Killer Temptation (15 page)

The drums echoed in her ears, making her squirm against the sheets and the silk to rub over her bare skin.

Wait!
Bare?

Her eyes shot open. She sat upright and glanced down at her naked body.

Boom. Boom. Boom.
The drumbeat grew louder.

Where the hell did that noise come from, a parade? And why am I naked?
Her breath, shallow and rapid, fogged in front of her. From the corner of her eyes, a figure caught her attention. Tristan lay on his side, one hand to support his head, observing her. He wore an odd, black, V-neck cape along with a satin red shirt. His hair resembled Dracula with the widow’s peak hairline and—she gulped—his fangs were elongated. “Tristan? What’s that drum sound?”

“Tis the sound of your heart,
ma douceur
.”

Really?
She rubbed away the sleep and stared.
Did he just speak in archaic English?

He sat up, bending over her, his cape gliding over one shoulder. His wide, frantic eyes locked with hers, similar to a thief who spotted a chest of glimmering jewels. Brianna shrank back, almost slipping beneath the silk sheet. Solid fists pressed into the firm mattress on either side of her waist. “Tis your heart pumping blood for I.”

He observed her the same way her customers stared at a slice of double chocolate cake.

“Tr-Tristan?” His name stammered with caution.

His lips drew back. He’d always had a pair of fangs, but she never remembered them being so long, so…lethal. A growl rumbled up his throat; the sound ferocious. Those bright, piercing green eyes that equated pure evil reminded her of a wild animal; ready for the kill, but happy to enjoy the hunt. Brianna stopped breathing. To run was impossible; to hide, just as bad.

I’m as good as dead.

He advanced. Sharp, violent teeth sank in the crook of her neck…

She jerked awake, a fiery burn scratching her throat. Warm tears ran down her face as she screamed. Like an asthmatic, she took in mouthfuls of air to drown out her hysteria. Her heart thumped out of control, as if someone punched her in the chest and the organ struggled to retain a normal beat.

“What on earth?” Across the room, Tristan shot off the couch he slept on, searching the room for any threats. “What is wrong?” he demanded.

A dream, just a bad dream. The beating sound did not belong to her heartbeat, but the knock coming from the door. “Nothing,” she croaked.

A breath of frustration puffed from his mouth. He stalked to the door and swung it back. Cynthia sauntered in the room with a bright smile and several long garment bags stacked in her arms. Her raven hair in a big, round ballerina bun atop her head, and she wore a simple black floor length gown with long sleeves.

Brianna wiped away the tears with the back of her hand before either of them figured out she had been crying.

Stupid, stupid nightmare
.

“Sorry to wake you both. I thought you’d be up by now.”

“What time is it?” Tristan asked, shutting the door.

“Noon.”

He gasped. “
Dieu
, I overslept.”

“Well, we mustn’t waste a minute. I’m eager to show you what I have. I chose the finest from my collection.”

What a way to start the day. First, she awoke from a bad dream. Now she could not understand what the pretty vampire was so joyous about. Cynthia dropped a bag on the baroque bureau, and withdrew a ball gown made of black taffeta and lace. The gorgeous frock added to her confusion.

“Stand for me, Brianna,” she said, unzipping more garment bags and laying out several dresses over the sofa.

She thrust back the sheet, and treaded toward the vampire who hummed some unknown tune. How Cynthia was so exultant in this dark, gloomy place, she didn’t know.

Her stare met with Tristan. He stood near the closed door, gaze fixed on her with intent; his eyes like windows, revealing how much he craved her. A shiver of excitement ran through her. Not. Excitement. Discomfort. Without doubt, discomfort after that terrible dream.

Something about him seemed different. Grey circles shaded the skin beneath his eyes that were not there yesterday. His cheeks were sunken, and though naturally pale, his skin seemed dull. Even his breathing grew a little heavier. Brianna frowned. Concern shadowed her mind. Could he be ill? As if he obtained any proper rest on that old, stiff sofa.

“Oh, I like this one, too.” Cynthia held another dress against Brianna’s body, scrutinizing her up and down and turning to Tristan. “Which one do you want for tonight?”

Tonight? What event were they to attend for her to wear a dress this extravagant? The Opera?

“That one, I think it suits her complexion.” He chose the one she liked most. Not that she’d admit it. She couldn’t even if she wanted to, because with one last serious stare, he turned and headed into the bathroom.

“Yes, I think he’s right. As for the rest of them,” Cynthia said, placing the black and cream dress over the others, “I’ll leave these for you to wear on other occasions.” She winked, collecting the garment bags.

“What on earth is going on? Why do I need to wear a dress?”

Cynthia’s full lips puckered, and she straightened with the empty bags over her arm. “You mean, he hasn’t told you about tonight?”

Tension knotted her stomach. “Told me what about tonight?”

Cynthia zipped the bags, as though it was a more urgent task then answering the question. “I think you should discuss this with him. I’ll be back later to help you dress.”

She would have told her to wait, but Cynthia rushed out the door and shut it, the scent of her roses and wine perfume lingering behind. Obtaining answers from these vampires was like pulling teeth…or in her case, fangs. Her lips tightened into a thin line.

Now what? Turning to the dress on the sofa, she ran her fingers over the soft corset made of taffeta with delicate tiny black buttons running down the spine. Layer over layer of the full black and cream tulle skirt poured to the floor.

Maybe someone important arrived, or perhaps they had to celebrate some vampire holiday or event.

Like what? Happy Thanks Drinking? Merry Bloodmas?
No, she doubted it. Besides, if someone significant arrived, she didn’t think her attendance would be required.

A low
creak
made her look up to see Tristan exit the bathroom and march toward her. He didn’t smile, nor did his features reveal any emotion. He should wear a mood-ring if he intended on being so hard to read.

His reservation started after he took her to the alcove. Did he finally realise playing nice wasted their time, because she would never change her mind about him? Nonetheless, there hadn’t been any more daft flowers or sweet gestures. A good thing, of course. But then why did an empty hollow loom inside her?

“I ran you a warm bath so you can get ready for tonight’s ball.”

She tampered down the last thought as his words sank in. “A ball?” Why would she need to go to a ball when he’d kept her in this hellish pit since her arrival?

“Not just any ball, but a celebration in honour of our finding one another.”

Anger, red-hot and searing, coursed through her. The heat in her eyes burned like a fever, and the look she gave must have appeared lethal because he ran his tongue over his bottom lip, all of a sudden nervous.

“I’m not going.” She meant for the response to be calm, but the venom in her undertones was clear as crystal.

Green eyes flashed as though she struck him with a cane. Gone was his apprehension, and in its place stood an incensed male. “Like hell you’re not! Step into that bathroom and get ready.”

She was sick to death of his demanding tone. If he thought she would be some old-fashioned, obedient little woman to boss around, he could think again. “Make me,” she spat.

Big mistake. With swift speed, he closed the space between them, tipped her back and scooped her into his arms.

“Tristan! Put me down!” Her continuous kicks and thrusts didn’t faze him. With a steady hold, he carried her to the bathroom. Steam rose from the copper claw-foot slipper tub. Beside the bathtub stood a tall table with a basket of soaps, oils and conditioners. Steps quick, he dumped her in the bath. Her cream, floral dress soaked. Water splashed up her neck, spilling over the rim and across the floor. Some water managed to splash over his black pants, but he didn’t seem to care. He stepped back, his murderous scowl making the scar across his cheek indent further.

“I think it’s about time you get over this little attitude you have,
chérie
. Yes, I’m a vampire. Yes, you come from a family of witches. And yes, the witches and vampires may hate one another again, but the feud doesn’t involve us.”

The air crackled around her. Little zombies ran through her brain, clawing beneath her scalp. She trembled.

Didn't involve them
? Didn't involve them!
“You bastard.” She quivered, unable to hide the emotions stirring through her. “It has everything to do with us!” Fear, hatred, disgust; swam through her system. Her throat clogged with the four words that made her want to run and hide, yet at the same time encouraged her to confront him, fight him. “You killed my sister!”

Did she say that out loud? Damn her emotions!
The four words she didn’t want to reveal exploded on a shaky, furious scream. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he made her life more miserable than what he alleged.

“What?” His mouth floundered open, blinking several times. Had he practiced that look of devastation and horror in the mirror? Perfected it to the point that even he found it believable? He must have, because the shock plastered on his face did not make sense. “Brianna, in my entire existence, I swear to you, I’ve never killed a single soul.”

Her shuddering stopped, her heart stilled. The heat, and sweet labdanum and jasmine scent of the bath was all Tristan. Each inhale consumed her with virulent rage. She raised her fists and pounded the water. “You’re lying.” Her voice broke with the accusation. The heartache that sprouted every time she thought of her sister suffocated her.

“I swear!” He knelt by the bath, clutched the copper rim. His big, round eyes held such desperation, such pleading. “Why would you think I killed your…the witch at the Annual Armistice Celebration, she was your sister.”

She should have said something, but continued to stare, her mind sluggish and confused. Doubt clouded her judgement. Could he be telling the truth?

“Brianna, this is why you wanted me dead,” he said, matter-of-fact, face tensing. “No wonder you hate me, my race. You believed vengeance on me would be the same as getting back at all vampires. Listen to me! Not all vampires are the same. Like everyone else, some choose to do right and some do wrong, but I swear I’m not in the wrong here. I didn’t kill your sister. I know a vampire did and a member of the council has been investigating for the one responsible, but it wasn’t me, I swear.” Wild, anxious eyes searched hers for reassurance.

But she witnessed it. And yet he sounded so definite, so honest?

No. Don’t fall for him
. She could not be duped by his lies, his mind-games. Just like at the Annual Armistice Celebration, when he made that poor excuse to leave her after they had sex. He did so again now. This was nothing but a sick game to amuse him. “Get out.” The words emitted past her lips in a whisper. Her body resumed its shudders and she forced her gaze down at the clear water rather than the sincerity on his face. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed his hands around the rim of the bath. “I said get out.” At last she found her voice.

This time he rose from the floor.

“Get out!” Her fists hit the water again. “Get out!” A sob met with the scream that tore from her throat. Snatching the first thing her blurry gaze found, she aimed it. A bar of soap from the basket, she realised, as the square block flew past his head.

He stared, face sorrowful. “Brianna…please.
Je t'en supplie.
”

She seized another item, and another. “Get out! Just get out!” The bath-ball hit him in the chest and the plastic bottle of oil smacked the wall, its contents splashing along the tiles.

He left the bathroom, shutting the door. Once it clicked in its frame, she drew her knees to her chest and wept. Small hiccups echoed. Tears fell until none remained. No emotion of sadness or anger…just nothing but utter emptiness. The emotional breakdown numbed her system.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, but the water was no longer warm. She gripped the hem of her dress, lifted it over her head, and threw the heavy material onto the tiled surface where it landed with a loud splat. She did the same with her underwear. In the basket at the edge of the bath, she took out another bar of soap and lathered her skin. Soapsuds formed on her palms and she cleansed her face, breathing in the vanilla fragrance.

In the basket of goodies she searched for other useful items. A pack of toothbrushes and toothpaste sat at the bottom. Tearing open the cardboard pack to take out a new brush, she also snatched the bottles of shampoo and conditioner. She washed her hair and brushed her teeth. Tristan might have been waiting outside the bathroom door, or perhaps he left the chamber again, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t stop her from taking her sweet time.

She stepped out of the bath and frowned at the modern shower behind her. All along he had one and she didn’t know. Why put her in this ancient bathtub when there was a perfectly good shower? He must want her to adapt to life in his world? To rub in how she could no longer enjoy the comfort of a modern home. Or perhaps the shower would have been too difficult to place her in and he figured the bath was a much easier way of dumping her.

The cool wetness beneath her feet made her stare down at the mess she made earlier. So much water covered the floor, not to mention the oil.