Seducing the Vampire (12 page)

“Bloody deuce,” he said on an exhale. “You've quite the grip, LaMourette.”

“Mmm…” She pressed a kiss to his neck where his vein pulsed madly. Yet her hand worked its own wicked sorcery, now softly tracing the head of him. “I like to be in control.”

“It is something I guessed about you the first night we…ahhh…met.”

The ease of her fingers over his thickened head, tugging and squeezing… Hot breath dusted his nipple. Lips drawn over her teeth, she nipped his sensitive flesh.

“Viviane…”

“Come for me.” Her eyes held his, their faces a breath apart. “Give me what I want.”

A twist of her wrist tugged the sensitive skin of his testicles, which now hugged his body tightly. Rhys could not control the wicked climax that shuddered his bones and weakened his muscles. Head pressed to the wall, he moaned. Madness that he was so close to releasing.

“Show me you are willing to succumb,” she cooed. “To allow me to learn you, body—” she lashed his eyelid with her tongue “—and soul.”

Her fingers moist with the seed that dribbled from him, slicked him swiftly, drawing him into her power, and claiming him.

He wanted to give her anything she asked. To surrender, to—hell, he couldn't think of any other reason. His brain was fogging. His muscles grew tight. All sensation focused in his groin. He was going to…

Rhys cried out roughly. The force of his climax tightened his abdomen and thighs, and he clenched his fist and beat the wall behind him.

“The deuce, yes,” he growled. “Yes, yes and yes.”

Viviane purred and licked her fingers, glistening with his ejaculation. Her mouth was red, torrid from him. She smiled wickedly and tapped his hard abdomen beside the evidence of his surrender. “Inappropriate enough for you?”

Rhys cursed softly, yet the heady warmth of elation silenced further response.

She strolled into the foyer and opened the front door. “I had come to also talk about the murders. I feel you are more invested in finding the culprit than Constantine. When next we meet, we'll talk, yes? Unless other things interrupt us.” The wicked temptress smiled, revealing the glinting tips of her fangs. “Good eve, Monsieur Hawkes.”

And like a ghostly figment the vampiress slipped into the night on a giggle and a sigh.

 

V
IVIANE SWEPT THROUGH THE
narrow streets toward home. She could not erase her smile. She'd intended to merely question Rhys about his brother and the investigation and then leave.

She'd never seen a man stand before her with such audacity, baring himself so proudly. She had indulged in sexual liaisons with the finest and most expert lovers. Rhys was shameless, and that had sparked the wanton within her.

Slipping around the stables and entering Henri's home from the servant's entrance, Viviane closed the door and leaned against it. She traced her lips with her fingers, still tasting him on her skin.

“Milady!”

Portia scrambled around the corner, grabbing the door frame to curb her trajectory.

“What is it?”

“Lord de Salignac.”

“He was here?”

“
Is
here.” She nodded over a shoulder. “I told him you were out, but he insisted upon waiting.”

“Bother.” Viviane pressed a palm to her sudden rushing heart.

“He's been here most of an hour. In the music room.”

Even more bother.

Viviane handed Portia her cape and strode toward the stairway. “Bring me wine,” she called back. “And tell him I must freshen up.”

Much as she had desired to lie down and dream of her antics with Rhys, she must now erase the taste of him if she was to face Constantine. Why did he insist on calling without prompt?

Portia scrambled about the vanity to place a touch of rouge to her cheeks while Viviane mulled over a glass of wine to settle her vacillating nerves before leaving her chamber to meet Constantine.

 

W
HITE LACE SPILLING FROM HIS
sleeves and at his neck, and jet hair curling at his shoulders, Constantine cut a romantic figure, Viviane thought as she approached him. A Romanesque face, square, strong, like a gladiator, and yet refined. He was everything Rhys was not.

We've different fathers
.

How interesting. And yet, she wondered if she should bring up the subject now. Constantine was not aware she knew. She'd gotten the impression he was embarrassed by Rhys.

“Lord de Salignac.”

Constantine turned abruptly, a frown marring his handsome visage. “My bravo tells me he saw Hawkes leave your home the other night.”

So much for niceties.

“I did not allow him entrance.” Because they'd embraced upon the threshold. And so much more. Good thing he'd not had her followed just now.

“But he pursues you?”

“I…don't believe so.”

She hated lying, but felt it was best in lieu of Constantine's strange anger. He must suspect Rhys a rival for her patronage. Though Rhys had said he was not interested.

Time to steer this conversation on a new course. “Did you notice the hay strewn on the street on your way here?”

“Madame Roux has it laid down in the summer to muffle the noise of horse hooves. Viviane, I must tell you something.”

Oh? Well, if he would reveal Rhys as his brother, then she had not to worry about keeping the secret.

“Viviane, I am about to reveal a secret to you. It is a secret I will ask you to take to your grave.”

“About Rhys?”

He nodded. Why would their being brothers be such a dire secret? Take it to the grave? She nodded, encouraging Constantine to speak.

He sighed and clamped his arms across his chest. “Rhys Hawkes is half werewolf and half vampire.”

Mouth dropping open, Viviane felt as though she shook her head, but she was too startled to gauge her own movements. She sought the love seat across the room, but while her body wavered, she could not make herself move toward it.

“I know. It is quite a shocking revelation.”

An actual werewolf? But how could he possibly…? That was not the secret she had thought to hear.

“I believe it best you know since it appears he's been visiting you.”

“Only to ask after Henri's murder,” she said quickly, not sure from where she'd summoned that.

She had just come from Rhys's embrace. Had been so intimate with him. He was half werewolf?

She flicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. To erase the taste of him? She despised werewolves.

“What does Rhys's—Monsieur Hawkes's—presence matter regarding that? I understand he is investigating the murders.”

“You see? Yet he favors the wolves' side, is staying in a wolf's home, even. Because he is one. Or part one.”

“How do you have this information?” But she knew. If they were brothers…

“Oh. I just know.” So he would not reveal their connection. Too odd. He wished to protect himself but not his brother. “I've known it about him for some time.”

“I need to think about this.”

“Why is that?” Constantine slipped a finger along her jaw, tilting her head so she could do nothing but look him in the eye. So dark, his eyes. Like Rhys's eyes—because they shared a common parent. Yet when she looked into Rhys's eyes she saw compassion, not the calculated chill she saw now.

Why had Rhys neglected to mention that very large detail? Their familial connection was minimal compared to this.

Where was the wine? She needed a drink. Her fingers fluttered across her breasts. Did she smell of Rhys?

“You are my ally, Viviane. The two of us alone know this secret.”

“And Rhys.”

“Yes, I would ask you not to name him so intimately. It is Monsieur Hawkes.”

“You act as though this information is something we wield against him.”

“It is. The truth will see him ostracized.”

“But you want that because you believe him your rival.”

He clapped his jaw shut abruptly. “You name him my rival?”

This was getting out of hand. She could not continue the conversation and expect not to say something detrimental. “You need to leave. Now.”

“If he is my rival, you tread dangerous territory, Viviane,” he warned. “No vampire will have a woman tainted by a wolf.”

“I am not. But it shouldn't matter.” Had she engaged in…? With a wolf?

Viviane fainted.

Paris, modern day

T
HE
M
ERCEDES PULLED DOWN
the street toward the meeting destination.

“I don't understand the patronage thing.”

On the passenger seat, Rhys looked over the UrbanTrash.com website Simon had brought up on the laptop. “It is an antiquated practice.”

“Must be. I thought vamps just did their thing nowadays. I've never seen a female who needed someone to keep her alive. It's not in the lore I've studied.”

“Two hundred years ago vampires believed the females weaker, and they were, or at least, they were
designed
to be weak. They were generally kept by patrons, and away from mortal blood sources, which would have strengthened them. Their patron would blood them regularly to ensure survival. But a sort of evolution occurred, and over time the females began to not need the patron. I imagine they might have survived without one even then, if only they had not been afraid to attempt it.”

“You think Viviane…?”

“If any female could have survived it would have been Viviane.”

“Could you have patroned her?”

“Could I or would I?” The question Rhys had struggled with far too long after he'd last kissed Viviane. “I feared
taking her blood would further aggravate the vampire who forces my werewolf to bloody mayhem. As well, a werewolf bitten by a vampire develops a blood hunger.”

“Have you ever taken blood from a vampire or allowed a vampire to bite you?”

“No.”

“Huh.” Simon spied a parking space and swerved into it. “That's strange. I mean, you admit yourself some practices are antiquated. Maybe some of your beliefs are?”

“You've seen my werewolf. You tell me—dare I risk it?”

Simon shifted into Park. “Maybe not.”

“A normal wolf would rage and seek blood after being bitten by a vampire. Me? It was unfathomable to me at the time.”

“Maybe a vampire bite would tame your rage? You know, a vampiress connecting with your vampire?”

Over the centuries Rhys had toyed with the notion. No matter how many ways he twisted it, he was never satisfied with a solution.

“It's up the street.” Simon motioned to the café. “You ready to do this?”

Rhys nodded. Ready, and so not ready.

 

D
ANE LEANED AGAINST THE BRIDGE
railing across the street from the café. She'd know the marks when she saw them. She'd been hired by tourists wanting her to lead them through the tunnels all the time. That was fine, and a quick way to make money.

It was the fringe crowd who applied requesting specifics that made her cautious and aware not everyone in this world was kind, curious, or out for fun.

She'd lost her life twice in the tunnels thanks to bad judgment.

But how to resist the cash promised for this venture? The guy must be a crazy old millionaire. One last fling before he cacked. She could take him to the deepest depths, which went down seven stories. That should give him a thrill.

But ten thousand a day? Heck, if she could engage the guy for three days, she'd be home free. The bastards who'd been on her back about the loan could be paid, and she wouldn't have to walk with one eye over her shoulder when aboveground.

Slapping at a mosquito that landed on her cheek, she held her palm there as she spied two men walking from the north toward the café. One was tall, wore a business shirt and tie and carried a briefcase. The other ambled, rather than walked, and wore a scruffy leather jacket, his hands tucked in the pockets. Beneath a short, spiky crop of hair his eyes took in the surroundings.

“Bingo,” she muttered. “Old man and his accountant, no doubt. I wonder if the codger has had a physical lately. I don't want him to have a heart attack on my watch.”

Though he couldn't be that old. His hair was jet-black; he might dye it were it not for the patch of gray streaking one side. His strides were sure, no hunched back or signs of age. Hmm…

Before entering the café, the man gave one last glance up the street. There was something about his movements, preening and focused, that put her on guard. He wasn't like most.

She
wasn't like most. Could he possibly be?

“I don't like dealing with Dark Ones,” she muttered. But the witches of the Light held no appeal, either.

Humans were easiest to work with. Dark and Light ones had an agenda, or predetermined prejudices that always
put her at the scale's bottom. And they always thought they could tell her what to do.

“Money is good. So is food,” she reminded herself.

Hefting up her packed duffel, Dane strode across the street. Simon, the guy who'd IM'd her—whom she tagged as the shirt and tie—had assumed she was male. She didn't need to introduce his mistake right away.

Trying to appear as if she was only coming here for refreshment, she forced herself not to look at the two men seated by the front window.

As she waited for her macchiato, she opened her senses to the room. Beyond the coffee beans and the unappetizing lard used in the pastries she could pick up the spice cologne the shirt-and-tie wore.

The other man's scent was feral.

A wolf? It was easy enough to guess at his kind. Rare did she see them in the city. Even in this day and age they usually kept to the country. Explained his sun-browned skin. The wrinkles cresting out from the corners of his eyes? He must be old, indeed. Though werewolves did age less smoothly than say, a vampire, who could look youthful and cold as marble for a millennium.

Would he know what she was? Probably not. And keep it that way.

The clerk shoved her drink across the counter and snapped up her money. “Merci.”

Now or never, Dane. Do you want the money?

Hell yes. She was in for the ride, or at least the introductory course.

Dane turned and trod over to the men's table. Setting her cup down, she dragged a nearby chair noisily before the table. She straddled it backward and pushed her duffel between her torso and the chair back, leaning in to sip the hot brew.

“Messieurs,” she offered. “I'm Dane Weft.”

 

“Y
OU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE A GUY
,” Simon dumbly said around a bite of his croissant.

Rhys delivered his cohort an admonishing nod of his head.

The bedraggled mess of dreads, shabby clothing and a distinct odor—of dirt and lack of soap about her—put him back in his chair. Bold green eyes held him as if defying him to classify her into a neat little slot.

After Simon had mentioned the guide's eccentricities he'd expected quirky. He hadn't expected a female.

He'd traveled three thousand miles on a whim. Now he was thinking to hand over a stack of cash to this scruff of a woman in hopes she could lead him to a chimera?

Simon set down the croissant and offered a hand for her to shake. “I'm Simon Markson.”

She looked at his hand, and then tilted her attention to Rhys. “And you are?”

“Rhys Hawkes,” he offered quietly.

“The man with the checkbook?”

“Cash.”

She couldn't repress a lift of brow. A thick blond dread spilled out from under the dirty hood and plonked her over the eye.

Something about her put up his hackles. That rarely happened. Witches were no longer enemies to his vampire because the Protection spell had been broken years earlier. And vampires, well he had that covered. Yet she was not human.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “One last fling before you bite the big one?”

“I don't understand.”

She shrugged. “You're an old man. Must not have too many years left on you.”

Rhys would not dignify her comment by showing
discomfort. He was two and a half centuries old; most werewolves did not live much longer than three centuries. Yet he felt young. Did he look so old to her?

“You want adventure?” she continued. “You're going to have to promise me you won't take your last breath while we're weaving through the depths. I don't need that on my conscience.”

“Old is relative,” he replied. And she was obnoxious. And her smell was beginning to get under his skin. He could not read her, and until she showed herself to him, there was nothing about her to believe. “I don't intend to die anytime soon. What makes you the expert on the tunnels beyond you claiming to have mapped the majority of them?”

“I've spent the last two decades under the city.”

“That would explain the smell,” Simon commented. He offered her a wry grimace, but she didn't seem to mind the ribbing. She gained points for that.

“You need a guide? For so much cash, I'm assuming you've a destination or plan in mind. What are you looking for? Lost treasure?”

“The Vampire Snow White,” Rhys stated plainly. “You've heard the urban legend?”

She crossed her arms over the huge duffel propped before her. “You're kidding me.” Her eyes looked him up and down, seeing more than most. “Yeah, I know the legend. Think about it every once in a while when I'm below. About a decade ago, a local gang of cataphiles used to search for the glass coffin. Never found anything. Why would they?”

“There were others searching for her?”

“Juicy legend like that? Hell, yeah.”

Rhys gaped at Simon. Why had no one told him about
this legend sooner? Could Simon not have put two and two together and guessed he might have an interest?

Hell, he shouldn't put the blame on others. Slapping his palms together before him, he pressed his thumbs to his mouth and stared at Weft.

He felt sure her intense green gaze was reading him. There was something
beyond
about her, but he couldn't quite place it. Her smell masked any telling scent he might manage to read from her. Faery?

No, he'd just
know
a faery.

“So you think you'll find the coffin here in the seventh?” she asked. “I can tell you right now, I've been through all the tunnels below us. Nothing down there except a bunch of rats.”

I'm afraid of them. Silly, isn't it?

Rhys sucked down his black tea in an awkward swallow. He would not allow himself to grieve or summon emotion for what he knew was lost from him forever. She was dead. No one could have survived for so long and in such a manner. He was merely closing one final door and nailing it securely.

Yet who had nailed the coffin with her inside? Could it have been Constantine? He was the only one Rhys would name Viviane's enemy. And his.

“But if you want to fill my pockets with cash for showing you about below, I'm game.” The woman slurped her macchiato, then licked the cup rim as if to get every last drop of flavor.

“Is there any place in the city you've not been?” Simon prompted. “If you've covered the majority, and not found a thing, then perhaps it best we look where you have not?”

“Listen, guys. You two seem nice enough. Human, even. At least one of you.”

She shot Rhys a glance. So she knew? But did she know what he was? Good luck with that one.

“And I'm all for entertaining wild dreams of discovering a long-buried glass coffin and opening it to kiss the princess awake. Or whatever plans you have for it. But you do know it's a legend, right? That means it's
not real,
” she whispered to emphasize. “There is no glass coffin. The Vampire Snow White doesn't exist. We'd be tripping about in the dark.”

“She may exist,” Rhys said.

Pray God, she did not after all this time
.

He hadn't seen Constantine in over a century, but was aware he still lived. If he had anything to do with secreting Viviane away…

Simon caught him, warning with a look. They'd agreed not to reveal that Rhys thought this could be real. Only that they were adventurers who wanted to follow the legend for fun.

“Says the werewolf,” Dane replied. She held him with a smug grin.

Rhys leaned forward, opening his palm and spreading his fingers over the table. Close to her. An offer of a sort. “You think you know things about me?”

“I picked you out from across the street, wolf. And no, I'm not going to tell you what I am to know such things.”

He closed his hand, and sat back. A glance to Simon read his bewildered constitution. The man may have the knowledge, but meeting other paranormals up close? He was always nervous.

“Why would a werewolf be looking for a vampire?” Dane tossed out.

Rhys shook his head negatively. He wasn't about to reveal his truth. If she scented his wolf, but not his
vampire, that was her problem. “Just curious, is all. I want to get in, cover the area, and get out. Satisfy the curiosity as quickly as possible. You still interested in such a fruitless venture?”

“Ten thousand, up front?”

“You haven't given us reason to trust you,” Simon interrupted. “Where do you live? How can we contact you?”

“I live in the city. You already have my email address.”

“She'll come with us and we'll begin tonight,” Rhys stated.

She drew her gaze over him again. Beyond the dirt and filth he sensed there might be an attractive woman. But she didn't appeal to his lust in any way, shape, or form.

“You going to put me up and feed me?”

“And bathe you,” he added, and stood. He held out a hand. “Have we a deal?”

“I still haven't seen the cash.”

He dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple hundred Euros. “I don't carry the bulk with me. Come along with me to my estate, and after you've showered, you'll get the rest.”

“So my working with you hinges on my cleanliness?”

He held out the money, waiting for her compliance. “Yes.”

Rolling her eyes, she smacked her palm loudly against his. He didn't sense any telling vibrations or get a feel for what she was. Not human, as she'd intimated.