Kresley Cole The Immortals After Dark Series: Dark Needs at Night's Edge (The Immortals After Dark, Book 4)
Book 4 in the bestselling Immortals After Dark series
A vampire warrior consumed by madness,
trapped in the lair of an otherworldly temptress only he can see.
The beauty wants him gone--the warrior can't leave.
Let the games begin…
Néomi Laress, a famous ballerina in the early 1900s, became a phantom the night she was murdered. Imbued with powers, but invisible to the living, she haunts her beloved home, scaring away any trespassers--until she encounters a ruthless immortal even more terrifying than Néomi herself.
To prevent him from harming others, Conrad Wroth's brothers imprison him in an abandoned manor. There only Conrad can see the dancer with wild raven hair--who seems determined to drive him further into madness. The exquisite creature inflames him with desire, leaving his body racked with lust and his soul torn as he finds himself coveting her for his own.
Yet even if Conrad can win Néomi and claim her completely, evil still surrounds her. Once he returns to the brutality of his past to protect her, will he succumb to the dark needsRead an Excerpt
A femme fatale? With a history of burlesque dancing? You must have the wrong girl. I'm naught but a humble ballet dancer, a mere delicate sparrow.
—Néomi Laress, prima ballerina, former femme fatale and burlesque dancer
(b. approx. 1901—d. August 24, 1927)
I hereby vow to devote my life to annihilating the vampiir.
None shall know my presence and live.
—Conrad Wroth, age thirteen,
upon being inducted into the Order of Kapsliga Uur in the year 1609
Prologue
New Orleans
August 24, 1927
I'll kill you for spurning me. . . .
Struggling to block out memories of Louis Robicheaux's latest threat, Néomi Laress stood at the top of her grand staircase and gazed out over the packed ballroom.
As she might cradle a babe, she held bouquets of roses swathed in silk. They were gifts from some of the men in the crowd of partygoers below, a motley mix of her rollicking set, rich patrons, and newspaper reporters. A sultry bayou breeze slid throughout the space, carrying strains of music from the twelve-piece orchestra outside.
. . . you'll beg for my mercy.
She stifled a shiver. Her ex-fiancé's behavior had become more chilling of late, his atonement gifts more extravagant. Néomi's long-standing refusal to sleep with Louis had frustrated and angered him, but breaking off their relationship had enraged him.
The look in his pale eyes earlier tonight . . . She gave herself an inward shake. She'd hired guards for this event—Louis couldn't get to her.
One admirer, a handsome banker from Boston, noticed her aloft and began to clap. The throng joined in, and in her mind she envisioned a curtain going up. With a slow, gracious smile, she said, "Bienvenue to you all," then began descending her stairs.
No one would ever sense her anxiety. She was a trained ballerina, but above all things, she was an entertainer. She would work this room, dispensing teasing nibbles of sarcasm and softly spoken bons mots, charming any critics and coaxing laughter from even the most staid.
Though her arms already ached from cradling so many bouquets, and flashbulbs went off in glaring succession, her smile remained fixed. Another gliding step down.
She'd be damned before she'd let Louis ruin her night of triumph. Three hours ago, she'd given the performance of a lifetime to a sold-out house. For tonight's soiree celebrating her newly renovated estate, Elancourt, the Gothic manor house was resplendent with the glow of a thousand candles. Through her dancing, she'd paid for the painstaking restoration of her new home and all the sumptuous furnishings inside it.
Every detail for the party was perfect, and outside, a sliver moon clung to the sky. A lucky moon.
Her dress for this evening was a more risqué version of the costume she'd worn earlier, the satin as black as her jet hair. It had a tight bodice that she laced up the front like a bygone corset and a slit in the skirt that almost reached up to where her garter belt snapped to her stockings. Her makeup was styled after the Hollywood vamps—she'd kohled her eyes with a smoky hue, donned lipstick of oxblood red, and painted her short nails a dark crimson.
With her jeweled choker and dangling earrings, the ensemble had cost a small fortune, but tonight was worth it—tonight all her dreams had finally come true.
Only Louis could ruin it. She willed herself to ignore her apprehension, inwardly cursing him in English and in French, which helped ease her tension.
Until she nearly stumbled on the stairs. He was there, standing at the periphery, staring up at her.
Usually so perfect and kempt, he had his tie loosened, his blond hair disheveled.
How had he gotten past the guards? Louis was filthy rich—had the bastard bribed them?
His bloodshot eyes were burning with a maniacal light, but she assured herself that he wouldn't dare harm her in front of so many. After all, there were hundreds of people in her home, including reporters and photographers.
Yet she wouldn't put it past him to make a scene or expose her scandalous history to everyone. Her uptown patrons winked at her and her friends' colorful antics, but they had no idea what she was—much less of her past occupation.
Chin raised and shoulders back, she continued down, but her hands were clenching the roses. Resentment warred with her fear. So help her, God, she'd scratch his eyes out if he ruined this for her.
Just before she reached the bottom step, he began elbowing his way toward her. She tried to signal the burly guard at the opened patio door, but the crowd enveloped her, effectively trapping her. She attempted to make her way to the man, yet everyone wanted "to be the first to congratulate her."
When she heard Louis pushing people behind her, Néomi's soft-spoken apologies—"Pardonnez-moi, I'll just be a moment"—turned to "Let me pass!"
He neared. Out of the corner of her eye she spied his hand fiddling with something in his jacket pocket. Not another gift? This will be so embarrassing.
When that hand shot out, she whirled around, dropping her bouquets. Metal glinted in the light of the candles. Eyes wide, she screamed—
Just before he plunged a knife into her chest.
Pain . . . unimaginable pain. She could hear the blade grating past her bones, felt a force so jarring the tip pierced through her very back. As she clawed at his arms, ugly sounds erupted from her throat; those nearest her backed away in horror.
This can't be happening. . . .
Only when he released the knife with splayed fingers did her body collapse to the floor. Rosebuds scattered around her, their petals wafting around the jutting hilt. She stared dumbly at the ceiling as warm blood seeped from her back, pooling all around her. She perceived the silence of the room over Louis's harried breaths as he knelt beside her, beginning to weep.
This isn't happening. . . .
The first hysterical scream rent the quiet. People fled the scene, shoving and tangling all around them. She heard the guards finally yelling and fighting past the crowd.
And Néomi lived still. She was dogged, a survivor—she would not die in her dream home on her dream night. Fight—
Louis fisted the hilt once again, jarring the knife inside her. Agony . . . too much . . . can't bear this . . . But she had no breath to scream, no strength to raise her limp arms to defend herself.
With a choking bellow he twisted the blade in the pocket of her wound. "Feel it for me, Néomi," he gasped at her ear. Pain exploded, radiating out from her heart to every inch of her body. "Feel what I have suffered!"
Too much! The temptation to close her eyes nearly overwhelmed her. Yet she kept them open, kept living.
"See how much I love you? We'll be together now." The knife made a sucking sound when he yanked it from her. Just before he was finally tackled to the ground, he sliced his own throat ear to ear.
Her blood had begun to cool by the time a doctor crouched to grasp her wrist. "There's no pulse," he said to someone unseen, his voice raised over the commotion. "She's gone."
But she wasn't! Not yet!
Néomi was young, and there were so many things she had left to experience. She deserved to live. I'm not dying. Her hands somehow clenched. I refuse to!
Yet as the breeze picked up once more, Néomi's vision guttered out like a candle. No, no . . . still living . . . can't see, can't see . . . so scared.
Rose petals caught on the wind and tumbled over her face. She could feel each cool kiss of them.
CHAPTER 1
Outside Orleans Parish
Present day
Stay sane, act normal, he chants to himself as he strides down the rickety pier. On either side of him, water black like tar. Ahead of him, muted light from the bayou tavern. A Lore bar. A lone neon sign flickers over flat skiffs below. Music and laughter carry.
Stay sane . . . need to dull the rage. Until the endtime.
Inside. "Whiskey." His voice is low, rough from disuse.
The bartender's face falls. Like last night. Others grow skittish. Can they sense that I ache to kill? The whispers around him are like metal on slate to his ragged nerves.
—"Conrad Wroth, once a warlord . . . madder than any vampire I've seen in all my centuries."
—"A killer for hire. If he shows up in your town, then folks from the Lore there'll go missing."
Missing? Unless I want them found.
—"Heard he drains 'em so savagely . . . nothing's left of their throats."
So I'm not fastidious.
— "I heard he eats them."
Distorted rumors. Or is that one true?
Tales of his insanity spreading once more. I've never missed a target—how insane can I be? He answers himself: Very fucking much so.
Memories clot his mind. His victims' memories taken from their blood toll inside him, their number always growing. Don't know what's real; can't determine what's illusion. Most of the time, he can scarcely understand his own thoughts. He doesn't go a day without seeing some type of hallucination, striking out at shadows around him.
A grenade with the pin pulled, they say. Only a matter of time.
They're right.
Stay sane . . . act normal. Glass in hand, he chuckles softly on his way to a dimly lit table in the back. Normal? He's a goddamned vampire in a bar filled with shifters, demons, and the sharp-eared fey. Christmas lights are strung up in the back—through the eye sockets of human skulls that frame a mirror. In the corner, a demoness lazily strokes her lover's horns, visibly arousing the male. At the bar, an immense werewolf bares his fangs, bowing protectively as he tosses a small redhead behind him.
Can't decide if you should attack, Lykae? That's right. I don't smell of blood. A trick I learned.
The couple leaves, the redhead all but carried out by the Lykae. As they exit, she peers over her shoulder, her eyes like mirrors. Then gone. Out into the night where they belong.
Sit. Back against the wall. He adjusts the sunglasses that shade his red eyes, dirty red eyes. As he scans the room, he resists the urge to rub his palm over the back of his neck. Watched by someone unseen?
But then, I always feel like that.
He swoops up the drink, narrowing his eyes at his steady hand. My mind's decayed, but my sword hand's still true. A ruinous combination.
He takes a liberal swallow. The drink. The whiskey dulls the need to lash out. Not that it has disappeared.
Small things enrage him. An off look. Someone approaching too quickly. Failing to give him a wide enough berth. His fangs sharpen at the slightest provocation. As though a living thing hungers inside me. Ravenous for blood and a throat to tear. Each time he acts on the rage, others' memories blight more of his own.
He still has enough sanity to stalk his targets—his brothers. He will mete out retribution to Nikolai and Murdoch Wroth for doing the unspeakable to him. Sebastian, the third brother, was a victim like him, but must be slain—simply because of what he is.
And my time grows nigh. Like an animal, he recognizes this. He's found them in this mysterious place of swamps and haze and music. He's seen Nikolai and Sebastian with their wives. He might have felt envy that his brothers laugh with them. That they touch them possessively, with wonder in their clear eyes. But hatred drowns out any confusing jealousy.
Offspring will follow. He'll kill their females as well. Destroy them. Destroy myself. Before my enemies catch up with me.
He adjusts the bandage under his shirt on his left arm. The slashed skin beneath it will not heal. Five days ago, he was marked by a dream demon, one who tracks him by this very injury. One who promised that his most coveted dream and most dreaded nightmare would follow the mark.
His brows draw together. The hunter will soon become the hunted—his life is nearing its end.
A whisper of regret. The thing he regrets most. He tries to remember what he covets so dearly. Another's memories bombard him, exploding in his mind. His hand shoots up to clasp his forehead—
Nikolai enters the bar, Murdoch behind him. Their expressions are grave.
They've come to kill me. As he expected. He thought he could draw them out by returning here again and again. He lowers his hand, and his lips ease back from his fangs. The bar empties in a rush.
Then . . . stillness. His brothers stare at him as if seeing a ghost. Insects clamor outside. Rain draws near and steeps the air. Just as lightning strikes in the distance, Sebastian enters, crossing to stand beside the other two. He's allied with them? This he hadn't expected.
He removes his sunglasses, revealing his red eyes. The eldest, Nikolai, stifles a wince at the sight, but shakes it off and advances. The three seem surprised that he'll stay to engage them, that he hasn't traced away. They are strong and skilled, yet they don't recognize the power he wields, the thing he's become.
He can slaughter them all without blinking, and he'll savor it. They haven't drawn their swords? Then they walk to their doom. Can't keep them waiting.
He lunges from his seat and hurdles the table, knocking Sebastian unconscious with a blow that cracks his skull and sends him flying into the back wall. Before the other two can raise a hand in defense, he snatches them by their throats. One in each tightening hand as they grapple to free themselves. "Three hundred years of this," he hisses. Their struggles do nothing; their shocked expressions satisfy. Squeezing—
Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and heaves his brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that Lykae's returned and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his torso. Blood gushes.
He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging claws and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground. Just as his hands are about to meet around the Lykae's corded neck, the beast claps something to his right wrist.
A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping laugh. "You don't think that will hold me?" Bones begin to pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to yell with pleasure.
The werewolf cuffs his left wrist.
What is this? The metal won't bend. Won't break. They goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet, tensing to trace. Nothing. Sebastian on the floor, pouring blood from his temple, has him by the ankles.
He kicks Sebastian, connecting squarely with his brother's chest. Ribs crack. He whirls around—in time to catch the bar rail the Lykae swings at his face.
He staggers but remains on his feet.
"What the fuck is he?" the Lykae bellows, swinging the rail again with all his might.
The brutal hit takes him across his neck. A split second of faltering. Enough for his brothers to tackle him.
He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can't break free . . . can't . . . They attach the manacles at his wrists to another chain. He kicks viciously, stunned when they trap his legs as well.
Choking with rage, he strains against his bonds with all his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone. Nothing.
Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing them speak.
"I hope you came up with a good place to put him," Sebastian says between ragged breaths.
"I bought a long-abandoned manor," Nikolai grates, "place called Elancourt."
Chills course through him even through his fury; pain erupts from the injury on his arm. A dream. His doom. He can never go to this Elancourt—knows this with a savage certainty. He's too strong for them to trace him—there's still time to escape.
If they take him there, they won't take him alive. . . .
* * *
Under a clouded nighttime sky, the spirit of Néomi Laress knelt in the drive at the very edge of her property line, gazing hungrily at the newspaper, lying wrapped in wet plastic.
Today the deliveryman—that capricious fiend—had missed the drive again, this time tossing the bundle squarely onto the desolate county road.
Néomi was starving for that paper, desperate for the news, reviews, and commentary that would break up the monotony of her life—or her eighty-year-long afterlife.
But she couldn't leave the estate to seize it. As a ghost, Néomi could manipulate matter telekinetically, and her power was nearly absolute at Elancourt—she could rattle all the windows or tear off the roof if she wanted to, and the weather often changed with her emotions—but not outside the property.
Her beloved home had become her prison, her eternal cell of fifteen acres and a slowly dying manor. Among fate's other curses, each seemingly designed to torture her in personal and specific ways, Néomi could never leave this place.
She didn't know why this was so—only that it was, and had been since she'd awakened the morning after her murder. She recalled seeing her haunting reflection for the first time. Néomi remembered that exact moment when she'd realized that she'd died—when she'd first comprehended what she'd become.
A ghost. She'd become something that frightened even her. Something unnatural. Never again to be a lover or friend. Never to be a mother, like she'd always planned after her dancing career. As a storm had boiled outside, she'd silently screamed for hours.
The only thing she could be thankful for was that Louis hadn't been trapped here with her.
She stretched harder. Must . . . have that . . . paper!
Néomi wasn't certain why it continued to arrive. A past article had recounted the problems inherent with "recurrent billing of credit cards," and she supposed she was the benefactress of her last tenant's credit card negligence. The delivery could end at any time. Every one was precious.
Eventually she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the weed-ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing.
Néomi could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal, as substantial as the mist rolling in from the bayou.
Thanks, Louis. Oh, and may you rot in hell—because surely that's where you went.
Usually, at this point in the newspaper struggle, she'd be battling the urge to tear her hair out, wondering how much longer she could endure this existence, speculating what she'd done to deserve it.
Yes, on the night of her death, she'd refused to die, but this was ridiculous.
But even as desperate as she was for the words, she wasn't as badly off as usual.
Because last night a man had come into her home. A towering, handsome man with grave eyes. He might return this night. He might even move in.
She shouldn't get too excited about the stranger, to have her hopes crushed yet again—
Lights blinded her; the shriek of squealing tires ripped through the quiet of the night.
As a car shot forward onto the gravel, she futilely raised her arms to protect her face and gave a silent cry. It drove straight through her, the engine reverberating like an earthquake when it passed through her head.
CHAPTER 2
Néomi blinked, her strong night vision returning slowly. Even after all these years, she was still surprised that she was unharmed.
She recognized the sharp, low car from last night, so markedly different from the trucks that usually chugged by on the old county road. Which meant . . . which meant . . .
He's returned! The grave-eyed man who came here last night!
The paper forgotten, she materialized to Elancourt's landing, overlooking the front entrance. She moved as if to clutch the sides of the window there, her arms floating outspread.
And there sat his car in the drive.
Won't you move in? she'd wanted to beg last night as the man had examined the manor. He'd tested the columns, drawn sheets off some of the remaining furniture, and even yanked on the radiant heater in the main salon. Appearing satisfied that it was solid, he'd followed the contraption's underfloor pipes by stomping on the marble tiles.
The heater will work, she'd inwardly cried. Ten years ago, the manor had been modernized by a young couple who'd stayed for a time.
Yet she couldn't relate the merits of Elancourt to this mysterious stranger. Because she was a ghost. The act of speaking, or at least talking in a way that others could hear, had proved impossible for her, as had making herself visible to others.
Which was probably for the best. Her reflection was haunting even to her. Though Néomi's appearance was a close facsimile of how she'd looked the night she died—with the same dress and jewelry—now her skin and lips were as pale as rice paper. Her hair flowed wildly with rose petals tangled in it, and the skin under her eyes was darkened, making her irises seem freakishly blue in contrast.
She focused on the car again. Deep masculine voices sounded from within it. Was there more than one man?
Maybe there'd be two more "confirmed bachelors" like the handsome couple who had lived here during the fifties!
Whoever was within the car needed to hurry inside. Autumn rains had been tentatively falling all night and lightning had begun flaring in a building rhythm. She hoped the men didn't catch the front façade lit by the glow of lightning. With its arches and overhangs and stained glass, the manor could appear . . . forbidding.
The very Gothic traits she'd admired seemed to drive others away.
The vehicle began to rock from side to side on its wide wheels, and the voices grew louder. Then came a man's bellow. Her lips parted when two large boots kicked through the back window, shattering it, glass spraying out into the gravel.
Someone unseen hauled the booted man back inside, but then a rear door began to bulge outward. Were cars so weak in this age that a man could kick it out of shape? No, no, she'd dutifully read the crash test reports, and they said—
The door shot off its hinges, all the way to the front porch. She gasped as a wild-eyed, crazed man lunged out of the vehicle. He was manacled at his wrists and ankles and covered in blood. He immediately fell into a deep slick of mud, only to be tackled by three men.
One of them was her prospective tenant from last night.
She saw then that they all were covered in blood—because the chained one was spitting it at them as he thrashed.
"No . . . no!" he yelled, struggling not to enter the house. Could he possibly sense there was more here than could be seen? No one ever had before.
"Conrad, stop fighting us!" the tenant said through gritted teeth. His accent sounded Russian. "We don't want to hurt you."
But the madman named Conrad didn't let up one bit. "God damn you, Nikolai! What do you want with me?"
"We're going to rid you of this madness, defeat your bloodlust."
"You fools!" He laughed manically. "No one comes back!"
"Sebastian, grab his arms!" this Nikolai barked to one of the others. "Murdoch, get his damned legs!" As Murdoch and Sebastian rushed to action, she realized that they both resembled Nikolai. All three had the same grim expression, the same tall, powerful bodies.
Brothers. Their captive must be one as well.
They carried the bloody and flailing Conrad toward the front double doors. Blood in her home. She shuddered. She detested blood, hated the sight of it, the scent of it. She'd never forget how it'd felt to be bathed in her own, to have it thicken and cool around her dying body.
Hadn't Elancourt seen enough of it?
In a panic, she raced downstairs and shot her hands up, exerting an invisible force against the doors. She used all her strength to keep them sealed tight. No one could bust through this hold—
The doors flew open. The men barreled through her, making her shiver as though she'd walked through a cobweb. A gust of wind rushed inside, following them in to stir the leaves and grit coating the floor.
Just how strong were they? Yes, they were huge, but she'd held the doors with what had to be the strength of twenty men.
Once inside the darkened room, Nikolai cast a chain across the floor with no care for her Italian marble.
The lunatic broke free once more, making it to his feet. He was towering! He lumbered toward the door, but his bound ankles ensured that he careened into an antique armoire covered with a sheet. It collapsed under the impact. Crushed.
She'd had to dance two performances to afford that piece and remembered lovingly polishing it herself. It was one of the few original furnishings that remained.
After Murdoch and Sebastian hoisted him out of the wreckage, Murdoch wrapped his thick arm around Conrad's neck, cupping the back of Conrad's head with his free hand. She could see that Murdoch was tightening this hold with all his might, his face drawn with the effort, the muscles in his neck standing out with strain.
Somehow Conrad was unaffected for long moments. Eventually, his thrashing eased and he went limp. While Murdoch laid him on the ground, Nikolai hastily affixed the chain to the same radiator he'd tested last night, then attached the other end to Conrad's handcuffs.
That's why Nikolai had been assessing it? Because he intended to jail this lunatic here?
Why here?
"Could you have found an eerier place to keep him?" Sebastian said between breaths as they all stood. At that instant, lightning crackled just outside. The high stained-glass windows were broken in places and cast tinted light, distorting the shadows within."Why not use the old mill?"
"Someone might come across him there," Murdoch answered. "And Kristoff knows about the mill. If he or his men discover what we're planning . . ."
Who's Kristoff? What are they planning?
Nikolai added, "Besides, Elancourt was recommended to me."
"Who would ever recommend this?" Sebastian waved a hand around. "It looks straight from a horror movie." She wished he was wrong, but a bolt flashed then; hued shadows appeared to slither and pounce. Sebastian raised his brows as if his point had been made.
Nikolai's gaze focused on his brothers' faces, studying their reactions as he answered, "Nïx did." He hesitated, seeming not to know if they'd laugh, rail, or nod.
Murdoch shrugged and Sebastian nodded grimly.
Who's Nïx?
Sebastian glanced around. "Raises my hackles, though"—another flash of lightning—"almost like it's . . . haunted."
Sebastian gets a cookie.
"And it spooked Conrad as well."
Yes, because otherwise he clearly would be fine.
"The weather makes it seem worse." Nikolai ran his hand through his wet hair, then wiped his face with his shirttail. "And if there are spirits lingering about? You forget what we are—any ghosts would do well to fear us."
Fear them? No living thing could touch her.
"It's actually ideal because the place scares people away," Nikolai continued over another bout of thunder. "And the Valkyrie compound isn't far from here—not many from the Lore will venture anywhere near their home."
Valkyrie? Lore? She remembered a newspaper article a few years back on "Gang Speak." These men were speaking Gang. They had to be.
Murdoch said, "Perhaps the Valkyrie won't appreciate vampires so close to Val Hall."
Vampires? Not Gang? They're all mad. Mon Dieu, I need a bourbon.
"Is it even habitable?" Sebastian asked in a scoffing voice.
Nikolai nodded. "The structure and the roof are solid—"
As rock.
"—and once we do some modifications, it'll be suitable for our purposes. We'll fix just what we need: a couple of bedrooms, a shower, the kitchen. I already had the witches come around today to do an enclosure spell along the perimeter of the estate. As long as Conrad's wearing those chains, he can't escape the boundary."
Witches? Oh, come now! Néomi moved to rub her temple, felt nothing, but was somewhat soothed by the familiar act.
In the lull, Murdoch cased the main salon, plucking at cobwebs. "Conrad knew we were going to be at the tavern."
"No doubt of it," Nikolai answered, crossing to a dirt-caked window to glance outside. "He was awaiting us. To kill us."
"Obviously he's gotten good at it." Sebastian patted his ribs in an assessing manner and winced. Looking more closely, she could see that they all seemed injured in some way. Even Conrad appeared to have been clawed across the chest by some beast. "He likes it."
Likes to kill? A murderer in my home. Again. Was he the same kind of man as Louis—one who would stab a defenseless woman through the heart? Tamp it down, Néomi. . . . The wind picked up. Control the emotion.
Murdoch said, "I suppose he'd have to, if the word about his occupation is true."
A professional killer?
"Finding him now . . . it couldn't come at a worse time," Sebastian said. "How are we going to manage this?"
"We fight a war, deceive our king, try not to worry about our Kaderin and Myst, all the while attempting to salvage Con's sanity," Nikolai replied evenly.
Murdoch lifted a brow. "And here I thought we would be busy."
The brothers began exploring nearby rooms, testing wood for rot and pulling sheets from furniture, examining their surroundings.
In the past, she'd been fortunate with those who'd occupied Elancourt. Nice families had come and gone, a few harmless vagrants. Nothing about these men said We're nice and harmless!
Especially not the chained murderer. He lay on the floor, blood collecting at the corner of his parted lips to drip down.
Drip . . . drip . . . A crimson pool was stark against her marble. Just as before. Tamp it down. Control it.
The madman's eyes flashed open. She couldn't warn the others! In the space of a bolt of lightning, he somehow shot to his chained feet, hobbling forward with unnatural speed. Before she could even raise her arms to exert pressure against him, he'd stretched the chain taut . . . the radiator was bending under the pressure.
He couldn't break it. Imposs—
Like a whip, it snapped free as he charged across the room for the door—the door where she stood. As she stared in disbelief, the radiator trailed in his wake, destroying everything in its wildly sweeping path.
Suddenly, the underfloor web of attached heating pipes burst up through the floor, foot after foot of groaning metal and exploding marble and splinters.
The three men dove for him once more, the pile of them skidding to a stop right at her slippers.
She gaped. Her home, her beloved home. In fifteen minutes, the madman had wrought more destruction to Elancourt than it had sustained in the last eighty years.
Her hands fisted. Control it. But her hair had already begun to swirl about her face, rose petals floating in a tempest around her body. Outside, the wind kicked up, streaming through the holes in the high windows, sweeping the grit and dust until she was able to see all the destruction.
The marble! When her eyes watered with frustration, rain poured outside.
Tamp it down.
Too late. Lightning bombarded the house, illuminating the night like successive bomb blasts. From under the pile of men, Conrad yanked his head up at her.
In a flash, Néomi twisted round, sweeping her hair over her face as she dissipated. Reemerging on the landing, she gazed down at him.
Conrad continued to stare at the spot where she'd stood, blinking and easing his struggles as if dumbfounded.
Had he . . . had he possibly seen her?
No one ever had before. Ever. She'd been so uniformly ignored for so long that she'd begun to wonder if she truly existed.
Up close, she'd been able to see that the whites of his eyes were . . . red. She'd thought he'd been injured, with burst blood vessels shooting across, but in fact, they were wholly glazed with red.
What were these beings? Could they truly be . . . vampires? Even in light of what she'd become, she still struggled to believe in anything supernatural.
With a shake of his head, Conrad frenziedly renewed his flight for the door, gaining inches, even as the three wrestled with him.
"I didn't want to have to do this, Conrad!" Nikolai dug into his jacket pocket. As the others pinned Conrad, he bit the end off what appeared to be a syringe and injected its contents into Conrad's arm.
Whatever it was slowed him, making him blink his red eyes again and again.
"What did you give him?" Sebastian asked.
"It's a concoction from the witches—part medical, part mystickal. It should knock him out."
For how long would it knock Conrad out? How long were they expecting him to stay here? To spit across her floor and roar within her halls? She'd be damned if she allowed another of Louis's ilk to taint her home once more! This Conrad was an animal. He should be put down. Or at the very least, put out.
She'd show these trespassers power like they'd never seen, sweeping them into the yard like trash! She'd toss them by their feet all the way to the bayou!
Néomi would demonstrate what happened when a ghost went poltergeist—
"Where . . . is she?" Conrad grated between heaving breaths.
Néomi froze. He couldn't be talking about her, couldn't have seen her.
"Who, Conrad?" Nikolai demanded.
REVIEW
"Literal lost souls are the unlikely protagonists of Cole’s latest paranormal romance. Placing huge roadblocks in front of these potential lovers makes their struggles all the more poignant and daring. You can trust Cole to always deliver sizzling sexy interludes within a darkly passionate romance."--Jill Smith, Romantic Times Magazine
"Conrad leaps off the page and into your heart. He's unexpected and unpredictable, fiercely determined to get better and to protect his mate, and an absolute fantasy lover in his devotion to Néomi's pleasure. Their sizzling attraction transcends the limits of the physical; Conrad loves her before he ever touches her, and the evolution of their romance is among the most believable and engrossing I've ever read. Cole's Immortals After Dark series continues stronger than ever with this latest installment."--Louisa White, Fresh Fiction
"Dark Needs At Night's Edge is an entertaining and adeptly imagined addition to a great series"--Janet, DearAuthor.com
Kresley Cole and Her Innocent Men--write up by Jane at DearAuthor.com
"Prepare yourself for a wickedly exhilarating ride through the world of the Lore with Kresley Cole's latest offering. I can't recommend Conrad and Néomi's book enough. Fabulous, Ms. Cole! Simply fabulous!"--Jolie Dreyson, Romance Junkies
Editorial Reviews
From Publishers WeeklyA New Orleans ballerina in the 1920s, Neomi Laress had her life cut short by a murderous fiancé. She has haunted her estate, Elancourt, for the past 80 years, desperately seeking contact. Conrad Wroth is a self-loathing vampire mercenary with serious bloodlust. His brothers bring him to Elancourt to try to make him sane again, but he soon gets drawn into Neomi's difficult world, and the two fall for each other. But since Neomi isn't embodied, they can't touch. And that's just one of their problems. The banter of secondary characters, particularly Mariketa the Witch, distinguishes this standard story of an unattainable woman who needs saving and a rageful man who needs taming. (May)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Product Description
Néomi Laress, a famous ballerina from a past century, became a phantom the night she was murdered. Imbued with otherworldly powers but invisible to the living, she haunts her beloved home, scaring away trespassers -- until she encounters a ruthless immortal even more terrifying than Néomi herself.
To prevent him from harming others, Conrad Wroth's brothers imprison him in an abandoned manor. But there, a female only he can see seems determined to drive him further into madness. The exquisite creature torments him with desire, leaving his body racked with lust and his soul torn as he finds himself coveting her for his own.
Yet even if Conrad can win Néomi, evil still surrounds her. Once he returns to the brutality of his past to protect her, will he succumb to the dark needs seething inside him?
About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
About the Author
Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.
Rating:
. . intense action, devilishly passionate sex and fascinating characters . . . hot stuff! -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!
The Best Sellers review by The New York Time 2009!
The Best Sellers review by The New York Time 2009! | |||||||||||||||||||||||
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Friday, February 20, 2009
Kresley Cole My Faverite Books Directory
Kresley Cole My Faverite Love Novel Hightlander :If You Deceive
Can a ruthless Highlander ever learn to love … ?
Burning vengeance …
Ethan MacCarrick was a heartbreakingly handsome rake until a powerful nobleman ordered him brutally beaten and his face scarred for a crime he didn’t commit. Ethan’s reprisal—bankrupting the nobleman and forcing his exile—does little to appease his wrath. Ten years later, a haughty, mysterious beauty enchants Ethan—the daughter of his enemy. At last, Ethan will have the revenge he’s craved; he’ll promise her marriage, seduce her, then cast her aside.
Bitter hardships …
When Madeleine Van Rowen’s family was suddenly plunged into destitution and dishonor, she steeled herself against further heartache. She never weakened, never trusted, until a towering, scarred Highlander relentlessly pursues her, breaking down her defenses.
At what price forgiveness?
The passion between them burns hotter than Ethan’s fury, and soon he finds he can’t let her go. But when Madeleine uncovers the truth about him, can Ethan convince her to accept all he now offers—when he once destroyed everything she had?
Editorial Reviews Review
With power and passion Kresley Cole completes her MacCarrick Brothers trilogy with a bang. You'll be held fast in Cole's grip and utterly satisfied with every aspect of her story. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!
Product Description
Burning vengeance...
Ethan MacCarrick was a heartbreakingly handsome rake until a powerful nobleman ordered him brutally beaten and his face scarred for a crime he didn't commit. Ethan's reprisal -- bankrupting the nobleman and forcing his exile -- does little to appease his wrath. Ten years later, a haughty, mysterious beauty enchants Ethan -- the daughter of his enemy. At last, Ethan will have the revenge he's craved; he'll promise her marriage, seduce her, then cast her aside.
Bitter hardships...
When Madeleine van Rowen's family was suddenly plunged into destitution and dishonor, she steeled herself against further heartache. She never weakened, never trusted, until a towering, scarred Highlander relentlessly pursues her, breaking down her defenses.
At what price forgiveness?
The passion between them burns hotter than Ethan's fury, and soon he finds he can't let her go. But when Madeleine uncovers the truth about him, can Ethan convince her to accept all he now offers -- when he once destroyed everything she had?
About the Author
Previously a competitive athlete and coach, Kresley Cole is fast becoming one of the hottest names in historical and paranormal romance. She has a master's degree in English from the University of Florida, and spent much of her time in the research library there, gathering background material for her books. She is the author of the MacCarrick Brothers trilogy, which begins with If You Dare and includes the forthcoming If You Desire and If You Deceive. Her other award-winning novels include No Rest for the Wicked, A Hunger Like No Other, The Captain of All Pleasures, and The Price of Pleasure. Her short fiction is featured in the bestselling anthology Playing Easy to Get.
If You Deceive
The love of a good woman? To save a wicked man like me? Never . . . because there's no woman born who's as good as I am bad.—Ethan Ross MacCarrick, Laird of Clan MacCarrick, Eighth Earl of Kavanagh
I didn't steal it—I swear! Oh, as if things never fall into your pocket!
—Madeleine Isobel Van Rowen, sneak thief, opportunist
Read an Excerpt
London, England
1856
If Madeleine Van Rowen was ever going to lose her virginity outside of a collateralized, signed marriage contract, it'd be with the towering man she'd spied in the black domino. He'd just begun navigating his way through the crowds of the Hive, the gaudily extravagant dance hall in which she found herself tonight.
From her spot on a raised dais, decorated with swans and lusty satyrs, Maddy watched him over the rim of her second glass of punch. She was growing light-headed and suspected the drink was spiked with more than rum—the spirit du jour—but she didn't particularly care. She wouldn't mind getting foxed after the day she'd just endured.
Today she'd learned that she'd failed to secure the man she'd journeyed from Paris to London to marry. "Madeleine, I'm just not the marrying type," he'd said. "I'm sorry."
Preferring to drown her sorrows in private, she'd wandered off from her group of friends, the Weyland women: Maddy's childhood friend Claudia, her sister Belinda, and their cousin Jane. The three Londoner Weylands were always craving the next forbidden thrill, and the Hive was supposed to be . . . thrilling.
Jane Weyland, the de facto leader of their group, had told the younger Maddy not to wander off again. After all, gentlewomen needed to stay together at all costs when out in London at night. Maddy rolled her eyes even now.
Please, innocent girls, Maddy had wanted to say. Though this masquerade was packed to the rafters with not only prostitutes and their lecherous patrons but also thieves and swindlers, it still paled in comparison to her everyday life.
Her secret life.
Maddy told everyone she lived in the wealthy Parisian parish of St. Roch with her mother and stepfather, but she actually lived alone in a slum called La Marais—translated as The Swamp—and every night she drifted to sleep to the music of gunfire and brawls.
She was a sneak thief, a pickpocket who would steal a diamond as easily as an apple, and she wasn't above an occasional burgle. In fact, if Maddy hadn't considered the Weylands her friends, they'd do well to be wary of her.
After adjusting her sapphire cape behind her and then her blue glacé mask, Maddy relaxed back on the dais bench, settling in to enjoy her view of the tall man. He stood well above most everyone in the room—six and a half feet in height, at least—and he had broad, muscular shoulders filling out his jacket.
The black domino he wore had a fluttering drop in the front, and though she could see his brow and lips and strong chin, the rest of his face was covered. He had thick, straight jet hair, and, she'd bet, dark, intense eyes.
He was clearly searching for someone, striding with aggression, his head turning this way and that, fighting the crush of what looked like thousands of people. When a gaggle of bare-breasted tarts blocked his path, angling for his attention, his brows drew together—with consternation or aggravation, Maddy didn't know.
What she wouldn't give to bed a strapping man like that for her first time. After all, she was an aficionada of male beauty. Her friend Claudia would chuckle each time Maddy tilted her head and peered at a passing man on the street. Maddy grinned into her glass. Making men blush as she so obviously sized them up was one of the things she lived for.
But if today was any indication of her luck, her husband and first lover was to be the Compte Le Daex, an obscenely wealthy roué, who was three times her age. In a last bid to avoid marrying that man, Maddy had journeyed to London, calling on her childhood friendship with Claudia, specifically to snare her brother Quinton Weyland. Unfortunately, Quin—with his curling hair, laughing green eyes, and robust finances—refused to marry. . . .
To distract her thoughts, she focused once more on the tall one as he made the perimeter of the building. His methodical and determined hunt, even the way he moved, fascinated her. He finally stopped, raking his fingers through his hair, turning in a circle in the crowd. She felt sad that he couldn't find the paramour he sought so urgently, and she drank to him, wishing him luck—
He raised his head up to where she sat, and his gaze locked on her. At once, he turned that aggressive stride toward the swan-and-satyr dais.
Frowning in confusion—she was the only one seated here—Maddy lowered her glass. He must have mistaken her for someone else. She wondered if she should let him think it and enjoy a few kisses with him. How delicious that would be. Just to squeeze those muscular shoulders while his lips brushed hers . . .
As he neared, his gaze held hers until she was captivated. Everything else dimmed. The drunken men were unseen; the high, false laughter of the courtesans below her were silenced.
He took the steps to her two at a time. When he stood before her, she stifled a gasp. She was eye level with his groin, and there was no disguising the fact that he was . . . aroused. She slowly craned her head up.
He stared down at her, silently offering her his big hand. His eyes were dark—and she'd never seen such intensity. She inhaled a shaky breath.
Le coup de foudre.
Bolt out of the blue. No, no. No bolts for me! Maddy was ever practical, never fanciful. She had no idea why that thought had arisen—because le coup de foudre had a second, more profound meaning.
The urge to take his hand was overwhelming. She clutched her glass in one hand and her skirts in the other, finally saying, "I'm sorry, sir. I'm not who you seek, nor am I, er, one among these other women."
"I ken that." He took her elbow—gently, but firmly—and helped her to her feet. "If you were like these other women, I would no' be seeking you at all." He had a marked Scottish accent and a voice so deep and husky that it gave her shivers.
"But I don't know you," she said, sounding breathless.
"You will soon, lass," he answered, making her frown. But before she could say anything, he took her glass and set it away, then caught her hand to pull her from the dais into the crowd.
For Maddy, two flaws warred with each other for the title of What Would Prove to be Maddy's Ultimate Downfall: an overly developed sense of curiosity and a marked pride. She imagined the traits to be in a race, like two horses in the mutuels on which she occasionally gambled. Right now, curiosity took the lead, demanding that she hear what the Scot had to say—even when she realized he was taking her toward the rooms lining the back wall of the warehouse. She quirked a brow. The rooms where prostitutes more fully serviced their patrons.
He opened the first door they came upon. Inside the dimly lit area, a woman was on her knees before a young man, taking him with her mouth while he leaned down and pinched her swollen, rouged nipples.
"Out," the Scot ordered with quiet menace. "Now."
The woman obviously sensed a threat better than her patron, and she pushed the drunken man back to tug up her bodice and scurry to her feet.
The Scot swung a glance at Maddy as the pair lurched out, no doubt to gauge her reaction to what they'd just witnessed. She shrugged. One of her best friends and across-the-hall neighbor was a popular girl, and scenes like this took place constantly where she lived. Turn any corner and find a different vice on display.
At twenty-one years of age, Maddy had seen it all.
As soon as they were alone, he closed the door and retrieved a chair to wedge against it. Where was her alarm? Where was her well-developed sense of self-preservation in a place like this? The room was dominated by a massive bed—twelve foot square at least—draped in glaring scarlet silk; no one could hear her scream back here, and they would ignore it even if they could, thinking a prostitute was giving a good show.
Yet, for some reason, she sensed this man wouldn't hurt her, and she possessed unfailing and proven instincts with men—a priceless gift to have in La Marais.
In any case, if things played out badly, this wouldn't be the first time she'd kindly introduced her knee to a man's groin and her fist to his Adam's apple. He would be shocked at how dirty and fiercely this dainty mademoiselle could fight.
When he returned from securing the door, he stood before her, far too close to be polite. She had to crane her head up to face him. "As I told you before, sir, I'm not one of these women. I don't belong back here, nor should you be . . . collecting me as you did."
"And as I told you before, had you been a courtesan, I would no' have collected you at all. I know you're a lady. What I doona know is why you're at this masquerade."
I'm trying to forget that soon I'll have to return to hell. . . .
She shook herself and answered, "I'm here with my friends. We're out for adventure." At least the others were. She planned to pick pockets once the punch was flowing freely.
"And by 'adventure' you mean affair." His tone seemed to grow irritated. "A bored young wife looking for a bedmate?"
"Not at all. We're merely here to be scandalized so we'll have something to write in our little diaries." As if she could afford either the diary or the time to write.
"Is that why you allowed me to lead you back here? Because you thought I'd make good diary fodder?"
"I allowed you because it would have been fruitless to resist," she replied. "I've seen intent like yours before. Would anything have stopped you from taking me to one of these rooms?"
"No' a thing in the world," he said, catching her eyes.
"Precisely. So I figured instead of being hauled over your shoulder and carried, I might as well follow you to a quiet spot so I could explain to you that I am not interested in this."
He stalked closer to her, forcing her back to a narrow table along the silk-papered wall. "My intent was no' only to get you alone, lass. And it has no' waned."
* * *
Her demeanor was surprisingly composed, her brilliant blue eyes calmly measuring behind her mask, as if a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Highlander accosting her in a darkened room made for sex was commonplace.
Up close, Ethan could see that she was probably no more than twenty, but she was possessed of herself—and even more impossibly lovely than he'd believed when she'd passed him on the street outside.
"And what is your intent?" she asked. Her breaths might have shallowed at his undisguised attention, especially when his gaze dropped to flicker over her breasts. She was slim, too much so for his customary taste, but her small breasts were expertly displayed, her cleavage plump above her tight bodice. He wanted to rip off his mask and rub his face against that creamy flesh.
"My intent is to"—have a woman beneath me for the first time in three years —"kiss you."
"You'll have to get your kisses"—she stressed the word as if she doubted that was all he wanted—"from one of the hundreds of courtesans out there."
"Doona want them." When his gaze had met hers in the crowd and her pink lips had parted, Ethan had been stunned to find himself swiftly growing hard as stone. Now as he leaned his face in closer to her hair—a mass of white-blonde curls, swept up to bare her neck—he smelled her light flowery scent and shot harder, his shaft straining hotly against his trousers. He savored the rare feeling, wanting to groan at the unexpected pleasure. "I followed you in here from the street."
"Why?" Her tone was straightforward, and he silently thanked her for not being coquettish.
"I saw you outside under a streetlight. I liked the way you smiled."
"And you just happened to have this with you?" She reached up, brushing her fingertips along the edge of his mask, but he caught her wrist, lowering it before releasing her.
"I liberated it from a passing patron when I saw you enter." The drop of his mask fluttered above his upper lip, and he'd quickly determined that no one could discern the extent of his scarred visage when courtesans had sought his attention. When they'd hindered his progress, he'd been tempted to lift his mask to frighten them away.
"Truly?" Her lips slid into that mysterious half grin, and the need to see the rest of her face burned in him. "So the entire time I saw you searching the crowd, you were looking for me?" Her accent was unusual—English upper class mixed with a tinge of French.
"Aye, for you," he said. "You were watching me from your vantage?"
"Raptly," she said, again straightforward, again surprising him.
The idea of her noticing him gave him an odd sense of gratification. "You're no' from London, are you?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Why are you here?"
"Do you want the truth or an answer fit for a masquerade?"
"Truth."
"I've come to England to search for a rich husband," she said.
"No' unusual," he replied. "At least you have the ballocks to admit it."
"I have a proposal waiting in the wings at home," she said, then frowned. "Though I had hoped not to fall back on that one."
"How is your hunt going?"
"Not as well as I'd hoped," she said. "A few discountable proposals."
"Discountable? Why?"
"Whenever I ask them to qualify themselves, they back off."
"Is that so?" he asked, and when she nodded solemnly, he felt a completely unfamiliar tug at his lips. "And how would a man qualify himself to you?"
"A token that would actually be dear to him, like an expensive ring or a pair of matched bays, or something along those lines."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
"I think of nothing else," she murmured so softly that he scarcely heard her. Then she added, "I did almost secure one. A truly good man." Her blonde brows drew together as she was clearly musing about him. "There might still be the slimmest hope with that one."
For the first time in his life and at the age of thirty-three, Ethan felt the unmistakable heat of jealousy.
What the bloody hell is wrong with me? "Then should you no' be working tonight on securing him?" he asked, his voice colder.
She blinked up at him. "Oh. Well, the man I mentioned went out for the evening. I'm his sister's houseguest, so I'm accompanying her tonight."
That generation of Weylands had only one male—Quin. Ethan ground his teeth. Quin had always been a favorite with the ladies.
She sighed. "Ça ne fait rien. It doesn't matter." Her voice was growing a bit slurred.
"No, it does no'." The hell she'd be securing Quin. Ethan would have to see her around London continually as their paths crossed—and if tonight was any indication, he'd have to continually cuckold Quin. "Forget him. He's no' here and I am."
She tilted her head. "Take off your mask."
"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it no'?" If he removed it, she would stop looking up at him with a growing curiosity glinting in her eyes and stare up in horror. "I can enjoy you just as well with our masks on."
"And what makes you think I'd allow you to ‘enjoy' me?" A flirtatious note had eased into her voice, so subtly he might have missed it. Not coquettish—but amused, intrigued.
She was playing, enjoying herself, but she had no idea what she toyed with. "I've a sense for these things." He brushed the backs of his fingers below the sapphire silk of her mask, down her cheek, and she allowed it. "Tonight you're aching for a man."
At that, she glanced away. "You might be right, Scot," she said casually, then faced him once more. Her voice a purr, she asked, "But are you the man I await . . . where I ache?"
He felt on the verge of grinning. Ach, he liked this excitement. This bandying. He liked that she flirted with him, even knowing she didn't plan to go farther. Why hadn't a man like himself been attending masquerades every bloody week?
"I am that man." He took her by her tiny waist and lifted her onto the table along the wall.
"Scot, put me down!" she cried, but he could tell she was excited, well past intrigued now. "Why did you do that?"
"I want to be face-to-face with you when I kiss you for the first time."
Finally, his words drew a small gasp from her lips. "Are you always so arrogant?"
"Aye, always." He wedged his hips between her legs.
"You need to let me down," she said, even as she hesitantly ran her fingertip over his arm—as if she'd struggled not to but hadn't been able to help herself. "I've no time or use for handsome rakes with smooth words."
His lips did curl then, pulling on the tight skin of his face, forcing him to recall that he didn't smile—and that he was no longer handsome. "How do you know what I look like? This mask covers most of my face."
"You have a powerful body and a seductive smile. Gorgeous eyes," she said in a provocative voice that made his shaft throb. "You said you've a sense for certain things, well, I appreciate handsome men. An aficionada, if you will. There's a reason I spied you out tonight."
"Is that so?" When she nodded, he said, "Tell me your name."
"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it not?" she answered, repeating his words. She placed her gloved hand on his chest and let it rest there, as if she couldn't decide if she should push him away or clutch his shirt and draw him to her. He caught her hand, rucking the glove up to bare her wrist, then placed a kiss on her satiny skin there.
She shivered, tugging her hand back until he released it. "Look at you, Scot. You're a practiced seducer, if I've ever seen one."
"Practiced?" For the last decade, his flirtations hadn't been practiced—they'd been nonexistent. And before that, he'd never needed to seduce.
Impulse had made him kiss her hand.
So where did the sodding impulse come from?
"Yes, practiced. That kiss to the wrist is a perfect communication. The brush of your lips demonstrates that you'd be gentle and sensual in bed. The firm hold on my hand as you placed it indicates that you'd be masterful at the same time."
Gentle? He thought back. Had he ever been gentle? Right now, he recognized he had no desire to be so with her. He wanted to press his hips against her, rubbing his erection at the juncture of her thighs. He hadn't been this hard in years, and he wanted to proudly show her how fierce his reaction was to her.
"I've met a lot of your kind," she said. "Know that I'm invulnerable."
"I take that as a challenge, aingeal. I'm going to be inside you tonight, and I'll remind you of your words when I have your legs wrapped 'round my waist."
"Oh, Scot, that won't happen." She shook her head, and a few glossy curls tumbled free, bouncing over her shoulder.
"You're obviously no innocent." Which was peculiar, since he knew she was upper class. She must indeed be a jaded thrill seeker like Jane Weyland and her crowd. "Why no' spend a night with me?"
"You don't think I'm untouched? Why?"
"You looked like you could have yawned at the scene we found in here. No' many innocents would be unfazed by the sight of a prostitute giving a man a below job."
"Well, whether I am or not is incidental. The fact remains that I'm here to find a husband—not a lover. And I've no time for dalliances."
"Make time. If you're in London to find a husband, seems like you might no' be so disdainful to an unmarried man like myself." He didn't have time for this. Tomorrow he would leave town to hunt Grey, and for the first time, the call of a kill like that wasn't as strong as the call of a woman.
She laughed then, a seductively sultry laugh that made him yearn to kiss her. "You are so unreachable, you're not even a remote candidate."
He tensed. "Based on what little you know of me?"
All humor gone, she said, "I know enough to suspect that you would use me and never look back. And I'm not condemning, just stating a fact." Her guileless blue eyes were suddenly inscrutable. "I think we have a lot in common, you and I."
* * *
"In common? Then you're achin' for us to tup, too."
Maddy grinned then. She simply couldn't help it. "And just like that, you disarm me." There was something about his rough—markedly rough—around-the-edges demeanor that appealed to her. Who was she fooling? Everything about him appealed to her, from his rumbling brogue to his muscular body, to his strange fixation with her.
"I want to do more than disarm you."
Her smile faded. The Scot wasn't giving up, and she regretted leading him on. She was behaving foolishly, like a normal girl of twenty-one might, when she didn't have that luxury. Ever practical Maddy felt herself closing down, the barbs sharpening, the walls going up. "My friends have probably begun to look for me by now. I need to get back to them."
His brows drew together. "You're truly . . . leaving?" He sounded baffled, as if he had no idea what to do with this.
She tilted her head. "And you're truly not used to being turned down?"
"I'm no' used to being in a position to be."
"You never pursue women?" she said in a doubtful tone.
"Never."
"So I was the lucky first?" Normally she would roll her eyes at comments like these and take them for what they were—verbal attempts to get into her skirts. But there was something about the way he said them, as if they were significant to him, as if they were not only truths but new and unwelcome ones.
And that he blamed her for them.
"Aye." He exhaled. "You are the first."
"It's a shame that on your first sally you're going to fail."
His dark eyes narrowed. "And you call me arrogant? What makes you think you can dismiss me?"
"Because you are the one who sought me out."
"And I dinna do it in vain." He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, then leaned in as if to kiss her. "I'm taking you from here tonight."
Though she was dying to know what his lips would feel like, she pushed against his chest, striving to ignore how rigid and big the muscles there were. "Not a chance of that, Scot. There's no chance in hell I'll leave with you . . ." She trailed off as he drew in closer. He's going to kiss me right now! Her breaths shallowed, and her eyelids nearly fluttered closed in pleasure at his clean scent and the heat emanating from his body.
She licked her bottom lip, and he noticed, giving her a wicked grin just as he was about to reach her. She couldn't stifle a soft whimper—
Whistles rent the air.
She froze. "Are those police whistles?" she whispered, her lips inches from his.
"Aye," he murmured, "I'd wager you'd like to leave with me now."
The entire building quaked as the crowd began to flee. She felt the vibrations through the table under her bottom, and the fog of desire cleared in a rush. Self-preservation, Maddy!
"Must go now!" Ducking out from under him, she hopped down, then dragged the chair from the door. Just as she was about to dash off, he grabbed her skirt and yanked. "Let me free!" she demanded over her shoulder.
"Can you no' hear the chaos outside?" he snapped. "You doona stand a chance of getting past the police, but you'll likely be trampled."
She turned to him. "But my friends are out there!"
"They'll be safe. Two acquaintances of mine came here tonight and already had their eyes on the women you were with. They'll see them home."
"But—"
"Both of those men are capable—and a thousand times more honorable than I am." He met her eyes. "Worry only for yourself, lass."
Nibbling her bottom lip, she said, "Earlier, I saw a back way out." Wary by nature and out of habit, she always traced an escape route from any building she entered. When she and the others had first arrived, Maddy had surveyed a back hall where she'd seen a couple donning jackets before entering. They hadn't returned. "Could you help me get out?"
"I seem to recall that you'd never leave with me." He leaned back against the wall and drew a knee up, still holding her skirt. "‘No' a chance in hell' to be exact." He smirked, then immediately stopped as if even a cold smile was unwelcome. She'd seen people do that when they had missing teeth, but his were white and straight and perfect. Perfect like everything else about him. Except for his arrogance.
"Then release me."
"I'll see you clear of this place . . . for the kiss I almost stole."
She had an insistent need to kiss him and, of course, her well-developed sense of preservation—these were not at cross-purposes, yet now was not the time. With a long-suffering sigh, she said, "If I must. But only after you get me to safety."
He showed no alarm about what was happening outside. "A kiss now, or more later. What would one kiss hurt?"
"What would it help?" When he remained unmoved, she said, "Oh, fine." She crossed to him, then reached her hands up to his neck. Tugging him down, she briefly pressed her lips to the corner of his.
When he stood fully once more, he said, "Ah, aingeal, that was sweet, no doubt of it. But it was no' quite what I had in mind." He cupped his palm over her nape. "I'm demanding a deep kiss. Until you're panting."
"Panting?" she murmured, gazing up at him. "Truly?" How . . . titillating.
With his other hand, he cradled her face and brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. "It'll be easier just tae show you . . . ."
About the Author
Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.
Rating:
With power and passion Kresley Cole completes her MacCarrick Brothers trilogy with a bang. You'll be held fast in Cole's grip and utterly satisfied with every aspect of her story. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!
Kresley Cole My Faverite Love Novel Hightlander : If You Desire
If You Desire (The MacCarrick Brothers, Book 2)
Editorial Reviews
If You Desire is a sizzling, sensual and satisfying treasure that will keep you reading well into the night. -- Fresh Fiction
It's impossible to resist these heroes and their stories. Savor every moment of another passionate tale from a queen of adventure romance. -- Romantic Times Magazine, 4 1/2 STARS TOP PICK!
Suspense, action, and high drama are wrapped around the sizzling romance in If You Desire, making it a highly entertaining read. -- Romance Reviews Today--Perfect ten
How much temptation can a Highlander resist?
He tried to run …
In his youth, Hugh MacCarrick foolishly fell in love with a beautiful English lass who delighted in teasing him with her flirtatious ways. Yet he knew he could never marry her because he was a second son with no prospects, shadowed by an accursed family legacy. To avoid temptation, Hugh left home and trained as an assassin.
She tried to forget him …
Jane Weyland was devastated when the Highlander she believed would marry her abandoned her instead. Years later, when Hugh MacCarrick is summoned to protect her from her father’s enemies, her heartache has turned to fury—but her desire for him has not waned.
Will passion overwhelm them?
In hiding, Jane torments Hugh with seductive play. He struggles to resist her because of deadly secrets that could endanger her further. But Hugh is no longer a gentle young man—and toying with the fever-pitched desires of a hardened warrior will either get Jane burned … or enflame a love that never died.
About the Author
Kresley Cole has a Master's degree in English from the University of Florida and a lifelong interest in nautical literature and sailing. You can visit her website at www.kresleycole.com.
Rating:
4 1/2 STARS Top Pick!
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