Bound By Blood Page 3

  I will not see her again, he resolved the next night.

  On the third night, when--against all rationality-- he still could not get the vision of her summer sky eyes from his mind, Sebastian decided to act. He must have imagined the electricity between them and when he saw her again, that white-hot current would be gone.

  Sebastian stalked from the house where his blood-kin were seeing to their amusements. Outside, he drew a useless breath into his lungs and, turning on his heel, melted into nothingness. The shadows embraced him like the arms of a comfortable old lover, and he used their cool seclusion through which to travel.

  He crossed the distance between his estate and Mystique in several shifts. When he arrived, it was by no means conventional. All was dark in the upstairs hall when he emerged from the shadows. He stood for a moment, unseen and silent, reaching out with his senses so he could locate her in the maze of rooms.

  It didn’t take long. His senses were sharpened past the point of mortal understanding, honed by immortality and centuries of use. He used them all to find her: by scent, the distinct rhythm of her heart, some innate knowledge that defied explanation.

  Instinctual, animalistic. A hunter seeking his prey.

  She was asleep when he entered her room. His sudden presence unsettled the air currents, making the sheer curtains in the windows dance delicately on their rods. Otherwise, nothing betrayed him in the darkness.

  He approached the bed, a predator on the prowl. His black Armani blended well with the shadows, and even if it hadn't, he would not be seen unless it was his will to be seen.

  Laurel.

  She lay on her side, her pale hair unbound and strewn across the pillow. He saw the straps of something pink and feminine arching over her bare shoulders. Her hands were folded beneath her cheek like a child, her mouth parted as though she awaited the kiss of some dream-inspired lover.

  So vulnerable in sleep.

  His gaze traced the line of her feminine jaw, dipped down the contour of her neck. With a touch far too subtle to awaken her, he caught a blond tress on his fingertip and swept it back so it would not obscure his view of her face. Her throat.

  Using the same fingertip, he followed the curve of her skin to the pulse that throbbed at the side of her neck. He let it rest there as he stared at her through the darkness, his eyes reflecting cool blue fire. Hunger stirred, waking like a dragon somewhere deep.

  His curse, his salvation.

  It was more than a hunger for her blood -- a thing he could only admit here, in the blackness of her room. He wanted to taste her mouth, sift his hand through the silk of her hair. The skin on the round of her shoulder looked like satin in the dark, and he glanced his palm across it on his way to trace a fingertip along her bottom lip.

  Frustration rose keen and sharp in him. Both because he hoped to discover that his reaction to her three nights ago had been an anomaly, and because he could not act on the desires she roused in him.

  Madness.

  His hand came away from her and tightened. With a last, lingering glance he turned and departed the room as silently as he had entered.

  Chapter Two

  Tension skittered across Laurel's shoulders, bunching at the nape of her neck. She stood at the end of the hallway, one hand against the wall, trying to calm her racing heart. With a slow turn of her head, she glanced behind her to see if the looming shadow that had just scared ten years off her life was still there. All she saw was a dimly lit corridor and the recessed doorways to the bedrooms. No James, no random drunk that had gotten lost and wandered upstairs.

  But she would have bet her last dollar that someone had brushed past her a moment ago when she'd exited her bedroom. There was no way she could have imagined the flicker of motion, the utter conviction that a body stood right next to her shoulder.

  And yet there was no one.

  Pulling a deep breath in through her nose, she released it out her mouth and continued downstairs.

  Four days had passed since she'd met Sebastian in the graveyard. Four long days of indecision, contemplation and interrupted sleep. She'd wanted to call him several times, had even picked up the phone and started to dial. Every time, she put it down without finishing. Laurel Anne Mayfield had never initiated a call to a man. Well, one who'd given her his number. It wasn't a sense of pride or snobbishness or any of that. It was some ingrained, ridiculous old-fashioned notion that always stilled her hand. Sebastian, however, tempted her to put aside her hesitations. A persistent, niggling thought told her that she would be sorry for the rest of her life if she didn't at least make an attempt.

  Arriving at the bar, she pulled Sebastian's card from the waistband of her skirt. Already the corners were dog-eared, the edges worn from constant handling.

  Pepper, behind the counter for her evening shift, slapped a sticky note down in front of her with a droll roll of her eyes. It said:

  Kyle, 4:15 p.m. Kyle, 6:05 p.m. Kyle, 7:30 p.m.

  “He's a real ass, you know, Laur? Drunk all three times he called earlier,” Pepper said.

  “I know. He left two messages on my voice-mail, too.” She crumpled the sticky note and lobbed it into the trashcan. Eventually, he would get tired of leaving messages and fade into blessed obscurity. She was sure of it. “How about a glass of wine, Pep?”

  “Sure. You gonna call him?” Pepper asked, indicating the card with a tick of her chin. She took down a sparkling glass and filled it with a selection of red. A smattering of customers sat at tables near the windows, a few more secreted away in booths. Business was slow and probably wouldn't pick up until closer to the weekend.

  "I don't know. I'd like to, but what will I say?" Late at night, when it was just her and an empty room, she'd gone over the beginning of a phone call in her mind. Nothing, so far, seemed fitting.

  Pepper delivered her wine and then snatched up a towel to wipe down the counter. "See, you just call up and say-- hey, it's Laurel. The girl from the graveyard. You wanna meet for dinner?"

  "Oh my god. There is no way I'm doing that. What if he says no?"

  "He won't," Pepper said, grinning.

  "How do you know?" Laurel had a sip of the wine.

  "Because he chased off that guy and walked you home. He could have just left you there."

  "That doesn't mean he wants to have dinner with me."

  "And he gave you his card. Take a hint, blondie."

  Laurel laughed. "You have no fear, do you?"

  "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?" Pepper polished the glasses next and hung them from a rack over the back counter.

  "Easier said than done, since we're throwing clichés around," Laurel said. The corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement.

  "Call him up, right now, and invite him over. But…" Pepper reached across the bar while Laurel's hands were occupied and gave the black and white polka-dot shirt a tiny tug. Down. "You gotta show a little more cleavage if you're not gonna tattoo it up or pierce your eyebrow."

  Laurel squawked in protest. The shirt, with spaghetti straps and a low neckline, fit as snug as a corset did. And now it really exposed the swells of her breasts. A slimming pencil skirt in black was more modest with the hem at the knee and a small slit up the back.

  "My god," Laurel said, choking on amusement. "He'll think I'm a harlot or something!"

  Pepper scoffed and see-sawed the bar in her lip with an indecent pass of her tongue.

  Outside, a black limousine pulled up and parked at the top of the driveway. The engine idled, dark windows keeping the occupants identities a secret. A few minutes later, the back door swung open and Sebastian stepped out. He wore Armani, black, with a crisp white shirt under the coat and a silk crimson tie.

  Ascending the stairs, he made his way inside, shedding a wool topcoat that he draped over his arm. His eyes, a vivid blue, scanned the interior and came to rest on the blonde at the bar. He regarded her for several enigmatic minutes before he strode over, coming to stand a few stools down.

  T
he banter between the girls died a quick death when Sebastian arrived at the bar.

  "Scotch, Pepper," he said, and greeted her in the next breath. "Laurel."

  “Of course,” Pepper replied, shooting Laurel a look only she would decipher: Hot.

  Surprised, like he'd manifested right out of her thoughts, Laurel glanced over and smiled. "Sebastian. Hi. I've been thinking about you.” The intimacy of her own words surprised her. She was glad to see him. He was just as striking as she remembered.

  "You have been well?" he asked, paying for the scotch with a few crisp bills.

  "I've been well enough. Yourself?" Laurel took another sip of wine and slid her hips around the stools to stand next to him. She set the glass down, his card still in her fingers.

  Sebastian edged closer by a half step and turned his shoulders toward her, opening up his posture for easier conversation. The subtle flare of his nostrils made her think he was taking in her scent. An odd thought that she didn't give more attention to. Maybe he just liked her perfume.

  "I've been fine. -- hoping you would call." He glanced down at the card she held. "Debating?"

  Laurel wondered if she imagined the warmth she saw in his eyes. Her smile deepened, pressing the shadow of a dimple into her cheek.

  "Yes, I was. I've never initiated a call to a man before. And, honestly, I've had some unpleasant experiences lately, so I was hedging. You wear this well,” she said. On impulse, she reached up to stroke her fingers down the fine lapel of his jacket.

  "Not nearly as well as you wear this.” His gaze skimmed over the contour fitting shirt. He met her eyes again. "I would be lying to say I was not disappointed, but I also understand. I have no expectations, Laurel. You're smart to be cautious."

  "Thank you. I'm glad you approve," she said, a hint of color staining her cheeks. Compliments, barring the lewd quips waitresses the world over had to endure, were few and far between. Laurel didn't know what to think of the rush she felt when he said he'd been disappointed that she hadn't called.

  Sebastian paused to take a swallow of his scotch. "Do you have your phone handy?"

  Laurel regarded him at close range while he drank, admiring the handsome angles of his face. Strong, masculine, with an aquiline nose and a hard jaw. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so taken by someone. Kyle's All-American good looks paled in comparison to this. Then again, Kyle was a boy. Sebastian was a man.

  From a slim pocket in her skirt, she took out her phone and handed it to him.

  "It's a little…old," she said, embarrassed. Everyone else under the sun, it seemed, had something sleek and new and chic. Her phone looked like a silver bug, small and compact with the paint wearing off at the edges.

  He took it from her and flipped the clam-shell open. With deft motions of his thumb, he manipulated the numbers on the pad…and then handed it back.

  Laurel took it, bemused, glancing between him and the cell phone.

  Mouth curved in a subtle smile, he removed his own phone from his pocket when it rang. He put it to his ear, turning away to stroll toward the library doors. "Laurel. I'm so glad that you called."

  Delighted when she discovered what he was about, she tucked his card into the waistband of her skirt and headed in the opposite direction toward the staircase. "Sebastian, hello. I couldn't resist. I'm glad you were available. It's uncommon knowledge that I stutter on voice-mail."

  Sebastian went into the library, where a fire blazed in the grate and the décor was more luxurious than in the bar. Plush sofas and wing-back chairs flanked the fireplace and bookshelves lined the walls. He set his overcoat across the back of a couch and flicked open the buttons on his suit.

  "It's good to hear you. Tell me about your off color experiences."

  "You sound distractingly sexy on the phone," she said, climbing the stairs. Sometimes, the filter between her brain and her mouth failed to function like it should.

  He laughed, a quiet sound of sincere amusement. "I will endeavor to make you call me more often. I like your honesty, Laurel."

  She opened one of the two doors to the ballroom just enough to slide through. The interior, with its grand, arching ceiling and polished marble floor, was dark. Milky moonlight slanting through tall windows at the other end provided the only illumination.

  "Well, let's see. An unruly guest manhandled me last week, and you know about the guy from the night we met."

  There was a stretch of silence, and when he spoke again, his voice was the epitome of cold restraint. "Are you injured? Who is the man?"

  "No. He left a few bruises on my arms but they're gone now. I don't know his name. Our other bartender, James, kicked him out. It's a hazard of the job." She wove between the tables set up on one side of the dance floor, fingers trailing over the fine linen tablecloths. It happened more often than she cared to admit; some people just didn't handle their liquor well and it made them aggressive. After all this time, she was used to it. Even if she didn't like it. Laurel could hear that Sebastian was bothered by the thought of the altercation, and for some reason, it pleased her.

  "If he returns, will you call me?" he asked.

  "Yes, I'll call you. I don't expect to see him again." She heard Sebastian struggling with what she thought was anger on the other end of the line. The rowdy patron would be an unlucky man indeed, she decided, if he ever came back.

  "What you do to me, little angel." Already on the move, Sebastian departed the library for the staircase, tracking her through the manor with unerring accuracy.

  Surprised when the anger turned to intimacy, she paused by one of the chairs, hand resting on the back. After a minute, she asked, "What do I do to you, Sebastian?"

  A dark shadow, tall and broad, filled the sliver of light coming from the doorway. Laurel wondered how he knew where to find her. The moonlight allowed her to only see the shape of him as he moved deeper into the room. She imagined his expression matched the intensity in his voice.

  Almost before she knew what had happened, he was standing behind her, bracing his arms on the chair on either side of her hips. No part of his body touched her except the warm breath that spilled over her ear.

  "You make me feel like a man," he said.

  Lowering the phone, she clapped the shell shut and slid it back into the pocket of her skirt. A shiver rippled down her spine at his proximity.

  "You overwhelm me. In all the right ways." She resisted the urge to tilt her temple into his cheek. It seemed the most natural thing to do, like they'd known each other lifetimes instead of less than a week. And she hadn't lied; he engulfed her with his presence, blocking out the room and most of her rational thought.

  "You make me want to overwhelm you," he said. Without warning, he caught her hand and turned her to face him.

  Palms flush, they squared off. The faint glow of his eyes had to be a trick of the light, some random reflection from the windows. When she saw the hint of a smile in the gloom, she returned it and took a step closer. An inch, no more, separated their bodies. Their chemistry all but crackled with sensual energy and she was far from immune to his charm. It was too compelling to ignore.

  "Are we going to dance?" she asked with a delighted, quiet laugh. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded throaty, affected. Goosebumps rained down her skin.

  "Like this?" he said with amusement, lifting her clasped hand. He set his other on her hip. With effortless skill, he led her into a slow waltz. The music they danced to was the current they generated between them.

  Laurel felt clumsy against his incredible grace. He moved with smooth precision from one turn to the next, guiding her through spins and circles as if he'd done so for centuries. Once, she trod on his foot, missing her cue, and another time she bumped into his chest. In Kansas, she'd only had to worry about learning a line dance at the local hoedown. Waltzes were somewhat beyond her. Sebastian never lost patience or faltered in recovery and laughed with genuine amusement at her missteps.

  "You are an exceptional dancer,"
she said, and meant it.

  "You are an exceptional inspiration," he countered. "You like to dance. Tell me what else you like. What else delights you."

  In the weak light, she stared up at his face and nodded agreement; she did like to dance.

  "I'm almost afraid to tell you the things that delight me. I'm a simple girl, Sebastian." Laurel was no sophisticated flower.

  "Never be afraid to tell me anything, Laurel. But here," he said, taking her through a last spin before bringing the dance to a close. "Show me how you like to dance." He let her go and leaned back against the closest table, arms folded over his chest.

  Laurel regretted the loss of contact the second they stopped touching. "You're not allowed to laugh, or anything," she said and faced him. Only a handful of feet separated them.

  "I am yours to command."

  The low rasp of his voice coupled with the direct stare he pinned on her made her knees weak. Like some infatuated schoolgirl with a crush on the homecoming king. She closed the distance, bringing their bodies within inches. Serpentine, her hips rolled through a series of figure eights and her arms lifted to twine above her head. Women danced like this in any number of clubs in any number of cities all over the world. Intimate, close. A gyrating grind that wasn't totally without class but that left nothing to the imagination.

  "This is how I like to dance," she said, watching his eyes.

  He uncrossed his arms and gripped the edge of the table he leaned against. "In public?"

  Laurel liked how gravely his voice had suddenly become.

  "In public. Do you like it?" she asked. His surprise and incredulity made Laurel think he wasn't often exposed to this kind of dancing. Maybe he didn't like the idea of her dancing like this with other men. Classic in his finery, black hair combed away from his face, he was the epitome of modern man and yet there was something archaic about him that she couldn't place.

  "Yes," he said with a growl.

  "I don't… you do? It's a little different than the waltz, but I enjoy both." Enjoyed them with him. Laurel couldn't imagine waltzing with any other man. Unwinding her arms, she stilled the rock-and-sway of her body, taking a step back now that her demonstration was over.