The Secret Night

“Naw. Just get him for me.”

As McCard strode over to one of his buddies, Trail-blazer slipped from the bar and into the morning sunshine, whistling.

NICK STIRRED in his sleep. He was dreaming about a time long ago, when the wife of the Duke of Monmouth had given the cut direct to the wife of the Baron of Bridgewater. The little drama had been the talk of the ton for half the social season. He had shaken his head at the gossip, at a society that had nothing more important to focus on than who was snubbing whom.

Suddenly, in the way of dreams, he was somewhere else. It was 1850, and he had taken up residence at a castle outside St.-Paul-de-Vence. He had traveled all through Europe, trying to escape the boredom of his life, looking for some purpose and meaning. Finally, he thought he’d found it—a man who called himself the Master and who promised his followers untold wisdom. He was captivated by the Master’s charisma and his idealism so he joined his enclave.

One night, peasants from the region attacked the castle. Without wondering why they would do such a thing, Nick joined in the defense—and got shot in the stomach.

The pain was excruciating, and he knew the wound meant certain death.

“Kill me now. Put an end to it,” he begged the Master.

“I may be able to save you,” his mentor replied.

“How?”

“How is not important. What matters is, if you survive the process, you will no longer be human. You will be like me. You will live forever. I believe it to be an excellent trade-off, but you must make the decision for yourself.”

Barely coherent, in agony from the pain in his gut, his reply came in gasped bursts. “Yes. Do it, please.”

The Master sat on the side of the bed and bent toward him, and he felt the first shiver of fear. He had no idea what was about to happen, only a vague sense that, afterward, nothing would ever be the same again. Yet any protest he might have uttered stayed locked in his throat. He did not want to die.

He cried out as he felt the Master’s sharp teeth fasten on his neck. And he cried out again as he felt the blood being drawn out of him. Terror shuddered through him but was quickly dispelled by an overwhelming sense of peace and well-being that seemed to invade his mind. The feeling was accompanied by the Master’s voice, though he heard no one speaking aloud.

“Rest,” the voice said to him. “You will be well soon. Just rest….”

Again, Nick tossed in his sleep, shaking his head against the pillow and muttering, “No…don’t… God, no…”

As if he had been granted temporary mercy, the scene changed. And suddenly he was in another place, another time.

A pine forest, deep and dark and shrouded in mist. Through the mist, a woman walked toward him, holding out her arms. A wind blew through the trees, and her hair and her white gown billowed out behind her. Jeanette, he thought at first. Then he saw the blond hair and knew it was not she but another woman. The woman whose name he didn’t know but who had been haunting his sleep for so many nights.

“Who are you?” he asked her.

She smiled. “We’ll meet soon.”

“No,” he said. “Leave me while you can.”

“Let me be with you.”

“No!” He gave a near-violent shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

For a charged moment, neither of them moved. Then, before he could back away, she closed the distance between them and wrapped him in her embrace. Her female scent enveloped him, and the contact of her body pressed to his set up an unbearable ache inside him. When she raised her lips to his, he was lost.

The first touch of his mouth on hers set off sparks that should have set the pine forest ablaze. Heat crackled through him, heat and longing such as he hadn’t felt in decades, almost unbearable in its intensity. He knew it was the same for her because she made a small, shocked sound deep in her throat.

That sound was his undoing. That and the soft caress of her lips against his. They were so sweet and yielding, and at the same time so charged with wild, unvarnished need. Her need kindled his own. He forgot the rules he’d set to govern his life. Forgot about morality and honor. His only reality was the yielding woman he held in his arms.

Gathering her closer, he moved his lips over hers, then sighed in relief as she opened for him. Her mouth was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. And as he pressed her breasts against his chest, he felt the frantic beating of her heart. Or maybe it was his own heartbeat that he felt. He could no longer tell.

Some rational part of his mind was still issuing warnings. This must stop. He must break away from her before it was too late. But his mouth continued to devour hers, and instead of letting her go, he shifted her in his arms so that he could cup one soft breast. His fingers stroked the hardened tip, wringing a sob of pleasure from her. She pressed against him, silently demanding more, and he gladly gave it.

Picking her up in his arms, he carried her to a table that had materialized out of the mist. He lay her upon it, then began unbuttoning the front of her gown, his shaking fingers clumsy as he undid each button.

Pushing the fabric aside, he looked at her breasts. They were lovely and rounded, the nipples a soft pink and beautifully puckered for him. He slid his fingers back and forth across those tight buds, feeling his whole body go rigid.

He wanted to plunge deep inside her again and again until he found release. And he wanted more—the ultimate joining for the creature he had become. The slits at the sides of his mouth ached with an intensity he had rarely felt. Even when his fangs slid out, the pain didn’t go away.

He wanted her blood with a shattering urgency. He felt he would go mad if he didn’t taste that part of her.

Tipping her head back, he stroked his tongue against the slender column of her throat. Then he pressed his fangs against her pale skin.

“I want you inside me,” she said. “And I want the rest of it, too.”

He raised his head and stared down at her. “How do you know about the rest of it?”

She only smiled at him.

Her willingness seemed to bring him partially to his senses. “No, I can’t…”

“Do it,” she whispered.

“No.”

“Are you afraid?” she challenged.

He didn’t know the answer. And while he hesitated, the woman evaporated, leaving his arms empty—and his body hot and heavy with unfulfilled need.

Nick clawed his way out of sleep and lay panting on the bed. Bloody hell. It had all been so vivid…so real. Was the woman a fantasy—something his mind had conjured because he’d been so long abstinent?

Or was she real? And if she was…where was she?

EMMA WOKE disoriented. She had been in the arms of her fantasy lover, Nicholas Vickers. And then he had vanished into thin air. His face was so clear in her mind. Dark, brooding, his eyes deep set, his nose a Roman blade, his jaw square and firm. And his mouth…

Dear Lord, his mouth… It was positively wicked—those deliciously sensual lips tantalizing her skin, that expert tongue exploring her mouth and drawing trails down her neck and across her breasts, and those fine, white teeth, nipping and gently biting and…and something else. Something more about his teeth. Something she didn’t want to think about.

She reached out with one hand, sliding it over the cool sheet beside her. She was alone.

Well, of course she was. The man had appeared in her dreams only because she had been focused on him when she went to sleep.

She stretched, still slightly disoriented. The mattress beneath her was soft, the sheets crisp. They gave off a clean, fresh smell as she moved, rustling them. The blackout blinds at the windows kept all but a slim shaft of light around the edges from filtering through the window.

Without lifting her head from the pillow, she turned to the right and focused on the lighted face of the clock on the bedside table. Ten-thirty! She’d thought she would toss and turn all night and get up early, but she’d slept for a good ten hours.

She had work to do. Every moment she left her sister at the Refuge was a moment too long. She’d debated briefly with herself last night about calling the cops, but she’d quickly decided against it. Margaret hadn’t been kidnapped. If she were questioned, she’d say she was at the Refuge of her own free will, as would anyone else the police might ask.

Emma took a hot shower, then got dressed, glad that she’d washed her underwear the night before. It was still a little damp, so she used the hair dryer on it. Dressed in last night’s clothes, she took the elevator down to see what she could do about supplementing her wardrobe in the gift shop.