Читать книгу Her Vampire Husband - Michele Hauf - Страница 11

HALFWAY THROUGH HER JOG around the estate, Blu paused at the fence and shoved aside the overgrown hornbeam vines. She’d not shifted to wolf form this afternoon—her usual running shape—because she needed to do something.

Her wolf could only stay cooped up for so long. She needed the wide-open fields beyond Creed’s estate. As well, the wolf was drooling for a lope through the nearby forest. And something might come up that would require she leave the estate on more than two feet.

By observing the crews of wolves and vamps camped out front, she’d learned they took breaks on alternate shifts. Around four in the afternoon, both factions were trading shifts, which left the estate unwatched for about twenty minutes.

She’d always wondered what it would be like to be a celebrity for twenty-four hours, having the press drooling over every tidbit of her life. Now she’d changed her mind. This was plain ridiculous. Who cared what she was doing? And could they actually get shots of her with those cameras?

She didn’t need to avoid the snoops; she just preferred doing this out of their interest. They couldn’t sight her at the back of the property. She hoped.

Pushing aside the wide glossy leaves, she grabbed the cool iron fencing. A weird vibration hummed through her fingers and at her wrist. Not like electricity, but almost like the vibrations Blu felt when Bree used sidhe magic.

Something mechanical clicked.

Blu startled, releasing the fence. Her T-shirt tugged across her stomach, as if someone pulled it from the side. The hot burn of metal grazed her skin.

Stumbling backward, she landed on her butt, legs sprawled and arms catching her from a complete backward body slam into the grass.

“What the hell?”

Lifting her shirt, she studied the torn fabric. A red burn mark slashed across her stomach. It hadn’t cut skin but the abrasion stung. Something had come close to doing some serious damage.

“Damn, that stings. Feels like…” A substance she didn’t want to consider.

Crawling forward, she cautiously searched the grass, being careful not to get too close to the fence again. Touching the fence had activated something. She’d thought it sidhe just moments ago, but that made little sense.

A ward? Possible. The vampire would very likely have his land warded as a means to security.

“Would have been nice if he’d told his wife about that.”

Though they could do physical harm, wards were usually invisible. Yet she’d felt something solid touch her. And it had burned her flesh. Inspection of her stomach showed an abrasion, though the skin hadn’t been torn.

A glint of silver on the ground attracted her. She reached for it but pulled back before touching it.

“A silver dart? Is that some kind of joke?”

No wonder, despite it not opening flesh, it burned liked a mother. She’d have to douse the abrasion with alcohol to see that no trace of silver remained on her skin.

She prodded the deadly thing with her running shoe.

“Silver. Which means this ward is specific for werewolves. Lovely. Forget Green Acres, I’m a prisoner at Stalag Vampire. The hubby is so going to hear about this one.”

THE WEREWOLF PRINCESS of the wild hair colors and revealing clothing could do subtle well. Almost too well after she’d trained him to look forward to her sexy exposed curves.

The clingy black velvet dress rose to the base of Blu’s neck and plunged to her knees. Her arms and lower legs were the only part revealed. Even the back was covered. Unfortunate. Creed would enjoy a lingering study over that tattoo.

Tonight’s wig was snow-white. She preferred the chin-length style that emphasized her fine bone structure and sensual red lips. Was it the thick lashes or the dark eye shadow that kept his attention straying to those gorgeous gray eyes?

All in all, understated glamour, he decided. The only thing she needed was a string of pearls to fit with the silver-screen Hollywood types. But this was Minnesota, and she would stand out, silver screen or not.

The restaurant was so exclusive he’d had to offer the maître d’ a large tip to secure a table on short notice. It was worth it. Creed had not accrued billions to let it spoil in a dusty bank vault.

Blu hadn’t surprised him this morning by asking for money. It bothered him little to give her a credit card. Again, why let it rot in a bank? Even if the princess could shop a blue streak, she’d never dent his finances. And if she brought home more of those sexy next-to-nothings like he’d caught her in the other night, then all the better.

They were served; Blu had actual food, and he a snifter of Armagnac. Blu questioned the waiter about the silverware. No, it was not real silver, he apologized dourly. The answer pleased her. Though Creed noticed she then pressed a palm over her gut and winced. Hmm…

The waiter pulled the gauzy white tent closed to conceal their booth from other tented booths in the airy dining room. Kissing booths, they were called. The restaurant was famous for surprise wedding proposals and, as well, notorious for dramatic breakups, all within the not-so-private-as-one-would-wish gauzy tents.

A swallow of brandy warmed Creed from the inside out. In keeping with the theme of the restaurant, he intended to earn a kiss by the end of the meal. This marriage, sham that it was, had best start making progress sooner rather than later. He had no intention of failing the Council’s expectations—until it was necessary he did so.

Kisses were not required, only a mutual companionship—and a bite—but he felt a kiss now and then certainly couldn’t hinder their effort to compromise.

“You’re sure you don’t mind watching me eat?” she said, a forkful of lemon chicken lingering near her bloodred lips.

“Not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman who so heartily attacks her food. It’s exciting.”

“Don’t tell me my gluttony turns you on.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Okay, you’re just weird, vampire. But I can dig it. Watch this.” She forked in a piece of chicken dotted with capers and closed her eyes to savor.

“I remember capers,” Creed said. “A Greek delicacy. Very tart. Do you know they are actually unopened flower buds?”

“I do. Imagine that. Eating pickled flowers. So decadent.”

“You like decadence.”

“I do, but I don’t get nearly enough of it. The pack compound was more redneck beer and bruisers than nightclub fun, you know?”

Another forkful of dinner passed her lips. A drop of lemon sauce dribbled down her chin, which she skillfully mastered with a dab of napkin.

“I bet,” she said, “despite your need to appear refined, you have some very decadent moments.”

“I’ve been known to debauch and indulge with the best of them. That eighteenth century was a good one.”

“But no longer? Now you’ve retired from the raucous and prefer to wither away in your big old estate?”

“Your presumptions of my social life are all wrong, Blu. If it is decadence you crave, I can give you that.”

“Really? But that would require…”

He waited for her to summon the truth of them. Five days married and they were still no closer than they had been that first night. Perhaps more comfortable around each other, but the divide between them gaped.

“That we get along?” he provided.

“We do get along.” A sweep of crusty French bread through the lemon sauce occupied her. “Much better than I expected we would.” She stroked her stomach again, making a sour face, but dismissed it quickly. “I still barely know you. To do so I need some basic details.”

“Such as?”