Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (27 page)

He sent a text saying he’d be there soon before slipping the phone his pocket. He shook his head to clear her from his thoughts as he stepped before the mirror to make the final adjustments to his appearance. He straightened his tie and combed his fingers through his freshly shorn mane. While the haircut made him look like a conservative prick, it was only temporary, thank the stars. If and when he won the election, he’d grow it back.

A rap at the door told him it was time. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed his coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on as he crossed the room.

On the other side of the door, he found Duncan, as expected, wearing his usual cheerful expression. “It’s show time. Are you ready?”

With a nod, Callum followed his friend down the hall and into the stairwell. The metal steps rumbled as the two of them hurried down them. Duncan led the way into the buzzing ballroom. Callum looked around, stunned by the turnout. While he’d known Duncan and the party were busy drumming up support, he hadn’t expected anything like this.

Gavin MacIntosh, the SMP for Inverness, sauntered up to him with a small entourage that included several members of the Scottish Parliament. There were introductions and handshakes all around, but Callum felt too keyed up to register any names.

At the front of the room a dais held three chairs, a lectern, and a trio of flags—the UK’s, Scotland’s, and the European Union’s. Duncan led him toward it and, after the consultant took his seat, Callum claimed the chair beside him. Struggling to steady his nerves, he looked around the cavernous room. Posters bearing his face lined the salmon-colored walls. He fought a smile as he read the slogan, “Cast Your Vote for the Rampant Lyon of Caithness.”

Mr. MacIntosh stepped behind the lectern, tapped the microphone, and cleared his throat. His introduction was succinct and, as he finished, Callum got to his feet and went to stand beside his party’s leader. When his turn came, he wrapped his damp hands around the edges of the lectern and gazed out across the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“I want what the voters of Caithness want,” he began, the microphone amplifying his deep burr. “As your elected representative, I believe it’s my duty to represent the interests of the people guided by my own principles, not my personal interests or my party’s interests. As Winston Churchill once expressed, ‘Some men change their party for the sake of their principles, others, their principles for the sake of their party.’ I believe in compromise, though not when it comes to my principles…or the best interests of my constituents. I want to be of service to this community and to Scotland. That is my only goal in seeking this seat. I may live in a castle, but I am still a man of the people.”

He went on in a similar vein for another five minutes. When he’d finished, the crowd sprang in a burst of thunderous applause. Heartened by the response, he stepped off the podium, shook what seemed like hundreds of hands, and smiled until his face ached.

Eventually, he broke free of the throng, pulled Duncan aside, and informed him of his plans. Though his friend didn’t like the idea of him leaving the country minutes after announcing his candidacy, he understood. Callum could never focus on campaigning when his butterfly was in trouble.

“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he assured Duncan, “and not alone, if all goes the way I hope it will.”

On the way to the airport, Callum’s mobile buzzed. Assuming it was Vanessa responding to his text, he answered without checking the caller ID.

“Lord Lyon?” a male voice asked, surprising him.

“Aye. Who’s this?”

“Alasdair Sinclair. Your opponent, it would seem.”

Callum’s shields shot up at once. It seemed highly unlikely Sinclair would call to congratulate him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair. What can I do for you?”

“For starters,” said Sinclair with an uneasy laugh, “you could drop out of the race.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To save yourself from ruin, I should imagine.”

Alarm chimed in Callum’s brain like a Sunday morning church bell. “Ruin? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I have some photographic evidence, which very clearly shows two people engaged in public fornication, which, as you know is both immoral and illegal.”

Callum swallowed to moisten his mouth, which was suddenly parched. By the might of Mars! How the devil had Sinclair gotten his hands on his daughter’s footage? Not that the means of acquisition was the issue. What mattered was blocking its distribution.

“I knew you were a philanderer, Sinclair, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to blackmail.”

“Didn’t you?” Sinclair cleared his throat. “In that case, I’d suggest you not underestimate your enemies in the future.”

“I wasn’t aware we were enemies,” Callum lied, trying to be diplomatic.

Sinclair laughed. “You really are a fool, aren’t you, Lyon?”

“Maybe so, Sinclair, but I’d much rather be foolish than ruthless.” Callum scrubbed his face with his hand, trying to think what to do. “How did you happen to come by this alleged evidence?”

“Does it matter? The fact is,
I
have the footage and
you
have my terms. So, what will it be, Lyon—pull out of the race and promise never to challenge me again…or have your good name dragged through the mud?”

“And if I don’t withdraw?” Callum had a pretty good idea what Sinclair had in mind, but wanted to hear it just to be sure.

“I’ll release the video, of course.” Sinclair laughed again, hurting Callum’s ears. “And take you down with me.”

Bloody hell. What to do? What to say? Who to consult? Who to warn? “How much time do I have to consider your offer? And, if I should agree to your terms, what assurances will I have that the evidence has been destroyed?”

“As to the former, one week,” Sinclair replied. “As to the latter, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” There was a brief pause before he added, “I’ll be in touch.”

Callum, mind still churning, put down the phone and raked his fingers through his haircut. What in the name of Jupiter was he going to do? If the press got its grubby fingers on those images, it wouldn’t just ruin his political career, it would also disgrace him and destroy his life—and he had no idea what to do about it. He did, however, know who might. Taking up his cell phone again, he placed the call. Duncan answered, thank the stars, on the second ring.

“We’ve got a problem, mate,” Callum grimly announced. “A fairly major one.”

“Do we? How major?”

After Callum filled Duncan in on the particulars, his friend said, “Let me make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, it’s a good thing you’ll be out of the country for a few days—in case you need an alibi should things here go awry.”

The suggestion raised Callum’s hackles. “An alibi? Jesus, Duncan, what are you planning to do?”

“The less you know, the better, eh?”

Chapter 17

“I hope you’re hungry, sweetheart,” Beau blurted the instant Vanessa opened the front door, “because the burgers where we’re headed could feed a small army.”

Forcing a smile, she held her tongue. She
was
hungry. Starved, in fact, but not for hamburgers. Despite having hunted earlier that evening, her simmering bloodlust was slowly building to a full, rolling boil.

Callum had left her a message saying he was on his way, thank God, but would he get here in time? She’d tried ringing him back, but the call went straight to voicemail. She prayed his failure to answer owed to him being on the plane. Her self-control was starting to unravel. She felt shaky and sweaty, and her need to feed was so intense, she wasn’t sure it was safe to go out. She’d never felt like this before and wasn’t sure what to expect.

She’d tried to make excuses, but Beau would not be put off any longer. He’d insisted on taking her to dinner and a club to warm her up, so to speak, before collecting his payout.

Since they were going clubbing, she’d put on her “little black Maserati,” her seamed thigh-high stockings, and a pair of pumps with stiletto heels and dagger toes. She put on her regular knickers rather than the sexy ones Callum had bought her. Wearing them to go out with another man—especially one who was blackmailing her to sleep with him—just seemed wrong.

Beau had showered and changed into fresh khakis and a button-down white shirt. Linen, judging by the limpness and creases. His hair, still a bit damp, gave off hints of shampoo.

She licked her lips. “You look good.”

His grin broadened. “Thanks, sweetheart. So do you.”

She instinctively flared her nostrils to take in the tempting bouquet of soap, perspiration, manliness, and blood. Hunger growled somewhere deep inside, making her fangs yearn to partake. Fighting her preternatural urges, she followed him across the porch and down the driveway to where he’d parked his Volvo behind her Taurus. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a very nice ass. Not as good as Callum’s, mind, but nothing to complain about.

Until now, she’d compartmentalized Beau as employer, friend, and pseudo father figure, not a potential donor. Yes, he was nice and attractive, but he was also off-limits. While the human part of her still operated according to her moral code, the faery part was much less honorable.

She struggled to stay in control as he drove to Fat Tuesday, a bar and grill in the French Quarter. The eatery wasn’t fancy. A wood-framed sign welcomed them to the small and smoky establishment. Wood paneling adorned the walls of the bar area, which was just wide enough for a single row of booths. All the seats the bar, stretching the length of the room, were occupied by customers drinking, eating, and smoking. The slate floor shone with a fine layer of grease and the air smelled of charred beef, deep-fat frying, tequila, and cigarettes.

As they showed themselves to an empty booth, the bartender told them to see her when they were ready to order. There were laminated menus on the table, also covered in a fine layer of grease.

“I recommend the Kiss of Death,” Beau said with a grin. “It’s their signature drink.”

“What’s it in?” The irony of the drink’s name wasn’t lost on Vanessa, who now fought a smile as well as her percolating desire to have more than her employer’s lecherous company.

“Enough booze to drop an elephant. You want one?”

“Why not?” Even if the cocktail tasted terrible, the alcohol would take the edge off her cravings.

“Hey, Mallory,” Beau called out to the bartender. “How about a couple of Kisses?”

“Coming right up!”

Beau turned back to Vanessa with a friendly grin that suggested he had no idea how much danger he was in. “It seems like every bar in
Nawlins
has a signature cocktail. Most of them are pretty dang potent.” With a chuckle, he added, “Which might explain why the French Quarter reeks of vomit.”

Despite the poor sales job, Vanessa was game. Callum had told her alcohol helped take the edge off the cravings.

“Sure, why not?”

Beau went to the bar to get the drinks and, as Vanessa perused her menu, her thoughts remained on Callum. Would he get there in time to stop her from turning Beau…or worse?

Returning to the table Beau set her cocktail in front of her. “Don’t drink too much, sweetheart. You’ll need to be conscious to uphold your end of our bargain.”

Vanessa picked up the glass and took a sip. While tempted to down the whole damn thing in one gulp, the thought of passing out held no appeal. Something told her Beau would not be a gentleman if she ended up unconscious.

“The name of this place is a reference to Mardi Gras,” he offered as they sipped their lethal cocktails. “Mardi Gras means Fat Tuesday in French. It has to do with Lent, which starts on Ash Wednesday. Once upon a time, Catholics used to slaughter a fatted calf the day before. Hence, Fat Tuesday.”

She wasn’t listening. She was too busy worrying about Callum and fighting the urge to leap across the table and sink her incisors into Beau’s throat.

A waitress came over and took their order—two hamburgers, one rare, one medium. She smelled good, too, in a carnivorous kind of way. After what seemed like a lifetime, she brought the food and another round of drinks. Vanessa nibbled some fries and picked at her burger, hoping the pink meat might mitigate her craving. It didn’t. Now, on top of everything else, she had a buzz and an upset stomach. She chewed her lower lip, anguishing.

The dark hunger howled inside her like a
rougarou
. How was she going to get through the next few hours without killing somebody?

For a moment, she considered telling Beau she didn’t feel well and wanted to go home, then decided against it for a couple of reasons. First, he’d only think she was making excuses to wriggle out of paying up. Second, she didn’t want to be alone with him. Not because she feared him, but because she feared herself.

She was turning into someone or something else. Some sort of animal or monster. She felt different inside. More reckless, for one, to an alarming degree, and far more wicked. It was as if the natural wickedness she normally struggled against had magnified tenfold. Disturbing images flashed through her mind, pictures of her doing things to Beau—twisted things she found at once repulsive and arousing.