Dalton, Tymber - Love and Brimstone [Brimstone Vampires 1] (Siren Publishing Classic) (4 page)

He wanted her for life.

Cassandra finally spoke again. “Do you have a place to stay for the night? There are highway men between here and your destination. It’s not safe.”

From the tone of her voice, he knew it was a lie. “You aren’t worried about me. And if anyone should worry, it would be them, believe me.”

She’d moved a little closer to the bank, but she still crouched deep within the water, concealing the most beautiful parts of her body from his appraising gaze. Finally, “No,” she whispered.

He stepped down to the water’s edge and watched her. “What do you think I am?” he quietly asked.

“What do you think I am?” she whispered in reply.

He smiled, sending out a probe. He watched her eyes, noticed she jumped as she felt his careful mental caress. “I think you’re a very talented, beautiful woman,” he said. “Very powerful. And with a beautiful heart.”

“You probably have women all over.”

He shook his head. “No. I have not married yet, not for lack of some wenches trying their best.”

That coaxed a smile from her lovely, full lips. “Are you calling me a wench, sir?”

“That would be the last thing I’d call someone as beautiful as you.”

They stared at each other for another long moment before she stood and stepped from the water. He fought the urge to take her into his arms and lick the drops of water from every inch of her flesh.

“We all have secrets, don’t we, Rafael?”

He nodded. “We do.”

She put her arms around him, kissing him. He carefully folded her against him, his hands skimming down her smooth, damp back to gently cup her cheeks.

“I’m willing to hold your secrets,” she said, “if you’re willing to hold mine—and me.”

Chapter
Two

Two pairs of pantyhose sprouting runs, dropping her lipstick business end first on the bathroom floor, and now having to change from her skirt into a pair of slacks because of a coffee spill had to be bad omens for the day.

And she hadn’t even made it out of the driveway.

Anastazia Proctor stormed through the condo door into the kitchen. Robertson looked up from his newspaper, surprised at her return. “I thought you’d left, dear.”

“I did,” she snarled, stomping through the condo to her bedroom. She didn’t bother closing the door behind her. She heard him follow her down the hall to her doorway.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She ripped off the skirt and threw it at him, grabbing a pair of slacks that would match her shirt and blazer off of a hanger in the closet. “It’s
not
a good day, and I’m not even out the door yet.”

He examined the coffee stain. “I’ll run it to the cleaners for you. Would you like me to make you another cup?”

“Please.”

He disappeared to the kitchen. She tried to calm herself while changing. Thank God she didn’t have to be in court today. And thank God for Tim Robertson. He was her rock, her sole comfort in this crazy world that, for today, seemed to especially conspire against her.

Around her height but stocky and robust, his British accent and infectious smile, punctuated by crisp blue eyes, always managed to soothe her.
His warm, rounded British accent matched his sturdy frame.
He seemed unchanged in the nearly thirty-five years since he came to work for her parents when she was a baby. He had to be somewhere between fifty and sixty.

She didn’t question it. Especially now that he was the only family she had.

“Do you need a towel for your seat, dear?” he called from the kitchen.

Crap
. “I don’t think so, but let me take one anyway.” Hopefully the day would turn around for her. She woke up in an irritated state, too early for PMS, but with an unsettled, distracted notion that her world had shifted on its axis. So far, the morning’s events seemed to prove her infallible intuition correct yet again.

Taz made it back to the kitchen. “Is this okay?” She spun for Robertson. She would never be a runway model, but her confident, long-legged curves easily turned men’s heads.

He nodded. “You look beautiful, sweetheart.” He handed her a towel, a travel mug of coffee, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Try to settle down and have a good day.”

“That doesn’t seem to be in the stars today.”

He smiled. She tried to ignore her feeling that there was more behind it than he let on. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“Anastazia Proctor, I can almost guarantee you that today will be a stellar day.”

* * * *

She made it to work without getting in a wreck or spilling her second cup of coffee all over herself. Around ten o’clock, the intercom buzzer startled her. “Ms. Proctor, you have a visitor.”

Anastazia sighed. “Karen, did I have any appointments scheduled this morning?”

“No. Bob Stanley sent him down.”

Damn.
The most senior of senior partners.
What else could happen today?
She patted her unruly auburn hair, pulled back in a neat but not-too-severe bun. “Okay. Send him in.”

She stood as an older man, maybe Robertson’s age, walked in.

Her visitor, immaculate from his tailored Armani suit and leather briefcase to his Edward Green shoes, had to be wearing well over five grand in clothing. His warm smile belied the perception behind his clear, light blue eyes. She watched him take in the room—and her—with a single glance.

Her mental alarm buzzed. This was a powerful man, one not to be messed with. Yet he seemed vaguely familiar for some reason.

“Good afternoon, Mister…?” She held out her hand, and he took it. His grip was politely firm, and before he let go, she had an odd feeling of déjà vu.

“Thompson. Albert Thompson.” He had a British accent, but where Robertson’s voice was rounded and warm, much like his frame, this man’s silky, cultured drawl matched his tall, lanky stature and angled face, topped by perfectly styled grey-blond hair.

“Anastazia Proctor.” She indicated a chair in front of her desk. “How can I help you today, Mr. Thompson?” She liked that he waited to sit until after she did. His suit didn’t even rumple.

“I shall get right to the point. My employer, Matthias Hawthorne, is looking for a new in-house attorney. You were highly recommended.”

“Corporate law is not my specialty, Mr. Thompson. Besides, I’m happy here.”

“I know.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a thin folder. He handed it to her over the desk. “You are a ‘fixer.’ With quite the reputation. That’s exactly what my employer needs.”

She reevaluated her visitor as she leaned back in her chair and thumbed through the folder. After skimming the contents, she closed it, tapping the edge on her desk. “This is very interesting. I’m still not sure why you approached me for this position. There are others more qualified.”

“None with your expertise, shall we say. And contacts.” Thompson fixed her with his eyes, and for a moment she lost her train of thought.

Her throat went dry. She forced her gaze away from his as she put the file on her desk. “I’m paid very well.”

“You would be guaranteed much more. My employer would like a chance to meet with you to discuss it in person.”

“I’ll have to look at my schedule.”

“Tomorrow evening?”

She tapped the intercom. “Karen, how does tomorrow evening look?”

“I’ll check.” Pause. “You’re clear.”

Her visitor smiled. “He’ll send a car to pick you up.”

“I’ll drive myself, thank you very much.”

“But—”

“Mr. Thompson,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I am perfectly capable of driving myself. Frankly, I’m really not comfortable with the thought of getting into a car and going somewhere without—”

“Control?” he finished for her, smiling.

Annoyingly accurate.
She hated when people pegged her like that. Not that it happened very often. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” She tapped the intercom button again. “Karen, please show Mr. Thompson out. Get the information from him about tomorrow night, thank you.” She stood. “I’ll read through the paperwork and consider it.”

He smiled, tipped his head, and followed Karen out.

Anastazia had a word or two for Bob Stanley.

* * * *

Taz found Bob Stanley, stereotypically, practicing his putting. Considering she had the firm’s highest billable hours for the past nine years running, she’d earned the right to barge in unannounced.

“Bob, I just had an unusual visitor.” She perched uninvited on his leather sofa while he lined up a shot.

Bob’s eyes never wavered from the ball. “Albert said he wanted to talk with you.” Putt, score. He looked at her. “And?”

“What’s the deal with this freaky company? Is it a front for a drug cartel or something?”

Bob laughed and shook his head, returning the putter to his bag. “No, not quite. They do a lot of things. Matthias Hawthorne took over from his father. Looks just like him, too.” He sat. “You’d be stepping up in the world if you accepted their offer.”

“So tell me about the company.”

“I can’t. There’s not a lot I know. They’ve got fingers in a ton of pies. He pays his taxes and does things aboveboard, as best I can tell.”

“Then why does he want a fixer on the payroll?”

“Who knows?” He smiled. “You’re the best. You could make Jack the Ripper look like Winnie the Pooh.”

She smiled despite herself. She had a lot of practice in her field and had learned at the feet of the best of the best. How many times had Robertson gotten her parents out of jams, handled the press, squelched embarrassing stories, kept them from killing each other? All while getting her to school on time and helping her pass algebra.

“You’re saying you’re tired of me and want me out of here?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’d hate like hell to lose you, Anastazia, but I don’t want to hold you back, either. It’s the kind of opportunity most people would give their left nut for. Just because you were lucky enough to nail an internship in college and sail on through into a cushy job doesn’t mean others can.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I worked hard to get where I am.”

“Yes, you did. You’re the absolute best of the best, and I’ve been damned lucky to have you on my team the last ten years. That’s why when Hawthorne came to me looking for recommendations, I had to put your name in the hat. Because you
are
the best.”

She puffed up a little. “Thanks.”

He smiled. “Now if we’re done, get the hell out.”

Chapter Three

The next evening, Anastazia drove up to the gate of Hawthorne’s estate at five till seven. It was impossible to see the house past the high, vine-covered wall. Before she rolled to a stop, the gate opened. She pulled through, watching it close behind her in the rearview mirror.