Louisiana Moon (3 page)

Impatient, she shot the opening volley. “You used to be good at sneaking up on me. Getting rusty are ya?”

“I should ask the same. The boots were a dead giveaway.” His Italian accent flowed through the room.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Damn, she loved those boots. She should have known when she’d bought them she’d give up stealth for style. Now she had to reconsider her fashion sense and possibly treat herself to some new flats.

His form wavered in the reflection. His arms crossed over his chest stretched his sleeves over his bulging biceps. With him at her back, a couple of things could happen. His arms could envelope her like they used to, and she would fondle his muscled frame. Or like many occasions, he’d bend her over a counter or table, spread her wide and have his way with her. Her stomach clenched as she remembered his rough hands against her sensitive skin.

The scent of warm bread and steamed vegetables fluttered to her nose. The aroma bloomed and lingered in the room’s empty space, dueling with the coconut scent. She glanced into the next room, to the meal laid out like a Thanksgiving feast for her vegan preference.

Ryant moved, shifting his strong legs, switching the balance of weight between his ankles. Her legs had once wrapped around his lean waist and she’d burrowed her heels into his hard, round ass. She cursed her body for wanting him again. How sad that some things never changed.

“Have dinner with me.” His voice flowed over her like a rich Tuscan wine, smooth and full-bodied.

What the hell did he think she’d do? Too tired to play his games, she sighed. She wished Ryant and his kind would disappear.

“Come here.” Once upon a time, he’d commanded her with his beautiful voice. Not anymore.

She turned on her heels to face her past. Fifty years had passed since their last encounter in Los Angeles. Some memories weren’t erasable—the worst lingered. Kris refused to let his tawny, starburst eyes capture her soul again.

He snapped his fingers.

Candles flickered to life. The dining room warmed with a soft glow. Pale yellow waves rippled across the room, ending beyond the silver tips of his black alligator boots. The shine caught her eyes.

She clanked the glass on the counter. “What do you want? It’s been decades.” She grabbed the gun then folded her forearms under the swell of her breasts to conceal the weapon beneath her left bicep. One hip balanced against the counter, she waited for his response.

His reply was nothing but an irksome smile.

A couple of buttons were undone, leaving his shirt open for her viewing pleasure. Staring at his smooth, golden chest, she swallowed hard. Her body ached to touch his. She forced back the desire despite the heat pooling between her thighs. Hells bells. Why couldn’t the longing for him stay in the past? It had been
fifty
years after all.

The show wouldn’t work this time around.

“What do you want, Ryant?”

“You say my name with such ferocity. It rolls right off the tip of your tongue.”

Her chin thrust out. “Oh, bite me.”

“Been there, done that. I could again if you’d like.” He licked his full lips as his gaze lingered on her throat, the hunger gleaming as his gaze slid to her midsection. Self-conscious and aware of the other things on his mind, she shuddered.

Bite me. So the wrong thing to say to a blood and sex-starved vampire
. Sex just reeked from his pores. The ambrosia, divine and fit for the gods, filled the room. “At the risk of sounding like a broken record, what do you want?”

His lips turned into a sexy, ravenous smile. “To have dinner with you or have you for dinner. Your choice. Either way will be fine with me. I’d choose option two, if I were you.” He held up two fingers, beckoning her forward. Power wrapped her, thick and heavy as ice, picking at her mind.

He would try to read her. If he probed for her lust, he wouldn’t find it. He couldn’t break her shielded mind to reveal the aching desire thrumming through her veins. She let out a tired laugh. These games and conversations that went nowhere exhausted her. She untwisted her forearms and placed her hands on her hips, not caring if he spotted the weapon. Hell, he might have smelled the gunpowder.

“I want you to leave. I’ve already had one interesting visitor tonight.” Kris snatched the glass from the counter and filled it again. Hoping he’d go, she returned to the window.

“Is everything okay at the office?”

As if his interest made any difference. She prayed for daylight. She’d feel much better when the sun rose and dusted him. On second thought… No, that would leave a mess in the house.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“You seem tense and need to relax. I could help with that.” He reached around to the other side of the wall and brought forth a glass of red wine. Ryant sipped and extended the cup, swirling the liquid. “Wine?”

She noted his fine dark hairs, a stark contrast to his golden flesh, peeking past the cuff of his expensive shirt. Italian vampires never looked pasty. “How’s the bite?”

“Healed,” he replied, obviously not bothered by the fact she’d attempted to kill him. “Want to see the scar? It left a small one.” Only the deepest mortal wounds scarred his flesh.

She gave herself a mental pat on the back for taking such a big bite out of him. “Ryant, you need to leave. You shouldn’t be here.”

Water wasn’t going to cut it with this conversation. She needed something stronger, like liquor. She strolled to the copper fridge and opened the double doors. “How did you find me this time? Aren’t you a long way from New York?”

“I have my methods, though you make it harder each time.”

“That’s the point, right? Get away. Leave the world behind. Why do you think I’m here in Venice, Louisiana?”

She searched for months for a new location to live. When she’d learned of the town’s true nickname, “End of the World”, she’d thought her identity would fall off the end of the earth. That she could just vanish. Now look at where she stood, back with her past.

A long pause stretched between them. He was too still, too quiet.

Aware of the iron tucked next to her ribs, if he made a move, she’d be ready. Kris glanced at the beer. Too weak. She rummaged through the freezer for the strong stuff. To her dismay, where the whiskey bottle had lain was empty. Ryant had made himself at home all right.
Damn.
She wanted one shot. Now she’d have to endure the conversation without alcohol.

“Did you enjoy the meeting with my boy, Sparky?”

She stiffened. Ryant knew Sparky. In a way, she knew where this conversation was headed. Why else would Ryant mention the pipsqueak?

“I mean, I figured tonight’s meeting would at least help you grasp the seriousness of the situation.”

Her hand squeezed the fridge handle, denting the metal.
Son of a bitch.
The wolf deep inside her growled. “You’re the one those sycophants call fearless leader? You’re Mr. Launders. How? You changed your last name?”

Words that were more meaningful came to mind. Kris let loose the handle, turned and faced him, her canine sight letting her see every angle and facet of the room in pinpoint clarity. Her face flushed as her body was engulfed in a feverish heat. Claws beneath her fingertips pressed against her skin, stretching for release. Positive the color of her skin matched her red silk top, she reached for her weapon. Remain calm, she warned the beast.
Stay steady. Calm.

“I’m not getting involved in a war among vampires and Soulscapes.” Between her current caseload and the cryptic email Josh sent, her plate overran. She intended to meet him at noon to find out what the message meant. The whole night kept turning into one shitty deal after another.

“Get out of my house, you ass.”

Not a peep came from him. He only smiled.

3

Kris, always beautiful, always breathtaking, showed her anger. Ryant continued to smile despite her growling. The fire held deep inside her flushed red, tinting her skin. Suspicion told him she’d kept the wolf on a tight leash for too long. With her breaking simple things such as fridge handles, he’d stay clear. Hate-tinged arousal seeped from her pores. Hate he’d dissolve soon if he managed to wine and dine her. For now, he’d settle for a talk and her agreement to help him locate the escapee. He wanted to keep her by his side in case the malicious Soulscapes came for her.

Once, she had belonged to him. Him and only him. No one else deserved her heated rage, her desire or fiery passionate climaxes. She’d gripped him tighter than any woman before or since, and here she stood—a brown-haired, blue-eyed goddess.

A great deal of time had passed since he’d had her pressed beneath him. How many other men had she spread her thighs for since their separation? His fingers tightened around the glass stem and the goblet broke. The idea of her writhing beneath another drove him to a dark place, one he didn’t want to contemplate in her presence. If it were possible to stop wanting her, he’d flip the switch.

“Answer me. Are you the one they call master?” Her voice boomed through the kitchen.

“The fact I’ve had to do what I needed to in order to survive, even if it meant changing my last name for the public eye, should mean nothing compared to the situation at hand.” Ryant studied her intently, pushing past her shielded mind a fraction.

An image of her wanting to shoot him played like an old black and white picture show. Then she bolted her mind against him. What did she really intend? To kill him this night? Or another, perhaps?

Her jaw worked, and her nostrils flared. “I hate you.”

Pain, of the emotional variety, shot through his chest to the area she’d bitten. “Good. This should make you want to get the job over with faster.” Ryant looped a finger over the loosened knot of his tie and tugged the knot undone. The fine silk draped over his shoulders

“Why on earth would I help you or any other blood-sucking bastard after what happened to me…to my mom and dad?” Her voice cracked with the agony the words produced.

“You know vampires did not
kill your parents.” He pulled the strip of silk free from his neck and tucked the material into his back pocket.

“Every thread of evidence pointed to your kind causing a huge commotion, destructing the Darkworld throne and covering up the truth.”

“My kind had no hand in the murders. I will defend them to my dying breath.”

“That may not be too far off if you don’t get the hell out of my house.”

Pushing off the frame, he settled into a wide stance. She’d never bowed out from an argument. He traced his fangs with his tongue, aroused by the sexual tension which thrummed through his body.

“I told myself that when I came face to face with the infamous Mr. Launders, I would tear out his throat. Your minions have been calling and showing up at my office for weeks. Hounding me for weeks. In your name. On your command. You’d better keep a leash on your pet monsters. Stop wasting my time. If any of your minions harass or stalk my clients, I’ll stake their asses.”

“I’ll pass the word around when I go back. Thanks for the warning.” Ryant paused, started to speak again, but let her heated remarks dangle in thin air.

Inside, he laughed with harsh regret because she still held vampires responsible for the death of her parents. She turned from the truth and believed only what she wanted. Stubborn and resistant, his Kris hadn’t changed.

Giving her a grin, he baited his trap. Turning in a fluid motion faster than human eyes could detect, he sat on a chair at the side of the table facing the kitchen. He set the broken glass on the table, patted the place setting at the head of the table and coaxed, “Come. Have dinner.”

She didn’t move except to tense and chew on her bottom lip. He wanted to run his fingers over her bare flesh. Sex and blood were daily thirsts. On occasion, the wine provided a distraction. Not tonight. Her blood tasted like no other. Wild and free, silky sweet. He’d devour every inch of her salty nectar if she’d allow him.

Tonguing his elongated fangs again, tasting the air between them, Ryant imagined them piercing her sweet skin. He couldn’t wait to savor her blood. The taste reminded him of mild chocolate custard. Desire rushed through his body, swelling his dick. The need to be inside her hot core distracted him from the primary goal. He shook his head, erasing his chocolate fantasy.

“Why did you tell Sparky to shove the interview up my ass? Not nice.” He clucked his tongue. Leaning forward, he interlaced his fingers under his chin.