Читать книгу Vampire Undone - Shannon Curtis - Страница 8

Chapter 1

“What about a nice, fresh Zinfandel?”

Natalie Segova ignored the suggestion and kept reading her book of poetry.

“Or perhaps a glass of Merlot? Something warm and full-bodied to ward off the chill evening?”

“You know you can’t serve me anything, Terry,” she whispered as she kept her eyes glued to the page.

“What about some nuts? Do you need some nuts? Advice? What’s troubling you tonight, honey?”

Natalie adjusted her spectacles then rested her elbow on the bar and leaned her chin on her palm in a move that looked comfortable but also masked her mouth from others within the bistro. “Terry, we’ve been over this before. If people see me talking to you, they’ll think I’m crazy. Shoo.”

“Can I get you something, Natalie?”

Natalie looked up as Darren, the bartender, approached her with a smile. She smiled back. “I’d love a Chardonnay, please.”

Darren winked. “Coming right up.” He turned away to ready the drink and Terry, the flamboyant ghost who refused to leave his job, folded his arms.

“Oh, so you’ll give him your order, but not me, huh? What am I, chopped liver?”

Natalie rolled her eyes at the apparition’s insulted expression and peered at him over her glasses. “Terry, for the last time, you’re a ghost. Deal with it,” she whispered as she again tucked her chin into her palm.

“Give me something, sweetheart,” Terry whined, his hand moving in a flapping gesture as he leaned his hip against the bar. “I’m here all by myself and you’re the only one who will give me the time of day.” He eyed his fingernails. “Which is a crime, as far as I’m concerned, letting all this go to waste.” He gestured to his form. Terry, fit and toned when he was alive, wore dark shoes, black trousers and a black bow tie, and that was it.

“I still can’t believe that used to be the uniform here,” Natalie said softly, eyeing his outfit—or lack of one.

Terry’s smile was more of a grimace. “Well, this place used to have a very different clientele. Now they’ve snootied it all up.” He sighed. “Friday nights used to be the best. The drag queens used to perform in that corner.” He waved casually to a corner near the window. He arched an eyebrow as he returned his gaze to hers. “Now we get—what? Prissy chicks reading—” He tilted his head so he could see the cover of her book and winced in horror. “Oh, my lord. Poetry. This place is going to the dogs.”

She smiled as the very corporeal Darren placed her glass on a coaster in front of her and then walked back to serve another patron.

“And you’re still here,” she murmured, sighing as Terry’s bottom lip protruded in a very good imitation of a sulk. She leaned back in her seat. “Fine. Give me some nuts,” she whispered and waited patiently as Terry moved and unsuccessfully tried to lift the nut bowl further down the bar. Out of habit, she toyed with the silver chain lariat around her neck, her fingers sliding along the links as she watched her “friend” do his thing.

After a few more attempts, the ghostly bartender got impatient and swiped at the bowl. The bowl flipped off the bar and nuts spilled across the floor. The bartender and other patrons startled then froze, staring at the mess on the floor that seemed to have sprung from nowhere. Terry placed his hands on his hips as he walked toward her, frustration etching his forever-young features.

“You did that on purpose.”

She shrugged, a tiny movement that was almost undetectable. Terry tried to serve her every time she came in to McKinley’s Bistro, and refused to accept the limitations his phantom form put on him. But she did so enjoy watching him try. She dropped her chain and returned to reading her book.

“Did you see that?” an older woman sitting at the bar muttered. She gazed dubiously at the glass of amber-colored liquid in her hand before placing it gingerly back on the bar.

“Uh, must have been a breeze,” Darren suggested quickly before ducking into the back room and returning with a broom and dustpan.

“I’m outta here,” another man said, reaching for his laptop bag as he climbed hastily off his bar stool.

“Come on, Nat. So I can’t serve you a drink. So what? I can still listen,” Terry suggested as he placed his folded arms on the bar. “Tell Uncle Terry what’s bothering you.”

Natalie held the book of poems determinedly in front of her face. “Nothing’s bothering me,” she said, trying not to move her mouth.

“Oh, right. So you’re here, all by yourself, every Friday night, and nothing’s wrong?”

Natalie frowned. “I happen to like my own company.”

“Honey, nobody likes their own company—not if they keep winding up in a bar,” Terry said sagely. “Especially not wearing that.” He gestured in a figure eight that both encompassed her outfit yet still managed to convey disdain.

Natalie’s frown deepened as she glanced down at her collared shirt and jeans. Her outfit was presentable and comfortable. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Uh, nothing...”

Darren looked over at her in surprise as he emptied the contents of the dustpan in the trash can under the bar, and color flooded her cheeks as she realized she’d spoken too loudly.

“Thanks, Darren,” she said then focused intently on the works of John Keats she held in her hands.

“Do you mean that outfit is intentional?” Terry gasped, his hand rising dramatically to his chest. He shook his head. “And do you think that simple necklace is going to dress this up? It’s worse than I—Oh, hello.” Terry’s attention whipped to the door of the bistro.

Natalie glanced over her shoulder and froze. Blinked. Whirled back around to bury her nose in her book. Her heart fluttered in her chest then took off in a thumping race.

Oh. My. God. Him. Here. It couldn’t be. Her guardian angel.

No, not her guardian angel, she corrected herself. More like a devil in disguise. She knew exactly what he was and she wanted to run for the hills.

Natalie willed herself not to run, not to stare, not to flinch. Of all the bistros, in all the teeny, tiny college towns, in all of Argon, why did he have to walk into hers? His kind weren’t common here. That was why she’d chosen to establish herself here. No shadow breeds, just humans.

The newcomer walked up to the bar and Natalie twisted away in her seat, trying to make it look like a nonchalant move as she closed the book she’d ceased to read. Maybe she could get out before he noticed her, recognized her. She slid the book into her bag, her fingers brushing, lightly grasping, then relinquishing the handle of the blade she always carried. It matched the one strapped to her ankle.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Professor Segova. I was told I’d likely find her here...”

Good grief. That voice. Like smooth chocolate, all rich and dark and hinting of nights and mischief. He hadn’t changed a bit.

Well, duh. He’s a vampire. He’s bloody immortal.

They didn’t tend to age. Or change. Or die, damn it.

And he was looking for her. She didn’t want to see him. She never wanted to see him. Never again. She sure as hell hadn’t expected him to walk into her bistro, looking for her.

“Oh, wow, Mr. Hottie wants you,” Terry whispered unnecessarily.

Mr. Hottie was an understatement. The man was undeniably handsome, in an intent, coolly detached way. He wore a black suit, a dark, collared shirt and no tie. With his dark hair and piercing blue eyes he looked every inch a potential dark angel. Shoulders broad, chin set at a challenging angle, he effortlessly commanded attention.

But not hers. Nope. Not anymore. She was too wise to his ways to let herself be entranced by a searing pair of stunning blue eyes and lips that suggested all sorts of steamy seduction. No, sirree.

She slid off the bar stool and turned away slightly, praying that Darren would get the message her body language was screaming, and send this particular patron on his way. She dug for her wallet and pulled out some notes to pay for her meal and drinks.

“Professor Segova? Yeah, she’s right there.”

Darren hadn’t gotten the message. Well, there went his tip for the night. She put the money on the bar and busied herself with her coat. She lifted her bag to her shoulder.

“Ooooh, honey, he’s on his way over to you,” Terry sighed before biting his bottom lip.

Once again, Natalie did her best to ignore the ghost.

“Excuse me, Professor Segova?”

She forced a politely inquisitive look on her face as she turned to face him. Well, his chest. She’d forgotten how tall he was. Wow. Had he always been so...built? She forced herself to lift her gaze to his.

Er, wow. His eyes were still that stunning azure color. Nope. Not getting distracted. At all. She pulled her lips into a cool smile.

“Yes?”

He blinked. Gaped. “You! You—You’re Professor Natalie Segova?” Recognition battled with confusion. She hoped confusion won.

Showtime. “Yes?” she inquired innocently.

“Natalie?” he repeated.

She kept her expression bland as she nodded. “Yes, I’m Natalie Segova. How can I help you?”

“It’s me—Lucien,” he said. “Lucien Marchetta.”

She continued to look at him blankly, then gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” Not in this lifetime, anyway.

He gave his head a little shake. “It can’t be...”

She raised her eyebrows, her expression turning expectant. “I am Professor Natalie Segova,” she assured him politely. “Was there something you needed?”

“Oh, I’d be happy to help,” Terry said suggestively.

Natalie shot him a grim look before turning back to the hunky, gorgeous vampire in front of her.

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as though trying to make sense of the insensible. “Uh, sorry, you—you remind me of someone.”

She shrugged again. “I get that a lot. I must have one of those faces.” She slid the strap of her tote up to her shoulder and started to turn away.

“Wait—uh, Professor. Please. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions? About your studies,” he clarified in that rich, deep timbre.

God, it still had the ability to draw her attention, to suck her in and make her forget everything else around her. She remembered that voice murmuring softly to her in the darkness.

Yeah, she remembered a lot of damn things.

She started to back away from him, her expression still polite. “I’m sorry, I really have to go—but if you’d like to call my office, my assistant can make an appointment for you,” she suggested. And she had absolutely no intention of keeping it. She’d be halfway across the Red Desert before he realized she’d fled town, fingers crossed.

This time his confused gaze turned serious, intent, and he met her gaze directly. “Wait,” he said in a tone that took his voice to an even deeper timbre. “You want to talk with me. Now, as a matter of fact.”

She could feel something fluttering along the edges of her mind and her smile tightened. He was trying to compel her, damn it.

Well, that put her in quite a position. If she resisted the compulsion, he’d realize something was up, that she wasn’t the human she pretended to be, which would lead him to the next realization, that she could very well be the person he thought she was. She couldn’t have that.

She tilted her head back, easily ignoring the shadowy effect trying to cloud her brain. “I’d love to talk with you,” she lied. “Why don’t you walk with me? My place is only a couple of blocks from here.”

He smiled at her and she glanced away. He still had that sexy smile that was all mischief.

“After you,” Lucien said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

She smiled through clenched teeth. Great. She just needed to play along with this farce long enough to get to her home, to safety. Okay, she could do this. She could act normal, even flirt if she had to, if it gave her enough time to get in her front door. She slid her hand inside her bag to clutch the handle of her blade as she walked out into the cool evening.

* * *

Lucien strolled along Main Street, surreptitiously glancing at the woman at his side as they went.

It was remarkable. She looked so much like Nina—but it couldn’t be. Nina was dead. Years ago—it had made front-page news, everywhere. Besides, even if the papers had gotten it wrong, Nina would be in her sixties now. This woman looked to be in her twenties. Blond hair that fell in soft, barely-there waves to her shoulders, hazel-gray eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, and a pale complexion that was currently just the slightest bit flushed. She was pretty. Hell, she was more than pretty, but...well, it felt weird, thinking of her like that, particularly with the confusing mishmash in his mind with Nina. He frowned.

“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t really look old enough to be a professor,” he remarked tentatively. He kept his tone light, perhaps there was even a hint of flirtation, but there was also some doubt. She looked like she should be a student, not the lecturer.

Her lips tightened briefly before curling into a smile. “I’m older than I look,” she said. “Used to be a problem when I was younger and trying to get into bars.”

Her response was light, but he got the impression his remark hadn’t been received as a flattering compliment on her youthful looks.

“You wanted to ask me something?” she reminded him as she turned a corner down a tree-lined street.

“Uh, yeah. I hear you’re an expert on all things mystical and mythological?” He still couldn’t quite believe it. He’d thought, when Dave had mentioned this woman, that she’d be much older. He frowned. Hadn’t Dave said she’d been here for some years? How did that work?

She nodded. “I’ve spent some time studying the old stories and legends,” she conceded. “What did you want to know?”

He glanced around the street. He wasn’t exactly eager to discuss his mission in public, but he’d detected a wariness in this woman and sensed this might be the easiest way to get her attention—and her assistance. He didn’t have the time to leave it until some assistant managed to find an empty slot in the professor’s schedule.

Fortunately the street was mostly clear of people. A woman walked her dog further along the block and a man carried two big bags of trash out to a bin on the curb.

“I’m wondering if you are aware of any myths or legends that discuss survivors of lycan attacks,” he said casually.

Her eyebrows rose. “Well, yes. There are any number of ancient legends that include a lycan survival story. Particularly before the time of The Troubles, when humans still viewed werewolves as creative fiction. For a time, there was a belief that if one did manage to survive a werewolf’s bite, one also turned into a werewolf.” She smiled briefly. “We know that’s not true now, though. We know that there has to be a bloodline, for example, for lycanism to develop.”

“What did people do to survive the lycan’s bite? In those legends, I mean,” Lucien amended casually as she again led him around a corner. This street was quieter. Lights were on in some homes and the streetlamps gave a charming glow to the wide street. Shadows stretched between the lamps and colored leaves littered the sidewalk and gutters. He scuffed at a pile as he walked along, the movement almost instinctive. His lips curled briefly. Nina used to love the leaves. He glanced up and down the street. She’d love this neighborhood. He sighed. God, he hadn’t thought of Nina in years. That familiar ache was still there, though, edged with regret.

“Oh, they didn’t. Not really,” the professor said. “Usually, the stories showed the victim dying a painful death, often shot with a silver bullet.”

Lucien blanched. “At least they got that detail right,” he muttered. Silver was toxic to both shifters and vampires, and the humans had used it to good effect during The Troubles.

She nodded. “It’s surprising that some of the beliefs manifested in these legends were obviously born from some aspect rooted in reality.”

She halted at the gate of a modest Colonial-style house with white columns on a wide porch. An old-fashioned coach light spread a warm glow in front of the red front door. “Well, this is me. Thank you for walking me home.” She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She turned away from him and suddenly he didn’t want her to go, didn’t want their time to come to an end.

“Let me walk you to your door,” he said, following her through the gate.

Her eyebrows dipped. “Oh, no, you don’t need—”

He met her gaze. “Please, let me walk you to your door,” he said smoothly, using a light compulsion. He almost felt guilty, but he quashed the emotion before it caught a foothold. He reminded himself he was there to save his sister, and he didn’t have time for polite pleasantries and stop-start conversations. But, deep down, he couldn’t shake his fascination with this woman. Was it just that she looked so like someone he’d once known? Someone he’d once...felt something for?

Something flashed in her hazel-gray eyes—irritation?—then it was gone and a polite smile crossed her face.

“I would love it if you walked me to my door,” she said in a low voice.

The husky sound curled deep inside him and he tried to think of any excuse to stretch out this meeting, this discussion, just a little longer. He took a deep breath as he walked down the garden path with her. He didn’t need an excuse. His sister was lying in a coffin, slowly being consumed by a poison he desperately needed to find a cure for. This was not a first meeting. This was the meeting until he got what he needed.

She opened her bag, retrieved her keys, unlocked and opened her front door and then turned to face him. “If that’s all, Mr. Marchetta—”

“Lucien,” he prompted, and she dipped her head.

Her glasses had slid down her nose and she now pushed them back into position. He wondered if she realized she used her middle finger to do it—although the gesture looked natural.

“Lucien,” she repeated. “I really have to go in and mark some papers—” She gestured with her thumb over her shoulder, but his gaze remained on the woman in front of him. She really was quite stunning. There was no reason why perhaps this meeting couldn’t be an enjoyable one, for both of them.

“I’d love to talk some more,” he said, his throat dry, his voice husky.

She tilted her head as she looked up at him, her eyes that fascinating blend of warm golds and cool grays. “Perhaps you’d like to call me some time,” she said, her voice matching his in the husky stakes. She pulled a business card out of a pocket of her bag and offered it to him. He grasped the small rectangle of quality print stock and her fingers held it for just a little longer.

He lifted his gaze to hers. There was curiosity there, for sure, and an awareness of him that matched his unexpected appreciation of her. Something warmer flashed in those eyes, something he knew shone deep within his own. His gaze drifted down over her slender, straight nose to the sweetly curved lips.

“Perhaps we could continue this discussion inside?” he suggested softly. He placed his hand on the doorjamb and leaned closer. He could hear her soft intake of breath, the spark of surprise, the flare of heat that shifted her eye color to more golden than gray. Her lips parted.

He could feel the muscles in his groin stir, tighten, as her scent drifted to him, something soft and sweet, and yet...familiar. He leaned closer still, saw the pulse flutter at the base of her throat.

“I’m not in the habit of letting men I’ve just met inside my home,” she replied, her gaze dipping to stare at his mouth.

His lips curled slowly and her teeth bit gently down on her bottom lip.

God, he wanted to kiss her. He was surprised by the flash of need that tore through him. She leaned against the doorjamb, shifting slightly so that she was half inside the house, half out. He heard a soft thud. She’d dropped her bag on the hall floor behind her.

“Invite me in,” he suggested, his gaze flicking between her mouth and her eyes, and then he got distracted as her hand rose to the scarf around her neck.

“I can’t,” she whispered. She pulled the scarf away from her neck and he watched the fabric slowly drift over her skin. How the hell could removing a scarf look so damn sexy?

He caught a glimpse of silver around her neck. It was tied in what looked like an intricate lariat knot. He couldn’t help but notice it would form a protective, painful barrier between her neck and a vampire’s teeth—if one was so inclined...

The delicate chain dipped below her blouse and all he could think was how damn lucky it was. And sexy. Yep. Sexy.

“Invite me in,” he whispered back. He grinned as she stepped inside the house, her palm sliding up the doorjamb so that she mimicked his stance. Her seductive smile was enough to melt any common sense he may have claimed as his own.

“I don’t think so,” she said as she parted the lapels of her coat. She wore a collared blouse that looked all-business but hinted at a body built for play, cutting in to reveal a slim waist. She shook her head, her blond hair sliding back over her shoulders as she gazed up at him with a flirty challenge in her eyes and a soft flush on her cheeks. She was magnificent.

“Invite me in,” he coaxed, meeting her gaze and infusing his words with just the slightest hint of compulsion. He wanted in. In this house, in her arms. Inside her.

She arched her back, just a little, and his gaze dropped to her chest. That darned shirt draped over her breasts, hiding her curves. She leaned forward, just until she was in line with the door. She smiled sweetly, seductively, up at him, like an enchanting siren.

“No,” she said slowly, drawing the word out in such a manner that he was briefly distracted by the O shape of her lips before he realized what she was saying. Her smile tightened and the warmth of her gaze took on a chill.

He blinked. “No?” What? But he’d—

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she told him, tsking as a frown marred her brow. “Fancy using compulsion to get into a woman’s home—a woman you’ve only just met, too!”

He gaped at her. He’d used compulsion, true—but how the hell did she know? How the hell could she resist? She wasn’t a vampire; he could still sense warmth and life within her. “What are you?” he asked in a low voice.

Her smile was brittle. “I’m the woman not inviting you in,” she said sweetly as she reached for the door.

He held up a hand and encountered the impenetrable barrier to a home into which he wasn’t invited. “Wait—I really do need to talk to you,” he said as the door started to swing closed.

“Well, I really don’t want to talk to you,” she responded tartly. She shook her head, her disappointment stamped on her features. “Really, Lucien. When a woman says no, accept it.”

The red door snapped closed in his face and the light on the porch winked out. He gaped at the door.

What the hell had just happened?