скачать книгу бесплатно
Zane’s gaze dropped to Vivianne’s hips as she halted at the doorway, and he folded his arms, leaning against the jamb. Much as he’d like to get the hell out of Vamp Central, he’d discovered he couldn’t range far from Vivianne. The voluptuous little vampire was exhausting. Constantly on the go, from one meeting to another, although how she managed to do it in those killer heels all day, he had no idea. He eyed her legs. Her slender, golden-skinned legs...the top of her head barely grazed his shoulder, but she had the figure of a pocket Venus, all curves and hollows and smooth skin, dark chocolate eyes and lips that were full and pouty. He frowned. If you were into that sort of thing.
“Uh, look, I realize you’re probably busy, getting back into the swing of things, and all,” the guardian began. Zane noticed it was the one who told her about his death. Death. But not...quite. He didn’t feel dead. He didn’t know what death was supposed to feel like, though, but he didn’t think it was this. He was...aware. He always thought death was supposed to be peaceful. Being somehow anchored to Vivianne Marchetta was not peaceful. His eyes widened. Maybe he was in hell. Yeah. A werewolf being stuck with a vampire for all of eternity sure sounded like hell to him, especially if that vampire was Vivianne. The woman brought a whole new level to the world “cool”. Arctic, maybe.
“I’m fine, Mike. Really,” she said, her tone confident.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Mike said, lifting his chin to indicate the slumped-over vamp. “I just thought, with everything that’s happened while you were on your ‘break,’” he said meaningfully, “that maybe, if you needed to be quietly brought up to speed, I could help.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” Zane muttered. He could see the thinly-masked appreciation in the guy’s eyes.
Vivianne stiffened next to him, and he saw her eyes shift, just a little. She tilted her head, and her dark hair slid across her back to brush Zane’s arm. He glanced down. She had dark, wavy curls that he’d learned were all natural. Pretty. He frowned and moved to create a little more distance. He didn’t need no sexy, alluring vamp to rub herself up against him, with her tempting hair and—he inhaled—damn it, not even her scent was soft or comfortably, florally, feminine. No, it was zesty and spicy and sexy all at once and was becoming part of his natural breathing, no matter how hard he fought it...
“What are you suggesting?” Vivianne asked, her voice low and husky.
Zane frowned. “You’re not falling for this, are you?”
Vivianne tilted her head forward, her expression hidden behind that ebony, wavy curtain of hair.
“Perhaps dinner?” Mike suggested. His voice had lowered, and there was a definite glint in the guy’s eyes.
“I think I’m going to puke,” Zane muttered. “Get me out of here.” Watching vamps flirt was about as much fun as being skinned alive, he was sure of it.
“I think dinner could be a good option,” Vivianne agreed evenly. “You can fill me in on anything else I’ve missed.”
“I’d be happy to fill you in,” Mike said, winking. Zane made a gagging noise. The guy was not subtle at all. “I’ll pick you up—seven?”
Vivianne nodded, then watched as Mike left the room, whistling. At least, Zane thought that’s what he was trying to do. It came out like a little wheezy whine.
“This is definitely hell,” Zane said, nodding. Watching these two vamps tap dance around a flirty little power play was beyond tedious.
Vivianne frowned, and Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Can you hear me, darlin’?” he asked, straightening up from the doorjamb to face her, excitement and hope flaring within him.
Vivianne stepped toward the door, her chin lifting as she flicked her hair over her shoulder—and into his face.
Zane flinched as a tendril caught him in the eye, his lips tightening, then he followed the vamp. “Your taste in men sucks. He can’t even whistle properly.”
Vivianne walked away faster. Zane was content to hang back and watch the swing of her curvy hips.
Chapter 2 (#u4fb094d4-fdea-5d5f-83aa-754f6e9ea428)
“How is everything else going, then?”
Vivianne finished applying the cinnamon-red lipstick and smacked her lips before turning back to her phone. She had her sister-in-law, Natalie, on an interactive call, and Natalie was cleaning a—Vivianne frowned.
“What is that?”
“It’s a sword,” Natalie answered. “I dug it up from a Peruvian ruin. How awesome is it?” Her sister-in-law displayed it proudly, balancing it on her palms and holding it up to the camera.
“How dirty is it?” Vivianne responded, grimacing.
Natalie shrugged. “Now, yes, but once I’ve finished with it, she’ll look good as new.”
“Speaking of good as new,” Vivianne said, “Everything is going fine.”
“Uh-huh. Did you visit the doctor?”
Vivianne averted her eyes. “I haven’t had time,” she murmured.
Natalie put the dirt-caked sword off to the side, and leaned closer to the screen. “You have to. You’re just putting it off.”
Vivianne frowned. She wasn’t used to someone speaking so plainly with her. Natalie was the only person, apart from her brother, Lucien, and her father, Vincent, who didn’t seem to cower or simper around her. No, the woman was incredibly genuine and caring, and she could totally see why her brother had fallen so completely, sickeningly in love with her. Still, it was annoying when not everybody swallowed the line you fed them. “I’m fine.”
“Do you still have shadowy vision?”
Vivianne had mentioned her issue with shadows in her peripheral vision to Natalie before her brother and sister-in-law had left Marchetta Manor. Natalie and her father did not get along. She couldn’t blame her. Vincent Marchetta had kidnapped Natalie for her strange blood—the same blood that had proven to be the vampiric cure against a werewolf bite, and what had ultimately saved Vivianne’s own life, neutralizing the lycan toxin that had slowly spread through her body and would have killed her. Vivianne’s father, Vincent, would have consigned Natalie to a lifetime of captivity as a blood donor if Natalie hadn’t busted free and Lucien hadn’t fought his father on it. To say the Marchettas weren’t playing happy family at the moment would be an understatement.
“No,” Vivianne lied. “All good.”
Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “Vivianne...”
“Natalie...” Vivianne responded in the same low, firm tone.
Natalie frowned as she gazed behind her, and Vivianne whirled. “What? Do you see something?”
“I’m not sure... I thought I saw...”
Vivianne turned back to the phone warily. “What do you see?” Natalie had a...gift. She could see ghosts, and Vivianne had been in awe when Natalie had told her some stories about spirits she’d spoken with. It would have been easy to chalk it up to her sister-in-law being a bit of a loon, but she’d seen Natalie morph into a cross-breed; part-vampire, part-werewolf, part-human—something that wasn’t supposed to exist, so she’d decided to have a little faith in her sister-in-law’s ghostly abilities.
Natalie squinted, then shrugged. “I get nothing.”
“A ghost?” Could that explain the sense of being watched, of not being alone...? Could it explain the deep, almost gruff voice she occasionally heard in her head and desperately tried to ignore?
Natalie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, then smiled in reassurance. “Don’t mind me, I’m just tired. So, tell me about this date!”
Vivianne pasted a smile on her face to hide her disappointment. If Natalie couldn’t see a ghost, then...it was all in her head. The visions, the voice... She swallowed. Maybe there was some permanent damage from the lycan toxin?
A werewolf’s bite was lethal to a vampire, and she’d been brutally attacked by Rafe Woodland, a stray, angry wolf. She should have died, if it wasn’t for her brother’s efforts to find a miraculous cure and the aid of an unusual witch. A vampire had never survived a lycan’s bite before. Nobody knew if there were any side effects to what she’d experienced. Maybe the toxin was coming back? She remembered the early stages: the agonizing, searing pain, the burning of her blood vessels as the corrosive throbbed its way through her body with every beat of her heart... The terrifying, petrifying hallucinations... Her fingers clenched at the torturous memories. She’d never given voice to that experience, hadn’t told anyone, not even her brother, how scared and alone she’d felt, trapped inside a decaying body. No, because that would be a weakness she could ill-afford as she reestablished herself as the reigning Marchetta Prime. She forced herself to concentrate on the conversation with Natalie.
“Uh, he’s one of the district guardians—”
“Do you like him?”
“Sure, he’s nice enough.”
“Nice enough?” Natalie rolled her eyes. “A shiraz is ‘nice enough.’ You’re talking about a guy. Is he gorgeous?”
Vivianne nodded. “He’s good-looking,” she admitted. Then she smiled. “He surprised me.”
“Why? You’re gorgeous, he’s gorgeous, you already have so much in common.”
She shrugged as she played with her foundation brush. “It’s just—it’s been a while since I’ve been out with a guy.”
“You were in a supernatural coma for eight months, Vivianne. That will put a dent in anyone’s social life.”
Vivianne chuckled. “No, I mean—I’m a Prime, Natalie. Not many guys are willing to ask a Prime out on a date.”
“Ooh, so this is a date. You said it was business meeting when I first called.”
“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s both.”
“Do you want it to be?”
Vivianne hesitated, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she thought about her response. “Dating is...hard. When I was younger, I couldn’t tell if the guys were asking me out for me, or because it gave them access to my father.” She’d learned that, the hard way. She shrugged. “I don’t get...too involved.”
“You’re playing it safe,” Natalie commented. This time it was her sister-in-law who shrugged. “That’s smart. I get it. But every now and then, a risk can pay off.”
“I take enough risks in business,” Vivianne said.
“I’m just saying, maybe you can trust this one a little more?”
And let him find out that either the toxin was back, or she was going crazy? Yeah, no. Some of her worry must have shown on her face, because Natalie’s expression grew serious.
“Do you want me to come back, Viv?”
Only Natalie and Lucien called her Viv. Only they had the audacity to do so. She was touched by Natalie’s offer. It would mean returning to the very place she’d been held captive, and facing the man who had orchestrated it...Vivianne’s father. That Natalie was prepared to do that just made her care for her sister-in-law all the more. Not that she’d ever admit that to anyone. She sucked in a breath and shook her head.
“No, thanks so much for the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” She’d figure it out on her own, just like she always did, and she’d sort it out. One way or another. The phone chimed, and Vivianne grimaced. “Dad’s trying to get through.”
Natalie made a face. “That’s my cue to leave. I’d say give him my best, but we both know I don’t mean it.”
Vivianne was still chuckling when her sister-in-law disappeared. She fidgeted with her robe, making sure she was modestly presentable, then accepted the call from her father.
Vincent Marchetta’s face peered back at her. His expression was cool, remote, and she quickly adopted the same.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Vivianne, I need to talk with you.” Vivianne kept her features calm. There was never any greeting from her father.
“I’m about to go out—” she began, but he shook his head.
“No. I won’t do this over the phone. I’ll meet with you tomorrow night, seven o’clock, at home.”
She knew her father expected a quick acquiescence, a display of obedience, but she’d been his daughter for hundreds of years, and disappointment came with the role. “I’ll see if I’m free.” She quickly pressed a few buttons on her phone, and scanned her calendar. Sure enough, she had a meeting scheduled.
“Push it to eight and I can make it.”
His lips pressed together. “I’m fairly busy—”
“So am I, Dad,” she interrupted. It was the family business she was working at, after all. Besides, she’d learned that if you didn’t push back a little with her father, he could be a steamroller, crushing everything in his path.
He sighed noisily, clearly communicating his disappointment, before finally nodding—once. “Fine. Eight.”
“Can you give me any idea what this is about?” She could try to guess, but she’d learned she could never figure out how her father thought.
“A campaign,” her father stated shortly. “I’ll see you then.”
The phone screen went black. Vivianne’s shoulders sagged. “Good talk, Dad. Yeah, love you, too.” She stared at the blank screen for a moment. Just once, she wondered what it would be like to have a genuine conversation that didn’t revolve around business, or what he wanted her to do for him, or what he expected her to do for family.
But that kind of wondering led to wishes, and wishes were a waste of time. She was a centuries-old working woman. She wasn’t some simpering little girl with pointless dreams. She grabbed up the remote to her stereo and switched it on. Rock and roll music from the 1950’s era, before The Troubles. She shimmied her shoulders to the beat, singing out “tequila!” She never got tired of this music, and used it to unwind from the stresses of the day—like talking to her dad.
She rose from her dressing table and danced barefoot across the charcoal-colored plush carpet to the wardrobe. She had about twenty minutes before Mike was due to pick her up. She was so surprised and yes, flattered, that he’d invited her out. She’d seen that glint of desire in his eyes, the attraction...she wasn’t a novice when it came to men. It was just rare that guys acted on that attraction. She was the head of the Nightwing colony, she also ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And she knew she wasn’t the easiest woman to get to know. All that was enough to intimidate most men. But apparently not Mike Falcone. She started to do the twist, swinging her hips with her hands swaying. God, she remembered dancing to this music in the dance halls. But then, she remembered dancing the Charleston, too.
Vivianne flicked through the hangars, head bopping along as Chuck Berry told Beethoven to roll over. Her lips quirked. She’d met Ludwig, once. Weird little guy. She pulled two dresses out: one red, one black. She held the red one up to her body, turning a little. It was a figure-hugging dress with a deep V neckline. Sexy and feminine. She hung it on the hook near the mirror, and held up the black dress. This one was also slim-fitting, but with a bateau neckline. Demure and feminine.
“Go with the black—you don’t want to look desperate.”
She whirled, glancing wildly about her room. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The music blared across the room. Her breath hitched as she strode over to the crimson curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse apartment that looked out over the city of Irondell, and she twitched the fabric, checking to see if someone was hiding behind it.
Nobody was. She strode over to the dressing table, and switched the music off, listening intently. Nothing.
She dropped to her knees and peered under the king-size bed. Nobody there, either. She covered her face, rocking on her knees for a moment. “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” she whispered to herself, until she could calm her racing heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. Get dressed. Go out. Pretend everything is just hunky-dory.
She rose to her feet, and padded over to the mirror where she’d dropped the dress. Black, huh? She reached for the red dress, in an open act of rebellion, and untied the silken belt around her waist. The silk robe parted, and she slipped it off her shoulders, revealing her black, lacy, unlined uplift bra and matching lacy panties.
She heard a low whistle. “Better yet, don’t wear a dress at all.”
Her wide-eyed gaze lifted to the mirror. In its reflection she saw the figure of a man behind her. He was tall—huge, really—and broad-shouldered, his muscled arms and chest revealed by a white singlet. He wore khakis that flattered the long, muscled length of his legs, and his brown hair was scruffy, matching the stubble on his face. A weird light glowed through the dark tendrils of fog or smoke gently swirling around him.
Vivianne screamed.
* * *
Zane winced at the ear-piercing shriek. God, that woman could break glass, if she put in just a little more effort.
She backed away from him, her head slowly shaking in denial, and then it hit him.
“You can see me,” he breathed.
“Get out!” she screamed again, then raced to her dressing table. “Get out, you pervert.” She picked up a container of moisturizer, turned, and hurled it to him. He ducked.
“Hey, if I could get out of here, princess, I would,” he snarled back at her.
“Get. Out. Of my. House!” She picked up another bottle, then another, and threw them in quick succession at him. He dodged the first, but he wasn’t quite fast enough to get out of the way of the second missile. He froze as it sailed through his chest and smashed against the wall behind him. Er. Yeesh. That felt weird. Like fuzzy electrical shocks.
Vivianne’s eyes grew even rounder, if that was possible, and she picked up the vase off the end of the table and hurled it. He shifted, but it still caught him in the shoulder. Or rather, through it. More fuzzy tingling, like he’d cut off the circulation, and the numbness was about to wear off, right before the pins and needles.
She stalked up to him, her eyes glowing red like cigarettes, incisors lengthening, dark hair streaming behind her, silken robe flapping around her, and that curvaceous body quivering with rage. She fisted her hand and punched him—right through the face. He felt a nice little frisson, but that was about it.
