The Vampire Queen's Servant (49 page)

"No… I just need…" She
shook her head at her inability to express her desire to simply spend some time
in his company. She knew it took time, the easy camaraderie she'd had with
Thomas. For one thing, he'd had all of her marks. But the friendship, the
companionship she sought with Jacob was something different, something which
had a certain tension to it that had not existed between her and Thomas. It was
underscored when he moved to the stairs and put his hand on the rail, a foot
casually on the bottom step, his body so close, eyes so intent, alert…
reminding her that he was as aware as she was of everything they'd shared the
previous night.

Perhaps the right man could make
a woman of any age act like an insecure schoolgirl. Except she'd never acted or
felt that way with any man. Ever. At any age. "Jacob, I would like to
spend some time with you."

He blinked. Then a pleased smile
crossed his face, loosening the tension in her stomach. She'd not realized his
easy manner could be as effective on her as it was on the landscapers or the dogs.
It even seemed to work on Mr. Ingram.

"You do me honor, lady. Do
you prefer the couch?"

"I do." When she
crossed to it, she spread her skirt and sat at the end, placing the pillow he'd
been using on her lap. "I'd like you to lie back down as you were."

He came around the coffee table,
sliding the popcorn bowl to the coffee table. Giving her a curious glance, he
settled his head in her lap, the pillow between it and her thighs, giving his
neck a comfortable brace to watch the television. She toyed with the ends of
his hair and glanced toward the muted screen in time to see two swordsmen reach
the end of a contemporary battle in a parking deck. One sliced off the other's
head, though the camera mercifully cut away.

"What
are
you
watching?"

"This is
Highlander
."
At her blank look, that infectious smile crossed his face again. "The hero
is immortal. There's a whole group of immortals, and each time one cuts off
another's head, the winner gets the dead immortal's power. It's all filtering
down to the time when there will be only one all-powerful immortal."

She frowned. "How lonely.
He'll be the only one of his kind."

"Well, the hero never goes
out of his way to pick a fight. It just happens that way. There are lots of
evil immortals who want to be the only one."

"Mmmm."

"You might get some tips
from this." Jacob propped one bare foot on the top of the other on the
opposite arm of the sofa and rocked his knee, drawing her attention to those
long thighs as her fingers traced his ears, his temples. His hand dropped down
to the floor, his fingers finding her bare ankle and closing around it.
"Whenever he meets a woman he wants, he announces he's immortal and can
never die, and bam, he gets laid." He cleared his throat. "Excuse me,
my lady. He gets his way with them."

She pursed her lips. "They
equate immortality with stamina or sexual prowess?"

He chuckled. "I'm just
saying it seems like a highly effective pickup line, if you want to use it. Not
that I'm encouraging you."

She tugged on his hair in
reproof. "You think I need pickup lines?"

"Well, look at me. I fell
for the whole I-need-a-human-servant line."

Jacob liked the way she almost
smiled at the joke. But even as he enjoyed her touch, was engaged by the play
of the lamplight along her cheek, limning the fine line of it, the resentments
he'd buried beneath a frenzy of activity today couldn't help rising.

Was this what being her servant
would be like? The most incredibly powerful experiences of his life mixed with
indifference or outright rejection? Was he just supposed to accept it? "I
won't have need of you today" versus "Come here so I can fuck your
brains out"? Perhaps a servant was just a different version of her
relationship with Bran. Put his head in her lap to be stroked, keeping her company
when it suited her? A pet who could also perform tasks that required opposing
digits?

Her lashes slowly rose, the
brilliant green eyes fastening on his, and he silently cursed at her
expression.

"You know, I keep
forgetting you can do that."

"Would it make a difference
if you didn't?" she said icily. "It takes self-control to block your
own thoughts, Jacob. You don't have too much of that."

When she began to rise, push him
off her, he twisted, laid an arm over her thighs. "Please don't go, my
lady. I didn't mean to offend you. If you can read my thoughts, you know
that."

Blowing out a frustrated breath,
he lunged up from the couch, paced to the television, and snapped it off.
Raking a hand through his hair, he turned, faced her. "Damn it, I don't
know how to deal with this, how to deal with you. Thomas taught me how to
winterize your houses and take care of your accounts, but it's like one moment
you're… everything inside of me. And then the next moment, you take it away. I
don't know if you're getting off on it, or if you're as torn up about it as I
am, or if I'm just losing my fucking mind."

She looked down. She noted she
had her hands pressed hard on her thighs, conveying her tension, but she didn't
know how to relax them. "I knew last night was a mistake. I owe you an apology,
Jacob."

"No. Don't you do
that." Taking two steps back to her, he knelt and covered her hands with
his own, tightening when she made to draw away. He was so tall he was eye level
with her, and Lyssa found she had difficulty meeting his gaze. She'd met the
gazes of vampires who wanted to tear her to pieces, but she couldn't handle
those blue eyes, the way they made her feel.

"My lady." His fingers
touched her chin, curling so his knuckles feathered over her skin, then
straightened again to trace her ear, a lock of her hair. When she finally
managed to meet his gaze, there was something in his that caused a lump in her
throat.

"I'm going to take a huge
leap here and say I think this confuses you as much as it does me. You don't
have to confirm or deny it, but I don't think any less of you for that being
the truth. I just…" He blew out another breath, gave her a half smile.
"How about we do this? I am truly, deeply honored that you want to spend
time with me tonight. Will you forgive my thoughts and consent to stay
awhile?"

When she studied him a long
moment, knowing her expression was remote at best, still masking a hurt she
didn't deserve to feel, he gave her an arch look. "I'm only human, you
know. And male, to boot."

She allowed herself a small,
tight smile. "Show me something to make it worth my while to stay.
Something Bran can't do for me."

Relief crossed his features,
soothing her wounded feelings, but again she had no right to feel wounded.
There was nothing he'd thought she could have challenged. That had annoyed her
as much as him having the thought in the first place.

"Come here." She urged
him to lay back down with his head in her lap. He complied, but his brow was
furrowed as he considered her demand.

"No listening in," he
warned. "I want to surprise you." As he thought, he indulged in a
stretch, bending his arms over his head so he caught the edge of the couch on
the other side of her lap. The exercise pressed his shoulders into her thigh
and tempted her to run her hand down the center of his chest to his flat
stomach. Perhaps even lower, to the waistband of the jeans and the tempting
curve of groin displayed. He was the most unconsciously sensual man she'd ever
met, his somewhat bohemian mannerisms and dress making him even more appealing.
She followed the urge, smoothing her palm over him, feeling the muscles tense
and relax in response as she reached, pressing her breast into his shoulder as
she leaned over. As she brushed his stomach with her knuckles, letting one
finger play just under the silver fastener of the jeans, his gaze rose.

"I'm just occupying myself
while waiting," she informed him. "I can promise you this is
something I never do with Bran."

"My relief on that knows no
bounds, my lady. But come to think of it, that's something that Bran doesn't do
for you…"

"Oh no." She shook her
head, even as she continued teasing with one finger, enjoying the feel of his
hard waist, the fit of his jeans starting to constrict, the crossed position of
his ankles making it all the more pleasurable to watch his reaction. "Too
easy."

"All right, then. I've got
it." With a regretful look, part courtesy and all genuine, leaving her own
arousal simmering, he rose from the couch. Taking her hand briefly, he brushed
his lips across it before he went to the entertainment center. Selecting a
piece of music from her extensive collection, he inserted it into her player.

Turning around, waiting for the
music to start, he began to crack his knuckles meditatively as if he was using
the process to review what he had in his mind. "Are you familiar with
soft-shoe, my lady?"

Whatever she'd been expecting,
it hadn't been that. "Not really."

"Soft-shoe is a type of tap
dancing," he said. "Only it's done with soft-soled shoes, hence the
name. Or in bare feet." He glanced down at his own with a smile. She
watched, fascinated, as he took each finger in hand, cracked and dislocated
each knuckle, then restored it with a chilling pop of noise.

"It was first introduced by
George Primrose in minstrel shows in the early part of the twentieth century.
The key to it is the lightness of the tapping, performed at a smooth and
leisurely cadence. It was also called the sand dance. I don't remember why,
though sometimes I think it's because there's something soothing about it, like
a lullaby."

He adjusted the angle of the
floor lamp, turning it so it was behind him. Picking up the baseball cap he'd
apparently donned earlier and then casually thrown on the coffee table, he spun
it, using two fingers of his right hand. "No thumbs," he pointed out.

"Duly noted," she
nodded. Quietly enchanted.

He started the music. The piano
tune was a sad piece from the 1920s like the fading sounds of a carnival,
appropriate as he began to perform the spare, smooth movements of the routine
for her, with the sweeps and turns of the entertainers of that era. His shadow
was thrown up on the wall by the lamp. If she focused on that image, he could
have been any of those long-ago men who'd charmed children and made men and
women long for experiences never as good as they seemed in their memories. The
true definition of nostalgia.