s words, which she found odd. Exasperated with the drama that had surrounded her ever since she had set foot on the island, Isla was tempted to just pack her bags and leave.

That was what the Isla of two days ago would have done—she would have called Jessie to commiserate, then she would have retreated to something familiar and safe.

She wouldn’t give in. She was going to enjoy this vacation if it was the last thing she did.

“Thank you, Gaspar, but I’m really not in the mood.” With a tight smile, Isla brushed past the man and the cart and stepped onto the wood of the dock.

She turned when he called out her name. He had stepped out of the cart and was frowning slightly.

She knew that she wasn’t imagining the way that his eyes slid over her body.

“Miss Miller, not very many people get the chance to visit Ile de Nuit.” The tone of Gaspar’s voice was reproachful. “Mr. St. Baptiste is very selective about those he invites to the island. He invites even fewer to visit him personally because his health is so fragile. It is an enormous honor.”

There it was, the guilt that shadowed so much of Isla’s life. She closed her eyes against it, vowing that she wouldn’t let it drown her like it so often did.

When she opened her eyes, Gaspar was watching her with a textbook sympathetic smile. She pursed her lips, not sure she could push back against the impulses that were second nature to her.

“His personal chefs will provide a meal unlike anything you have ever tasted.” Isla sighed, knowing that she was beaten.

She might have had the strength to refuse, but the uncertainty from her encounter with Sloane chose that moment to rear its ugly head.

She didn’t know much about him, just what Jessie had told her—that a reclusive billionaire named Lucian St. Baptiste owned the Tahitian island and the resort that sat on it and that he was rumored to be ill and fairly eccentric.

Well, recluse or not, maybe breakfast with someone who had singled her out—someone who might make her feel special, even for an hour—might ease the sting of Sloane’s rejection.

Chapter 6

R
age slid through Sloane’s body. Mixed with it was dread, an emotion that he hadn’t felt for centuries.

Lucian wanted to get Isla alone. Sloane knew this without a doubt. What he didn’t understand was why.

He couldn’t just barge into the compound where Lucian lived—it was heavily guarded, keeping the recluse in and curious onlookers out. He didn’t for a moment believe that he could sneak in under the guise of being one of his servants.

Lucian undoubtedly knew what he looked like. He hadn’t become a billionaire, hadn’t become powerful, by being dumb.

Sloane would be damned if he would just let Isla go. He’d followed along behind the golf cart, his mind trying frantically to come up with some way to plausibly accompany her.

After his performance earlier that morning, Isla certainly wasn’t going to invite him. In trying to protect her, he had shot himself in the foot.

He didn’t smell the distinct signatures of the two vampires who had been following Isla. Perhaps Lucian had had nothing to do with them after all—perhaps he truly was just curious about this innocent, delectable human.

With a low growl, Sloane made his decision and let Isla follow Gaspar into the compound. All he could do now was make sure that she left the compound unscathed.

* * *

The interior of the building to which Gaspar led her was a gothic masterpiece.

Isla stood just inside the entryway, staring around at the massive stone columns, the arched ceilings, the sconces that shone with the light of pillar candles despite the early morning hours.

It was as if she had stepped through a portal that led from Ile de Nuit to an ancient European cathedral.

“He is eccentric.” Gaspar rolled a shoulder in a small shrug as he caught her openmouthed stare. He smiled, a mischievous curl of the lips, as he spoke.

“Right.” Isla tugged self-consciously at the hem of her shorts. Her outfit was entirely inappropriate for the ornate home in which she now stood.

Gaspar noticed her gesture. “Mr. St. Baptiste will be happy to make your acquaintance, no matter your attire.” He smiled at Isla again, but the way that his eyes lingered on her flesh made her shiver.

Sloane hadn’t looked at her like that. No, his stare told her of his arousal without making her feel as though she was about to be eaten.

“Come.” Isla had opened her mouth to make excuses about going home to change and possibly never returning when Gaspar again spoke. She found herself following him apprehensively through the castle-type structure, intrigued despite herself.

What kind of man would build something like this on a tropical island?

Two massive flights of stairs later, Gaspar pushed his way into a room so grand that it appeared to be a ballroom. A massive crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, the light reflecting off the skin of...

Women.

Lots and lots of women.

“What the hell?” Isla didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until she met the hard stare of Gaspar. She shivered at the coldness in his eyes. Still, she couldn’t think of a good reason to leave that wouldn’t make her look like a paranoid psychopath.

“Miss Miller.” She turned to meet the lightly accented voice that spoke.

In the arched doorway across the ballroom was an incredibly attractive man. It had to be Lucian St. Baptiste.

For a man who was supposedly ill, he was remarkably charismatic. Slight of build and with very white skin, he had silky hair that fell past his shoulders in dark waves, a finely chiseled face and eyes so dark that it was hard to differentiate between the iris and the pupil.

Those eyes were fastened on her with the kind of appreciation that made a woman feel like she was the only female in the world of any importance.

“Hello.” Isla had no idea how she was supposed to act right then, with a man who was openly flirting with her yet surrounded by other women—beautiful women, spectacular women who were staring at her with open animosity.

“When Gaspar told me about the beautiful new resort guest, I knew that I had to meet her.” The man stepped toward her and caught her hand in his own. When he lifted it to his lips she repressed a shiver.

“Miss Miller, I am Lucian St. Baptiste.” Isla didn’t like the man’s touch, yet...he seemed somehow familiar to her. She was certain that she had never met him before, though. “I am the owner of this resort. Come, let us eat and...get to know one another.”

The polite thing to do was to smile and go along with the meal, even though suddenly every cell in her body was screaming to get away from this man.

She thought of Sloane and everything that he had awakened inside of her.

“I’m sorry. I have to go.” She thought she caught a glint in the man’s eye as she pulled her hand from his grasp, but it was gone so quickly that she couldn’t be sure.

She thought of Sloane, of how angry she was with him right then.

She thought of how much he could make her
feel.

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. St. Baptiste. What I have seen of the resort so far is lovely. But I have to go.”

* * *

The smell of Isla when her blood was heated was intoxicating.

Relief that he didn’t know he was capable of had punched him in the gut as soon as he saw Isla leave the gothic monstrosity that St. Baptiste called a house. Muscles taut, Sloane had watched as she blinked in the sunshine like a deer emerging from the woods. She had frowned, shaking her head sluggishly. For an infuriating moment he wondered if she had been drugged—though a vampire didn’t need a roofie to do whatever he or she wanted to do.

Temper washed over her face as if she had consciously made a decision. He slipped silently from the tree as Isla walked away from the monstrosity of a building.

Wherever she was going, she had something on her mind.

He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what that was.

Following at a discreet distance until they were close to his boat, he then warped into vampire speed and ran, making sure that he was on the deck of his boat before she got there.

The confrontation might as well come now as later. The fire he had sensed deep in Isla burned a little bit brighter every time her saw her, and he knew that she wouldn’t give up until she had said what she wanted to say.

Not bothering to wait for an invitation, Isla stormed right onto the lower deck of his boat and planted her feet.

Though he’d known where she was heading, he was still a little taken aback by the fiery temptress who looked ready to give him hell.

“Damn it, Sloane!” It took a hell of a woman to make him wary, and as he swallowed deeply, he acknowledged that Isla had done exactly that. “I know you’re there!”

He still had to try. His instinctual claiming of her had ratcheted up another notch as he had waited for her to exit the house of another man. He wanted this woman to be his own in every aspect.

That didn’t mean that it was a good idea.

Trying to school his face into a mask of indifference, he sauntered from the inner quarters of his boat to the deck where Isla stood. He was careful to stay far enough away that he couldn’t reach out and touch her, though her scent invaded his consciousness and made his fingers ache with the need.

He didn’t speak; he simply raised an eyebrow at her.

“Lucian St. Baptiste just made it quite clear that he wants me.” Though he already knew that he was in too deep, Sloane was unprepared for the tendril of fury that snaked through his gut at the words. Something he hadn’t felt since Ana.

“I meant to ask earlier, why are you dressed like that?” He tried to distract her—and himself—with a change of topic. The reminder of the vast swathes of her skin that were still visible to the naked eye made his mouth water, and he didn’t care for the idea that anyone and everyone else could see it.

Momentarily startled, Isla looked down at herself, then crossed her arms over her midriff self-consciously, and he hated that he had made her feel that way.

“I went to yoga this morning.” She scowled at him, and he knew that it was a cover for her nerves. “And don’t change the subject. You want me.”

“I don’t.” The lie burned his throat as he spoke. “And the resort doesn’t offer yoga.”

“The hell you don’t.” Isla’s expression dared him to argue. “And before you turned into a super ass this morning, I had intended to tell you about my strange almost session of yoga. Which the resort does offer, by the way.”

Sloane puzzled over that momentarily as he studied her. His sharp sight noticed something strange about her appearance, something that took him a moment to place.

“Your bruises are gone.” The shadows that had marred her skin earlier—the ones placed there by his eager fingers the night before—had completely faded. Her skin was back to smooth ivory, kissed with a hint of tropical sun.

Seemingly taken aback, Isla turned her head, craning her neck to look at her upper arms. Shrugging, she seemed irritated that he had changed the topic again.

“I’ve always healed quickly.” Her brow was furrowed as she narrowed her eyes at him. “My whole family has. Even my sister, the doctor, hardly ever gets sick.”

Alarm bells began to ring as he heard what she had said. And then she crossed her arms at the waist, clasped the fabric of her skimpy camisole in her hands and pulled it up and over her head.

Sloane had lived for hundreds of years, but he had never been as shocked as he was that very minute.

Isla stared up at him with defiance. Her fists were clasped tightly at her sides, and he knew that she was struggling against the urge to cover herself back up.

“You want me.” She inhaled deeply, and Sloane couldn’t help but look at the rosy tips of her nipples, puckering under his stare.

Sloane didn’t respond. His throat had gone dry, and he had no words.

He, who had met millions of women over the course of his very long life, was completely bewitched by the woman who stood in front of him.

“I am going inside. I am going to get completely naked.” Sloane squeezed his eyes shut at her words and uttered something that was halfway between an oath and a prayer.

“I’ll wait for ten minutes. If you don’t come in—and you know that you want to—then you’ll never see me again.”

* * *

Isla couldn’t believe what she had just done. She hadn’t planned it when she had left Lucian St. Baptiste’s compound, but she had been confused by the man who had paid her such attention and the one who had rejected her so heartlessly that morning.

In the end, it was down to feelings. Never before in her life had she allowed herself to act solely on feelings.

She didn’t know if what she had just done was a good idea.

Slowly drawing the thin shorts down until they hit the floor, Isla starting counting down the seconds of each minute as she stepped out of them. She thought about lying down on his bed, of arranging herself seductively with the sheet draped over her in tantalizing ways.

She decided against it. If he came to her, she wanted to know that he saw her as she was.

Her heart sank as her count approached the five-minute mark. Her cheeks flushed as she looked down at the shorts crumpled on the floor.

He wasn’t coming. He truly didn’t want her, and listening to her feelings had only led her to mortification.

Slowly Isla bent to pick up her shorts. Before she straightened all the way back up he was there, stepping through the sliding glass door that led into his bedroom.

He was the most dangerous-looking man she had ever seen. Instead of frightening her, she found that with him, and only with him, did she feel completely and utterly safe.

She also found those bad-boy aspects of him—the ferocity, the glower, even the tattoos—sexy as hell.

Her lips curled upward as she realized that her mother would be appalled.

“You think that making me come running is funny, do you?” Sloane’s words were gruff as he crossed the room toward her.

She shivered as his hands clasped her tightly around the waist and lifted. His palms were cool against her skin, which already felt hot and tight with need.

“I don’t think there’s a woman in the world who could make you come running.” Isla wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her the few remaining steps to the bed. Laying her down on crisp sheets that smelled deliciously of him, he then covered her body with his own, nudging a knee between her thighs intimately.

“You’re wrong.” Lowering his head to hers, Sloane kissed her, long and deep. Isla arched into the kiss, savoring the slow heat of the moment. When he finally allowed her a moment to breathe, she wondered if she’d actually heard him correctly.

“Sloane.” His lips trailed from her own down the column of her neck. He paused at the spot where her skin was paper thin and pulsed with every beat of her heart.

She jumped when he closed his teeth over that pulse, then moaned when he soothed the bite with a warm swipe of his tongue.

“This isn’t a good idea.” Tugging the elastic from her ponytail, Sloane fisted his hands in the long tangles of her hair, dragging her head forward so that she had to look him in the eye. He stared at her unwaveringly, as if trying to tell her something important.

“Why does it have to be a good idea or not? Why does it have to be right or wrong? Can’t it just be?” Beneath him Isla arched her hips. When her soft heat met the solid length of his erection he hissed, and a moment of triumph shot through her.

“So be it.” Closing his eyes reverently, Sloane nuzzled his face into her hair, seeming to inhale the scent. Isla shivered, though she felt flushed all over.

She had never wanted anything more in her life than she wanted this man.

Moving away from her hair, Sloane again placed his lips on her pulse, lathing his tongue over the tender spot. Kissing a trail down the column of her neck, pausing in the hollow of her throat, he moved to the swell of one of her breasts.

The sensation when his lips closed over her nipples was sharp, like razors slicing through her veins. She cried out, the voice swallowed as Sloane again pressed his lips to her own, exploring her mouth with bold sweeps of his tongue.