The Vampire Queen's Servant (2 page)

His broad shoulder twitched, a
corner of his mouth curving up. "There's no need to use compulsion, my
lady. I'm Jacob Green. Thomas sent me."

At that shocking statement, he
slowly raised his hand, making it obvious he intended no threat. From one of
the display tables, he picked up a small envelope embellished like a suitor's
calling card, complete with a red wax seal and a curl of gold ribbon.

Emotion flooded her chest at the
sight of it. For a moment she couldn't speak, could do nothing but look at
something Thomas had touched, recently.

Jacob stepped forward. Most men
were taller than she was, and he was no exception at a little over six feet.
"He died at peace, with great regard and affection for you until the
end."

Taking the envelope from his
hand, she felt the warmth of his skin even though she made sure their fingers
did not touch. Somehow she felt reassured by that heat, by him standing so
close. Not improperly, just close enough to feel his support, an unspoken offer
of assistance. That was what it felt like to have a human servant, to go to
ground during daylight and know he was nearby. Watching over her.

She shrugged off the unexpected
thought. Turning the envelope over and over in her hands, she suppressed the
sudden need to crush it as if she could absorb the essence of the man who had
sent it, feel the way she'd felt when Thomas had been with her.
Not
completely alone
.

He'd been her companion for a
hundred and fifty years. Then, after all they'd been through together, she'd
abandoned him to die alone.

Aware of her audience, she got a
grip on herself and broke open the seal.

As she bent her head over the
note, Jacob fought the urge to reach out to her, touch the rippling satin of
her straight black hair. Thomas had shown him sketches, a portrait. He'd
described her with the emotional eloquence only a dying man could conjure, but
he'd admitted nothing would come close to meeting Lady Elyssa Amaterasu Yamato
Wentworth in person.

He'd pictured her taller, likely
because Thomas had told him vivid, heart-stopping tales of her battles with
other vampires during the early territory wars. But she'd been born a vampire,
and her Asian mother had apparently given her the petite build. Lady Lyssa was
considered one of the most powerful and ancient vampires still living, fully in
command of her faculties and abilities, not a common occurrence for any vampire
over five hundred, much less one over one thousand years old.

Even while cursing the memory of
her dead husband, Rex, Thomas had attributed a portion of her uncanny aptitude
for survival to him. An aptitude that had grown exponentially in the last fifty
years due to the lessons Rex had taught as well as inflicted upon her.

She looked barely out of
girlhood, a young woman in her early twenties. That impression vanished the
moment Jacob looked into her eyes, a startling jade green rimmed with a solid
black line around the irises. Generation upon generation of women were there,
layered like rock strata. The energy of it emanated from her, mingling with her
other-than-human power to influence and destroy. Despite that, the man in him
noticed the bow of her lips, touched and glossed in burgundy, the way her soft
black sweater clung to her upper body.

Her skirt was layers of gauze in
hues of gold and green, reminiscent of a fairy. That, as well as the eyes,
reminded him her father had been a Fey lord. She was a slim woman with
perfectly shaped small breasts and nicely curving hips. Her slender legs teased
him, a glimpse of knee or calf appearing between the points of the skirt as she
moved.

Stirring and magnetic, she
riveted his attention just by existing. She'd had that effect on him the very
first time he'd seen her, over two years ago. But what made the strongest
impression on him now was the flash of naked emotion in her eyes when she took
the envelope from his hands.

My gracious lady,
please accept this last offering from your humble servant. Something I know you
will not go out and obtain for yourself. I give you Jacob. You and he need one
another, I promise you. He will serve you well, far better than a feeble,
bookish monk.

Lyssa was cognizant of Jacob's
intent study as she read, as well as every motion he made. She was used to
scrutiny by humans when she chose to walk among them, but his regard was
different. Far more personal, as if he was memorizing every detail of her
appearance and expressions.

He'd moved a step closer, a
gesture of comfort, but he respected. her privacy by facing her so he looked
beyond her shoulder, not down at her note. The heat of his body shimmered over
her skin like the dangerous brush of sunlight.

Damn you, Thomas.

"Do you know what's in
this?" She gestured with it. He stood so close the ribbon under the wax
seal fluttered against his pectoral, the light covering of hair on his chest.
It made her fingers itch to stroke. To curl in and tug.

He gazed down at her with those
clear and steady blue eyes. "I know it was my introduction. Thomas said
I'd need it. But I didn't read it."

The seal had been unbroken,
applied with Thomas's particular method for the times she'd needed to be
certain information was not compromised.

"I want my manicure.
Where's Max?" She straightened, not backing away. When she tilted her
head, she noted his attention was distracted by the proximity of her lips. She
felt his gaze there like the teasing caress of a tongue, and had to quell the
urge to moisten them.
Try something improper, Sir Knight, and you'll regret
it
.

But would
she
?. She
pushed the sly voice away. She was used to men being overwhelmingly attracted
to her. It was the vampire allure. But she liked the look of this man. Of
course, she'd intended to cap off her night by finding a dinner with similar
specifications. Only this one far exceeded those specifications, tempting her
to skip the whole spa experience and take him home for several days. She'd
chain him spread-eagle on her bed and bite, scratch and suckle to her heart's
content. While she wasn't willing to immediately capitulate to Thomas's
recommendation of this man as a servant, she had his word she could trust him.
It made her imaginings grow even more dangerously attractive.

"Max is fine, my lady.
Sleeping quite deeply at his apartment, the aftereffect of his usual Chinese
takeout… with a little bit of sleep aid added. I'll perform your manicure as
well as a pedicure. If you'll permit it."

Add to that he'd somehow
convinced Martin, the security guard, that he was an approved substitute for
the evening. Not an easy feat. Clearing her throat, she managed to sweep a
scornful glance over him. Enjoyed the journey immensely. "What training
have you had to give me a manicure?"

"Thomas taught me."

His lips curved in that half
smile again. Reassurance or humor she didn't know, but the reaction of her body
took her by surprise. A hard shudder just below the level of muscle, like a
simmering in her blood no human eye could see. Also unexpected was the fact he
registered it. The smile disappeared. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled
back the curtain dividing the waiting area from the private rooms of the salon.
"Please let me attend to you, my lady."

She creased the fold of the
note, frowning. Glanced down at the nail that had no polish.

Yes, her wounds healed quickly.
Unfortunately, despite the myth that vampires were invincible, she could and
did have bad hair days just like anyone else. One could use vampire glamour to
make humans think they were seeing perfection, but it didn't work on other
vampires without an exceptional level of effort. Unable to see her own face,
she missed having a human servant to ensure she'd done her hair and makeup
properly. To do quick fixes on her nails between full manicures. To help her
dress and bathe.

The fact of the matter was,
whether or not a reflection was needed, she liked being attended. Thomas had
teased her about it, once he'd known her well enough to know when she was in
the mood to be teased. He would have known this was
not
one of those
moments.

The monk had relied heavily on
her regard for him and her sentiment about his passing. It did not mollify her
that he'd been right on both counts. While she knew she was taking petty
revenge on the man who should not be the target of her ire, she couldn't stop
herself.

"We shall see," she
said at last, sweeping past him.

As she moved past, he touched
the small of her back, a guiding hand. It almost brought Lyssa to a freezing
halt. When her gaze flickered up to his profile, she realized the gesture
hadn't been calculated. Whatever Thomas had taught him of the deference she
demanded was intertwined with an automatic instinct to project protective body
language toward a woman. It didn't displease her, but it startled her, for she
intimidated most men enough they'd never dare contact without invitation. He'd
already moved into her personal space as if the boundary did not apply to him.
Apparently it didn't, for nothing he'd done yet had bothered her. In fact, the
way she hadn't reacted negatively to his nearness was the only thing that
did
bother her.

The sameness about her preferred
room served to soothe her—the occasional chair and the mosaic tile table beside
it, topped with an array of tools. The low stool pulled close for the
manicurist. Warmth emanated from the gas log fire, which she required
regardless of the season because she chilled easily. Its dim light was the
room's only illumination. She glanced at the antique pine china cabinet that
held more manicure supplies and the bronze pedestal sink, making sure nothing
was out of order, before she focused on her favorite feature of the room. The
two bare walls had life-sized female nudes drawn in simple black brushstrokes.
Titillating,. dreamy impressions that aroused yet relaxed the viewer, one
depicted the curve of a woman's back and hip, a fall of gem-sparkled hair as
she reclined. On the other wall the woman sat on the point of her bottom, legs
drawn up and crossed against her body, hair again sweeping the ground.

Lyssa loved the small room.
Understated opulence, set off by the images that were more about substance than
form, as if the artist had captured the simplest rendition of a woman's quiet
but complicated soul.

"My lady." Jacob extended
his hand. "I believe you usually prefer to remove your shoes?"

Nonplussed, she took his hand as
he went to one knee. Guiding her hand to his shoulder to balance her, he bent
and slid off one heeled slipper, then the other. Absorbing the sensation of his
fingers gliding along her ankle bone and her instep, she studied the shape and
feel of his shoulder under her hand. Solid bone and muscle, telling her he was
disciplined about what he put into his body, as well as how he conditioned it.
When he took her hand, his pulse had begun to race beneath her touch. An urge
swept over her to trail her fingers under his hair, feel the individual strands
slide through them, see the way they looked tangled in her grasp.

I give you Jacob
. Thomas's note, offering her a man whose motives were as yet
unknown to her.

"Stay on your knees."

He stilled, his hand hovering
over her right foot as he remained on one knee, his elbow propped on it.

Wondering at herself, for she
hadn't indulged such a romantic notion in a long time, she moved her hand to
his ear, tracing the shape of it. Then she curled her fingers into his hair as
she'd desired.

If she exercised her enjoyment
of such things with her prey it could be dangerous, giving a sharp edge to her
hunger. While she was experienced enough to control it, it was disruptive, an
appetite that only grew stronger as she fed. Her mind said she was going to
discard Thomas's offer as a presumption, tolerated only because it was now made
beyond the grave. The sensation drifting through her fingers and up her arm was
saying something else entirely.

The wide expanse of his
shoulders had tensed, the smooth cords of muscle displayed well. While his hand
Was now curled above her foot, one forefinger was extended, the scoundrel
daring to brush the top of her foot in a very light caress.

Her gaze followed the line of
his spine, marking each vertebra, noting the shallow dip in his lower back. Her
brow furrowed at the crisscrossing of scars. Lash marks, deep ones that would
still be sensitive, probably a month or two old at most. There was the tempting
swell of his buttocks well defined by the hose. Because of the low ride of the
rolled waistband, she could see the hint of the indentation between his
buttocks. She wanted to place her finger in that shallow valley, caress the tip
of his spine there.

She wondered if his cock was
swelling to even greater proportions against the crotch, testing the limits of
the fabric. Since she could smell his arousal, she suspected it was, his
reaction wetting the tip of his broad head. Her tongue touched her lip as she
imagined it.