Carnal Thirst (3 page)

She was awake now. And the set of her jaw and stance, the fire in her eyes and her threat to take his head off both amused him and made his groin tighten uncomfortably.

This was no fleeting desire. She promised full, lasting passion, if only he could unleash it. Now he could press her and release the lust that had built inside him. He'd been long without a woman of any kind. The vampiresses could not move him as short lived humans could, vibrant with life and passion. He'd expected to have a human of his own by now, but the woman he'd found most appealing had been taken from him before he could complete binding her. He'd come upon Maggie after his fight with Raoul over that woman. How odd that losing her had led him to such a welcome surprise.

The resistance of her mind to his probing fascinated him. He marveled at her strength of will, perhaps more so because she could resist him even near death. Once he'd broken through, the memories that lay inside allowed him to explore the facets of her personality, to know the depression she'd sunk in to after her mother's death and the loss of her business.

Strangely, it moved him.

He'd not been moved emotionally in far too long, nor challenged in centuries, and he found himself eagerly anticipating it.

Arching a brow, he smiled as her eyes widened. She seemed caught between watching his face and staring at the bulge in his pants. She found him as appealing as he found her.

That was good. It would make the journey so much more pleasurable.

He could touch her any number of ways by bending her mind to control her sight, allowing him to move unseen around her. While parlor tricks were amusing among the inexperienced and unwary, he craved making her respond to him in a wholly new way.

She was shocked by his words, disbelief etched on her face. No one believed in vampires until they were bit on the neck....

His smile deepened as he brought his hand up to touch her face. In that moment, she tried to kill him.

* * * *

Maggie had lost all desire to leave the room. She couldn't contain the shock on her face. She had thought the man was a serial killer or something. Then he had claimed to be a vampire, and she decided he was just plain insane. The problem with that comforting theory—and she would never have believed that would be a comforting theory before—was that the words were no sooner out of his mouth, than she swung the poker at him again for all she was worth.

Once again, she didn't manage to do anything except dig another whole in the wall. While she was trying to pry it loose, he skated a cool finger over one cheek that sent chills down her back.

"Such fire,” he murmured huskily. “I believe I'm going to enjoy this far more than I had anticipated. You will join me downstairs to dine, chere?"

He promptly vanished. Just vanished.

One moment he was there, and the next ... he was gone.

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She'd never come as close to fainting in her entire life. She didn't even want to check the door anymore.

She scurried back to the bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Lying flat, she squeezed her eyes shut.
I'm going to wake up. I'm going to wake up
. She repeated the mantra until she calmed down enough so that her heart wouldn't beat her to death.

Idly, she wondered if fear induced pulse racing would burn as many calories as an elliptical machine.

She'd never felt more fatigued in all her life. This had to be good for something more than shaving years off her life.

When she finally nerved herself and pulled the covers down, she discovered she was in the same room and hadn't magically transported to her bedroom. The only difference was the door was now standing open.

Did he seriously think she'd eat with him? He'd attacked her, hadn't he? Maybe not. It didn't make much sense that he would reign himself in now, after she'd tried to brain him twice. She'd certainly provoked him enough if he was going to be violent. Then again, he
had
abducted her and wouldn't let her leave.

Maggie looked down at herself. Her clothes looked bad enough she wouldn't want
her
at the dinner table. Her jeans were torn at the knee, probably from when she'd fallen to the pavement. There were also brown patches along one hip. Her black knit shirt was ripped at the neck, making the neckline drape almost to her cleavage. They were clean though. That realization put her in a cold sweat. She felt sick to her stomach. Surely he hadn't undressed her and done her laundry? The thought was just too horrible—and unbelievable—to contemplate.

Maggie looked around the room for her sandals, but her shoes were nowhere to be found, and she mourned their loss. It would be impossible to get replacements at this time of the year.

She finally decided she'd stalled long enough. There was nothing for it. She had to leave here somehow.

Retrieving her poker—not that she thought it would do her much good since she'd only managed to hit the wall so far—Maggie exited the room, padding down the hallway on the dusty floor. Her skin crawled at that dirty feeling between her toes, but she ignored it. Almost immediately she spotted the grand, curved staircase leading to the lowest floor.

The front door stood at the bottom of the stairs like a beacon.

Maggie sailed down the stairs. She was halfway down them when she saw the man step into the foyer.

Escape was practically in her grasp, however. She tensed all over, envisioning the scenario in her mind.

Of leaping over the banister, landing sure-footedly on the floor below, and dashing for the door—all while he merely gaped at her in stunned amazement at her agility, too surprised by her speed to block her path.

Unfortunately, she'd never been terribly coordinated. She thought it was much more likely that she'd hang her foot in the banister and land on her face. And even if she managed to scramble to her feet and he was laughing too hard to move as quickly as he did before, she thought her limp would probably slow her down too much for her to make her getaway.

It was probably locked anyway, she thought glumly.

After her brief hesitation, while she tested the scenario in her mind, she continued down the stairs,
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pretending it hadn't occurred to her to make a break for the door.

A knowledgeable smile curled his lips.
Asshole
. He knew what had been running through her mind. She had to learn better control over her expressions and her bad habit of letting every thought show on it.

"Leave the poker by the stairs,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and gestured at her with one forefinger, pointing to where she should leave it.

Maggie thought about clobbering him with it, but she wasn't certain he'd stand still this time anymore than he had the last. Heaving a reluctant sigh, she leaned her weapon against the wall and stepped off the last step, moving toward him.

He bowed when she reached him, lifting her hand and kissing the back in the sort of quaint, old-fashioned chivalry that might have seemed ridiculous if anyone else had done it—or made her feel ridiculous. Instead, it made him appear indescribably suave, and it sent a delicious quiver through her belly.

Resolutely, she ignored it as he turned and walked her down the hallway toward an arched opening at the other end.

It was a formal dining room. And although, like the rest of the house, she knew that it was sadly aged, the tapers burning in the center of the table lent a mellow, golden glow that softened the harshness of the room's aging.

The tablecloth was pristine and set with elegant china and crystal. It seemed so incongruous, given the setting and situation. Nevertheless, she took her seat without comment when he pulled her chair out for her.

The entire situation took on a sort of bizarre, surrealistic edge as he removed the covers from the dishes on the table, displaying food that was as elegantly beautiful as the table setting. Try though she might to imagine him slaving over a hot stove, the image simply did not fit the man sitting across from her.

She didn't know why, but she'd assumed the two of them were alone in the house. Now she wondered if there was an army of servants lurking in the dark. That made no sense either, however. Surely if he had kidnapped her, he wouldn't have that many people that he could trust to aid him in his abduction?

She didn't bother to question him about it. She knew she couldn't trust anything he told her anyway.

Instead, she forced a smile. “The food looks delicious."

He nodded at the compliment and served her plate. She wasn't actually hungry. She was way too terrified to be hungry, but she thought that the best way to get him to let down his guard long enough for her to have a chance to escape would be to behave as if she accepted the situation.

When he'd served her plate, therefore, she smiled up at him again and thanked him. The first bite she took brought tears to her eyes. Not because the food was inedible, but because she immediately sank her teeth into her tongue. Her tongue went numb at the wound and throbbed in her mouth like a live thing.

The taste of blood filled her mouth.

With an effort, she chewed the food and swallowed anyway, feeling a little sick. It was her blood, of course, and she shouldn't have found it disgusting. She'd always had an aversion to blood though. She wanted desperately to spit the food out, but good manners precluded it, and even in her current situation,
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especially with that very elegant gentleman sitting across from her—kidnapper or not—she just couldn't bring herself to do anything that crude. Wouldn't her mama be proud to know that she
could
act like a lady?

"Is there a problem with the meat, chere?” he asked, arching a brow.

She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked at him. “Actually,” she said, blushing, “I bit my tongue."

"That would be the fangs, chere. They can be inconvenient. And it does take some time to grow accustomed to them."

She stared at him, but he didn't appear to be making a joke. “I don't have fangs,” she said.

"Didn't,” he corrected.

"Don't,” she said, feeling a little childish. “I'm not a dog."

"Certainly not. You're a vampire."

Chapter Three

While they dined, he talked about the history of New Orleans. Despite everything, it soothed her. The sound of his voice stroked along her nerve endings like the caress of a hand. She was surprised to discover that she ate most of the servings that he'd placed on her plate. She'd drank the wine as well, more wine than she'd intended, and certainly more than was wise. Her weight and height usually allowed her to drink more than the average person, however, so she wasn't worried about it. She couldn't remember ever even having a buzz from alcohol.

She didn't comment on his suggestion that she was a vampire. If he thought she'd believe that, he was crazy. Besides being ridiculous, she didn't feel remotely different than any other day of the week, and they'd both eaten the food he'd served—which canceled out all credibility of either of them being a vampire. Vampires could only drink blood. Everyone knew that.

He didn't seem insane, but on the other hand, sane people didn't usually brutally attack women on the street. She remembered hearing once that insane people were incredibly strong. That might explain how he had managed to attack her when she felt that she should have been fully capable of going toe to toe with pretty much any man.

The wine calmed even her fear of his mental stability. She found herself smiling at some of the anecdotes that he told.

"How old were you then,” she asked impulsively at something he'd said.

"Six hundred and fifty nine years."

She burst out laughing. “No, really."

"Ah, chere, would you have me whisper sweet little lies in your ear instead?” he said on a husky note that made her insides quiver.

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"I'm not sure I'd want you getting that close."

"Wouldn't you?"

Smiling devilishly, he reached across the table, and with his index finger, began swirling a little pattern on the back of her hand. “Perhaps I'm not close enough,” he whispered.

Warmth flowed up her arm, lifting the fine hairs on her arm and the back of her neck. A delicious little shiver skated down her spine as she looked into his dark eyes. There was a smoldering look in his gaze that she immediately identified, despite the fact that she'd never had a look like that directed at her in her memory. It sent heat surging through her. Her belly clenched as a sweet, sharp spasm reverberated from the core of her sex straight up to her heart.

A warning voice niggled in the back of her mind. He was a kidnapper and insane besides. She was convenient and his captive, otherwise, she was sure a man that looked like him would never be interested in even looking at her, much less touching her. She was used to people swearing to go on a diet after one look at her size eighteen frame—not with any kind of desire.

That more than anything else was the clincher. She forced a slight smile. “You're not trying to seduce me, are you?"

He smiled wryly. “Not very successfully,” he murmured, “if you can ask."

It occurred to her that she was probably a little bit tipsy, but she knew that she was still clear-minded enough to take advantage of the fact that he obviously believed her judgment was impaired by the alcohol she'd consumed.

She gave him her most sultry look, propping her arm on the table and dropping her chin onto her hand.

“Now you're teasing me."

Something flickered in his eyes. “I can, if you like."

The breath rushed from her lungs as her heart lurched in her chest. Despite her wayward libido and her natural reluctance to encourage this sort of conversation under ordinary circumstances, she reminded herself that she was trying to catch him off guard.