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  Bound by Blood

  Smashwords Edition

  Published by: Wildbloom Press

  ISBN: 978-0-9828317-1-7

  Copyright © 2010 All rights reserved

  Cover art Copyright © Danielle Bourdon

  Acknowledgments:

  Kimberly would like to thank:

  My husband Richard, and my children Julie, Missy, and Nicholas for their support and understanding;

  My editor and friend Doug for his time and valuable input;

  My beta readers Angela, Toni, and Julie for their feedback and encouragement;

  My friends and family who have shown encouragement and support:

  My intrepid co-author Danielle for her dedication, and for being the driving force behind this project. We did it, Danielle!

  And Danielle would like to thank:

  My parents: Kathy, Tim, Jerry and Felecia for their constant support.

  Michael, my husband, and my sons, Ayden and Tristan.

  All the beta readers/editors for their honest opinions and eye to detail!

  And finally to my co-author Kim; it's been a great privilege to brainstorm and write with you!

  Bound by Blood

  Book I

  Chapter One

  In her cynical, somewhat jaded view of the world, Laurel Mayfield found it ironic that the only people she could currently trust were dead.

  Unlike the skulking man who'd been following her for three blocks, the souls in the graveyard forty feet ahead didn't pose any kind of threat. Other than a serious case of the creeps, she was under no illusions about her safety in their cold, quiet presence. Not so the man behind her, and she tried once more to deter him.

  “I said, that I'm meeting someone,” she snapped over her shoulder. Her rigid, dismissive posture hadn't dissuaded him like she'd hoped. The sharp crack of her heels on concrete sounded like the retort of distant gunshots.

  “C'mon, baby. That's a lie and we both know it.” He drawled the words around the end of a cigarette. The cadence of his boots striking the ground never changed, but sometimes when she dared to glance back, he was closer. Other times he was a quarter block away. The eerie sensation made the fine blonde hair at the nape of her neck stand on end. It seemed like he could bend the laws of reality and spatial relationship and that the echo of his footsteps was only for show. Laurel reassured herself that it was nothing more than a trick of light and shadow.

  “There ain't no one around,” the man said with sadistic languor. Baiting her.

  She couldn't argue that. On the fourth of December, when the city should have been bustling with pedestrians and shoppers, there wasn't another person in sight. No cabs trolled the boulevard searching out fares. Instead, all that surrounded her were rows of abandoned buildings and the cemetery that sat between them.

  Resisting the urge to run, she maintained a fearless facade and glanced back with what she hoped was an intimidating glare.

  Breathe, Laurel. Breathe.

  His leather jacket hung open down the front, a dark stain marring the white tee shirt beneath. The short spikes of his hair were skewed at rakish angles like he'd finger combed it until the style wore out. An overhead streetlight cast a gleam off a heavy piece of metal jutting from the waistband of his jeans and the knowledge that he carried a gun only heightened her fear.

  It was the look in his eyes though, that chilled her. Hungry, cold.

  Lifeless.

  An uneasy weight of silent understanding now existed between them; she knew he was stalking her, and he knew she was afraid. Predator to her prey, he tested her boundaries, looking for weakness. Whatever smart reply she might have made vaporized into thin air. Shuddering, she gathered the red wool coat a little tighter around her body and cast her gaze around in desperation looking for an out … anything.

  There.

  Among the headstones to her right, a flicker of motion drew her attention. It took her a second to pick out the man standing next to a headstone. The dim light of the moon through the trees was not enough to illuminate his face, but he seemed well groomed even from a distance. Salvation in a tall, broad-shouldered frame.

  A metal sign that read Sperling Cemetery arched over a rusted entrance gate, and Laurel's stomach knotted with tension as she fumbled with the latch. Every second she delayed getting in, the man closed the gap between them. She could feel him homing in. Desperation and fear made her impatient. The latch didn't want to give.

  She shot him a cold look and knew by his sardonic expression that he wasn't fooled by her bravado.

  He was almost on her.

  “My husband, see?,” she said, gesturing toward the shadowy figure standing near the headstone.

  The man didn't look convinced at her attempt to shake him. He flicked his cigarette end over end into the gutter.

  With her heart in her throat, she threw her hip against the gate and it swung inward with a loud creak. She stumbled forward-- and right up against muscle so solid it might have been marble. Expensive, masculine cologne tickled her senses. Covering a gasp with her fingers, she drew back and glanced up. A red silk tie contrasted with a pristine white dress shirt, all of it framed by a tailored suit in black and topped with a long coat in charcoal wool. He had a handsome profile, striking blue eyes and jet-black hair combed away from his face.

  How had her 'husband' gotten there so fast?

  “Darling, I was beginning to worry. I trust you had no trouble,” he said, playing into her charade.

  She realized two things when he spoke: first, he had a deep, rich voice, pleasant yet rough around the edges. He had an accent but the moment was too tense for her to place it. The second thing she realized was that he had somehow heard her white lie. Smoothing a nervous hand down the front of her coat, she snapped a look at the other man.

  He didn't bother with the gate; instead, he hopped over the fence with more agility than she could believe. Laurel felt a fresh prickle of fear and unconsciously tightened her hand on the sleeve of her 'husband's' coat.

  “No trouble, h … honey.” She almost choked on the endearment. “I … my fitting at the costume shop for the masquerade took longer than I thought.” As she stammered out her reply, she pressed once more against his chest; her bulwark against the approaching –

  Well, he had been approaching. The gun-toting stranger stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her rescuer with eyes the size of dinner plates. Something wary and hesitant replaced the malicious gleam he'd worn while he was taunting her. Laurel could have sworn the man looked...afraid. She glanced up at her pretend husband, trying to understand what brought on such a sudden change.

  He wasn't doing anything but standing there looking at her would-be attacker. It was his expression that had caught the man up, she guessed. She could see why.

  His eyes – it must have been a trick of the darkness – were blazing like blue gas-flame, except they were anything but warm. Laurel repressed the urge to shiver. His strong features were hard, intimidating. When he moved it was a subtle upward tick of his chin toward her pursuer.

  Get lost.

  In periphery, because she refused to look away from her 'husband', she saw the other man put his hands up like flags of surrender and backtrack over the fence. Relief swept through her, though she had the odd impression that something beyond her understanding had just taken place.

  It wasn't a new sensation. Ever since her arrival in Sperling Pennsylvania four months ago, there had been a handful of strange instances she couldn't explain. The whole town seemed...off. With a population of less than twenty thousand, two main thoroughfares that intersected with the quaint downtown area, it should have been an ideal place to live. Or visit, as was her case.

  So far, the charm was offset by the oddities.<
br />
  Glancing down at her with unreadable eyes, the stranger removed his hand from where it lingered on her arm. “Forgive me. I thought it would lend realism to your charade.”

  “I'm sorry about that – oh, no, that's fine. It was great of you to play along.” Laurel thought she detected amusement in his expression. She still didn't know how he'd heard her or appeared at her side so fast and chalked it up to distraction.

  “Don't apologize. I was pleased to help,” he said, before pausing to add. “It's dangerous to walk alone in the city at night.”

  His accent was British. But it was not quite the same as any British accent she'd ever heard. She took a step back when she realized she was standing against him and smiled.

  “I'm coming to find that out. I guess cabs are in order in the evening.” It was an effort to look away from his face but curiosity got the better of her and she glanced at the headstone he'd been standing near. She had trouble making the lettering out at this distance and squinted. William Roberts-- That was all she had time to read before he slid into her line of sight, effectively blocking her view.

  “But I've interrupted your visit,” she pointed out.

  “I assure you, he is not going anywhere,” he said with dark humor. “I think he would have approved of your presence here. He had a particular fondness for beauty.”

  Laurel glanced up with a quiet laugh and blushed at the compliment. She wasn't used to the kind of sincerity she heard in his voice or saw in his eyes. Most of the men in her recent past had turned out to be liars or worse. Much worse. “Well, thank you.”

  “I'm Sebastian,” he said, watching her with unveiled interest.

  “Nice to meet you, Sebastian. I'm Laurel.” She stuck out her hand. Where she came from people shook like they were working a water pump, firm and vigorous. Her natural, inquisitive nature surged to the fore now that the immediate danger was past. Laurel was nothing if not resilient.

  Instead of grasping and shaking, he enveloped her hand in both of his larger ones. The effect bordered on sensuous.

  “The pleasure is mine. Perhaps you will allow me to escort you the remainder of the way to your destination.” He released her hand and instead offered out the crook of his elbow in escort.

  On any other man, the gesture might have seemed trite. On Sebastian it was … authentic. It suited him somehow. Touched by the intimacy of his voice and the offer to see her safely home, she broke the mesmerizing eye contact-- he had the most unusual eyes—and tucked her fingers under the bend of his arm.

  And here she thought chivalry had died long ago.

  “Thank you, yes,” she said, treading carefully in her heels over the uneven grass as he led her toward the gate and out onto the sidewalk. “Sometimes I get the feeling, when people talk to me about this town, that they know something I don't. I mean, Chicago and New York and all the big cities have a lot of crime, yet I always get the distinct impression there's something more here. Different. Did that ever strike you when you first arrived?”

  He stopped after they’d only gone a few feet, gazing down at her with an expression she couldn’t read. Using a finger, he uplifted her chin, not quite making contact with her skin. If he wanted all of her attention, he had it.

  “Nothing can be discounted here. Suspend your disbelief when you walk these streets,” he said.

  The almost-touch sent a rash of goose bumps over her skin. Despite his calm demeanor, Laurel sensed there was a serious warning behind his words. Something he wasn't quite telling her. That elusive suggestion of darker, sinister things. A flood of questions rushed to the end of her tongue. Before the first one could fall from her lips, he changed the subject with smooth redirection.

  “Where are we going then? Your home?” He led her once more into a casual stroll.

  Laurel found it hard to be disappointed when she was so distracted with his presence. He exuded a powerful air of confidence and something...else. Something she couldn't put her finger on. Maybe the strain of the night was getting to her.

  “It’s just a couple blocks down." She gestured ahead, filing away her questions for later. “That big, eerie manor that the owner turned into a bar. It’s called Mystique. I have a room on the second floor.”

  She didn’t notice the black limousine that purred along the street a half block behind them. What she did notice was the strength in the arm that she held onto and the security she felt just being near him. While they walked, she stole glances at his face.

  “Mystique. I know the place,” he said. “You stay there? I visited several nights ago.”

  “Really? Yes, I live there. It's convenient since I also work there. You must have come by on my day off. I would have remembered you.” The truth was out before she could stop it. Laurel smiled and tucked an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

  “Neither would I have forgotten you,” he said, looking pleased by her remark. “A man was working. James I believe his name was. The other time I came by, a woman named Pepper waited on me. What work do you do there, Laurel?”

  Every time he said her name, a hot flush prickled her skin. She cleared her throat, wondering over her acute reaction to everything he did. Everything he said. Her smile deepened for his compliment. She adjusted her fingers under the bend of his elbow, noticing how he applied slight pressure to bring her hand closer to his body.

  “Ah, yes. James and Pepper are my co-workers. Actually, I've known Pepper a long time,” she said, not paying a lick of attention to traffic at the intersection. He prevented her from stepping into the street when a car ran the red light and zoomed past. Across her body, his arm felt like a band of steel, immovable, protective.

  She felt a strange twinge of pleasure that he so selflessly sought her safety. Raised to be self sufficient and independent, things that served her well in a world where she'd learned to rely on herself, she nevertheless liked his automatic caution. She studied his profile until he moved his arm and offered his elbow again. They shared a long moment of eye contact while she tucked her fingers and let him escort her to the other side of the street. She picked up the disrupted thread of conversation.

  “I'm a hostess. Incidentally, I wasn’t fibbing when I mentioned my costume. Mystique is having a masquerade ball in a couple weeks and I was just coming from a fitting.”

  “A masquerade? What will you be dressing up as?” he asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. What if you decide to attend the masquerade? Then you’d know who I am.” She flashed him a teasing smile before an idea struck. “Do you think you’d attend an event like that?” she asked, glancing at his shoulders. Laurel had no trouble imagining him in all sorts of costumes.

  With care, he removed his arm from the grip of her fingers and put it around her. He seemed amused. “Is that an invitation?”

  Laurel released his arm and discovered she liked this new arrangement, the closeness it implied. A delighted stroke of laughter followed his question. She looked at him with a playful glint from the corners of her eyes. “It is. I think it would be highly improper to allow your wife to attend alone.”

  The blocks fell away under the steady, unhurried cadence of their feet. Buildings gave way to a patch of open land, the flat acreage dotted with a few oak trees. A swath of forest flanked the large, two-story manor that looked better suited to a horror movie than a bar.

  Sebastian rumbled a laugh. “Highly improper. No man would allow his wife to masquerade without him,” he said. “A masquerade, then.” He seemed to accept the idea like a connoisseur accepts a first sip of fine wine, rolling it slowly, thoughtfully, across his palate. “And how will I know you unless you tell me your costume?”

  “The point is to try and ferret out who's who,” she explained with candor. Her eyes traced the breadth of his shoulders once more. “Although I think you might be a little distinctive.”

  He leaned down and murmured close to her ear. “I would know you anywhere.”

  Laurel nearly caught her heel in a c
rack on the concrete. An involuntary shudder wracked her body and she sought his gaze when he raised his head. After a moment, wondering if he felt the same strange gravitational pull, she gestured to the curving drive that led up to the manor. Dismayed to find they had already arrived, she said, “Home sweet home.”

  He stopped with her at the end of the drive and glanced at the house. A thoughtful look crossed his face. From his trouser pocket, he produced a card and offered it to her. “If you need or want anything…”

  His words trailed away but hinted at the unspoken intimacy between them. An intimacy that should not have existed after so short an acquaintance.

  Laurel let go of his elbow and took the card, examining the front and the back. Did she need or want anything? Several things came to mind, all of them revolving around him. “That’s very generous of you, Sebastian. Thank you for your help earlier and for walking me home. I enjoyed your company.”

  “Likewise,” he said, inclining his head.

  Good night.”

  “Good night, Laurel,” he said.

  She smiled, tapping the card against her fingers, and stepped around him. Laurel walked toward the broad stairs leading to the doors of Mystique, bemused by her reaction to him. Halfway there, she glanced back.

  Sebastian hadn’t moved an inch. He watched her with an intensity—or was it her imagination?—that made her heart beat just a little faster.

  Her heels clicked up the steps and she opened the heavy door, twisting a look back to find him still standing at the end of the drive. She waved, repressing the strong urge to run to him, and closed the door. What was wrong with her? Laurel couldn't recall a time any man had affected her like this. She exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding and stood there another full minute before heading deeper into the manor.

  The inside of Mystique, with its heavy wooden architecture, soaring beams, decorative archways and thick molding had always intimidated Laurel. A broad room spread out from the foyer, the furniture eclectic and sporting an array of fabric on varied surfaces; silk, velvet, tapestry. A long bar sat at the other end of the room, opposite a row of tall windows overlooking the U shaped driveway. If a home could ever seem brooding, this one fit the bill precisely. She imagined it harbored old, dark secrets, and if the walls could talk, bleak tales of conspiracy and murder would spill forth in haunting detail.