Everlasting Desire
Read Everlasting Desire Online
Authors: Amanda Ashley
She picked up a dark chocolate truffle.
Nirvana,
she thought as it melted in her mouth. “What do you like?”
“I like you,” he said quietly. “Far more than I should. Far more than is good for you.”
Megan stared at him, suddenly reminded that she knew almost nothing about this man. That they were alone in an empty building. That no one would hear her if she screamed for help. An innate sense of self-preservation had her taking a step backward, even though there was no place to go.
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to frighten you.”
She searched her mind for some flip reply to ease the tension that stretched between them, but nothing came to mind. Why was she suddenly so afraid?
“Megan.” Putting his glass aside, he ran a hand through his hair. He had known bringing her to his lair had been a bad idea from the start. Having her here, so close, was proving to be even more of a temptation than he had expected. If only her eyes weren't as soft and brown as sun-warmed earth, her skin so incredibly smooth, her lips so pink and inviting. If only her blood didn't sing to himâ¦.
Other titles available by Amanda Ashley
A Whisper of Eternity
After Sundown
Dead Perfect
Dead Sexy
Desire After Dark
Night's Kiss
Night's Master
Night's Pleasure
Night's Touch
Immortal Sins
Everlasting Kiss
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
For Brandon
and
Skylynn
May the Good Lord bless you
with health and happiness
I love you!
In fond memory of
Elizabeth Camp.
Reader, friend, and poet.
Standing at the helm of his eighty-foot Ferretti, Tomás Villagrande stared out at the vast ocean, his thoughts turned inward. He had been a vampire for a very long time. Some believed he had been turned by Dracula, but Tomás had been made long before the notorious count arrived on the scene. Ah, yes, if the truth were to be known, it was Tomás who had bequeathed the Dark Trick to the world's most infamous vampire.
Tomás grinned at the memory. Vlad Dracula had been born to be a vampire. Tomás had turned many people in his time, but none had embraced the Dark Gift as fully or as eagerly as the Transylvanian warlord.
Tomás blew out a sigh. In his long existence, he had traveled the world countless times, seen and done all there was to see and do. And now, after more than fifteen hundred years of existence, he was bored with life as he knew it.
As a mortal man, he had been born to be a warrior, though he had always had a love for the sea. When he wasn't at war, he could be found out on the ocean. But it seemed there was always another war, and another.
When he turned vampire, being a warrior became a whole new adventure, and, for a time, he had put his love of the ocean behind him. Impervious to death, he had stalked the night, instilling terror in the hearts of his enemies even as he turned the land red with their bloodâwhat blood he didn't consume. He grinned into the darkness. Ah, in those days, he had glutted himself on the warm, rich red elixir, sated himself until he could hold no more. Drank until he was drunk with it, and in so doing, he became stronger than any other vampire who walked the face of the earth.
Gradually, ground warfare had lost its appeal, and he had gone to sea where, once again, he instilled terror into the hearts of his enemies. Sailing under a black pirate flag, he had terrorized English ports and ships, robbing wealthy Englishmen of their riches and their lives until that, too, lost its allure, and he had come to the New World seeking peace.
Tomás drew in a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the scent of surf and sand. He'd had enough of peace. It was time to fight again, time to rally the ranks of the Undead and spread a little terror among the masses.
His lip curled with pleasure at the mere idea. It was time to stir things up, to remind mankind that there really were monsters hiding under the bed and in the closet.
Reclining on a chaise longue on the balcony of his penthouse, a snifter of imported red wine in one hand, Rhys Costain stared out over the city of Los Angeles and contemplated the events of the last few months.
Mariah, the treacherous vampiress who had offered a sizable reward for his head, had been destroyed, sent to hell by Rhys's own hand.
Erik Delacourt, the only beingâman or vampireâRhys had ever called friend, had moved to Boston with his new bride, the delectable Daisy O'Donnell. It was an odd match, Rhys mused, the vampire and the Blood Thief. Former Blood Thief, he amended, since she had given up that line of work when Delacourt turned her.
Ah, Daisy, Rhys thought. A tasty morsel, indeed. But she was a female, and, as a sex, they were more treacherous than the male and not to be trusted, a truth he had learned firsthand centuries ago.
He rarely let himself think of the fair Josette, but tonight, feeling maudlin and a little lonely, he unlocked the gates of the past and stepped inside.
He had met Josette Rousseau in the summer of 1575 in Warwickshire. He remembered the year well because Robert Dudley had thrown a lavish party for Queen Elizabeth I at his castle in Kenilworth. The gathering had lasted three weeks. Of course, Rhys hadn't been invited. Commoners, whether vampire or mortal, didn't mingle with royalty, but everyone, highborn or low, talked about the gala event for weeks afterward.
Josette had been a young widow and a woman of means, with an estate in the country and a small townhouse in London. Rhys had been a young vampire back then, bold and impetuous. One look at Josette's clear porcelain skin and sparkling blue eyes and he had been hopelessly smitten. He could have mesmerized her and made her want him, but it hadn't been necessary. The attraction between them had been instantaneous and impossible to ignore.
He had met her on a Saturday night and taken her to his bed the following Friday. Because he had been young and proud, he had refused to move into her lavish estate. Instead, he had insisted they meet at his flat, humble as it was. Fearing that he might hurt her, or worse, turn her in a moment of weakness, he had been careful to feed each night before she came to him.
He had never known a woman like her, as elegant and proud as a queen when they were with the ton, as wanton as any common courtesan when they were alone.
Several months passed, and Rhys had been happier than he had ever been, either as a mortal man or a vampire, so in love that he no longer cared that she was wealthy, or that he was far beneath her socially. So in love that he had decided to put their differences aside and ask her to marry him. It was a bold move for a man whose mother had been a prostitute, a man who had once stolen from the rich to keep body and soul together.
He'd had marriage on his mind the night he went, unexpected and unannounced, to her estate. It was a night he would never forget. Expecting to find his lady love in her bedroom dressing for dinner, he had floated up to her second-floor window, thinking how surprised she would be to see him at such an early hour.
The surprise had been his. He had found Josette in bed with a young duke, and in that instant, reality had come rushing in, and with it the certainty that she had never loved him. She had merely been using him for her own amusement. The lady and the commoner. Fueled by rage and a sense of betrayal beyond words, he had killed the young man. Deaf to Josette's cries for forgiveness, unmoved by her incoherent pleas for mercy, Rhys had let her see him for the monster that he was. Her terror had driven him over the edge. Taking her in his embrace, he had buried his fangs in her throat and taken what he had denied himself for so long. Took it all, until she lay limp and unmoving in his arms. Horrified by what he had done, he fled the house.
In the four hundred and thirty-five years since that night, he had never let himself care for another woman. He had seduced them. He had made love to them. He drank from them, but he had guarded his heart like a fortress. Four hundred and thirty-five years, he mused, sipping his wine. It was a long time to be alone and unloved.
He thought again of Delacourt and his Daisy. Despite the fact that Delacourt was a vampire and Daisy had been a blood thief when they met, the two of them had fallen in love.
Rhys grinned inwardly. Knowing Daisy, it was hard to believe that she had once crept up on sleeping vampires, stolen a pint of their blood, and sold it on the Internet. But then, looks could be deceiving.
Rhys ran a hand through his hair. If Delacourt and Daisy could overcome obstacles like that, maybe it was time for him to try again.
Rhys snorted softly. What the hell was he thinking? If he had learned anything in the last five hundred and twelve years, it was never to make the same mistake twice.
Megan DeLacey sighed when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after midnight. Two hours until closing and, except for the owner, Shore's was empty. She didn't really like working nights and, if the pay and the perks hadn't been so good, she would have gone looking for a new job long ago.
Shore's was an exclusive men's shop that catered to wealthy clientsâmainly eccentric rock stars and theater and movie people who preferred to shop late at night, thereby avoiding those who were less rich and famous.
Robert Parker had taken his knowledge of menswear and his friendship with a well-known actor and parlayed that combination into a tidy little business. Shore's opened at ten
A.M
. and closed at four
P.M
. to accommodate those who preferred to shop during the day, and then reopened its doors at eight
P.M
. and stayed open until two in the morning. Megan and Mr. Parker worked the late shift.
Parker stocked only the finest men's apparelâShore's most inexpensive shirt sold for $375. Megan thought it was an outrageous price to pay for a short-sleeved cotton shirt, but then, she had been raised by a frugal mother and a father who was frequently out of work.
Parker also kept an assortment of spirits and black caviar on hand for his exclusive customers, as well as imported chocolates for the ladies. The chocolates were one of the perks Megan enjoyed the most, as Mr. Parker let her take home whatever was left at the end of the week.
Megan had worked at Shore's for just over a year, and, in that time, she had become a favorite of several of Mr. Parker's clients, including a well-known Hollywood producer, an Oscar-winning actor, and a famous country singer, all of whom had become regulars and insisted that she cater to their needs. In return, they showered her with expensive giftsâjewelry, tickets to gala movie premieres, passes to concerts. She had felt guilty at first, accepting such costly gifts, but Mr. Parker had laughed at her reluctance.
“Honey, to guys like these, a hundred bucks, heck, even a thousand, doesn't mean a thing.”
Looking at it like that soothed her conscience. Mr. Parker was right. To an actor making fifteen or twenty million a picture, a few hundred dollars was just chump change.
A handful of her regular customers wanted more from her than her fashion expertise, but she refused to mix business with pleasure. One of her customers, an up-and-coming rock star, proposed to her every time he came into the store. He was cute and rich and very appealing, and she might have at least dated him except for one thingâDrexel was only nineteen years old.
Of course, there were nights like tonight when the store was empty. Hopefully, Mr. Parker would decide to close early since his last appointment had left an hour ago and her midnight appointment had called earlier to say he had missed his flight from New York and wouldn't be able to make it.
Megan was rearranging a display of imported French silk ties when a young man entered the store, bringing a blast of wind and a rush of cold air in with him. One look, and she knew he had never been in the store before, just as she knew she would never forget him.
A quick glance showed that his tan slacks were Armani, his boots were Gucci, and his dark brown leather jacket was top of the line Hugo Boss. It was said that clothes made the man, but this man didn't need any help. He looked young, in his early twenties, but he exuded the confidence and authority of a much older man. His dark blond hair was short, though it had a slightly shaggy look, as if he were letting it grow out.
He moved toward her on silent feet, every movement somehow sensual yet dangerous, as if he was a predator and she was his prey.
Where on earth had that thought come from?
Thrusting the foolish notion from her mind, she forced a smile. “May I help you?”
As he drew closer, Megan saw that his eyes were a deep dark brown, world-weary eyes that should have belonged to a much older man. She shivered when he turned the full force of his gaze on her.
“I was just passing by.” His voice, low and innately sensual, seemed to resonate within every fiber of her being.
She couldn't stop staring at him. He was incredibly handsome, but it was more than that. She was used to being in the company of handsome men, but there was something about this man that had every nerve and cell in her body tingling and on edge. A part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to beg him to stay with her forever, while another part of her wanted to run away and hide while she still had the chance.
“It's kind of late for an evening stroll, isn't it?” she asked, somewhat flippantly.
“Not if one enjoys the quiet of a cool winter night.”
Something in his tone had her shivering again. “I prefer warm summer days myself.” She made a broad gesture with her hand. “Please, look around. Let me know if I can be of any help.”
She was keenly aware of his gaze on her back as she walked toward the rear of the store. Suddenly nervous without knowing why, she began to set up a new display of cologne and aftershave. Even with her back to him, she sensed his presence as he moved up and down the aisles. There was something almost otherworldly about him, she thought, though she had no idea where that thought came from. He dressed as well, if not better, than most of her clients. He exuded an aura of power, but so did most of the men who frequented Shore's. After all, money
was
power. But it was more than that.
“Miss?”
Megan's hand flew to her throat at the sound of his voice so close behind her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. “Yes?”
“I'll take these.”
Pasting a smile on her face, Megan turned and found herself gazing up into his eyes. He was close. Too close. She couldn't think, could scarcely breathe. She glanced around the store, relieved to see Mr. Parker emerge from the back room.
“Miss?” The stranger was watching her, a faint smile curving his lips, as if he knew just how much his nearness flustered her.
He liked Armani, she mused, as he held out a pair of black slacks and a black silk shirt, along with a black coat that cost more than she made in three months.
“Will this be all?” she asked, striving to keep her voice steady.
“For now.”
She quickly rang up the sale, noting, as she swiped his credit card, that his name was Rhys Costain. His signature was a bold scrawl across the bottom of the receipt.
Willing her hands not to shake, she slipped his purchases into one of the dark blue garment bags inscribed with the silver Shore's logo.
When she handed him the bag, she was careful not to touch him. “Thank you, Mr. Costain. Please come again.”
His gaze, as potent as a shot of Irish whiskey, bored into hers. “Count on it,” he said, and whistling softly, he turned and headed for the door.
Taking a deep breath, Megan held onto the edge of the counter as she watched him walk away. Lordy, she didn't know who Rhys Costain was, but that voice, those eyesâ¦She fanned herself with her hand as she willed her heartbeat to slow down, and fervently hoped never to see him again.
Â
Standing in the shadows outside the store, Rhys watched the woman as she straightened a shelf here, rearranged a display of silk ties there, answered the phone. She was a remarkably pretty woman, probably thirtyish, with hair the bright reddish gold of autumn leaves and warm brown eyes. He usually preferred blondes in their early twenties, but in this case, he was willing to make an exception.
Was it luck, coincidence, or fate that had sent him into the store that night? Most likely it had been fate, now having a good laugh at his expense due to the fact that not more than twenty-four hours ago he had renewed his vow never to get involved with a mortal woman again; like it or not, he had become involved the minute he laid eyes on her.
Whistling softly, he headed for home. Time to clean out his closet, he mused, since he suspected he would be buying a whole new wardrobe in the next few weeks.
Â
Megan was ringing up a sale for the lead guitarist in a popular rock band when she felt an odd sensation skitter down her spine. Looking up, she felt a nervous flurry in the pit of her stomach when she saw the young man who had come into the shop late last night. Rhys Costain.
Her smile was forced as she bid good night to her customer, then quickly turned away, pretending to check something on the computer, all the while hoping Mr. Parker would come forward to assist their customer.
But Mr. Parker remained in his office, with the door closed.
Megan didn't hear Costain's footsteps come up behind her, but she knew he was there. She could sense his presence, feel the intensity of his gaze on her back as he waited for her to acknowledge him.
Megan took a deep breath, counted to three, and turned around. “Good evening, Mr. Costain,” she said coolly. “How may I help you?”
“How, indeed?” he murmured.
His voice was smooth and soft, yet she detected a sharp edge underneath, like satin over steel. “Excuse me?”
“I'm looking for a black leather jacket.”
“What length?”
He shrugged, a graceful, unhurried movement. “Mid-thigh?”
“We have a few back here you might like.” Without waiting to see if he followed, she walked toward the back of the store. Pulling their most expensive coat from the rack, she held it up. “How about this one?”
He ran his hand lightly over the supple leather.
Watching him, Megan couldn't help imagining that pale, graceful hand stroking her bare skin.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yâ¦yes, very much.”
“Do you mind if I try it on?”
“Of course not.”
His hand brushed hers as he took the coat from the hanger. His skin was cool, yet a rush of heat flowed through her at his touch.
The coat fit as if it had been made for him, emphasizing his fair hair and broad shoulders.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. What was there about this man that made her feel like a tongue-tied teenager?
She felt her cheeks grow hot when he looked at her and smiled, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“So, you like it?”
Striving for calm, she said, “It looks very nice. There's a mirror over there. See for yourself.”
“No need.” Still smiling, he turned away, heading for the other side of the store.
Megan felt her blush deepen when he picked up several pairs of silk briefs, all black. Why was she acting so foolish? Men came in here and bought underwear all the time.
Frowning, she watched him pick up a dozen wife-beater T-shirts before moving to the checkout counter.
Regaining her senses, Megan stepped up to the register. “Are you going to wear the coat?”
With a nod, he removed the price tag and handed it to her.
She quickly rang up the sale, dropped his briefs and T-shirts in a bag, and offered it to him, careful, once again, to avoid his touch.
Again, his lips curved in that knowing smile.
“Good night, Mr. Costain,” she said, her voice tight.
“Good night, Miss DeLacey.”
The way he said her name made her insides curl with pleasure.
And then she frowned. “How did you know my name?”
He shrugged. “You must have mentioned it.”
She stared after him as he left the store. She was certain she hadn't told him her name. The fact that he knew it left her feeling violated somehow.
Â
He returned to the store every night just after midnight for the next week, and he always bought something: a dark pinstriped suit; a dozen dress shirtsâblack, brown, navy, and dark grayâall silk. He bought four pairs of Armani slacks in varying shades of brown, as well as three pairs of black slacks, two belts, three ties, a pair of black slippers, a black silk dressing gown.
Tonight he picked out a Trafalgar American Alligator wallet priced at $550.
He gave her a long, lingering look that made her insides curl with pleasure before he left the store.
“He's a big spender, that one,” Parker said, coming up behind Megan. “I wonder what he does for a living.”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I hope he sticks around. We haven't had a week like this since Bono came in to do his Christmas shopping.”
Megan nodded, though secretly she hoped that Mr. Rhys Costain would go back to wherever he had come from. His mere presence flustered her, and she didn't like it. She was far past the age to come unglued in the presence of a handsome man, especially when that man was at least ten years younger than she was.
It was close to three
A.M
. when Megan arrived at the small, two-story house she shared with her best friend, Shirley Mansfield. Shirl was a fashion model, which sounded a lot more glamorous than it was. Being a model involved dedication and self-denial, especially for Shirl, who was older than most of the popular models and had to work harder to keep fit. Of course, as far as anyone in the business knew, she was seven years younger than her actual twenty-eight years. Shirl rose every weekday at six and headed to the gym for a thirty-minute workout. Then she came home, took a shower, and ate a calorie-controlled breakfast. Then she was off to casting appointments and fittings, and, because she was extremely popular, more often than not she had a fashion shoot in the afternoon. She didn't usually make it home before five. Of course, the pay was excellent.
Megan didn't see much of Shirl during the week, since Shirl was usually in bed long before Megan got home from work.
After taking a quick shower, Megan slipped into a pair of comfy pj's and curled up in her favorite chair, determined to read for a few minutes before she went to bed. But she couldn't seem to concentrate on the words. Instead, Rhys Costain's image drifted through her mind. She told herself to forget him. For one thing, he was much too young for her; for another, there was an air of danger about him that scared her on some deep inner level she didn't understand.