My Reluctant Warden (8 page)

My fear must have shown on my face, because he reached out his fingers to delicately cup my chin and tilt my head up.

“Angelina,” he breathed, and that wasn’t fair. How was I supposed to think with his voice like a caress and his fingers touching me so innocently, yet so intimately?

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I’d never hurt you. I promise.”

Relief washed over me. I believed him. The truth was as plain in his expression as it was in his voice. I nodded and opened my mouth to say—I don’t know what, really. But then his fingertips trailed down my jaw to my neck. They rested there, pressing against my pulse point as he added, “Not unless you asked for it.”

Right away, I knew with the utmost clarity what he meant: he wouldn’t bite me unless I invited him to. A frisson coursed through me, and I couldn’t have said if it was from fear or something else. Something I was afraid to name even in own mind.

“So… Dinner?” I said again, my voice shaking as much as my knees.

“At seven?” he offered. When he dropped his hand to his side, it was all I could do not to protest the loss of contact. “In the small dining room?”

The ‘small’ one? As in, there was more than one? I supposed it shouldn’t have surprised me. After all, I had toured his home.

“I have no idea where that is,” I admitted with a small shrug.

“No matter. I’ll pick you up.”

The thought, strangely enough, made me happy. He’d pick me up, like this was a real date. Like I wasn’t trapped in this home. Like this was all a normal developing relationship rather than… What was this, really?

I was about to ask, but when I started with a quiet, “Mr. Ward?” he shook his head and said, “Please, call me Morgan.”

“Morgan,” I repeated, trying the name. It felt as heady as a sip of strong wine. Suddenly, I didn’t want to question what was happening between us anymore. I’d know soon enough. Actually, I looked forward to figuring it out—with him. “Seven. I’ll be ready.”

Before I could leave, he took my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles, causing my heart to race yet again.

As I started down the hallway, I could feel his gaze on me, and it was a struggle not to turn back.

I returned to my suite, and only when I reached it did I start to panic. Dinner with Mr. Ward—with Morgan…

What on Earth was I going to wear?

I had unpacked the whole suitcase, and I knew exactly what my options were. Mostly, he’d packed comfortable things for me, and I couldn’t imagine going to dinner—a date?—in jeans. There was one thing, though…

I pulled out my little black dress. That was it. Even better: I already knew he liked it. It had been at the back of my closet. It was very much a ‘wow him on the first date’ dress, and I hadn’t had a first date in a long while. Clearly if he had packed the dress for me, it had to mean something.

It wasn’t even six, but I didn’t have anything else to do, so I started to get ready. I freshened up, got dressed, put on some make up, then tried a few pairs of shoes to decide which one looked best with the dress.

It’s useless for me to pretend I’m a fashion expert. But working with Miss Delilah and a handful of designers she trusted exclusively to dress her, I’ve picked up a few things over the years. I’d bought this one dress from a sample sale from one of those designers.

Narrow straps opened on a modest V neckline. I’d had the dress fitted so that it fell just right on my hips, giving me a perfect hourglass shape. It stayed snug down to my thighs then flared in gentle folds that danced around me with each step I took. The black chiffon wasn’t merely flattering: it looked great on me. I know, it sounds immodest, but that wasn’t my opinion: it was what I’d been told every time I’d worn it.

I tried the ruby slippers with it and looked at myself in the floor-length mirror attached to the closet door. These shoes would look gorgeous with anything. Morgan had seen them, however, and he’d said he wanted to see another pair I’d chosen. The black kitten heels were next, and they looked fine, but they didn’t have the same ‘wow’ factor as the dress. The third pair was the charm: white shoes with a black, rounded toe and a matching black back and high heel.

The hardest part was waiting for him. Ten minutes before seven o’clock, I was in the sitting room, pacing, then sitting, then pacing again, getting more nervous than before any first date I’d ever been on. Which, on one hand, was weird, because we’d already slept together. On the other hand, I had since learned that he was a vampire, so maybe being jittery was a more appropriate response.

Of course, I wasn’t nervous because he was a vampire. I was nervous because he was handsome. Because I liked him. Because I wanted to get to know him better. Because I wanted to get close to him again. Intimately so. Even if I knew it was all going too fast.

Well… too fast was relative. That antique clock on the wall certainly seemed to be going at a snail’s pace.

At long last, the knock I’d been waiting for came. I stepped forward, smoothed my hands down my dress, and pulled the door open.

Morgan stood there, wearing black slacks and a light gray shirt. He blinked once, then let his gaze trail over me. It felt like it was his hand running over my shoulders, hips, and legs.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured in a rumbling voice.

Are you getting tired of hearing me say he made me blush?

“Well, you picked the dress,” I said, ducking my head and looking at him through my eyelashes. “I mean, you packed it for me.”

A hint of darkness crossed his face. All right, maybe reminding him—and myself—of the circumstances that had thrown us together might not have been the best thing to do.

“Shall we?” he said, offering me his arm.

It felt oddly formal, but I took it. I thought we’d go down to the second floor to one of the gorgeous rooms there, but instead he led me to a room on this floor. If this was the ‘small dining room,’ I was rather curious to know what the large one looked like.

An intricate and enormous rug on the floor, two French windows opening onto a view of Central Park, paintings on all four walls: the room was as finely furnished as the rest of the mansion, which, granted, wasn’t much of a surprise anymore. The massive wood table could have seated ten guests with plenty of elbow room. The chairs were carved, the seats upholstered in crimson velvet.

Two white, linen placemats had been set opposite each other near the end of the table. On each, a gold-lined plate, silverware, and two sparkling glasses were arranged just so. A single, tall candle burned on one side of the table next to a red rose in a thin vase. Opposite them, a bottle of red wine and a pitcher of water were each set on round coasters. It all looked lovely. I’d dined in fine restaurants where the decor wasn’t half as nice.

Morgan led me to my chair and held it for me while I sat. Only when he sat across from me did I notice Stephen. He was standing by a side door, gloved hands clasped in front of him; once we were both seated, he said simply, “Sir?”

With a glance toward him, Morgan nodded. “Please.”

Stephen inclined his head and left the room through a swinging door. I watched him go, slightly bemused.

“What is it?” Morgan asked as he poured wine for both of us, then filled my water glass as well. “You seem surprised.”

I looked back at him. The table was wide enough that he felt very far from me, and as nice as everything was, I couldn’t help but wish we were closer.

“Not surprised,” I said. “Just… I don’t know. It looks like you’ve done this before. Had someone for dinner, I mean.”

“And what made you think I hadn’t?” he asked with a faint smile.

The door swung open again and Stephen entered with a wide tray balanced on one hand and his shoulder, and one of those folding supports like in a restaurant. He came to my side first, set the tray down on the support, then uncovered a bowl which had been under a metal dome and placed it on the plate in front of me.

“Tomato and lobster bisque,” he announced in a discreet voice before picking up his tray and moving to the other side of the table. Instead of a bowl, he placed an unmarked porcelain mug, black and shiny, in front of Morgan. He didn’t say what was in it, but I had a sneaking suspicion.

From where I sat, I couldn’t see inside the mug, but what else could it be? After all, Morgan had told me he was a vampire.

“Is that blood?” I couldn’t help from blurting out.

Behind Morgan, Stephen flashed me a startled look before schooling his features and exiting the room. Morgan’s expression was as inscrutable as his voice when he said, “It is. If it bothers you, I’ll abstain.”

Did it bother me?

No, let me turn that around. Would it bother you?

A lot of people are scared when they see blood, whether their own or someone else’s. And at the same time, we watch movies in which buckets of fake blood are used on innocent victims, villains and heroes alike. People from our blood are our family. As children, we swear blood oaths with our friends or siblings. Girls start their road to womanhood with a few drops of blood. We used to refer to people as ‘common blood’ or ‘high blood’ to indicate their station in life. We’re asked to donate blood to save lives. When doctors want to know if something’s wrong with us, they often take a close look at our blood. Blood is life, but it’s a lot more than that, too.

The thought that there was blood in that mug was a little off-putting. Or maybe even more than a little. But at the same time, if that was what he ate, how could I deny that to him? It wasn’t like it was my blood—like he was hurting me. Plenty of humans eat things that someone else would think is gross. As long as he didn’t ask me to try it…

“It’s all right,” I said, trying to sound like I meant it.

I took a spoonful of my soup to give myself time to put my thoughts in order. I almost moaned at how good it was—thick, flavorful and just a little spicy.

“I just… When you suggested dinner, I thought we’d share the same food. Do you ever eat real food? I mean, human food?” I gave him a rueful smile. “You know what I mean.”

He smiled back and raised the mug to his lips, taking a small sip. It felt like a test that it truly didn’t bother me that he was drinking blood. I told myself it was coffee in there and focused on my own delicious soup.

“We can eat small quantities of human food,” he said. “It’s one of the things that allow us to blend in. But we don’t gain anything from it. What we need is blood.”

His sip, this time, was a little longer. When he lowered his mug again, a corner of his lips was stained dark red. He picked up the napkin from his lap and dabbed at his mouth. I was getting used to the idea, I realized.

I was also quickly reaching the end of my delicious bowl of soup.

Setting the spoon down, I dabbed at my mouth like he had and wondered how much he was ready to share with me about what he was. So far, he hadn’t said much, even with my repeated pleas for explanations. He seemed more open tonight. Was it because we were sharing a meal? Because I’d said his diet didn’t bother me? I tried another question.

“Is it…” I meant to ask if it was human blood, but suddenly I couldn’t form the words. I tried again. “What kind of blood is it?”

“Human,” he replied without hesitation.

He must have noticed my small flinch because he added, “Not all blood donated during blood drives is suitable for medical purposes. We have ways of acquiring what would otherwise end up as medical waste. We can drink animal blood, too, but it’s… less pleasant. Like the difference between a gourmet meal and fast food.”

Thinking over his words, I picked up my glass of wine. I took only a small mouthful. For a few moments, I watched Stephen come in with his tray again. He took away my empty bowl and set a plate in front of me: filet mignon dusted with herbs along with an array of roasted vegetable bites. When he went to Morgan’s side of the table, he had a terra-cotta pitcher in hand and refilled the mug. I waited until he had left the room again before I started to say, “Do you ever…”

I cut myself short. How much could I pry? And did I really want to know?

“Do we ever what?” he asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Is this okay? Me asking questions, I mean. I don’t want to… to be nosy or something.”

I kept my eyes on my plate as I spoke, cutting a small piece of meat. It was so tender it practically melted in my mouth. This was turning out to be the best meal I’d had in a while; too bad no one was sharing it with me.

“If your questions bothered me, I wouldn’t hesitate to let you know. Go ahead. What were you going to ask?” When I didn’t answer right away, he took a guess. “Do we ever drink directly from humans?”

I gave a small nod. My mouth felt suddenly dry. I took another drink—water this time. The wine was strong, and I wanted to keep a clear head.

“Most of us do. It’s the normal order of things, you might say. Lilah does, in case you were wondering. She’s very good at keeping her donors alive and coming back to offer her more.”

I nodded again and tried to focus on my food; the truth was, I hadn’t been about to ask about vampires in general or even Miss Delilah. I wanted to know if it was something that he did. At the same time, knowing for sure scared me a little.