Starry Knight (3 page)

He made another lingering appraisal. As raw need pulsed through his bloodstream, he decided to try. He wanted her, damn it, and was sick to death of denying himself the pleasures of female company—human female company.

A white-haired crone stood before him now. He held out his hand for her book, opened to the title page, and scrawled his signature line. With a tight-lipped smile, he handed it back and sought the cool brunette once more. Their gazes met with a high-voltage charge that crackled all the way to his brogues.

There was only one more person in line, thank the stars—a woman with chin-length dark hair, enormous gray eyes, and delicate features. Callum regarded her warily, noting she held no book.

“And what can I do for you?” he asked, sure he knew the answer.

“It’s not you I’m here to see,” she said with a Sassenach accent. “While I’d gladly swing among the stars with you anytime, Lord Lyon, I believe your astrology to be—now, how shall I put this delicately?—a lorry load of New Age horseshit.”

The comment both startled and bewildered Callum. If she thought astrology naught but bollocks, why was she here?

He got his answer when she turned to Duncan. “My name’s Miranda Hornsby. I’m a reporter for the
Caithness Crier
and I’ve got a hush, hush tip for you.”

Leaning closer, Duncan arched an eyebrow. “Oh, aye? And what might that be?”

“I’m about to do a take-down piece on Alasdair Sinclair.” She kept her voice low so only the two men could hear. “So, if you’re as smart as you look, you’ll have a challenger ready in time for the election.”

“But,” Duncan stammered, clearly caught off-guard, “the election’s only a few weeks away.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said before turning on her heel and striding off.

Rubbing his chin, Callum considered what she’d disclosed with growing excitement. Sinclair was the Member of Parliament for Caithness, a Scottish representative in the House of Commons, the elected body of representatives in the British Parliament. The Scottish Parliament, re-established in 1997, enjoyed only limited authority over domestic policy, so the real power still resided with the larger legislature in London.

Alasdair Sinclair was a total party puppet who routinely ignored his constituents while committing flagrant adultery. In addition to being a conservative who opposed independence—bad enough on its own—Sinclair was a descendant of the ruthless bastards who’d stolen Castle Barrogill, killed Callum’s son, and driven his wife to suicide.

“Can you have a candidate ready to run in time, do you think?”

“To be sure,” Duncan said. “In fact, I’ve already got someone in mind.”

Callum arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “Are you at liberty to divulge his name?”

“Aye,” Duncan said with a cock-sure grin. “Lord Lyon, baron of Duncansby.”

Callum sputtered in surprise. “What? Me? Are you mad?”

Duncan’s earnest blue gaze held his. “I’m perfectly sane, I assure you.”

“But…I prefer to pull strings from behind the scenes, as you well know.”

“Be that as it may,” Duncan said, his grin gaining confidence, “your party needs you, man. As does your country. So, it’s time for the Great and Powerful Oz to step out from behind the curtain.”

The room was emptying, but there was still a tangle of people by the door. Callum scanned the cluster for a willowy figure, dark hair, and a black pantsuit. When he saw none of those things, a sick panicky feeling took him over. Beside him, Duncan was saying something about dinner, but he couldn’t hear it over the questions flying around his brain like bats in a ringing bell tower.

Duncan touched his arm, bringing him back. “Callum? Are you all right?”

He wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But what good would it do to say so? There was still dinner to get through and Duncan’s unexpected proposal to consider. Could he run for a seat in the Commons, being what he was? A thought occurred, bringing a wry smile to his mouth. If he did decide to run, he wouldn’t be the first blood-sucking monster in the history of British politics—nor the last, he’d daresay.

“I’m fine.” He rubbed his eyes and dragged his hand down his face. “Just knackered is all.”

“I’m sorry about the lady.” Duncan checked his wristwatch as he rose from the table. “I guess it wasn’t in the stars, eh?” With his usual optimism, his friend added, “But come on. After a good meal, a couple of drinks, and a bit of sparring, you’ll feel better. And, when we get back to Barrogill, we can ring Madam Pennick and have her send up a couple of whores.”

Madam Pennick, who ran a call-girl service for immortals, was his go-to for sating his bloodlusts, but could do nothing for the hole at his core, which now echoed like a canyon. He should be relieved Lady Vanessa was gone. Indulging his desire for her would have been foolhardy at best. So, why did he feel as though he’d just been kicked in the stomach?

* * * *

“May I buy you the next one, Lady Vanessa?”

Vanessa’s heart leapt at the sound of Lord Lyon’s sensual burr. As she pivoted on her barstool, her knees grazed his thighs, shooting a thrilling dart straight to her sex. Taking a breath, she drank him in like a tall, cool cocktail. His long golden hair was pulled back, giving her a clear view of his handsome features, upturned mouth, and sexy topaz eyes. He still wore the well-cut suit from earlier, but had shed the tie and opened the collar of his shirt. A tuft of golden chest hair peeked over the top button. God, how she loved a man with hair on his chest. She also loved the way he smelled—like spiced leather, laundry soap, and scotch.

“I’m flattered you’ve managed to learn my name,” she said, tasting the lie. She’d rather hoped to remain incognito while here in Caithness. If the press got wind of what she hoped would develop between herself and the to-die-for Scottish astrologer, they’d ruin everything.

“Why’d you disappear on me?”

His closeness, mixed with the alcohol in her system, was making her head spin. “Let’s just say I’m allergic to reporters.”

Allergic was an understatement. The London tabloids had made her life a living hell for as long as she could remember. They’d dubbed her “Madame Butterfly” because she had no interest in marriage. They were wrong. She was interested in marriage, but only to a man who saw her for the person she was, not as a means to an end.

He emitted a small laugh. “Oh, aye? So am I, as it happens.”

“What did the journalist want?”

He shrugged. “Something to do with Duncan.”

Duncan Faol, the man he’d been with at the book signing, was a political consultant with strong nationalist leanings, leading her to suspect Lord Lyon—an “old friend” according to Mr. Faol’s pre-lecture introduction—harbored similar predilections.

“Oh? And where is Mr. Faol now?”

“In the restaurant, having a heated debate with a rabid pack of politicos.”

She blinked up at him, still reeling from the shock of his sudden appearance. She thought she’d lost her chance and now, here he was, as if by magic. “Why aren’t you with them?”

“Because I’d rather be here.”

“Have a seat,” she said with her most charming smile. “Unless you’re in a rush to get back to your friends.”

Slipping onto the barstool with feline agility, he hailed the bartender—a dark-haired Scot named Robert who, for the past hour, had kept her company and her glass full. “What can I get for you, my lord?”

“A dram of Oban—neat—and another of whatever the lady is having.”

The bartender knew him—not surprising given his station. Callum Lyon was Baron Barrogill, the laird of a nearby castle of the same name. She’d done her homework before coming up here—on the handsome baron and his castle. Judging by his looks at the book signing and his eagerness to reconnect, securing an invitation should be the work of a moment.

Vanessa set her elbows on the bar to steady herself. She’d had a couple of scotches and was feeling a bit tipsier than she’d like.

“What am I drinking, Robert?”

“Macallan’s, miss.”

“Is that expensive?”

“A bit.”

As the barkeep refilled her glass, she beamed at Baron Barrogill. “Can you afford me, do you think?”

“That remains to be seen,” he said with a knickers-warming smile of his own. “But I can certainly cover the cost of the odd posh dram.”

He definitely had the leonine good looks characteristic of his sign. Did he also have the enormous ego, fierce temper, and suffocating possessiveness typical of Leos? Not that it mattered. She’d come to Scotland to investigate rumors of a vampire, not to hunt for a husband. Besides, even if Baron Barrogill did turn out to be her one true love—assuming such a one existed, which she seriously doubted—she was moving to another continent soon to chase a more realistic dream: her career as a paranormal investigator.

According to the accounts she’d read, the Vampire of Barrogill lived in a hidden chamber whose location was disclosed to the first-born son of each generation of Clan Lyon on his sixteenth birthday—the age of legal capacity under Scots Law. The baron, therefore, being almost twice that legal age, had to be privy to the secret. Since he was unlikely to disclose it over a couple of drinks with a stranger, however hard that stranger might work to winkle it out of him, she’d best get inside Castle Barrogill to have a look around for herself. Not that her attraction to the gorgeous Leo wasn’t genuine—a good thing because she drew the line at being a cock tease.

“Do you live near here, my lord?”

The less he thought she knew about him, the better.

“Aye,” he said. “Up at Easter Head.”

Easter Head, she’d learned from her research, was the true northernmost point of mainland Great Britain. It lay a few miles northeast of the village and, on a clear day, allegedly afforded exquisite views of the Orkney archipelago.

The bartender set the baron’s drink down hard enough to spill some.

“He’s the laird of Castle Barrogill, lass,” Robert said, looking dashed.

She feigned an expression of surprise. “You own a castle?”

“Aye,” the baron replied.

Now, how to charm him into inviting her to spend the night?

She batted her eyes at the baron, hoping he’d take it as flirtatious, not that she had something in her eye. “Do you ever take your conquests there?”

He gave her another bone-melting smile. “Why do I get the feeling I’m the conquest in this scenario?”

Uh-oh. Was he onto her? Perhaps she’d better ease up a bit. Being a Leo, he’d want to do the chasing. If she was clever and played to his astrological attributes, she could have him eating out of her hand in no time.

“Do you mind if I ask a question for a change?” He sipped his drink before looking up at her from under long, dark lashes. “This is beginning to feel like an interrogation.”

Swallowing, she gazed deeply into his eyes, which, to her delight, shimmered with the same desire pulsating in her nether regions. “Ask away.”

“What brings you to John o’Groats? And how long are you planning to stay?”

“That’s two questions,” she pointed out, still smiling.

He gave her a roguish look. “Have I not answered more than two of yours?”

Being a terrible liar, she searched her mind for something honest to admit. Her unfortunate experience with reporters had taught her the best way to sell a fib was to candy coat it in facts. After a moment, smile plastered on, she gave him her carefully worded answer. “I came to hear you speak and how long I stay depends.”

“Oh, aye? On what?”

“Your powers of persuasion.”

He took a long pull on his drink and shifted in his seat so his leg rested against hers. Her focus shifted abruptly to the point of contact. As a thrill pulsed through her, she set a hand on his thigh, playing her card. Would he raise the stakes or fold? Under her fingers, his quadriceps was deliciously firm. God, she wanted this man. If not for her other agenda, she’d be happy to spend the rest of the week rolling like thunder between the sheets with the beguiling Baron Barrogill.

He set his hand atop hers. “At the risk of sounding like I’m handing you a line, what sign would you be?”

She tilted her head. “Can’t you guess?”

“Aye,” he said with a grin that lit up his golden eyes. “You’re Aquarian. Which makes you a wide-eyed idealist who can’t bear to be tied down. A butterfly flitting from flower to flower, never settling on any for long. Am I right?”

The word “butterfly” brought the paparazzi to mind with a surge of bitterness.

“I don’t flit, your lordship. But otherwise, you’re spot on.” She bent to sip her drink, despite feeling woozy. “And what about you? I know you’re a Leo, but what’s your ascendant?”

“Also Leo.”

She nearly choked. “Holy crap. You’re a
double
Leo?”

She was starting to slur her words. She’d better lay off the whisky. It wouldn’t do to get drunk and make an ass of herself.

“Aye,” he confirmed, grinning proudly. “And it behooves me to warn you double Leos are ruthless romantics—a dangerous prospect for a dispassionate water bearer.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m dispassionate,” she said, mildly offended. “I’m very passionate about the things I believe in. Safeguarding the environment, for example, and protecting the rights of animals.”

“That’s very noble of you, my lady. But what about men?”

“What about them?”

Even if she wanted a relationship, which she absolutely didn’t, this wasn’t the time. She was moving to New Orleans in two short weeks, which gave her just enough time to find out if the rumored vampire was real before returning to London to close up her flat.

“Surely we’re good for something.”

As the baron sipped his drink, his warm honey gaze roamed over her, leaving pleasurable pins and needles in its wake.

“I can’t think what you mean,” she said, feigning innocence.

Clasping her hand, which still rested on his thigh, he slid it to his and pressed it against his rather sizeable erection.

“Does that help?”

“My lord,” she gasped, simulating shock. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“Aye, my lady,” he said, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “And that being the case, I think you ought to maybe call me by my Christian name.”