The Vampire Queen's Servant (22 page)

He didn't waste any time proving
his competence in that regard. Her Atlanta home was her favorite, but in the
months without Thomas, things had fallen behind. She forced herself to stay up
later one morning to watch him inspect the grounds from a crack in the curtain,
out of the line of sunlight, despite the exhaustion it imposed on her. When she
retired to her bed, he was on the phone. By the time she woke in early evening,
the grounds were overrun. He was finishing up with the window company that had
come and spent the day pressure washing the house and professionally cleaning
the stained glass windows. He'd also ridden herd on the landscaping company,
having them tidy up areas they'd not kept as well as they should. At twilight,
while both companies loaded up their trucks, he was among her roses with a
master gardener. From his gestures, she suspected they were discussing if the
soil composition was optimal for the spring, and what type of pruning needed to
be done at this point.

As he squatted down sifting the
soil, he tilted his head to hear what the gardener said, squinting his eyes
against the sunlight, his soft hair ruffled over his forehead by the breeze.
She liked the way his jeans fit his body, the stress points all where they
should be. In that T-shirt his almost thirty years sat very lightly on his
shoulders. Very lightly. She'd think he'd lied to her, except the man had no
artifice to him. She didn't need a second mark to know that. If he felt it, he
said it. Another reason she was insane for even entertaining the idea of him as
a servant.

So she kept telling herself. Yet
she kept giving him more information, more to do, knowing he would prove
competent in all ways except the ones most vital. She was keeping him around
purely for how he made her feel, and that was dangerous to the point of
absurdity.

He'd moved a small side table to
the edge of the Persian rug, so each evening when she rose, she found an
offering waiting for her at the top of the stairs. A single cut wildflower in a
water glass. A piece of Belgian chocolate in the shape of a seashell, the white
and dark swirled flavors teasing her tongue, her sense of smell. A tiny empty
snail's shell that gleamed a light pink. It was then she realized he was using
the items as a way to make sure she was all right, since she would take them
back below with her or otherwise move them.

Such gestures had revealed
something particularly unique about Thomas's choice. On the second night when
she'd risen, she'd had a strong thirst for cold water, one of the few things
other than blood that vampires needed for sustenance. Next to the Belgian
chocolate had been a pitcher of ice water and a glass.

She'd noted it repeatedly during
her observations, even now. As the gardener turned to ask for something, Jacob
already had the soil tester he wanted in his hand.

At the Eldar, he'd caught her a
moment before she fainted, before she even realized she was going to do it. In
the kitchen, he'd handed Mr. Ingram his car keys a blink before Ingram had made
his choice not to work for her. Jacob was precognitive, anticipating thoughts
and desires before they occurred. Intriguingly, he didn't seem to realize it, probably
considering it intuition or luck. Which also explained his brother's
disappointment in losing him as a vampire hunter. A mortal precog had an
advantage, using it to replace what his vision could not give him, the
direction from which the vampire would strike. Of course, precognitive ability
was hereditary, so the fact Gideon still lived despite his risky profession
suggested both brothers had it.

After the gardener and the
landscaping crew left, he took out her gardening tools and clipped a few blooms
from each bush. Trailing him to the kitchen, she watched as he made up several
vases. He placed one by her tub for her to enjoy during her bath. Then he did
the same in her library and her upper bedroom. After that, he called a florist
and ordered up special bouquets for the upcoming dinner. He also placed a
standing order for weekly bouquets to be delivered every Monday, everything
from wildflower groupings to more formal, elegant arrangements. He was bringing
her house back to life.

When he went back to her garden
box and put away her cleaned clippers, he picked up her gloves, held them in
his hands. A faint smile crossed his face as he straightened one out on his
knee and compared the size of their hands. Then he closed his hand over the
glove, brought it to his nose.

She was back at the window by
that time. She put her hand on the glass as if she were touching his shoulder,
unable to stop herself while he did such an intimate thing. Swallowing, she let
the curtain fall back in place. Perhaps her home wasn't the only thing he was
reviving. The thought made her throat ache with emotions she couldn't afford to
have.

The next night when she rose,
she told herself she needed to go to her library and do some paperwork. She
managed a half hour before she slipped into the kitchen and studied him as he
laid out several selections of plates and compared them to the food choices
they'd made for artistic presentation. After he chose some colors she didn't
expect but found she liked, he placed them on the sideboard for the caterers to
set the table. Cinderella was in fact making sure everything was in place so he
could go play with her on Friday. She told herself the "wicked
stepmother" comment didn't amuse her, even as her lips twitched at the
recollection.

She admitted she was impressed
by how competently he did everything, his large hands comfortable handling such
delicate things as flowers and china. At the same time, he could pick Bran up
around the midsection and wrestle with him in the grass. Or repair the work shed,
the muscles of his bare back sculpted beautifully with light perspiration as he
sawed wood or hammered nails into it. She'd almost burned a line down her
forearm trying to get close enough to the window to watch that before the sun
fully set.

Later that same night, she found
him in her study, where he'd apparently spent most of the afternoon checking
her accounts and familiarizing himself with the transactions and business
conducted in her Region.

She knew she was seeing the
result of Thomas's rigorous training, but to create a perfect sculpture, the
clay had to be right. Her monk had found her a Renaissance man, a
jack-of-all-trades confident enough to teach himself whatever he needed to
learn, or find someone to teach him by experience.

As engaging as he was to watch
at work, the way he spent his leisure time intrigued her even more. When he
chose to take a couple hours off, most of the time he read from the books in
her library. The choices he made over the several days included a seafaring
novel written in the seventeenth century, a Louis L'Amour western and the
latest James Patterson novel. There was also a compilation of Leonardo da
Vinci's notes on his inventions and a complete how-to on gardening. His
absorption in those was a different angle in the same mirror of enthusiasm when
he found an X-Men comic sandwiched between two books. She had no idea how it
got there but resolved to pick up some more when she saw how he sat
cross-legged and barefoot on the library carpet to read it, his back a tempting
naked curve, each vertebra coaxing the touch of her fingertips.

When he checked out her cable
channels, he made expressions of horror when he found she had nothing but basic
service, but he seemed mollified by her DVD player.

So on this fourth night, she
reclined near the ceiling, stretched out on top of the custom crafted
bookshelves in her office and watched him go through manuals at her desk. As he
looked over the maintenance list for her indoor pool system, she wondered if
the problem wasn't that he wasn't suitable, but that she didn't
want
him to be suitable. After all, being a precog would only enhance his strength
to serve her, and perhaps balance some of his deficiencies.

Gods, she was giving herself
a headache
. A normal one, though that didn't abate
her irritation.

A furrow creased over his brow.
Pursing his lips, he closed the file and rose, headed out of the study toward
the pool area. Of course, she followed him.

Most vampires did not like
water, but her Fey father had been related to water sprites, so she supposed
that explained why she'd always been attracted to the element. While she rarely
ventured into it, she'd wanted the pool. It had a curving lotus shape
surrounded by tropical vegetation and fountains activated by switches. Jacob
played with them, checking the way the lighting worked, making sure no bulbs
were out. When he figured out the different control settings on the fountains,
he fetched his notebook and made some more notes. Intrigued, she watched as he
sat down at the pool's edge and let his feet dangle in the water as he wrote,
despite the fact he was immersing his jeans to just below his knees.

After a while he rose and hit
the switch to roll back the cover shield on the glass ceiling, allowing the
night sky to unfold above him.

Tipping his head back on his
shoulders, he looked at the scattering of stars and slice of moon. He closed
his eyes and rolled his shoulders, the first time she'd seen him let the
demands of the past few days show.

Her concern with that was
replaced by something entirely different when he stripped off his shirt. His
jeans and underwear came off then, and he toed off his worn loafers. It brought
her the scent of earth, for he'd apparently worn them out in the garden earlier
and some of the aroma of the dirt had clung to the heels.

Telling herself she had things
to do and needed to go, she stayed motionless among the foliage of the tropical
plants. The moonlight played across his bare back, the curve of thigh and
buttock. It also made the hair brushing just the top of his shoulders gleam.
The ends were uneven, suggesting he cut it himself. She wondered if he was
planning a haircut before the dinner. He probably would. He seemed to be
anticipating everything else.

Apparently the only way she was
going to win the pleasure of punishing him again was to poke a stick into those
areas where she knew he'd slap back at her. Stirred by the thought, she wanted
to reach out and stroke her hand down his back to the dip in his spine, venture
to that firm buttock.

Turning his head, he held the
pose a moment, apparently listening. For her? But she wasn't breathing, so only
the echo of the pool lapping quietly at its edges and the gurgle of the pair of
fountains he'd turned on broke the silence.

When he dove in, she watched the
wavy line of his body stroking beneath the surface, his hair becoming
copper-colored silk. She could imagine him as a merman, the sculpted upper body
and a powerful tail gleaming in the moonlight as he lay on his back, tempting
her to swim with him. To become something she could not be, losing herself in
the pleasure of his company such that she could fool herself into thinking it
was possible.

He did about fifty laps. By the
time he'd finished, she'd sunk down on folded legs among the ferns, silently
marking every stroke of his arms, the sinuous twists he did for the turns. When
he came to a rest at her end of the pool, he folded his arms on the edge.
Propping his chin on them, he gazed at one of the fountains, a Roman girl
pouring water out of an urn onto her female lover's reclining nude body.
"Would you care to join me for a swim, my lady?"

Tilting his head, he looked
unerringly toward where she was. It surprised her enough she didn't think to
move, to be gone before his glance could flicker that way. Was it a lucky
guess, a sense he'd tested by speaking aloud? Or another example of that
psychic ability?

She masked her reaction, rising
to move out of her screened spot. "Vampires don't float, so we don't
swim."

He stretched out an arm,
flattening a wet palm on the concrete. "I'll hold you up, my lady. The
water feels good."

"I'm not dressed for
swimming."

Laughter rose in his eyes.
"I suspect you're wearing the same type of suit under your clothes that I
have on now."

She sighed, eyed him with a hint
of exasperation. "I know Thomas didn't teach you impertinence."

No, he didn't. Thomas had
admired her, cared for her, but Jacob wasn't sure if the monk had ever truly
seen her as a woman. Jacob understood that, for his lady had an otherworldly
presence that diminished illusions of human superiority. But at times like
this, she was as female as any woman he'd known. He could tell she wanted to
join him. He'd sensed her nearby most of the week, and it had nearly driven him
mad at times. Smelling the slight hint of her perfume, knowing her silky skin
might be within touching distance, her jeweled green eyes studying everything
he did. Her moist lips close, parted to breathe air on his skin.

"Please, my lady."

When she came farther out of the
screen of tropical plants, the desire he'd kept banked with difficulty sparked
at finally seeing the body he'd been imagining all week. She shrugged out of
the blouse she'd been wearing, unhooked her skirt and let it drop, leaving her
in a pale pink lace bra and panties. The color was nearly transparent, blending
with her flesh. He could see the shape of her nipples. When she came to the
edge of the pool beside him, he held his position as she lowered herself to the
edge and sat, dipping her feet into the water. Carefully at first, testing the
temperature, then more confidently as she found it heated. It was far warmer
than Jacob preferred, but he knew his lady disliked the cold. For the pleasure
of her company, it could be boiling for all he cared. Her foot touched his side
under the water, her toe whispering across his hip bone. An invitation.