Books by Maggie Shayne (76 page)

Could she do it? Would he answer if she did?

If you need me, Tamara, call me. I will come to you.

He had managed to unbutton her jeans. The zipper gaped. He rose from her slightly, removing his filthy, vile hand, to fumble with his own fly. She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to make her thoughts coherent.
Help me, Eric. Please, if you meant what you said, help me
. At the sound of his zipper being lowered she felt the oddest sensation that her mind was literally screaming through time and space. It was a frightening feeling, but not unfamiliar. She'd felt it before. . . in her dreams. The urgency of her thoughts pierced her brain with a high-pitched pain.
I need you, Eric! For God's sake, help me!

* * * * *

Eric paused in swirling the liquid in the test tube, and his head tilted to one side. He frowned, then shook his head and continued.

"So what's this hocus pocus?"

He glanced at Roland, one brow raised. "I am trying to isolate the single property in human blood that keeps us alive."

"And what will you do then? Develop it in a tiny pill and expect us to live on them?"

" It would be more convenient than robbing blood banks, my friend." He smiled, but it died almost instantly. His head snapped up and the glass tube fell to the floor and shattered.

Roland jerked in surprise. "What is it, Eric?"

"Tamara." He whipped the latex gloves from his hands as he moved through the room. The white coat followed and then he raced through the corridors of the enormous house, pausing only to snatch his coat from a hook on the way out. By the time he reached the gate he was moving with the preternatural speed that rendered his form no more than a blur to human eyes. He used the speed and momentum to carry him cleanly over the barrier, and sensed Roland at his side. He honed his mind to Tamara's and felt a rush of sickening fear, and icy cold.

Minutes. It took only minutes to reach her, but they seemed like hours to Eric. He stood still for an instant, filling with rage when he saw the bastard wrench her onto her back and attempt to shove her denims down her hips as his mouth covered hers.

Her eyes closed tight, she twisted her face away, and sobbed his name. "Eric. . . oh, God, Eric, please. . ."

He gripped the back of the thug's shirt and lifted him away from her, to send him tumbling into the snow. He bent over the stunned man, pulled him slightly upward by his shirtfront and smashed his face with his right fist. He drew back and hit him again, and would have continued doing so had not her soft cry cut through the murderous rage enveloping him. He turned, saw her lying in the snow and let the limp, bloody-faced man fall from his hands. He went to her, falling to his knees and pulling her trembling body into his arms. He lifted her easily, cradling her, rocking her. "It's over. I'm here. He can't hurt you now." He pressed his face into her hair, and closed his eyes. "He can't hurt you. No one can. I won't allow it."

She drew one shuddering, slow breath, then another, and yet another. Suddenly her arms linked around his neck. She turned her face into the crook of his neck and shoulder and she sobbed—violent, racking sobs that he thought would tear her in two. She clung to him as if to a lifeline, and he held her tightly. For a long while he simply held her and let her cry. He whispered into her hair, words of comfort and reassurance. It was over now. She was safe.

With an involuntary spasmodic sob she lifted her head, searched his face, her eyes brimming with tears and wide with wonder. "You came to me. You really came to me. I called you. . ."

He blinked against the tears that clouded his vision, and pushed the tangled hair away from her face. "I could not do otherwise. And you should not be so surprised. I told you I would, did I not?"

She nodded.

"I cannot lie to you. I never have, and I swear to you now, I never will." He studied her, knowing she believed him. Her blouse had been torn, and hung from one shoulder in tatters. The fastenings of her denims hung open. She was wet from the snow, and shaking with cold and with reaction, no doubt. He carried her up the slope to the pavement. Roland moved around the automobile. Eric saw that the tire lay on the pavement. Roland had the jack and its handle in his hands and he tossed them into the open trunk.

When he reached the car he glanced down at Tamara once more. She still clung tightly. "Are you injured? Can you stand?"

She lifted her head from his shoulder. "I'm okay. Just a little shaky."

Eric lowered her gently to the pavement, and opened the passenger door of the car. He kept hold of her shoulders as: she got in. Roland had just tossed the flat tire into the trunk and slammed it down. Eric called to him. "Where are the others?"

Roland answered mentally, not aloud.
Ran like rabbits, my friend.

You let them go? Roland, you ought to have thrashed them for this,
Eric answered silently, falling into the old habit of speaking that way with his friend.

What of her attacker? Did you kill him?

Not yet.
His anger returned when he thought of how close the bastard had come to raping Tamara
. But I intend to, and then those sorry curs that helped him.

Murder doesn't suit you, Eric. And the other two were mere lads. Leave this as it is. It will be for the best.

Tamara rose from her seat in the car, and Eric realized he hadn't closed the door. Her hand came to his shoulder, and with surprising calm she said, "Roland is right, Eric. They were just kids. When they see the shape you left their friend in, they'll realize how lucky they were tonight. And you know you can't go back there and murder that man in cold blood. It isn't in you."

Both men glanced at her, Roland's gaze astonished. He lifted his brows and spoke aloud. "This will require getting used to. It is odd to think a human can hear my thoughts, although I assume it only occurs when I am conversing with you, Eric. She hears what you hear."

Eric nodded. He slipped his coat from his shoulders, and arranged it over her like a blanket. "She hears what I hear," he repeated. "She can feel what I feel, if she only looks deeply enough. She can read my thoughts and my feelings. I can keep nothing from her." He spoke to Roland but his words were for Tamara's ears. He longed to have her trust. "I'm going to drive her home. Care to ride along?"

Roland took a step away from the auto as if it might bite him. "In that?"

Tamara smiled. Her gaze slid to Eric's and he smiled, as well. She would be all right.

"I am glad you both find my aversion to these machines so highly amusing. I shall manage to travel under my own power, thank you." With a dramatic whirl of his black cloak he vanished into the darkness.

Eric closed Tamara's door, circled the car and got in beside her. For a long moment he simply looked at her, drinking in the familiar beauty of her face. Her eyes moved over his in like manner, as if she, too, had craved the sight of him.

He dragged his gaze away, and searched the car's panel. "It's been a while," he told her, frowning. "But I assume you still need a key."

Her smile sent warmth surging through him. She glanced around, and pointed into the rear seat. "It was in my purse."

He glanced where she pointed and spotted her handbag, spilling over the back seat. He leaned over, located the keys and returned to the correct position. It took him a moment to locate the switch. The last time he'd driven a car the switch had been on the dashboard, not the side of the steering wheel.

He inserted the key, turned it on and jerked at the mechanical hum the car emitted. She laughed aloud, the sound like music to him. He felt some of her tension leaving her with that laughter.

"How long has it been?" she asked him, amusement in her voice.

Smiling, he looked at her. "I don't recall, exactly. But fear not, I am a quick study. Now then. . ." His feet did a little tap dance on the floorboard. "Where's the clutch?"

"It's automatic." She slid across the seat, closer to him, and pointed to the pedals on the floor. "There is the brake and that's the accelerator. Now hold your foot on the brake."

He slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer to his side. He pressed his foot onto the pedal she indicated. She put her finger on the indicator. "Look. Park, Reverse, Neutral, Drive. Put it in Drive." He did, smelling her hair, then jerking his head around when the car began to move.

He eased it onto the street and moved it slowly until he got a feel for the thing. Soon he maneuvered the car easily, finding the correct ramp and bringing them onto the highway.

"You said you could never lie to me," she said softly, settling close to him. "Is it true?"

"I could attempt to lie to you, but if I did, and you paid attention, you would know." He tightened his arms on her shoulders. " But I'd never have reason to lie to you, Tamara."

She nodded. "I don't want to go right home. Could we stop somewhere? Talk for a while?"

She didn't need to tell him that the first thing she had to do was to wash the memory of the vile man's touch away from her body. It amazed her that he could read her so well, but he did. He took her to his home, parking the Cadillac within the fence, and around a bend in the driveway, so it couldn't be seen from the highway. He then suggested she call Daniel with a plausible explanation for her lateness. She told Daniel that she and Hilary were heading to a nightclub after dinner, and that she didn't know how late she'd be. He grumbled, but didn't throw too much of a fit. She had to give him credit. He was trying.

When she replaced the receiver of the telephone, Eric reentered the living room, carrying a tray with a bottle of brandy and a delicate-looking long-stemmed bubble glass. She eyed it, unconsciously rubbing one palm over her breast where the pig had touched her.

"His filth can't touch you, Tamara. You're too pure to be sullied by one so vile."

She realized what she'd been doing and drew her hand away. "I feel dirty... contaminated."

"I know. It is a normal reaction, from what I understand. Would you feel less so if you bathed?"

She closed her eyes. "God, yes. I want to scrub myself raw every place he—"

"I sensed as much. I drew a bath for you while you spoke to St. Claire."

Her eyes opened then. "You did?"

He lowered the tray, poured the glass half-full of brandy and brought it to her. One arm around her shoulders, he led her down a long, high-ceilinged corridor, and through a door.

The room glowed with amber light from the oil lamps, and the tall, elegant candles that burned on every inch of available space. A claw-footed, ivory-toned tub brimmed with bubbly, steaming water. He took the brandy from her unresisting hand and set the glass on a stand near the tub. He picked up what looked like a remote control from the same spot, thumbed a button, and soft music wafted into the room, as soothing as the steam that rose from the water, or the halo glows of light around the myriad of tiny flames.

She leaned over the tub, touched an iridescent bubble and felt the spatters on her wrist when it popped. His hand touched her shoulder and she turned, staring up at him in wonder. "I can't believe you did all this."

"I want to comfort you, Tamara. I want to erase the horror that touched you tonight. I want to replace it with tenderness. I cherish you. Do you know that?"

She felt a lump in her throat. His words were so poignant they made her eyes burn.

"I won't lose control. I couldn't unleash my passions on you after what you've experienced tonight. I only want to pamper you, to show you. . ." He closed his eyes, lifted her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, one by one, then opened his eyes and turned her hand over and pressed his lips to her palm.

She gave her consent, without parting her lips. He heard it, it seemed. He gently removed her tattered blouse, and set it aside. He reached around her, unhooked her bra in the back and then drew the straps down over her shoulders. Her right breast was bruised, and she felt the marks of the other man's fingers would never go away completely.

"The marks are only skin-deep, and they will fade." He pushed her still-damp jeans down, lifted his hands and she held them, to balance while she stepped out of them. She removed the panties herself. She didn't want him to look down at her body. She still felt dirty, despite his words. He kept his gaze magnetized to hers, holding her hands as she lifted one foot, then the other into the bubbly water. She sank slowly down, leaning back against the cool porcelain and closing her eyes.

She felt the touch of the chill glass in her palm and she closed her hand on it. "Sip," Eric instructed. "Relax. Let the tension ebb. Hear Wolf gang's genius."

She tasted the brandy, not opening her eyes. "Mmm. This is wonderful."

"Cognac," he replied. She heard the trickle of water, then felt a warm cloth moving over her throat, and around to the back of her neck.

She frowned, still keeping her eyes closed. "There used to be a legend about vampires and running water. . . ."

She heard his low chuckle. The cloth left her skin to plunge into the water. He squeezed it out, lathered it with soap and returned to his gentle cleansing—of her soul, it seemed. "Completely false." He moved slowly over her chest, washing her breasts as her heartbeat quickened. But he didn't touch her in passion, only in comfort. "And so is the one about the garlic, or wolfsbane. And, as you already know, the crucifix."

"But sunlight..."

"Yes, sunlight is my enemy. It is one of the things I try to work out in my laboratory. The how of it, and the why. What I might do to change it." He sighed, and lathered her stomach and abdomen. "I can't tell you how much I miss the sun." His hand, covered by the wet cloth, moved over her rib cage beneath the water, and down her side.

"The wooden stake?"

"It isn't the stake that would do me in. Any sharp object could, if used properly. A vampire is almost like a sufferer of hemophilia. We could bleed to death quite easily." He ran the cloth between her legs all too briefly, and then moved on to rhythmically massage her thighs.

"Why do we have this mental link?" She took another long, slow drink of the cognac and opened her eyes to watch his face as he answered.

"I will try to begin to explain it to you. You see, not just any human can become a vampire. There are, in fact, very few who could be transformed, all of whom have two common traits." He moved to her calf, kneading the back of it as he soaped it for her. "One is the bloodline. It traces back to a common ancestor, but I suspect it goes back much farther, even, than that."

"Who?"

He captured one of her feet in both his soapy hands and lifted it from the water to rub and caress and massage it until the foot and his hands were invisible beneath a mound of suds. "Prince Vlad the Impaler... better known as—"

"Dracula," she breathed, awestruck.

"Exactly. The other trait—" he rubbed her big toe between his thumb and forefinger "—is in the blood itself. There is an antigen called Belladonna."

She sat up fast. "But I have the Belladonna antigen." He turned his face toward her, his gaze momentarily locking onto her breasts, jiggling with the sudden movement just above the water's surface, bubbles clinging, sliding slowly down.

He licked his lips. "Yes, and you have the ancestor, as well. Such humans with both traits are rare. We call them the Chosen. Always there is a mental link between us and them, though in most cases the humans are unaware of it. We know if they are in danger, and we do our best to protect them. The incident in Paris was not the first time Roland had saved my life, you see." He forced his head to turn away again, she noticed, and he went to work, with his magic hands and fingers, on her other foot. "That is where our link began. It became much stronger, and that part of it you must remember on your own."

She lowered herself into the water again. She believed him. She no longer doubted what he'd told her. The sensation of being able to see what was in his mind was awesome to her, but very real. She knew, for instance, that it would do her no good to insist he tell her more of their past and this link. He wouldn't. For her sake, he wouldn't. And she knew, right now, the effort it was costing him not to jerk her roughly into his arms and to kiss her until her head swam with desire. He held himself in rigid check, knowing the terror she'd felt tonight. For her sake, he held back.

He loved her.

His love was like a soft, warm blanket, enveloping her and protecting her from the world. Nothing could touch her with this feeling around her. It was heaven to be loved so much. Cherished, as he'd told her. The emotions touched her almost physically. Their warmth was palpable.

"Roll over," he said, his voice very deep and soft in the tiny room. She did, folding her arms on the tub's rim to make a pillow for her head. His powerful hands worked the soapy cloth over her back and shoulders. He massaged and caressed and washed her all at once, and his every touch was pure ecstasy. God, she wondered. What would it be like to make love to him?

He shuddered. She felt his hands tremble with it. He heard her thoughts. With her face averted she found the courage to speak them aloud. "Why do you always... hold back?"

His sigh was not quite steady. "This is not the wisest subject to discuss with you naked, wet and plied with brandy." He kneaded her buttocks with soapy hands, but removed them soon. She rolled over, studying his face in the candlelight. "Do you want me?"

His jaw twitched as he studied her, "More than I want to draw another breath."

"Then why—"

"Hush." The command was bitten out. He rose from his crouching position beside the tub and pulled a blanket-sized towel from a rack. He held it wide open and waited. "It is for your own good, Tamara," he told her.

Tamara got up, stepped out of the bath and onto the thick rug beside the tub. His towel-draped arms closed around her, then moved away, leaving the towel behind. "I'll leave you to dress—"

"You didn't leave me to undress," she snapped. She wasn't certain what made her angrier—the knowledge that she wanted him or the fact that he refused to oblige her.

"Your blouse is ruined." He nodded toward the stand where he'd placed her clothes after she'd discarded them. "There is one of my shirts for you to wear." He turned from her and strode out of the room.

"For my own good," she fumed after he left her. She reached down into the bubbly water and jerked the stopper out. "Why is everything I hate always supposedly for my own good? It's like I don't know what's good for me and what isn't."

She roughly adjusted the towel under her arms, and tucked the corners in to hold it there. She knew what was good for her. She was an adult, not a child. She wanted him, whatever he was. And he wanted her, dammit. All of this honorable restraint bull was making her crazy. The only time she felt right anymore was when he held her, when he kissed her.

Tonight. . . tonight more than ever she needed that feeling of rightness, of belonging. She moved very slowly through the door, down the hallway and back into the living room. Eric's back was to her. He knelt in front of the fireplace, feeding sticks into it. She made no sound as she moved barefoot over the parquet floor, onto the colorful Oriental rug, but he knew she approached. She felt it. She stopped when she stood right behind him, and she placed her damp hands on his shoulders. He'd removed his jacket when they'd arrived here, and rolled his shirt sleeves up when he'd bathed her. His arms, bare to the elbows and taut with tense muscles, stilled at her touch.

Slowly he rose. He turned, and when he looked down at her, his eyes seemed almost pain filled. "You are not making this easy."

His white shirt's top two buttons were open. She touched the expanse of his chest visible there. "Make love to me, Eric."

So hoarsely she wouldn't have known his voice, he answered. "Don't you know that I would if I could?"

"Then tell me why. Make me understand—"

"I'm not human! What more do you need to know?"

"Everything!" She curled her hand around his neck, her fingers moving through the short, curling hairs at his nape, then playing at the queue. "You want to love me, Eric. I feel it every time you look at me. And don't start telling me what's best for me. I'm a grown woman. I know what I want, and I want you."

His eyes moved jerkily over her face. She felt his restraint, and her bravado deserted her. She began to tremble with emotion, and she went all but limp against him. Eric's arms came around her. His hands stroked her shoulders above the towel, and the damp ends of her hair. "Oh, Eric, I was so afraid. I've never been so afraid in my life. He held my face down in the snow—I couldn't breathe—and he—was on me—his—his hands—"

"It's over now," he soothed. "No one will hurt you again."

"But I see him. In my mind I see him, and I can still—smell—God, he stank!"

"Shh."

"Make me forget, Eric. I know you can." She spoke with her face pressed into the crook of his neck. Her hands moved over the back of his head, and she turned her face up. She saw the passion in his black eyes. "I need you tonight, Eric."

His lips met hers lightly, trembling at the fleeting contact. They lifted away. His gaze delved into her eyes, and she saw the fire's glow reflected in his. He moaned her name very softly, before his mouth covered hers again. She tilted her head back, parted her lips to his voracious invasion. His tongue swept within her, as it had done before, as if he would devour her if he were able. It twined around her tongue, and drew it into his mouth to suckle it. She responded by tasting as much of his mouth as he had of hers, as her eager fingers untied the small black ribbon at his nape. She sifted his shining jet hair, pulled a handful around to rub its softness over her cheek. She tugged her lips from his to bury her face in his long hair and let its scent envelop her, drowning out the memory of the other. She turned then, to kiss his neck, and then a warm, wet path down it, to the V of his shirt. He trembled, his hands tangling in her hair. She brought her own down, to clumsily unbutton and shove aside the cotton that stood between them. She flattened her palms to his hard, hairless chest. She moved them over its broad expanse, her lips following the trail they blazed. She paused at a distended male nipple and flicked her tongue over it, nearly giddy with delight when he sucked his breath through clenched teeth. Her hands moved lower, over the pectorals that rippled beneath taut skin, to his tight, flat belly. Her fingertips touched the waistband of his trousers, and she slid them underneath.

A moment later her hand closed around his hot, bulging shaft. Eric's head fell backward as if his neck muscles had gone limp. He groaned at her touch and she squeezed him and stroked him, encouraged by his response. His head came level again, his eyes fairly blazing when they met hers. He brought one hand around to the front of her and caught the corners of the towel she'd wrapped herself in. With a flick of his fingers the thick terry cloth fell to her feet. His arms slipped around her waist and pulled her body to his, flesh to flesh. The sensation set her pulse racing. His hard, muscled chest and tight, warm skin touching her soft breasts. His strong arms around her, his big hands moving over her bare back, crushing her to him. She clung to his shoulders, further aroused at the sinewy strength she found there.