AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“This is the night,” Serge had solemnly told him as he fussed with his little boat’s sail earlier, tying and retying the same knots over and over. “What must be, will be. Tonight.” His expression said “what must be” might well involve Dominique being staked out in the morning sun.
A shiver raced through Cassidy, and he held her closer. “Don’t let Serge’s drama trouble you,” he whispered. “I will do what I must, and that will be the end of that.”
She touched the faint stubble on his cheek and locked her quiet, ocean-blue gaze with his. “I don’t care what happens tonight, Dominique, so long as you come back to me as fast as you possibly can. Promise me.”
He ran a fingertip down the bridge of her freckled nose. “Je te promets, mon amour. I promise.” He would not fail.
He could not fail.
Club Bijou was shuttered, courtesy of the Striker Foundation, which had followed up on Cassidy’s tip. They had failed, of course, since Bijou, tapped into his mind as she was right now, learned of the ploy the moment he did.
The glittering streets teemed with mortals enjoying the holiday lights, and the cool air dripped with food and perfume, but not blood or blood-drinkers. Yet that sensation of being tugged, albeit weak, still haunted him. She wasn’t far.
A causeway took him to the island of Palm Beach. Imposing gates and immaculate box hedges concealed elegant driveways to palatial homes bristling with state-of-the-art security systems. While no blood-drinker would risk hunting here, one of these grand mansions concealed a well-fortified lair.
A prickle up the back of his neck urged him to turn onto a driveway where the gates stood open. At its end sprawled a château that, if not for the ring of illuminated palm trees, could have been a transplant straight out of the French countryside, complete with a steepled roof-line and cast-iron fixtures.
Dominique silenced the bike, pulled off his helmet, and studied the façade for the best place to enter—or exit in a hurry. Carefully keeping his thoughts to an absolute minimum, he considered one of the dark upstairs windows when the ruby-red door swung open. A tall, slender young woman in a floor-length white gown emerged from the dim interior. Dark red hair fell across her bare shoulders in lustrous waves. A Grecian goddess incarnate—except that she was human.
Her smile was tentative, but not shy. “Monsieur Marchant? You’re expected. Please come in.”
He hesitated, thrown by this surprising stranger. But as a human, it hardly mattered who she was in this house. He buried his questions and stepped inside.
In the two-story, oval-shaped foyer, a semi-nude stone figure ruled from atop a Greek column. Aphrodite, he guessed, given the sultry look with which she greeted new arrivals. Two sweeping staircases hugged the room’s curved sides, meeting at a landing opposite the entrance. Sconces cast dramatic slashes of light down the dull black walls, illuminating tiny alabaster statues on small pedestals. Beneath his black boots, the white floor gleamed like polished ice.
“My name is Monica Sol,” the woman said, closing the door. “It’s great to meet you finally. I’ve heard so much about you.”
He glanced at her sharply.
Her cheeks bloomed pink as her gaze dropped. “Come.”
Dominique followed her up the marble stairs, keeping his steps silent, straining his senses past the click of her heels and pounding of her heart. A soft mustiness hung in the air, and a whiff of sandalwood trailed in the redhead’s wake. Somewhere in the house, someone moaned.
They turned past an impressive set of mahogany doors with intricate ironwork, and continued down a wide hallway before stopping at another, less ornate set of double-doors. Dominique could smell the sex ooze past the seams, even before he heard a woman’s moan followed by a man’s groan. Monica reached for the handles when he pushed her aside and slammed the doors open.
The scene inside was sadly predictable. An oversize bed covered in red satin sheets and five entwined bodies of various ethnicities. One man glanced in his direction before deeming him uninteresting in light of another male’s passionate attentions.
As before, the temptation to join them seized him, but within seconds he had pried it loose and let it drain away, powerless. An instinct, nothing more. A desire to feed the beast’s ego, not himself. He intended to be in the arms of the woman he loved before the night was done, and she would more than appease every part of him. Someday he might consider thanking Jackson for that priceless explanation of his alter ego.
Beside him, Monica bowed and murmured, “My apologies, mistress.”
Bijou waved a dismissive hand, and the Grecian goddess scurried away. She lounged on a red velvet settee facing the tableau on the bed. Behind her, gossamer curtains moved in the breezes coming through open balcony doors. The room was as opulent as the rest of the house was sparse, an eclectic cross between European royalty and Middle Eastern harem.
“I’m so pleased you could make it tonight, cher. Dinner is almost ready.”
He took in her translucent black lingerie, the knowing smirk—and the fresh-cut wood flavor of her true scent—and opted for distraction. “What is this? Are you bored with your wine cellar?”
The corners of her mouth tensed. “This is so much more private, don’t you think?” She moved one of her bare feet along the shin of her other leg, but he kept his eyes locked on hers. “I would have called you much sooner if not for some very pesky humans, making my existence difficult. I see that you have spent the time”—he could feel her probing his mental barriers—“being difficult as well.” She heaved a dramatic sigh. “And your weapons again. Silly child. Don’t you know by now that—”
He yanked the wakizashi sword out of its scabbard. The curved blade flashed at superhuman speeds. Shredded upholstery and a cloud of stuffing were the result.
“Be gentle with that. It is an antique.”
Spinning around, he found her on the bed, reclining amidst the languid bodies.
“So impulsive. I can’t decide if I like that about you.” Spreading her hands over the nude humans, she added, “Would you like to try again?”
His teeth ground together, every muscle tensing. He wanted to see her dead, but not at the risk of turning her “vintages” into carnage. Bijou was too fast for him to be surgical about his attacks. In fact, she was too fast for him, period.
