Black Desire (3 page)

"History is one
of my many interests, as is reading. You seem to dismiss your accomplishments.
Writing a book regardless of the subject matter is no easy feat, Miss
Hammond."

"Well, since you
put it that way, I suppose it isn't. I thank you for not sneering at my subject
matter. So many people do," Katrina said matter-of-factly. She lowered her
eyes. "And please call me Katrina."

"Then they are
not worthy to be acquainted with you, Katrina. Please, call me Tristan," he
replied.

****

Katrina felt an
inexplicable chill of excitement roll through her. Those manners, and the way
he said her name sounded very much like a caress.
 
He walked straight out of one of her novels
and she could have sworn he was going to kiss her hand. If he did, she would
swoon at his feet. Dear Lord. Katrina exhaled shakily. Her knees weakened and
she fought back her reaction as best she could while in his presence. This was
the most handsome, intriguing, fascinating and fully masculine male she had
ever met in her life and he was hidden away in this secluded coastal village.
She looked down at her jeans and sweater. Maybe she overdid it trying to play
down her assets. She’d had a low cut T-shirt on before she left the house but
had peeled it off. Now she worried the button up sweater made her look like her
great Aunt Aggie. She’d also replaced her high heel shoes with sensible flats.
Yep. Aunt Aggie, all the way.

"Perhaps we can
meet for lunch tomorrow. Are you free?" Tristan asked, interrupting her
thoughts.

He took a step closer
and a small gasp escaped her lips. His blatant virility closed in all around
her like a long dark cloak. He reached in his leather jacket pocket and took
out a Blackberry.

"One
moment."

He turned his head
and took the call. Katrina couldn't make out what he said due to the pounding
music. The call was only a few minutes long. He shoved the phone back in his
pocket.

"I am terribly
sorry, I must leave. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Yes, Tristan,
that would be lovely."

 
"Excellent. I will come by Greg's at
noon. Until then, Katrina."

 
Katrina watched him stride confidently out of
the pub. Was that a woman who called? It really was none of her business. She
glanced around, figuring she might as well stay for a drink as she really only
came to meet Tristan Black.
 
Katrina took
a seat at the bar and Greg automatically set a glass of white wine in front of
her. Her cousin knew her well.

"Care for some
company? I promise you I do not bite."

 
Katrina gasped. She didn't even hear anyone
sit next to her. Her hand rested on her chest as she regained a steady breath.

"I'm sorry. I
did not mean to startle you. Please let me introduce myself. Devlin Steele."

Katrina turned and gazed
at the man. She almost fell off her stool. The men around here were
unbelievable. Something in the water perhaps? The incredibly handsome man with
the perfect features seemed too good to be true. He stood at least six feet tall.
His longish dark brown hair was the color of milk chocolate and caressed his
neck and curled around his perfectly shaped ears. The eyes were the same color,
though she could swear there were yellow flecks in the deep, luscious brown.
Katrina marveled at his faultless facial features and its perfect symmetry.
Long brown lashes fanned his cheeks. There was no mistaking his masculinity
despite his pretty handsomeness. His body was muscular but not overly so, from
his thick corded neck down to his long, muscular legs. He was wearing light tan
Dockers but she could see the muscles bunch and flex in his thighs. She grabbed
her wine and took a deep gulp.

"Katrina
Hammond," she managed to squeak out.

He smiled. Katrina nearly
melted in her seat. The lines around his eyes crinkled. For a brief moment she
thought she saw a predatory look. Surely she imagined it. His lips, again, were
perfect.
 
His teeth were white and too
brilliant. Was he a model? He certainly looked as if he should grace the pages
of
GQ
. While this stranger's looks appealed
to her and she was having a definite reaction to such male perfection, the
response was different than the one to Tristan Black. His looks were not
perfect. Tristan was more rugged and in turn, dangerous and more appealing to her.
Tristan was not as muscular as this Devlin, his nose maybe too long, his eyes a
little larger than they should be. Perfect was not all it was cracked up to be.
Katrina preferred Tristan. Her stomach lurched nervously at the thought of
meeting Tristan Black for lunch tomorrow. In the meantime, what would be the
harm of finishing her wine and talking with a handsome man? None at all.

****

Tristan sped down the
twisting, narrow and pothole-covered Provincial Highway 3, which hugged the
South Shore of Nova Scotia.
Christ, now
what?
The phone call was from the owner of a whorehouse some of the Clan
liked to visit on occasion in the town of Bridgewater. It would take him close
to forty-five minutes to get there
.
"A mess caused by one of your people—Nightwood."
The owner would
not elaborate further, only saying
,
"Get here fast, before the town police or the Mounties become
involved."

 
With his father Draighean Black out on one of
his late night smuggling runs, it left Tristan the de facto head of the
Blackthorne Clan.
Damn it all!
He
slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. And damn his Vampire
father for trying to relive his glory days of “Blackthorne the Irish
Pirate-Privateer” from the 1720's. Black, or Blackthorne, was not the family
name. His father was descended from the ancient Celtic clan Ó Léanacháin. His
father did not talk of his past but he did tell Tristan he was a warrior priest
at one time in the 1300's. He also told Tristan that Ó Léanacháin comes from “Leannan,”
meaning “lover.” What happened between the Celtic warrior and the night raider
Vampire pirate-privateer 'Blackthorne,' his father did not elaborate on.

 
Raynor Nightwood was almost as old a Vampire
as his father and his father's close friend. Again, they kept it close to the vest
how Raynor was turned. Secretive and everything cloaked in whispers, which
pretty much summed up the Clan. That and rituals, vows, blood and sex.

 
Forty minutes later, Tristan strode into the
older Victorian home that fronted the whorehouse. "All right, I came as
soon as you called. Where is he?" Tristan asked, exasperation in his
voice.

The man pointed
behind him. "In the back. Room five. He made a right mess and it's going
to cost you. You lot will be cleaning it up, not me. And I don't want him back here
again. Understand?"

Tristan nodded.
"Yes, I understand. I will see it done."

Tristan turned the
door handle and walked into the room. It was awash in darkness. Shimmering moonlight
peeked through the broken wooden slats on the windows.
Raynor Nightwood sat naked with blood dripping out of his mouth. Blood was also
splattered on his torso, arms and hands. It was even matted in his long, golden
brown hair. He stared straight ahead as if in a trance.

Tristan swallowed
deeply. "What have you done, Raynor?"

 
Raynor closed his eyes. With a sweep of his
blood-stained muscular arm he motioned over by the windows. A naked woman was
sprawled out on a settee covered in blood. Her throat was torn and the blood
had pooled on the floor and was already congealing.

"It seems, Tristan,
I lost control. I had no intention of feeding, was only here for the sex as I
usually am, but things took a turn," Raynor stated in a dead, emotionless
voice.

 
"Jesus," Tristan muttered low in his
throat. This the Clan could not abide. It was part of the pact of the
Blackthorne Clan that death could not be the result of any “feeding incident.”

Raynor had gone too
far. They would have to dispose of this poor unfortunate woman's body like she
never existed.

"What is wrong
with you?" Tristan snapped.

"Wrong? I am a
Vampire, or have you forgotten? What do you know of it, half-breed? The ‘need,’
as you call it, which comes over you every so often is nothing to what roars
through my veins!" Raynor growled in irritation.

"Nightwood. My
father has been a Vampire as long as you, but you don't see him ripping bodies
open and washing himself in blood!" Tristan seethed. "This is the
frenzied feeding of a wild beast! This could bring the Sectators down on our
asses. Are you aware of that? If they get wind of this…
Do
no harm to the humans,
remember? Or those Sectator hunters will chase us down and kill us all."

Raynor's demeanor
changed. "No one must know. Help me, Tristan. We must keep this from the
Clan. My children cannot know." He was pleading, something Raynor never
did.
Tristan could not believe what Nightwood asked. Cover up this abomination.
Dispose of a human life. Deceive the others and lie to his father. What if
Nightwood lost control again? Why was he losing control like this? Sectators
were the deadliest of the hunters that roamed the Shadow World. They were
cold-blooded assassins. Most times they worked for no one and had their own
agenda. Slaying creatures they deemed worth destroying, especially those who
harmed humans.

Tristan glared at the
blood-soaked Raynor. "Only this once. In future I will not be silent. You
owe me, Raynor. Don't ever forget that." Tristan pointed to the bathroom.
"Get a shower. I have a few calls to make."

Tristan was
concerned. What would become of them all? Was this the madness they would all
sink to? Become wretched animals and lose all control? He pulled the Blackberry
out of his pocket and punched in a number he’d hoped he would never have to
call. He cursed and growled.
Damn and
blast!

Chapter Three

Katrina Hammond sat
outside her cousin's home on his sprawling patio working on her historical
romance. A cup of Earl Grey tea and a slice of toast on a china plate sat next
to her on the garden table. She’d completed her morning breakfast as she
pounded away at the computer keys. The fresh sea air seemed to be helping with
her muse. The only sounds were the squawking of two seagulls overhead and the
far off clang of a buoy out in the bay. It was gloriously warm. The sun
caressed her face while the distant pounding of the ocean waves added to the
serene surroundings.

Or was her muse on
full tilt because of the dark, mystifying, handsome man she met last night at
her cousin's pub? The sleepless night took its toll. Katrina tossed and turned
while heated, intense fantasies of Tristan Black hovering on top of her
thrusting his cock deeply, her legs all but thrown over those broad shoulders
of his, filled her fevered thoughts. She was spread wide open for him, wantonly
begging for him to go deeper and faster. It had been a while since she’d had
sex.
 
She did not consider herself overly
skilled in the sex department, and she’d had only one “serious” relationship, which
lasted seven months. The sex—disappointed her. Maybe the failure rested on her
shoulders because the next sexual encounter was nearly as yawn worthy. Too bad,
because she wasn't shy or afraid of sex. She guessed she’d just had a run of
bad luck.

Since then she was
immersed in her writing. She wrote about sexual encounters she’d never
experienced herself. She had a vivid imagination and always had her whole life.
At Girl Guide camp, she’d enthralled the other twelve-year-old girls around the
campfire with stories she made up as she went along. Usually tales of horror
and terror, things no twelve year old should be thinking about, much less
verbalizing aloud. So now instead of horror it was sex and drop-dead gorgeous,
tortured men, which she had no intimate knowledge of until she met Tristan
Black. Now there was someone she wanted to study and not just for her book. She
sensed so many layers, complications and tragedy from him but this man was no
quivering, trembling mass of anxieties. He walked with a blatant, raw
masculinity and confidence that took her breath away, hers and that of every
other breathing female in the pub. He was dangerous and wow, how that appealed
to her in ways she was not sure she understood. She glanced at her watch and
frowned. It was twelve-thirty and he wasn't here.

When she told her
cousin about her lunch date with Tristan, he merely arched an eyebrow and said
for her “not to get her hopes up” as Tristan was blasé about women, of which
there were many in his life. Why the hell did Greg introduce her to the man,
then? Was she giving off vibes she wanted a summer fling? The raw heat that passed
between them at the pub, could it be one-sided? She crossed her arms and shook
her head. No, it wasn't. As inexperienced as she might be, she’d noticed his
eyes darken with want and need.
 
He
wanted it too. So this
was
about sex.
Lust, raw and pure with a mix of desire. She could live with that. At
twenty-eight, she was ready for body-numbing, wild sex with a dangerous,
unattainable hunk of man-meat.
Bring it
on.