Midnight Rose (8 page)

“But more on than off, I’ll bet. How quaint. A junior vampire. When are you going to teach him everything you know?”

He didn’t respond, just let his hands fall away from her waist as he stared at the clock. The compulsion to fly back to Sister Oaks drew on him, as powerful as Delilah’s sucking bite in the heat of passion.

Swaying her hips back and forth, she danced provocatively against his stirring erection. All he had to do was shift a little and she’d suck him back into slick hot euphoria. “Tell me why you have to hurry. You could stay. Sleep with me. We could go out tonight. Prowl around, like the old days. I miss it, Gideon.

The nightclubs, the thrill of the chase…watching you with other women. Two, sometimes three women at a time. God, you could fuck like a champion.”

“That was a long time ago,” he murmured, twining a strand of her flaxen hair around his finger. In truth, he’d relished those days as much as she. Writhing in the sheets with some nameless one-night stand while Delilah slinked along the walls like an errant shadow, her icy hot gaze urging on every sordid move he made.

“You always came harder when I watched,” she said with husky satisfaction. “Didn’t you?” He was silent.

“You always let them go afterward, too, and I never understood why.”

“I’m not like you,” he said. “I don’t kill for sport.”

“I know. Goody-goody.” She sighed. “Still, you’ve changed. You used to be so adventurous.” She stretched, her breasts high and perfect, outlined by the purple electric glow from outside. “I know you think about it, Gideon. The old times, the pleasure…” With intense, aching disgrace, but he didn’t tell her that. “I think about my son, and how to keep him from going down the same path.” “Listen to you. One hundred fifty years old and all grown up.” Laughing, she swung her hair over one shoulder and trailed a sharp, manicured nail over his chest, around his nipples and down his stomach to his navel. “Tell me, Gid. Your boy understands what he is, doesn’t he?” She leaned closer and kissed his mouth, caught his bottom lip between her sharp teeth, then licked away the sting.

Gideon didn’t want to feel this feral desire stirring inside him again. But she was wet and wanting, and he was here, miles from hope and tenderness and belonging.

She kept on, chipping away at him, driving the knife ever deeper into the one place where he was most vulnerable. “Jude’s what…thirteen? Fourteen? What a delicious age. He must be nearly ready. If he’s anything like you, in no time you’ll have to chain him to his bed to keep him from crawling the countryside. All those sweet, plump, horny farm girls—” “Shut up,” he rasped.

Her fingers closed around his shamefully hard cock. “Make me.” Grasping her waist, he rolled her beneath him with one swift, powerful movement and thrust brutally inside her, his fangs seeking the rapid flutter at the side of her neck, seeking to silence the poison that flowed from her throat, the ugly possibilities that crept ever nearer.

Kate stirred on the damask sofa, lashes fluttering as she swam upward to consciousness. Something had awakened her. With a startled gasp she bolted upright, her Anne Rice novel crashing to the carpet.

The house was silent. She’d drifted off while reading in the dimly lit sitting room, refusing to admit that she waited up for Gideon.

Shifting to the edge of the sofa, she rubbed her hands over her face. The tall, majestic grandfather clock by the fireplace read five thirty-five. He’d been gone all night.

Kate groaned. Of course he had. The way he’d avoided her eyes before he left, the graceful, deliberate movements of his body as he descended into the kitchen, placed a single hand on Jude’s head and murmured a few words to him, his scent and beauty and the tightness in his shoulders. The anticipatory air about him. Every nuance of his departure had marked him as destined for another woman.

She glanced over her shoulder at the shadowed staircase and abruptly beyond it, when she heard a faint unidentifiable sound in the direction of the dark dining hall.

Somewhere in the hushed, mammoth house, a door squeaked open, then closed with a soft click.

Maybe Jude was awake. But fear settled in her stomach like a sinking stone, and she knew the sound hadn’t come from the east wing.

It occurred to her, then, that she and the thirteen-year-old were utterly alone in this behemoth. The night maids had left at nine o’clock and Betty hailed from nearby Putnam, where she had a spouse and family.

Martha Shelton sometimes spent the night at Sister Oaks, but preferred to live in a small, modest apartment in town, and Kate had thought that was crazy. Until now.

Rising, she tugged at the wrinkled hem of her denim jumper, picked up her novel to set it on the coffee table, and crept toward the foyer. She wouldn’t explore the noise. She’d check on Jude, maybe open and close a few doors in search of a big, threatening weapon for protection. But most certainly she wouldn’t wander in the direction of the music room…or the library with its eerie, father-and-son portrait reigning above the fireplace.

Ten minutes later, after peeking in on Jude and thoroughly searching the parts of the house she was familiar with, she stood shivering in the conservatory doorway, plastic toy bat in hand, drawn to this place like a hapless luna moth to the moon’s iridescence. The room before her was deeply shadowed, slashed with a single path of light from the billiard room behind, where she’d busily flicked on the wall switch and the lamp on the bar to chase away the phantoms.

The longer she stayed at Sister Oaks, the more helpless she seemed to be over her impulses and curiosity. Every room held magic, a vibration that sung through her and wrapped around her, especially the conservatory with its magnificent instruments and soft, feminine elegance. Now that her eyes had adjusted, it didn’t seem so scary. She hesitantly crossed the floor, the pastel Oriental rug hushing her steps, and turned on the light above the piano’s music rack.

Seating herself on the bench, she leaned the plastic bat beside her and carefully lifted the piano lid. The keys gleamed like a knowing smile before her, waiting for her touch. It occurred to her that music floating through such a silent house might wake Jude, but the distance between his room and the piano was the size of a football field, and she could close the doors on both sides of the conservatory.

She made short work of it, paused only briefly to glance into the darkened library before pulling up the double doors, then returned to the piano, anticipation crowding out her apprehension.

‘Moonlight Sonata’ flitted in and out of her recollection as she tentatively fingered it on the keys, but the more she played, the more she remembered, and it began to flow from her fingertips, haunting and melancholy, a tribute to the luminous persona of Sister Oaks.

When the composition ended, she paused, awash with a wave of goose bumps that always accompanied a piece played as soulfully, perhaps, as the composer intended.

The soft sound of applause from the library doorway shattered her satisfaction and brought her head up, heart pounding.

Gideon stepped from the shadows, as much a part of the darkness as the black, diaphanous fingers stretching from corner to corner.

“You play well,” he said, his expression half-hidden in the gloom. “I’ve been hoping you’d take the Steinway for a spin.”

“It’s a beautiful instrument.” Her gaze followed him as he crossed the rug, reading details about his evening, secrets that showed in the weariness around his eyes and his somber mouth. Yet despite her resentment, she felt ridiculously, childishly overjoyed to see him.

He stopped at the piano’s edge. “Can’t sleep, Ms. O’Brien?”

“I did for a while, but…” She glanced around, gave a sheepish smile. “The house is kind of spooky when it’s just Jude and me here.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve come back earlier.”

“Don’t apologize. I can take care of myself.”

“I see that.” He retrieved the light plastic bat from the edge of the bench, grasped it with both hands and gave it a practice swing. “You could really do some damage with this baby.” Embarrassed, Kate snatched it back and tossed it on a nearby chair. “It’s symbolic of security, and the only weapon I could find. And don’t underestimate me.” “I wouldn’t dare.” He gazed at her, his dark eyes warm and dancing. “How was your night with Jude?” “Fine. He took me down to the greenhouse after it got dark and we looked at your roses again. They’re amazing. Black roses—I didn’t know such a thing existed. And they smell sweeter than any flower I’ve come across.” He smiled but didn’t respond, so she went on. “He also showed me his room and all his stuff. Tried to get me to peek into your room, but I prudently declined.” “I see.” He leaned his forearms on the edge of the piano. “Don’t you want to know my secrets?”

“Being the direct and foolhardy girl I am, I usually just ask when I want to know something.” She paused, drew a breath, leaped. “And there is something I want to know. It’s none of my business, and strictly for curiosity’s sake, but you did offer.” “Okay.” He propped his chin in his hand. “What?”

“Where did you go tonight?”

Gideon stood unmoving, his black eyes studying her face as though he could peer through layers of skin and bone and matter to retrieve the ulterior motive behind her question. “I went to see a friend.” “Oh.”

“That’s a lie, actually. I went to see a woman.”

Misplaced dismay tightened her stomach. “Can’t a woman be your friend?”

“Not this woman.”

“I see.” She glanced back at the piano keys, stung by his honesty. “And how was it?”

“Lonely.”

Her gaze flew back to his. Just because he didn’t seem like a manipulative cad didn’t mean he wasn’t one. “Really?”

“Really.” It sounded like unaffected truth. He shrugged out of his coat and laid it across the back of a settee, revealing a gray, long-sleeved crewneck that stretched across his wide shoulders like a second skin. Somewhere in the night, he’d changed into more casual attire. “Scoot over,” he told her.

Surprised, Kate made room for him on the narrow bench and watched as he situated himself beside her.

His hair was still damp, probably from a shower taken at his non-friend’s. His body radiated a strange, feverish heat, and the glow from the piano lamp revealed a flush in his lean cheeks. A faint bruise the size of a quarter marked the side of his neck, fading blue surrounding two deeper abrasions. It didn’t quite look like a hickey, thank God. He’d been with a woman, after all…but whatever or whoever had marked him, he couldn’t have sustained it tonight. The abrasion was nearly healed.

The faint scent of soap and an essence solely Gideon’s saturated Kate’s senses, and she faced forward, burned by the slow trickle of desire through her veins.

He cracked his knuckles. “Do you prefer top or bottom?”

Kate hesitated. “I’m sorry?”

“’Heart and Soul.’ Which part do you want?”

She laughed at herself, reveling in the thrill of his nearness. “I haven’t played that duet in a long time.”

“Me neither. Top or bottom?”

Something in her dissolved; propriety, inhibitions—maybe all of it, stolen by her overwhelming attraction to this man. Meeting his eyes, she said with deliberate care, “I like the top.” A languid smile slipped across Gideon’s lips. “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Her shoulder lifted and dropped in a careless shrug. Each provocative word that passed between them, each lingering look, each delicious possibility led her further into the flames, and she was helpless to turn back.

Gideon saved her when he redirected his attention to the piano, and Kate shakily placed her fingers on the keys.

“I start,” he said, and began to play, cheerfully missing a few essential keys before he got the hang of it.

Mesmerized, Kate watched the graceful movement of his fingers until he nudged her with an elbow. “Any day now, Ms. O’Brien.”

“Oh—sorry.” She jumped in, smiling with delight. His denim-encased thigh felt hard and strong against hers, his elbow nearly in her lap. They pounded through at least ten revolutions of the singsong melody before finishing with a rousing and improvisational finale.

It was the first time Kate had heard him laugh, a soft, easy sound that wrapped around her and flooded her with pleasure. Ignoring the flush of heat in her cheeks, she leaned an elbow on the piano and said, “You didn’t think I was this well-versed in the classics, did you?” “I had my suspicions.” He mirrored her position, his lashes dropping as he regarded her smile. “You’re a funny girl, Kate O’Brien.”

She wanted to respond with something clever and quick. But the sudden intimacy between them stole her wit, and all she could do was stare back at him; at the fine, patrician lines of his features, the long, sable brush of his lashes against his cheek, and finally his lips, those killer, beautiful lips, while mutual desire zinged between them like tiny frissons of energy.

“Feeling rational?” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Not at all.”

“Then this seems like a good time to kiss you.” His head tilted, gaze fixed on her mouth. “Or you could kiss me.”

“I could.” She jammed her hands in her lap to hide their trembling. “The question is, will I?” Amusement lifted one corner of his mouth. “How about if I just sit here and find out?” Watching his face for any sign of insincerity, she leaned toward him and brushed her lips against his, tentative, searching, waiting for him to move, to take over and shatter the final barrier between them. But to her surprise he sat utterly still, not breathing, not reaching for her, his head propped on his hand, elbow braced on the piano, and allowed her to have her way.

The kiss was chaste, exploratory, shivery sweet. Kate drew back an infinitesimal distance and regarded the full, sensuous shape of his lips. Two days ago she’d looked at him across the breakfast table and struggled with the impulse to reach for him and taste his bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. Now was her chance, and closing her eyes, she leaned in and did just that, letting her tongue dance across the softness of his mouth, sampling and finding him delectable.

“What else?” he said quietly when she withdrew, his hand slipping up to caress her shoulder.

What else, indeed? Kate felt like a kid in a candy shop with a bottomless supply of quarters. The curl falling over his brow drew her attention, and she reached to brush it back, let it sift between her fingers.

For all its dark, rich thickness, his hair was silky soft, as soft as the tickle of his fingertips on her shoulder, slipping back and forth beneath the strap on her sleeveless jumper.

She held her breath and glanced down to watch his touch make slow, gentle forays ever closer to the swell of her breast. “Can we be honest here?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kiss another woman tonight?”

“Yes,” he said, and her gaze shot up to find his hot and piercing.

She licked her lips. “Did you…do more than that…with another woman tonight?” He didn’t answer, just continued to caress her in that harmless yet potent way while she searched his eyes for the truth and found it in a shift of shadow and regret.

Kate didn’t know what to feel. A sick cacophony of indignation, jealousy and excitement screamed in her female conscience. He was forbidden fruit, a veritable guarantee of delight and agony, and she couldn’t stop herself. “Then why are you here with me?” she demanded, studying his face for any flicker of manipulation or deceit. “Why are you touching me, and looking at me like you could go all over again if I gave you the chance?” “Because coming home to you makes me forget everything that happened tonight.” It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, and she couldn’t think of an immediate reply.