Chapter Four
As she strode up the sidewalk leading to Vamp Central, a raindrop spat on her arm. Climbing the steps, she shifted the cardboard box of movies she carried to the other arm, then rang the doorbell. The eight-note Westminster chime clanged inside the house. One of the gargoyles lurking above the door had a glowing red eye, and she waved to whoever might be observing her from a security screen somewhere inside.
The locks disengaged with a series of clicks, and the door opened in a welcoming wedge of light. “Miss Tia.” Thane, Valerian’s majordomo, wore a flour-dusted apron that said Kiss the Cook. “Please, come in. Let me take that.”
She’d interrupted his work. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, handing him the box. “I’m early for my movie date with Valerian.” And she’d been so intent on chewing out Wyland that she hadn’t given a thought to how her early arrival might impact other members of the household.
“Please, please. Come in.” Thane gestured for her to enter the foyer, closing the door behind them. “Valerian’s so excited.”
Seven hundred years old, yet appearing a fit human seventy, Thane had graying red hair, a bruiser’s build, and a hint of a Scottish brogue. The vampire had served Valerian for as long as anyone could remember. Though he surely had a kilt and sporran in his closet, tonight, under the apron, he wore pressed blue jeans, a pale blue polo shirt, and brown leather sandals.
“I’m preparing Valerian’s breakfast tray. He’ll eat in his bedroom today, but Wyland should be down soon,” Thane said. “Let me set another place.”
She hadn’t anticipated chewing Wyland out over a cozy breakfast for two. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“He’ll appreciate the company.”
No, he wouldn’t. He’d tolerate it—maybe—but appreciate it? She’d never met a man more comfortable with solitude, but apparently Thane wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She followed him into the great room, her gaze skittering past the settee she’d shared with Wyland the other night. At odd moments, she swore she could still feel his muscled thigh against hers.
Thane set her box down on the bar, where a large silver urn towered over bone china cups and saucers so delicate she could almost see through them. Champagne flutes, wine goblets, and chunky highball and lowball glasses sat next to icy-cold pitchers of orange and tomato juice. Bloody Mary makings stood at the ready.
Breakfast at Vamp Central was a bit more of a production than it was at her place.
“Coffee? Some warm or chilled blood?”
“No, thank you. Please, go ahead and serve Valerian.”
He nodded. “Make yourself at home. Join me if you wish.” When he opened the heavy wood door leading to the kitchen, the scent of frying bacon wafted into the room.
Ignoring her growling stomach, she wandered over to the bookcase. There was the Fabergé egg she’d admired the other night. White and pale blue enamel, encrusted with diamonds, topped by lions and an elephant and poised on a delicate tripod stand, it had to be worth a king’s ransom. It shared shelf space with a well-thumbed paperback set of Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, a fist-sized agate, and a framed, matted photograph of…what was that? It looked as though someone had carved a rough map into a slab of solid rock. Forest to the left, waves carved into a huge void on the right. The land mass had a distinctive arrowhead shape.
She leaned closer, squinting. Was that a rocket, sailing over the trees?
The petroglyph cave. This had to be the petroglyph cave she’d heard about, one of the first discoveries at the northern Minnesota archaeological site theorized to be the location where their ancestors’ spaceship had crashed. The land mass was unmistakably northeastern Minnesota. The wavy void had to be Lake Superior.
“Amazing.” Now that she had access to the Archives, she could research all the discoveries they’d made at the site—not that she’d be able to do anything with the information other than satisfy her curiosity, but sometimes that was enough.
Wandering the length of the shelves, she admired Valerian’s treasures, wondering about the untold stories behind each item, in such a reverie that suddenly seeing so many pictures of Wyland on the last shelf startled her. Positioned on the center of the shelf was a framed and matted sketch of him as a young man, head bent over a thick book, his hair tucked behind his ear. Scattered around the sketch were other framed photographs, some yellowed with time and with swoopy, decorative edges, and others of more recent vintage. Several pictures were labeled with dates and locations, written in ink along the borders. Going by the dates and the fashions, the pictures spanned the late 1800s to current day, but in each, Wyland looked much the same, wearing a dark suit, with his pale hair lashed back in a low ponytail, ruthlessly exposing those knife-blade cheekbones. She peered at one picture, grinning. Even the Vampire Second hadn’t managed to side-step the seventies’ leisure suit craze. And there, tucked into the corner, was a copy of the picture she’d seen in Wyland’s Archive bio, of Wyland and Bram Stoker, with the beautiful Deirdre d’Amour cropped out of the picture.
Interesting.
She wandered back to the bar, where condensed water dripped down the glass pitcher of orange juice. Suddenly, her bladder felt ready to burst. She scanned the room, looking for hallways or doorways that might indicate a nearby bathroom. There was a bathroom off Valerian’s decadent sitting room upstairs; she’d used it when they’d watched Downton Abbey a couple of nights ago.
Valerian’s open invitation probably didn’t include walking without escort to the private areas of his home, but the last thing she wanted was for Thane to see her holding herself as she searched for a place to pee.
As she climbed the gently curving stairwell leading to the second floor, the carpeting, a faded cranberry with gold fleurs-de-lis, muffled her footfalls. At the top of the stairway, she turned left and walked down the hall, past sconces and graceful framed landscapes, past Wyland’s closed bedroom door. As she slipped into Valerian’s dark sitting room, she couldn’t help but wonder what Wyland’s private rooms looked like. What would they reveal, if anything, of the man?
She quickly used the restroom and washed her hands, noticing as she had the previous night that there were two toothbrushes in the stand next to the soap. With a mental shrug, she returned to the sitting room. On the far side of the dark, yawning space, Valerian’s bedroom door was ajar, with a soft, inviting light illuminating the gap. Before she knew it, her feet were moving. She paused when she reached the threshold—what the hell are you doing?—but her curiosity got the better of her.
She peeked inside.
The sumptuous décor and the medical supplies barely registered. Instead, her gaze was riveted on the two men lying together on the huge antique bed. Wyland, wearing loose cotton sweatpants and a white T-shirt, held Valerian in a gentle embrace, his eyes closed, and his hair loose over the pillow. The older vampire suckled contentedly from Wyland’s wrist.
Her fangs tingled, then shoved down into her mouth. A rogue wave of desire nearly knocked her to her knees.
Wyland’s eyes suddenly opened. His ice-storm gaze seethed with heat.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, backing out of the room and closing the door behind her. Leaning against it, she waited for her legs to steady beneath her. She’d interrupted something precious and private, but she’d already received her punishment.
The sight of Wyland, casually sprawled on that bed, would haunt her for a long time to come.
Wyland shot his cuffs, adjusted his already-tight tie, and then left his rooms. Across the hall, water ran; Valerian’s personal care assistant was helping him get ready to meet the day.
He strode down the hall and took the stairs at a controlled clip. Valerian apparently had a movie date with Tia Quinn. No one had informed him of this fact.
What on earth had Thane been thinking? Guests were not permitted to wander their home without escort. This guest had interrupted the First as he fed, an unconscionable breach of etiquette. It simply did not happen—or hadn’t happened before Tia Quinn had crashed into their lives.
Damn it, he’d think of her the next time he fed Valerian, as if thoughts of her weren’t elbowing into his mind at the most inopportune times as it was. Was he to have no respite from her, even in his own home?
On the other hand, who was he to berate her for an etiquette breach? The way her fangs had dropped, and the dazed look on her face, had driven him from flaccid to firm in a heartbeat. In Valerian’s bed. “Bugger.” He had to stop thinking about her lust-glazed expression, because it was happening again.
He and Ms. Quinn were going to have a very serious conversation.
He stalked to the kitchen, stumbling to a stop just inside the door. The table where he and Thane bolted down a quick breakfast together most evenings was set with the Royal Worcester instead of their usual casual crockery. Thane had added a lemon-yellow tablecloth and matching napkins, and nestled between the salt and pepper shakers was a tiny crystal vase holding a sprig of rosemary. Tia sat in Thane’s usual place, turned sideways in the chair with her bare legs exposed, listening to Thane as he flipped pancakes. Her hand moved toward the platter of bacon sitting next to her on the table. She selected a slice, brought it to her mouth, and nibbled.
“So Wyland swooped in—on horseback, mind you—and snatched me away from the rabbling mob. The sun was about to rise, and they’d already started the fire!”
Bloody Christ, why tell Tia this particular story? Two hundred years later, even thinking about Thane’s imprisonment and near-execution made his stomach turn. It had taken Thane months to recover from the torture inflicted by human hands.
They didn’t even know he was there. “Ahem.”
Thane turned away from his griddle. “There you are. Just in time for pancakes. Let me get you two squared away, and then I’ll bring Valerian his tray.”
A cozy breakfast for two? With Tia Quinn? I think not. “Thank you, but I’m expected at the hospital. I’ll make do with some blood and a muffin.”
Thane slipped a final pancake onto the stack. “Ms. Quinn has some questions about the Archives—questions I think only you or Valerian can answer.”
Framing Tia’s issue in such a manner made it impossible for him to leave, and Thane knew it.
Thane set the platter of pancakes on the table next to the bacon. His amusement shimmered through their blood bond.
Tia looked back and forth between them. “You two have entire conversations without saying a word, don’t you?”
It was unusual that a vampire so young could perceive the throb of mental shorthand that he, Thane, and Valerian, strong vampires who’d shared blood for centuries, shared with each other. How…interesting. With reluctance, he took the chair across the table from Tia. “You’ll have to make do with me answering your questions today. Valerian is still preparing for his day.”
At his pointed words, Tia’s cheeks turned a satisfying shade of pink.
She murmured a soft ‘thank you’ to Thane as he placed two pancakes on her plate, then turned her attention to him. “I spoke with Bailey earlier. She said you hadn’t returned her phone call, and I volunteered to pass along a message if I saw you.”
He nudged the butter crock, and the small pitcher holding warmed syrup, closer to her plate. “What is the message?”
“To return her phone call.” Her overly-sweet smile called him an ingrate.
Over at the hissing espresso machine, Thane cleared his throat, as if trying not to laugh.
Tia slathered her pancakes with butter, poured a river of maple syrup on top, and dug in. The pleasure on her face as she tasted the first bite was too painful to watch. He dropped his gaze to his plate, to the artist’s delicate rendering of sage.
Suddenly Thane was at his side with his espresso. It was thick as thieves, with a small dollop of blood for added kick. “Have you fed this evening?” Thane murmured.
Wyland sighed. As if Tia couldn’t hear him perfectly well, sitting three feet away. “Yes, Mother.”
“Are the pancakes to your liking, Miss Tia?”
“Please, it’s just Tia—and they’re fabulous.” Her pink tongue swiped away a glistening drop of syrup from her lower lip. “I don’t think Toaster Strudel is going to cut it anymore.”
Thane shook his head. “You and Wyland, eating on the run. He wouldn’t sit down and eat breakfast if I didn’t make it for him.”
Wyland scowled. The comment was true on its face—he usually ate a muffin or a bagel in the car during his commute to Minneapolis—but Thane made it sound as though he was used to being served, or couldn’t fend for himself. Neither was true.
“Are you two set for now? Tia, are you sure you won’t have some coffee? An espresso?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “The bloody Mimosa is great.”
“We’re fine, Thane,” he said pointedly. “Please, see to Valerian.”
Thane slid two pancakes and three pieces of bacon onto a plate, and set it on a tray next to Valerian’s “chocolate milk.” The clinical-strength nutritional beverage was almost a meal in itself, high in calories, lipids, electrolytes, vitamins, and protein. Thankfully Valerian could tolerate its flavor—a fact they’d discovered after Wyland had threatened to insert a central line if Val didn’t start eating on his own.
As Thane left the kitchen, he glanced back at Wyland. “Be polite,” he mouthed behind Tia’s back.
Wyland ignored him.
Tia abruptly set down her fork. “I feel silly eating when you aren’t.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite upon waking.” Not that he’d actually slept. He’d spent the daylight hours at his desk, looking for references to Sigurd and The Old Ways, until his eyes had gone blurry. “Please, enjoy the food. I’ll catch something at the hospital after rounds.”
“Drive to the hospital on an empty stomach when you just fed Valerian? Eat out of a vending machine when Thane made this delicious meal?” She aimed a scornful glance his way. “And here I thought you were an intelligent man.”
“Tia, I’m a doctor. I’m well able to assess my nutritional needs.”
“Well, apparently you’re not very good at it, because your cheekbones look sharp enough to cut a bitch, and the dark circles under your eyes are the size of black holes,” she said. “You need food and blood. Nourishment, not caffeine.” Rising from the chair, she went to the stainless steel refrigerator, opened it, and removed two bags of blood. After opening several cabinets, she found a glass, poured, and returned to his side of the table. “Here.” She thrust the glass at him. “Drink.”
Rather than going back to her seat, she stood there, glaring down at him.
He looked up. She smelled like lilacs and VampScreen again, and her black and white-plaid Bermuda shorts and Viper Room T-shirt skimmed her luscious curves. Her green-tipped auburn hair spilled to her shoulders, and as far as he could tell, she wasn’t wearing a lick of makeup. The bright kitchen lights accentuated the green in her eyes, making the ring and spires spark. “I’ve never seen central heterochromia in that precise color or pattern before,” he murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Your iris has two distinct colors—in your case, green and brown—with one of the colors ringing your pupil.”
She handed him the glass of blood. Her nails were gunmetal gray tonight. “Central heterochromia. I didn’t know it had an actual name.”
“Most things do.”
“You know what I mean.” She slugged his bicep. “Drink up. I’d like to finish my pancakes before they get cold.”
When was the last time a female vampire had touched him so casually? Bemused, he obeyed. Energy and strength surged as he drank. Damn it, she was right. Again.
“This kitchen is a chef’s dream,” she said. “All this hickory and stainless steel? Every appliance known to man? Chadden would love this place.”
He turned sideways in the chair to face her. “You know Chadden?”
“Yes.”
He tried not to read too much into her answer. The vampire Chadden, owner of the eponymous Chadden’s restaurant in Loring Park, was extremely talented and utterly debauched. “We modernized the kitchen about five years ago,” he explained. “Chadden consulted with Thane on the design.”
“Thane’s a treasure.” She eyed her plate and sighed. “If I ate like this every day, you’d have to put a Wide Load sign on my ass.”
“Your ass is fine.” The words escaped without his permission. He had no business noticing her anatomy, much less making comments about it.
“You think so?” Instead of looking offended, she wore a Mona Lisa smile.
He couldn’t think of a prudent response, so he drank more blood. And she watched, staring at his mouth. Never had he been so conscious of every sip and swallow. She stood less than an arm’s length away, close enough that he could hear her gentle breaths, see her breasts rise and fall as the air expanded her lungs.
Close enough to touch.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you earlier,” she blurted. “While you were feeding Valerian.”
He noticed she didn’t apologize for being in Valerian’s bedroom in the first place. Still, he nodded, accepting her apology.
She shifted her weight, cocking a curvy hip. “I came here to yell at you, and now I can’t.”
He couldn’t remember the last time someone raised their voice in his presence. “Why did you want to yell at me? And why can’t you now?”
“You said you’d call me about working at the Archives, and you didn’t. But I can’t call you on it because I was rude to you and Valerian. Reciprocal rudeness. We cancel each other out.”
“Etiquette math,” he murmured.
“So the score’s even for now.”
She thought to keep score? Against him? Fascinating. “I apologize for not contacting you.” Without thinking, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out a lingering kink. “I haven’t had a chance to think about the Archives, much less work there.” But he’d thought about her—during rounds, reading legal briefs, working at Sebastiani Labs, and during the long drive between work and home.
She stepped closer, assessing him. “You’re still too pale. Do you need a vein?”
His cells surged at her offer. “I’m fine,” he gritted out, trying not to look at her pulse throbbing at the base of her neck.
Trying and failing.
“Patients, legal clients, Valerian, the Council, the Archives…” With one more step, she made room for herself between his knees, her bare legs brushing against his suit pants. In this position, there was no disguising the rude bulge below his waist. “You take care of everything and everyone,” she murmured, cupping his face in her hands. “But who takes care of you?”
Her gaze was molten, and her hands were so warm. There was nothing maternal about her touch, but he felt the care in it nonetheless. An odd pressure tightened his throat, and he clutched the glass like a lifeline. Her gaze flicked over his face and body, a matchstick leaving sparks in its wake, but he held himself still through sheer force of will. He yearned to touch her—would die to touch her—but the first move had to be hers. He would not abuse his power.
With a whispered curse, she lowered her lips to his.
The first sexual touch he’d allowed in over a century rolled over him like a fireball, searing him with long-forgotten sensations. Tia gripped his head with surprising strength, exploring his mouth with hers, learning its shape, texture, and taste. Her lips were so pink, so plush, so hot… He held himself still, not responding in kind, letting her seek and rove at will. His will had no place here, because he wanted to sweep the plates to the floor, spread her out on the kitchen table, and lap her up like the most decadent dessert in creation.
Hot, damp, ravenous…she was eating him alive. Burning his honorable intentions to a crisp.
She licked the corner of his mouth, sipping traces of the blood she’d served him. Her purr of pleasure grabbed him by the balls, and he pressed his mouth more firmly against hers. With a low hum of approval, she threaded her fingers into his hair, trying to pull him even closer. Her fang grazed his inner lip, drawing blood.
His fangs descended. He shoved to his feet and grabbed her by the waist. The glass of blood fell to the floor, unheeded.
The full-body contact crashed into him as if he’d been defibrillated. He absorbed the shock, savored it, then plunged his tongue into her mouth. She met him halfway, their tongues twining in an intimate tango. She tasted like maple syrup and orange juice—sweet and tart, like her personality, a complex flavor he’d never tire of—
No. Get a bloody grip. He was no young girl who had to spin romantic, happily-ever-after dreams to justify having a sexual experience—not that Tia seemed to be having that problem, either. Her body was plastered against his from chest to knee. She writhed against his erection, and clutched at his hair with abandon, her mouth demanding and hungry against his. Her tongue was an adventuress, discovering his every weakness—
“Wyland’s in the kitchen, Nick.” Thane’s voice, from the other side of the kitchen door.
They sprang apart. Tia sauntered to the other side of the table and sat down again, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. For some reason, her calm reaction stung.
“I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.” By the time Thane shouldered through the door carrying an empty tray, Wyland had taken his seat, too. “Okay, who’s ready for more pancakes—Miss Tia? Are you hurt?”
“What? No.”
Thane set the tray on the table and crouched down. “There’s blood on your leg.”
Wyland peered under the table. Sure enough, her bare calf was stained with blood. He yearned to lick it from her skin, one taste at a time.
“It’s just splash-back from the glass,” she said. “Wyland dropped his glass on the floor.”
Thane glanced over at the glass, lying on its side next to the refrigerator, then back to Tia, who sat a good eight feet away. There was no way a blood splash could have reached her sitting in that chair, and Thane damn well knew it.
But Thane said nothing, just prepared a warm, wet washcloth for Tia with his typical no-fuss efficiency. “Wyland, Nick needs to speak with you before you leave for the hospital.” Thane handed Tia the cloth. “And Tia, Valerian is ready to start watching the movie anytime you are.”
She scrubbed her leg with the cloth, then handed it back. “I’ll go up then.” She stood, kissing Thane on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for the delicious breakfast.” Finally, she looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “We’ll talk soon.”
About what? Working at the Archives? The argument they hadn’t had? The incendiary kiss they’d just shared?
She didn’t wait for him to answer. Nodding, she left.
He and Thane watched the kitchen door swing back and forth until it stilled. Her departure created an odd vacuum in the room, as if she’d taken all the oxygen with her.
Thane turned toward him, his eyes dancing.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he muttered. “Where’s Nick?”
“In his office, but you might want to change before you see him.”
“Why?”
Thane gestured to his lower legs. “You have blood on your pants.”
Sure enough, there was blood splashed on the summer weight wool—and though Thane was too polite to mention it, he was still half hard. “Bloody hell.”
“Indeed.”
Ignoring Thane’s poor joke, he left the kitchen with as much dignity as he could muster.
“You might want to check your hair while you’re at it,” Thane called after him.
He stalked to the stairwell and checked his reflection in the ornately framed mirror hanging at its foot. His hair was noticeably mussed, his queue hanging askew. His lips were swollen, and his cheeks were ruddy with arousal. Never mind Thane’s overdeveloped powers of observation; any teenager with dancing hormones would know exactly what he and Tia had been doing in the kitchen.
The evidence of his weakness was there, for anyone to see.
Embarrassment belly-crawled, but he stiffened against it. Pushed through it. Allowed the self-preservation instincts that had served him so well for three centuries to shove to the forefront. Yes, he’d been weak, but thankfully only Thane had witnessed his hormone-addled folly.
It wouldn’t—couldn’t—happen again.
Good luck with that, boy.
Ignoring Thane’s snarky mental comment, he stalked upstairs to change.