The Vampire Dimitri (25 page)

“They all have, for one reason or another, made such an agreement. But Dimitri has been trying to break the covenant for over a hundred years. That's why he studies so much, and why he refuses to drink or feed from mortals. Although—” her eyes glinted “—that appears to have changed.”

Maia's cheeks warmed. “He certainly didn't want to, but it was the only way I could think to get him out of there. He was too weak to stand.”

Rubey's eyes widened. “Do you mean to say, you saved Dimitri? Oh, how he must have loved that!”

Maia blushed more. “I can't say that's the whole of it, but—”

She stopped as the parlor door opened.

“Speak of the devil,” Rubey said slyly, garnering her a sharp, annoyed glance from Corvindale.

He strode in as if he owned the place and helped himself to a glass of the same whiskey Maia had tasted. His serving was much more generous than hers. After a brief survey of the chamber—which was furnished with a sofa, where Maia sat facing two armchairs, one of which was occupied by their hostess, he disdained all of the seating possibilities and remained standing near a tall, narrow table to her left.

The expression on his face was haughty and removed, as always. But Maia found herself unable to keep anticipation from fluttering in her middle as she looked at him. His very presence changed the energy in the room, shrinking it, making it warmer. More interesting.

He'd obviously bathed, as well, for his hair was damp and spiked in sharp points around the collar of his pristine white shirt. He stood holding his drink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to display darkly haired skin the color of suntanned leather. Elegant wrists connected strong, wide hands to muscular forearms, and Maia knew fully well the shape and girth of his upper arms and shoulders. She swallowed and averted her gaze from the loose ties at the throat of his shirt where just a hint of dark hair showed.

“Enlightening your guest with the darkest secrets of my race, are you, Rubey?” His words might have been light if it weren't for the way his eyes bored into the titian-haired woman.

She didn't seem to mind. “She was just telling me how it all happened. Quite a story.”

“I'm certain she was,” he replied without glancing at
Maia. “But it was beyond foolish of her to become involved in the matter. Things would have worked out much better if she'd simply stayed home.”

Maia went rigid. “If it weren't for me, Lord Corvindale,” she said in her iciest voice, “no one would have known about the ruby hairpin. Which is what led me to investigate Mrs. Throckmullins.”

“And there's where you went wrong, Miss Woodmore. You should never have been investigating anyone. Dewhurst and Cale had things well in hand. They would have found me soon enough.”

Maia could not hold back an improper snort. “I merely went for an afternoon call—”

“Nor should you have gone alone.”

“I didn't go alone, you dratted man. Do you think I have feathers for brains? I had three footmen with me. How was I to know that Mrs. Throckmullins was your former mistress, and that she would have invited me into tea and then poisoned me? I certainly couldn't have brought three footmen into her parlor, now, could I?”

He raised the whiskey. “Very well. I stand corrected. You could have done nothing to prevent Lerina from drugging and abducting you.”

Maia drew herself up even more, ignoring the avid interest on Rubey's face. “Just as you could have done nothing to prevent her from abducting
you.
Because of course, being the Earl of Corvindale, you know all and see all and could clearly foresee every possible circumstance. Which is precisely why you ended up in the condition in which I found you.”

Rubey drew in a sharp intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh.

“Furthermore,” Maia continued, unable to stop herself,
“if I hadn't managed not only to free myself from being chained to a chaise lounge and then gone in search of you, you would probably be dead by now from loss of blood.”

“Dracule don't die from loss of blood,” he sneered.

“Even when tied up by ruby necklaces?”

“You were tied up by rubies, Dimitri?” Their hostess looked much too intrigued by such a concept, her eyes narrowing contemplatively. “Now there's a fascinating idea.”

“Is my carriage here yet?” Corvindale snarled at her. “Perhaps you ought to go check.”

“Oh, but I find this conversation very stimulating.”

“Go.”
He didn't roar, but the room vibrated as if he had. Rubey rose reluctantly and started toward the door, not at all cowed.

But Maia wasn't finished; no indeed. She had so much to say to the arrogant, impossible, infuriating man in front of her, she didn't know if she'd be done in a week. “And then you
throw a stake
at me—”

“I threw it at the vampire who was holding you—”

“You could have stabbed me!”

“Of course I wouldn't have, you addled woman. Do you think I'm completely incompetent? I knew precisely what I was doing, as is evident by the fact that you are here, intact, and so am I.”

“And then you jump through a second-story window,” Maia continued, her mind blazing with fury, the words tumbling out, “and take me with you! We could have been killed!”

“Dracule don't die from a fall—”

“But people like me do!” she shrieked, leaping to her feet. Maia drew in a deep breath and realized she'd truly gone mad. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was addled. She reached down for her glass, taking the last swallow of her
whiskey while managing not to cough or choke. She heard the faint click of the door closing behind Rubey.

Corvindale didn't seem to notice; for he was watching Maia from over the rim of his own glass, his eyes dark and steady. Wary. “The fact is,” he said in his chilly voice, “that you were perfectly safe once the rubies were out of my proximity.”

“And how,” she said sweetly, but with a steely edge, “did it happen that those blasted rubies
got out of your proximity?
” Her hands planted on her hips, she glowered up at him.

“Speaking of rubies,” he said, setting his glass on the table with a definite clunk, “why in the goddamned
bloody
hell did you not use them?”

She closed her mouth, for she truly had no idea what he meant. “I—”

“I could have killed you, Maia,” he said, his face terrible. Darker and more frightening than she'd ever seen. “I
nearly killed you.”

She was shaking her head, anger dissolving into confusion. “You didn't hurt me, Corvindale,” she said, at last understanding. “You needed to feed. It was the only way.”

He made a disgusted sound and reached for her. “Look at this,” he said, yanking her arm out to display the bite marks there. “And here,” he said, shoving her braid away from her shoulder. “You would have let me go on and on until there was nothing left.”

“But—”

“I've done it before,” he said, his voice dropping into an awful pitch. It made her nauseated, the loathing and malevolence therein. His dark eyes glittered, holding hers like magnets. “I've torn a woman to shreds, left nothing but mutilated flesh behind.
I could have done that to you.
” His voice had dropped to an agonized whisper.

“But you didn't. You stopped. I didn't realize—”

He gave a bitter laugh, still holding on to her wrist. “Only by the grace of—something, some miracle—did I stop. It had been one hundred thirteen years, Maia.” He drew in an unsteady breath, his thumb sliding over her skin. “And even now…”

He dropped her arm abruptly and turned away. “Where the bloody hell is my carriage?”

“Corvindale,” she said, her voice quiet. She stepped toward him, reaching for his arm. It was in her nature to comfort, to set all right, to take care of things, and for the first time, she sensed the deep pain rolling off him like fog from the sea. It had been hidden beneath that brittle, dark exterior all this time.

When she touched him, he froze, the muscles of his forearm tightening like bowstrings. “Miss Woodmore,” he said coldly. “You are out of line.”

“Look at me and say that,” she said, noting that he didn't pull away from her grip. He needed something. Something perhaps he didn't even understand.

He turned. “You have no idea what you're doing, Miss Woodmore,” he said tightly. “Don't be a fool. Release me.”

She looked up at him, finding no humor in that ludicrous command, and silently, fearlessly, she met his eyes. Her heart pounded in her throat, echoing through her entire body as she lifted her other hand and placed it on the warm expanse of his chest. Flat, there over one of the solid planes of muscle covered by crisp white linen.

Time stopped. The room shrunk, and she was caught up in a moment of…something. Something potent.

When he moved, it wasn't to spin away, but to pull her toward him. Hard and quick, with strong arms enfolding her, he brought her up against his tall frame as he bent his
head. Maia met his lips with hers, hungry for what they had begun so many times earlier.

Their mouths clashed and fought, his tongue strong and sleek, battling with hers in an erotic melee. She had him under her hands, her fingers against the warm skin of his neck, the damp fringe of his hair, pulling at the strings of his shirt.

Corvindale lifted her onto the table next to him, clinking glasses, raising her to a height that brought her eye level with him. His hands pulled at her hair, loosening it from its braid, his fingers sliding down her neck and along her shoulders, drawing the edges of her dress's neckline with them. The fresh air felt cool on her warm skin, and the rough pads of his fingers made gentle texture on her.

When he pulled out of the kiss, she made a sound of negation and frustration, but he was merely moving to the side of her jaw, in front of her ear. She shivered a little when he got there and she felt his warm breath deep inside her ear, then his hot mouth covered the wounds on her bare shoulder. Maia sighed and tipped her head to the side, opening her neck and throat, pressing up against his mouth, but he didn't bite. Instead she felt the little shudder of his torso where it pressed against hers and his tongue sliding over and around the marks, his lips sucking gently on the rise of her shoulder, his hands strong and busy over the rest of her, cupping her breasts, sliding down over the swell of her hips.

The ties at the back of her dress loosened, and the bodice gapped before she knew it, his hands drawing the neckline down over her shoulders, completely baring them and the top of her shift. When he realized she couldn't recline any farther on the narrow table, Corvindale made a sound of frustration and scooped her up.

Maia clung to his shoulders, dazed and already aroused,
as he pivoted around and deposited her on the sofa, easing down next to her. She caught a glimpse of his face, dark and intense, his eyes hooded, and the very image of that desirous countenance sent deep waves of pleasure in her belly.

His weight pressed her gently into the upholstery, leaving her breathless but not frightened or overwhelmed. She started to say something—she didn't even know what; perhaps to order him to remove his dratted shirt—when he gave a sharp yank and pulled the top of her corset away. He'd already loosened it, and her breast slipped free, round and ivory with a swollen pink tip.

He made a little sound, then ducked his head and flicked out his tongue just over the tip of her nipple. Maia watched, jolting at the light sensation that spiraled through her, and when he covered her with his mouth, the undulating waves of heat trammeled through her, down past her belly and to her core. His tongue sleek and warm, swirling around as he drew her hard and fast in his mouth, made her lose her breath. The pang of pleasure stabbed her belly again, and she felt herself opening, flowering and swelling down at the juncture of her thighs.

Pulling away, he looked up at her. Their eyes caught and Maia could hardly catch her breath at the dark heat there. She could see the tips of his upper fangs just below his upper lip, and she wanted them…inside her.

Instead of asking that, she whispered, “Your shirt, Corvindale. Make it go away.”

His eyes darkened and he eased back, whipping the linen up and over his head with a sharp snap. She had to touch his broad shoulders and the ridges of his belly, the slabs of his chest, slide her fingers through the thick patch of hair and over flat, oval nipples. She moved her hands up to cover the marks on his arm and raised her face to touch
them with her mouth, wondering if she might taste more of him there, too.

He was solid and smooth, his skin damp and hot, and she felt something deep beneath leaping and trembling as she scored him gently with her teeth. His head tipped to the side, leaning against the sofa, his eyes closed, his beautiful lips—the mouth she'd so admired at the masquerade ball—parted as he drew in steadying breaths. Maia shifted, and his heavy arm came around as if to keep her from slipping away, but she had no intention of doing so.

She planted her hands flat on the warm slabs of his chest and curled her fingers around his shoulders to pull herself up. She had to taste that strong, corded neck, and it was warm and soft and she felt him groaning deep in his throat as she nibbled along the tendons there. When she closed her teeth over him, giving a sharp nip, he shuddered, his arm tightening around her.

“Maia,” he murmured. “Take care.”

She shook her head in the warmth of his neck, smelling his particular smell, now fresh with bergamot. “You won't hurt me.”

He gave a short laugh, and she shifted, realizing she was now pressed against him all the full length of their torsos and legs. She could feel the outline of his powerful thighs, fairly twice as thick as her own, her skirt and shift tangled in with them and the hard rise from behind the buttons of his trousers. The very feel of it made her belly ache and her center tingle with sharp pleasure.