Midnight Rose (7 page)

Clearing her throat, she said in a shaky voice, “See? I’m still rational, just like I told you.”

“I could fix that. But we’d both be sorry. I have to let you go.” He released her and walked a few steps in the direction of the estate visible through the trees, his hands on his hips. A runner walking off the thundering effects of an explosive sprint. “Come on, it’s getting late.” Bewildered and still vibrating with unrequited need, Kate followed him into the clearing and fell into a brisk walk beside him. Silence hung like a privacy curtain between them again, heavy with fading desire and growing confusion.

She didn’t like games. She wouldn’t play his; she had nothing left to gamble.

The greenhouse came into view, and her steps slowed as they passed it.

“Do you object to me peeking inside?” she asked abruptly, looking for an excuse to avoid having to walk beside him in stifling wordlessness all the way to the house.

“Go ahead.” He stopped to open the door for her.

Inside the small, transparent building the air was laden with humidity, the glass roof panels beaded with moisture. Kate forgot her embarrassment and indignation as she wandered up the narrow aisle between flats of crimson rosebushes, some blooming, some just sprouting leaves. The scent of roses draped the air, rich and spicy-sweet, the perfume of centuries. Beneath that lingered a green aroma like the earth, limned with the pungent decay of compost and fertilizer.

Astonished, Kate stopped at the worktable in the back and swiveled to find Gideon still hovering at the door, his expression unreadable. “I’ve never seen so many roses.” “The bush on the flat behind you…that’s what I’ve been working on for the past decade.” She glanced back and her gaze fell upon a small, thorny bush climbing like spindly, crimson-black fingers from a weathered terra cotta pot. The tightly folded rosebuds were as black as a moonless midnight sky.

“This one’s not dead, is it?” She reached out and gently fingered a fragile bud, found it silky, and very much alive.

“It’s a black rose. The only one of its kind.” Gideon let the glass door click shut behind him and moved toward her with his peculiar, graceful deliberation, his outstretched hands gliding over the tips of the bushes as he walked, as though the ruby and crimson blossoms were children bowing beneath his caress.

Swallowing the knot of emotion that had formed without explanation in her throat, Kate gazed at the fledgling bush, seized by the desire to see the blood-onyx buds unfolding, laid open and fragrant, as black as its creator’s eyes.

“This is the one you’ve been cross-breeding,” she said, voice hushed with awe.

“Yes.” He paused behind her, reached for the pair of shears on the table by her hand, and moved to snip a stem from one of the bigger bushes sitting to the right. “This is called the Midnight Rose. It’s my magnum opus, you might say. Have one of the house staff put this bud in a vase for you, and it’ll open and scent your room.” She took it from him, careful of the thorns, which seemed unusually long and sharp—somehow appropriate for the daunting darkness of the precious flower Gideon had created.

His fingers brushed hers as the stem changed hands, then he folded his arms across his chest and rested a hip against the table. “I’m sorry if I disconcerted you by the creek. I lost my head.” He slanted her a look of amusement. “Of course, as beautiful as you are, you must be used to it.” Kate met his gaze without blinking. “Are you used to it, as beautiful as you are?” “I’m not used to losing control,” he said. “I want you to stay as Jude’s teacher. I want to do nothing to jeopardize your comfort here.”

“Then don’t kiss me again unless you mean it.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Fair enough, Ms. O’Brien. I’ll just have to keep my council…and my hands to myself.”

She said nothing, only followed him from the greenhouse. She wouldn’t lie and tell him that she wanted his distance. Not when her limbs still trembled with weak delight from the kiss they’d shared, and from the knowledge that more passion simmered between them after a few short days of acquaintance than she could possibly make sense of.

The black Audi sliced through the night, flying along the ribbon of highway at breakneck speed. Gideon wasn’t normally a reckless driver; his own immortality hadn’t yet robbed him of respect for life, but the need throbbing through him drove him onward, his foot heavy against the gas pedal, his fingers white-knuckled around the steering wheel.

Kate. Her name reverberated through his mind like a relentless caress. He’d wanted to devour her—her soft, vulnerable mouth, the delicious warmth throbbing beneath her breast as it rose and fell in rapid time with her breathing. A muscle leaped in his jaw as he thought about licking the salty dampness from her upper lip, sinking his fingers into the softness of her hips, pulling her up tight so she could feel the steely desire roaring through him.

He could have yanked her down there on the side of the creek and thrust inside her wet, hot flesh until she screamed with pleasure, sank his teeth into the pulse at her neck and drank himself into oblivion. Like the old days. Before he’d ever cared about something as unattainable as salvation, before he’d known what it meant to love with every ounce of his inhuman heart, only to lose again, and again, and again. He wanted Kate, but he’d wanted redemption longer. Tonight, neither was forthcoming.

As always, his thoughts arrowed straight to the single jewel in the whirling vortex of his existence. Jude.

God . There was no feasible cure for him, no cure for an endless life of endless suffering, and Gideon had no way of knowing whether his son had inherited immortality, too. Jude was aging; that much led Gideon to believe his child might be more human than aberrant. A blessing, but for how long?

How long until the vague explanations were no longer enough? Jude was so damn intelligent, so perceptive, almost shrewd. And he was growing…changing. Behind those soulful black eyes a man lingered, waiting to emerge. It was just a matter of time until Gideon had to tell him the truth, that it was possible to be born half-human, half-monster, but how did one describe the existence of half a soul?

Every time Gideon looked into Jude’s face, the brightness and purity of the boy’s spirit shone so clearly…how could half a soul radiate such intensity and harbor a flip side of darkness that stamped him destined for hell?

He crested the hill and the sparkling lights of Roanoke unfolded before him. Somewhere in the curves and dips and rises ahead, Delilah waited. Gideon could sink into her, drive and crush and take, and then she’d take in return. His blood for hers. A fair exchange of sustenance, and an even more satisfying transaction of carnal pleasure. He could shake off his lingering humanity like an unwelcome mantle in her arms.

Delilah…heartless, murderous, and oh-so delectable. A bad habit, and a necessity. He increased his speed and shoved Kate O’Brien from his mind, banishing the never-ending tug of mortality, if only for tonight.

“Where’s your room in this labyrinth?” Kate asked Jude as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table.

He shoved aside his plate and sighed. “In the east wing on the second floor, near my dad’s.”

“Know how many bedrooms are in this place?”

“Nope.” He smiled a little. “Want to go count?”

“Sure.” Kate sensed he was as restless as she, and probably for a similar reason—Gideon. He hadn’t told her where he was going; she’d overheard him say something about Roanoke to Jude as he ruffled the boy’s hair on the way out the kitchen door. He’d looked good enough to eat, showered and freshly shaved, dressed in black and sporting a calf-length, black duster that managed to render him delicious and dangerous at the same time. Damn him if he was on a date, or worse, tangled in the sheets with some sexy, noncommittal siren, mere hours after he’d kissed Kate into oblivion on the bank of Putnam Creek.

Damn him and then some.

Loneliness pervaded every inch of the estate in his absence, as though the life force had departed with him when he drove away for the evening. Neither Kate nor Jude had eaten much dinner; Betty whisked away their barely touched plates with a disapproving frown before she left for the night. All through the house, it was disconcertingly quiet.

Upstairs, Jude hesitated in front of the hunt scene and studied it, head tilted. “The dog looks—”

“Don’t even tell me.” Kate breezed past it and up the stairs to the east wing. “I’ll never sleep tonight.” He dashed to catch up with her and they started down the dim, narrow hall. Brass sconces illuminated the wainscoted walls on both sides; the runner beneath their feet was a plush collage of crimson and gold.

Kate counted six doors on one side of the hallway, five on the other.

“This is my room,” Jude said, pausing at the third room on the right. “Want to see it?”

“Absolutely.”

He swung open the door, switched on the light, and Kate stuck her head inside to glance around the large, rectangular room. Heavy plaid drapes covered two floor-to-ceiling windows. A bulky four-poster bed sat between them, half lost beneath discarded clothes and rumpled bedcovers.

“It’s messy,” she declared with a smile. “Just as I suspected.”

“My dad won’t let the maids pick it up. I have to.”

“I agree with that.” She wandered inside, her gaze taking in the tender, funny, bittersweet trappings of a thirteen-year-old’s world. Wrestling posters, a computer with Japanese animation screen-saver, stuffed animals shoved conspicuously between a highboy and the wall, a game console and television surrounded by a slew of video games. She glanced at a shadow box lined with figurines. “You collect Star Wars figures?” “I used to.” He sounded embarrassed, so she quickly bypassed the collection to gaze at the assortment of photographs on the wide dresser.

Immediately her attention zeroed in on a woman perched on a playground swing. She had long, dark hair, exotic features and laughing, fawn-colored eyes. Lush figure, sensual features. Instantly Kate knew.

This was a woman to capture Gideon Renaud’s heart. “Jude, is this your mother?”

“Yeah.” He stopped beside her and reached for the frame, his hair flopping over his forehead as he examined the picture. “That’s before I was born.” He set it back by the mirror with exquisite care, his face an impassive mask. “I don’t remember her. She died right after she had me.” “Yes, Mrs. Shelton told me that. I’m sorry.” She studied the various childhood photos, observing his gradual development from infant to adolescent. He was flawlessly photogenic. No stiff, classroom poses.

All images captured from real life…as real a life as Jude’s illness had allowed him to lead. “Who took these wonderful pictures?”

“Mostly my dad. He likes photography.”

“You don’t have any photos of him.”

He released an exasperated huff of laughter. “I said he liked photography, not having his picture taken.

He hates that more than anything.”

“I wonder why.”

“I don’t know. He’s weird. All the ones I’ve seen of him, his face is turned.” He straightened a couple of frames in the collection, then glanced up at her. “He doesn’t like mirrors, either. He doesn’t have any in his bathroom or in his bedroom. Want to see?” “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kate said uneasily. The fact that Gideon disliked mirrors enough to clear his living space of them bothered her on a level she wasn’t ready to examine. Besides, the thought of invading his personal space disconcerted her. A man’s bedroom was such an intimate and revealing place. “You know, maybe he wouldn’t like that we’d snooped around up here at all.” Jude shrugged, flipping off the light as they stepped out into the hall. “He’s not here to complain.

Besides, it’s my room. He doesn’t mind who I show it to. His room’s down there.” He motioned to a set of ornate double doors at the end of the hall. “It’s pretty cool. It’s got a TV that comes out of the ceiling.” Staring at those doors, Kate tried to imagine throwing them open and sweeping into what was probably an incredibly elegant room…with no mirrors. She envisioned touching his clothing, his toiletries, searching for any piece of the shadowy puzzle that interlocked to create Gideon Renaud. His bed was probably huge, high, dark and daunting. An effort to climb into, just like the man himself.

She’d sensed the strength in his arm as it curved around her waist by the side of the creek. He could’ve crushed her ribs with a single motion. And yet his mouth was soft on hers, careful, too careful. He wanted her, he’d said, and one day she might have a problem with that.

An unexpected thread of apprehension shivered along her nerves, and she glanced at Jude. “How about we go snoop around his greenhouse instead?”

“Sure,” he said, and they left the hall, and Gideon’s secrets, behind.

The soft snick of a lighter, followed by a brief, flickering glimpse of Delilah’s porcelain features drew Gideon’s attention to the bathroom doorway. He folded an arm behind his head and watched her body, naked and sinuous, approach. A slash of phantom-white in the dark. The tiny, red ember of her cigarette was a glimmering ruby leading the way.

She paused in the flood of streetlight that pooled by the balcony doors. “Are you done?” she asked impassively, examining the neat wound at her wrist she’d carefully administered with a razor for his benefit.

Gideon barely remembered the exchange, done in the midst of a frenzied coupling that had dislodged the silk sheets from the mattress and left a wild composition of crimson streaks and handprints on the white headboard.

“Are you?” He caught her gaze and held it, reading the flare of humor there, the pale, sapphire absence of humanness.

She set the cigarette in a crystal ashtray, climbed into the bed beside him and propped on an elbow to explore the series of nicks and bruises that marked his torso and the trail of her consuming hunger. “Not much left for the taking,” she murmured. “But do speak for yourself. I still feel lightheaded.” An unexpected stab of shame pierced him, and he turned his head to glance at the glowing clock radio on the bedside table. “It’s nearly three. I need to get back.” “Why?” She slung a long, silky leg over his hips and straddled him, her blonde hair falling over his chest, scented with tropical fruit and sex and the warm, metallic remnants of the life essence they’d shared. “The kid sleeps all day, right?” “On and off.”