Ward of the Vampire (3 page)

He thought it was ‘horrible’ and ‘demeaning’ to me. He actually told me that if I wanted to find another job, he’d put in a good word with the bosses at his company. That was the first and last time we went out. I’ve never felt demeaned by my job with Miss Delilah, but I was rather insulted that this guy I barely knew decided that my job was meaningless and unworthy of me.

The way I saw it, she set challenges, and it was up to me to figure out how best to fulfill them. And truth be told, it was a lot more fun investigating black orchids, even if it took me two months to do something that would last three weeks, than it was to pick up the phone and order three dozen long-stemmed roses.

As I sipped on my champagne, I started thinking of the party as a new challenge she had set for me. She’d told me to explore, to meet new people—to enjoy myself. And I’d be damned if I didn’t do all that. How many people would have paid to be right where I was? How many had dreamed of it?

And yes, I had dreamed of it too. I just had never expected that particular dream would come true. I’d accompanied Miss Delilah to a few shows or events, but only when she was offered extra tickets. We’d gone there our separate ways, and I’d done no more than smile when seeing her across a room. She’d never taken me to a party like this before. Maybe she never would again. I might as well enjoy the opportunity.

For the next couple of hours, I passed from room to room, approaching people who were alone as I was, striking conversations about the pieces of art displayed everywhere or the music drifting from another room or the elegant platters of food that passed through the crowd along with refreshments.

One woman I talked to turned out to be the very artist who had created the oversized painting in front of which she was standing, a beautiful rendering of Central Park.

“This is the largest piece I ever sold,” she confided. “And I’d never seen my work in a place such as this before.”

At which point, she gestured to the painting on the opposite wall, the canvas equally as a large and half concealed by the crowd admiring it: an original from Monet. It was worth millions.

One of the men admiring the Monet heard her and turned to her piece. He observed it for a moment before asking the woman for her name and questioning her about her creative process. Others joined the conversation, and soon the crowd around her was even thicker than it had been around the Monet. I listened for a little while then let her have her moment in the spotlight and slipped away to the next room.

I had a hard time figuring out what each new room was like when a chattering crowd wasn’t flowing through, laughter bubbling on their lips like the champagne in their glasses. All these art pieces belonged in galleries, or maybe museums, but there were armchairs in each room, sofas, a desk here and there, even a dining table, complete with matching chairs, long enough to host a Thanksgiving dinner for a large family. The furniture wouldn’t have been out of place in a museum either.

I don’t know how long I toured the first floor. I wandered until I found myself in front of a wide marble staircase. It looked inviting. Music was drifting down, melding with the fast pieces the string quartet in the front had been playing one after the other since I arrived. I went up.

And I was stunned to realize that the second floor was identical to the first: artwork, antique furniture, room after room full of noise and beauty and people I recognized but didn’t dare talk to. And everything everywhere was red and black.

It was overwhelming. Or maybe I should have had something to eat along with those two—three?—glasses of champagne.

Feeling a little lightheaded, I looked around for a bit of quiet and solitude, but guests were everywhere. When I passed by heavy curtains, I lifted a corner, and was almost relieved to get a glimpse of a balcony behind a window.

I checked that no one was paying attention to me, then slipped behind the curtain and opened the window. It was only when I stepped onto the balcony that I realized someone was already there.

He was leaning forward, one elbow resting on the ornate stone balustrade, his chin propped in his palm. His hair was darker than ink. When he glanced back, I barely saw the cigarette hanging from his lips.

My eyes went straight to his, and I couldn’t suppress a quiet gasp. They were so dark that they seemed completely black. I knew it was only because of the lack of light, but just the same, that look made me shiver. That, and the cold December air. He didn’t seem to mind the cold at all. He’d taken his tuxedo jacket off, and it rested on the balustrade next to him.

“The freaking party’s inside,” he said in an exhalation of smoke, looking away again. “Go back in and leave me the hell alone.”

At any other time, I’d have stammered an apology and gone back in. I honestly don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe I simply couldn’t stand going back to all that noise, all those people quite yet. Maybe it was the smoke; I quit a long time ago, but when I’m stressed I still crave nicotine. Or maybe I was just tired of doing what other people told me to.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, stepping to the other end of the balcony, as far away from him and from that delicious smoke as I could. “Why go in and enjoy the company of so many pleasant people when I can be out here with a jerk?”

I was looking down at the park on the other side of the street, but from the corner of my eye I could see him turn his face to me, the end of the cigarette flaring bright red when he sucked in a breath.

“Why indeed inflict such charm on them,” he drawled, “when you can focus it on me? Name your price, already and go.”

I turned fully toward him, outraged. “My price?” I repeated, probably in a too loud voice. “My price for what? Who do you think I am?”

“I have no idea whatsoever who you are,” he said, looking away from me again. “But I know your kind. I know why you come to parties like this, showing skin halfway down to your navel.”

I gasped in disbelief, my free hand instinctively coming up to the exposed skin above the top of my gown. Compared to some other décolleté dresses I’d seen that night, mine was nothing if not conservative. And it definitely didn’t go down to my navel.

“How dare you,” I started, but he wasn’t finished.

“Your kind only wants two things. To meet famous people or to swindle money out of them. Either go back in or name your price. Or would you rather I get you thrown out of my home?”

My outrage and protests vanished in the time of a heartbeat, as I understood who he was.

My home, he’d said.

I shuddered as I remembered Miss Delilah’s admonition. She’d told me to be nice. And instead…

My heart jumped to my throat. My chest constricted until I couldn’t breathe anymore. Every inch of my body felt as though my skin were being sliced with shards of glass.

I knew only two things in that instant. I was in front of Morgan Ward, my host, Miss Delilah’s brother, whom I’d been rude to. And I was about to die.

*

I opened my mouth, tried to draw air in, but I was already beginning to feel lightheaded. Every breath came out in a gasp. It was all I could do to remain upright.

I didn’t notice him coming closer. When his hand closed on my bare arm, it was like ice covering my skin.

“Look at me,” he said in a low, intense voice.

I looked up. I couldn’t not have looked up. Even with the high heels I had on, he towered over me by a few inches. His eyes were dark wells and without the tight grip he had on my arm, surely I would have fallen right into their depths.

“Breathe.”

Again, that thick voice, so compelling.

Yes, compelling is exactly the right word. He wasn’t just making a suggestion or giving advice. He was telling me, demanding that I do something for him. And I would have. I’d have done anything.

If he’d asked me to jump from the balcony, I would have. If he’d asked me to fly, I’d certainly have tried my hardest. But he told me to breathe, and I just couldn’t.

Black dots were already swimming in front of my eyes. I dropped my purse and clasped his forearm with both hands, scared out of my mind, silently begging him to help me.

He frowned, and said that one word again, a little louder, the weight of it pressing on my mind and body.

“Breathe.”

I shook my head. Tried to say, ‘I can’t’ but all that came out was a wheezy, “Ca… can…”

My knees were weakening. I couldn’t stand anymore, not even with his support. I folded down to the floor of the balcony, and he crouched next to me, never letting go.

His frown deepened a little more and his nostrils flared. I was taken by the crazy thought that he was angry with me not for being rude to him but for failing to follow his order. I was seconds away from blacking out when his eyes suddenly widened and he hissed out a name like a curse.

“Lilah.”

I blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision, but his features were fading.

“You came with her, didn’t you? What did she say? It’s important. Try hard to tell me what she said to you.”

I tried. I really did. It took every last ounce of strength and energy I had left and the words were little more than mumbles.

“Nice… you… be nice.”

“She told you to be nice? Be nice to me? Is that it?”

I tried to blink yes, but couldn’t manage to open my eyes again. My ears were buzzing. He was saying something, but his words were lost to me. Even the sirens of a police car driving right under the balcony felt distorted.

I started slipping into darkness, but he pulled me back. With the most delicate of touches, he peeled my eyelids back. His face, his eyes filled my vision. He was close enough to kiss me and my last thought was that he might try to give me CPR.

Something gleamed in his eyes, attracting my attention, and I fell into his gaze, into his mind, really. Or maybe he entered mine. I’m still not completely sure how it works, I just know that time came to a standstill and when it started again I was back inside the mansion, pushing the drapes away with one hand and slipping out onto the balcony.

“Oh,” I said when the man leaning against the balustrade looked back at me. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I’ll just…”

I started turning away, but a warm murmur stopped me.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to go.”

I recognized the deep, chocolate and whiskey voice right away.

“You’re… you’re Mr. Ward, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head as he looked at me.

“I am. But I’m sorry to say I have no idea who you are.”

My heart stammered at the apologetic smile he offered me. “Oh, of course not. We’ve never met. I’m Angelina. Happy birthday.”

Without thinking, I held my hand out to him. He pushed away from the balustrade and turned fully toward me, transferring his cigarette to his left hand. He didn’t shake my hand. Instead, he took it and brought it to his lips for a touch to my knuckles so light I barely even felt it.

“And how did you come to be invited to my party? Not that I mind. This place can always use more beauty.”

Heat suffused my cheeks and for a second I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer coherently. When I met his eyes again, though, I was drawn in and the words just flowed out.

“I accompanied your sister.”

He nodded, and with a gesture invited me to come closer to the balustrade with him. Something gleamed at his wrist, attracting my eyes: a cufflink. It was a finely cut square stone, so bright that even in the poor light it was still brilliantly red. It was breathtaking.

And so was he. Not that I was looking. Much.

Oh, all right, who am I kidding? For months I’d read all I could about Mr. Ward, and had never so much as seen a picture of him. Now that I was in front of him, it was hard to look away.

He’d taken his tuxedo jacket off, and his shirt was fitted close enough to his body that it revealed every curve of his shoulders and arms, every hard plane of his chest. His face, pale in the darkness, was a study of angles and shadows, strong and masculine with a bold nose and sensuous lips. And his eyes… I couldn’t see much of them, but I already knew they were as dark as bottomless wells.

Eyes someone could fall in forever, and the thought troubled me, somehow making it hard to breathe.

“Do you work with her, then?” he asked.

Should I tell him the truth? Working with Miss Delilah sounded a lot better, a lot more interesting than working for her. And still… I didn’t want to lie to him, even with a small play on semantics. I don’t like lying as a rule, and it felt important not to lie to him.

“I work for her, actually. I’m her personal assistant.”

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke away from me. It was very considerate of him, although unnecessary. My fingers itched for a cigarette.

“You answer her phone, don’t you?” he said when he looked back toward me. “Your voice. I recognize it now. I always thought it was lovely. And now that I have a lovely image to go with it, I might have to call Lilah more often.”

I wasn’t simply blushing anymore. I was burning. And I had no idea what to reply. So I just looked on at the park on the other side of the street and said, “The view is beautiful.”