Blood Eternal (8 page)

Luke smiled and looked down at his hands. Of course Francesca would be informed of his latest purchase. As an art dealer and collector herself, she kept abreast of everything within the art world. “Actually, it can be all three. Art is passion but there is always the right price.”

“
Mortuaria Benedictus
is a beautiful piece,” she said.

“I agree. Speaking of pieces, have you acquired any new ones?” He scanned the cozy living room. Several Renaissance paintings hung on the walls, their colors rich compared with the faded state of the gold wallpaper. A painting of a woman with golden hair and gray eyes caught his attention. She wore jewels throughout her hair and her dress fell from one shoulder, revealing the swell of a creamy breast. “The oil there is a new one, is it not?” He nodded at the painting of the fair woman.

“Yes,” she replied. “The daring in her expression spoke to me. Reminded me of a younger version of myself. But let’s get back to your purchase. You changed topics too quickly. I’ve seen
Mortuaria Benedictus
several times before. It has a special meaning behind it. I’d almost say it’s destiny you found it.”

“You are not going to start with your fortune-telling rubbish, are you?”

Francesca frowned. “I never tell you rubbish. Just because you don’t believe it, doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I still insist and will always insist you are my perfect Dante.”

Smiling, he shook his head. “Since I met you, you have called me that name. Decades have passed and I fail to see how I am the perfect Dante. Then again, it’s been a while since I’ve read
The Divine Comedy
.”

“Well you should spend some time re-reading it.” Francesca pushed herself to her feet and came to stand before him. Hands cupping his face, she drew him close. “You’d understand it more when I tell you she will lead you to purgatory and only through her will you find your personal paradise. The woman you brought here is your Beatrice. I can see it clear as day.”

He placed his hands over hers, reveling in the aged feel of her skin, as it reminded him of what he would never have. “How I wish I could believe you but I am almost positive you are mistaken. I admit she is different, she makes me laugh, but it will take much more than a few light moments to save me.” He bent his head into her hands. If anything, the past few weeks had been more difficult. Each day he refused to kill pushed him further into despair’s depths.

She shrugged and backed away, sat back in her chair. “You’ve always been stubborn, but you shall see for yourself.”

Luke lifted his gaze. His thirst overwhelmed him and his eyes must be burning a deep burgundy. They never spoke about what he was. Usually, he preferred to avoid the subject, but tonight was different. “Why is it you have never feared me?” he asked. “I always hesitate to say too much and yet I have the feeling you know everything anyway.”

Francesca smiled and shook her head. “Not everything. I’ve always wondered whether you’d ever ask me that, though. I used to spend hours thinking what I’d tell you.”

Stomach churning, he anticipated what she would say. “And?”

“Frankly, I’m too old to care now.” She laughed softly. “And I know you. You’d rather take your own life than kill an innocent, but you put yourself in danger going this long without appeasing your hunger. You are a vampire. You must drink blood and you must kill. The predator within demands it as the price for your freedom. You may not believe yourself free but it could be worse.”

She was right but the words still were not easy to hear. “You know too much, Francesca. I worry for your safety at times.”

“I’m no threat to your kind.” She crossed her right leg over her left. “At best I’m an aged meal.”

Luke smiled at her bluntness. “More like a fine vintage wine.”

“Ah, yes.” She laughed. “This I prefer to believe.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I cannot explain the restlessness inside me. Why does my thirst for blood and death grow stronger? What wrong am I committing?”

Francesca met his gaze. Laughter left her face and her eyes glistened beneath the dim lights. “Surrender. If you can do this, you’ll leave an old woman with less sleepless nights.”

No doubt she spoke the truth. For as long as he had known her, Francesca had fretted over him. At times, she reminded him of the way a mother should be. His mother had not had a true worried bone in her body. “You should not be losing sleep over me anyhow.”

She lifted her chin, a defiant gesture, if he were to guess. “It’s my nature to worry.”

Luke ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps Francesca was right, but surrender meant trust. Could he learn to trust again? And even if he did, what would he give up? “I will try to do as you ask.”

She nodded. “There is hope for you yet.”

He stood, lifted Francesca’s hand and kissed the top of it. “Tonight was a pleasure. I shall try not to stay away too long this time, but I believe it best if I take her before she awakens.”

“Yes, I agree,” she said. “I would hate to lie to such a lovely innocent and unless you are ready to reveal yourself, I assume I don’t have a choice?”

Francesca tested her boundaries, but he would not let up. He could not afford to reveal himself, not yet, anyhow. And he was not so sure Savannah was the innocent she pretended to be. “I appreciate your understanding.”

She bowed her head. “Perhaps there will be another time for us to meet.”

“Yes, perhaps,” he replied. “For now, please excuse me. Goodnight, Francesca.” He turned and left the room.

8

Innocence is like polished armor; it adorns and defends.

—Robert South

A loud pounding jolted Savannah awake. “Okay, I’m up.” She pushed herself into a sitting position on Luke’s living room sofa. One bare leg peeked out beneath a soft white blanket. Strange, she didn’t recall changing into her pajamas last night. She didn’t recall much after their chase. The chase, how could she have forgotten? And Luke. His lips on her neck, his hands on her. A flutter of electricity moved through her and she knotted her fist in the silky material of her shorts.

Another knock sounded and she bolted up, wrapping the blanket around her as she hurried to the foyer. “Coming.” She reached the front door and swung it open.

A pale, dark-haired male smiled and lifted a large rectangular package. “
Buongiorno, signorina. Il suo quadro.
”

She understood good day but he’d lost her with the rest. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

“Your painting.”

Of course. Luke’s auction painting from the other night. “Oh, come in. You can put it over here.” She walked through an arched entryway and pointed to a large granite island in the middle of the kitchen. Luke could decide what he wanted to do with it when he woke up—if he ever woke up.

The man followed her and slid the painting onto the counter. Turning, he smiled and winked. “Enjoy and
grazie
.”

She felt her cheeks grow heated. Incorrigible Italians. “Thank you.”

Once alone, she returned to the painting and smoothed the brown paper, covering it with a finger. Luke probably wouldn’t mind if she took a peek at it. She bit her lip. She could always wrap it back anyway.

Mind made up, she took a knife off a wall rack and slid its sharp edge beneath the clear tape holding the paper closed. Peeling back a layer of soft cloth beneath, she released a slow breath. Vibrant colors. From afar, the background had appeared black, but up close, she could tell it was more of a deep plum. Two males lay side by side beneath a masked woman. Their skin held a deep bronze tone, their cheeks were flushed. Both faces were handsome and angular, but she couldn’t tell the color of their eyes, as they tilted up in an expression of euphoria. Bodies strained. Their muscular forearms flexed as each dug their large hands into the sheets beneath them. Erotic, and yet the dark colors seemed to signify protection for the males, a comfort with the night. A false sense of security, maybe?

The woman was different. She displayed an almost obvious dominance as she knelt atop the males’ torsos. Her skin was pale, translucent almost, and her blond hair combined with the gold mask she wore brought to mind a sense of angelic fragility. Yet somehow Savannah knew with every atom in her body the vampire was far from angelic or fragile. Burgundy dripped from her lips, but her exertion seemed effortless. Her breasts sat full and high, flawless like her entire body. Pure sex, seduction and darkness. The woman’s beauty also represented perfection. The kind she would never possess.

Smoothing a hand over her collarbone, she moved it along a raised scar. Down further over the swell of one breast. The skin felt silky, untouched by nightmares of her past. She circled a nipple over the thin material of her camisole. What would it be like to be the woman in the painting, to feel and look so erotic? Floorboards down the hall creaked and she stopped her exploration. The hall remained empty.

Luke? The sun would set in a few hours and he hadn’t woken up yet. The mere thought of him made goose bumps surface along her arms. Despite his old-fashioned manners, he had a presence about him, a lethal power riding beneath the surface. It aroused and frightened. How could a man who seemed to guard his emotions so closely touch her with so much passion? His lips against her throat the night before had tingled and warmed, awakening her skin in a way she’d never experienced. She trembled and shook her head. She didn’t need any more life complications.

She turned back toward the painting, drew along the gold frame with a finger. The woman was beautiful, yet the crease between her brows seemed to mar her perfection. This was more than a frown. She appeared pained in her ecstasy.

Another creak echoed down the hallway.

Having smoothed the cloth into place over the canvas, she folded the brown paper closed and left the painting on the counter.

Inside her room, she leaned along the door and tried to erase fantasy images of Luke touching her, surrendering to her like the men in the painting. She could only dream. If she kept this up, she’d be in a world of trouble.

She unleashed a resigned breath. A hot shower would make her feel better. If Luke decided he wanted to pay her to stand guard while he slept, this job would be a piece of cake—she hoped.

Peeling off her socks, she hissed through her teeth. The blisters on her feet from last night were raw.

As Luke had carried her through Rome’s streets, she’d savored the intimacy of the act. He’d made her feel small and feminine.

After folding her fitted shirt and khaki pants on the bed, she reached behind and undid the clasp of her bra, shimmied out of the rose lace garment and tossed it next to her clothes.

“Who hurt you?” Luke’s voice startled her.

She clasped an arm over her breasts and fumbled with the folded shirt before turning to face him. She hadn’t heard him open the door, hadn’t realized he was awake. “What are you doing? Please leave, I’m going to shower.” Probably not an ideal tone to take with her boss but considering her half-naked state, she wasn’t ready to invite him for tea.

He shoved off the doorframe and stepped closer as if she hadn’t ordered him out of her room. “Answer my question first. Who hurt you?”

What did it matter to him? She made an effort not to tremble beneath the intensity of his stare. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly dressed for a conversation right now.”

The lines of his face tightened as the skin along his jaw stretched. “I have seen women in a state of undress. I give you my word I will not hurt you, but I want to know who cut you.” He tilted his head. “It is not a knife wound. Something sharp and jagged ripped through your skin. It healed irregularly here.” He ran a finger down the side of her ribs.

She sucked in a breath as her skin heated beneath his touch. The instinct to move away froze within her. His voice hypnotized, pushing her beyond reason. She had no interest in talking about her scars or remembering the accident and yet couldn’t ignore him.

“Glass,” she said. “Glass cut me.” In hopes of shaking the fog over her mind, she squeezed her eyes shut. Why was he in her room? She clasped the shirt tighter to her chest. “I’m going to shower.” Her voice sounded drone-like.

Luke stepped closer. His dark gaze bored into hers, trailed down over her neck, shoulders and arms. “I did not ask what gave you such scars.” His breath tingled along her cheek. “I asked who hurt you.”

She couldn’t handle this, not undressed and frozen in place, but what could she do? The words she wanted to say stuck to her tongue. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her chin. “I did this to myself. Is that what you wanted to hear? No more mystery to solve regarding Savannah’s hideous jigsaw puzzle skin.” She exhaled a harsh breath. “No need for you to act a white knight.”