The tricky part about being kept against your will in a sumptuous mansion in the care of a sexy, mysterious, and infuriating man—sorry, vampire—for two weeks is that when you stop wanting to escape, it’s hard to tell if you have Stockholm Syndrome or if you are genuinely attracted to your reluctant host.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Almost two weeks already… Time had flown. I guess it helped that I spent so much of that time preparing the New Year Day’s charity gala. Now that the party was over, I wasn’t sure how I would occupy my days. Surely, I couldn’t go about spending them as I spent most of the night after the party, which is to say thinking about Morgan, what he’d said, what he hadn’t said, what he’d done and hadn’t done, what I expected from him, and what I was probably silly to hope. Spending my days ruminating about all that couldn’t possibly help anything. It wouldn’t abate my frustration, wouldn’t make me any less attracted to Morgan, and it certainly wouldn’t get me out of the mansion.
Although, I think I mentioned already that getting out wasn’t such a priority anymore. It’s not that I was happy to be trapped, but as long as I was there, as long as Morgan had little choice other than to talk to me, I had a chance to get at least some of my questions answered. Of course, I hadn’t done myself any favors by telling Morgan I would not, in fact, ask him those questions.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, the considerate thing to do, but by morning not so much anymore. What can I say, I’d been physically threatened with death, my mind had been messed with—again—and on top of it I’d been robbed of a much-needed cigarette after only getting a hint of nicotine. Who could think clearly in those conditions?
So, all in all, the first full night of the New Year was spectacularly crappy, and the next morning, even a long shower after sleeping late did little to clear my mind or make me feel human again. I had high hopes that a good, strong cup of coffee would do the trick, and so, still a little bleary-eyed, I yawned my way to the kitchen. As it turned out, the coffee maker did not read my thoughts and start brewing as soon as I set a black mug in place. It took me a good minute of staring at the damn machine to assure myself that, indeed, pressing one of the buttons on top was still necessary.
I had just retrieved the finally-full mug and raised it to my lips when I heard the door swing open behind me. My heart did an odd little jig inside my chest at the thought of Morgan being so close, and it cleared my head a lot better than the coffee did. Except that, when I turned, trying as hard as I could to act nonchalant, it wasn’t Morgan that I found there, but a tall African American man. I’d completely forgotten that Stephen was due to return today.
“Good morning,” he said. Or at least, I assume that’s what he would have said if his mouth hadn’t dropped open when his widening eyes settled on me. All he actually said was “Good,” then after a pause, “What happened? Are you all right?”
Did I say my mind had cleared up? I guess not so much after all, because I had no clue what he was talking about.
“I’m fine,” I said, staring at him. I might also have been staring because, for the first time, I was seeing him out of his butler uniform, wearing faded jeans and a blue shirt, and he looked a lot younger. Certainly not old enough for the threads of silver in his goatee or at his temples. Also not old enough to have a grown daughter and grandchildren, whom he’d been visiting for the past few days.
“Your neck,” he said, raising a hand to his own as though in sympathy. “Who did that to you?”
To tell the truth, I’d forgotten about the bruises on my neck. Or maybe I had wanted to forget. Remembering that small, thin hand around my throat was not a particularly pleasant experience.
“Irene,” I said. “Last night. It looks worse than it is.”
It was his turn to give me a blank look. He came closer and drew a high stool from where they were stored under the kitchen island. Sitting down, he crossed his arms over the counter.
“All right,” he said without the trace of a smile on his lips or in his eyes. “I know I was away, but I haven’t been gone that long. Who’s Irene? And if I may ask, Miss Angelina, what did you do exactly for that person to try to choke you to death?”
Now that, if you ask me, was pretty interesting. From the moment I’d first met him, Stephen had seemed to know everything about his employer and mine. He knew about Morgan and Miss Delilah being vampires, knew she’d compelled me, knew… probably far more than he’d told me, since extracting information from him was like pulling teeth. And now, it seemed, for the first time, I knew more than he did. Was it enough to get a little leverage?
“I can’t believe you don’t know who Irene is,” I said, then hid a grin by taking a sip from my mug. “I thought you knew pretty much everything that happened in this house.”
He sat up straighter suddenly, his pride clearly wounded. When he opened his mouth, I thought he’d tell me something to prove how much more than me he knew about Morgan and everything that went on in the mansion.
Clearly, my attempts at psychological manipulation still needed some work.
He closed his mouth again without another word, then shook his head.
“Tell me or don’t tell me, but don’t play with me, Miss Angelina. We’re all too old for games.”
I was taken by the sudden urge to point out that I wasn’t that old, but I managed to bite back the impulse. Drawing the second stool out from under the counter, I sat across from Stephen.
“Maybe you know her by another name,” I said in between sips. “I didn’t know her name until last night. I only knew her as ‘Mother.’”
When Stephen drew in a sharp breath, I knew he’d heard that name.
“Oh,” he said, very quietly, then said it again, drawing out the sound. “Ooh. Mother. Right. And she’s the one who…”
He gestured toward my neck with two fingers. At my nod, he grimaced.
“I never had the pleasure of meeting the lady myself, but I’ve heard about her. I think you can consider yourself lucky you survived the encounter.”
Luck had nothing to do with it. I owed my life to Morgan, and I knew it. It was one of very few things I knew with complete certainty.
“Who told you about her?” I asked. “Morgan?”
His eyes narrowed fractionally.
“So, he’s ‘Morgan,’ now, is he?” he murmured, and continued more loudly before I had a chance to reply. “No, not Mr. Ward. My grandmother, actually.”
Of all possible answers, this one had not occurred to me. Really not.
“Your grandmother?” I repeated. “So she knew about…” Even now, after all that had happened, I still felt a little silly saying the word aloud. “About vampires?”
“Oh, yes. She worked for ‘Mother’ for many years before she went on into Mr. Ward’s service.”
He stood and walked around the island to get to the coffee maker.
“She could have retired when Mother left New York, but when Mr. Ward offered her to keep her job, along with a nice raise, she was happy to. That’s how she saw three children and four grandchildren through college, all of us debt-free.”
While he spoke, I turned in my seat to watch him. Affection shone through the little smile at the corner of his lips.
“Did you all know about vampires while growing up?” I asked. I could hardly wrap my mind around that notion. What would it be like to know from an early age that there were beings straight out of myth walking the streets with humans?
The coffee maker whistled softly as Stephen brewed himself an espresso in a tiny porcelain cup. He drank it in small sips, leaning back against the counter.
“No, we didn’t. Nana was very discreet. She didn’t speak about work at home.”
“But she told you,” I insisted.
Stephen raised his eyes to the ceiling and let out a sigh.
“Yes, Miss Angelina. She told me. But by then, she was an old lady. And she only told me because I needed to know.”
When he stopped there, I just looked at him, with both my eyebrows raised. I didn’t say anything, but my expression was firmly set on, “You can’t possibly believe I’ll let you stop there when you’ve said that much, so go ahead and finish the story already.”
Another subtle psychological tactic that crashed miserably.
Stephen took another tiny sip.
“You still didn’t tell me what you did for her to leave those marks on your throat.”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure. Morgan said she was making a point, but…”
I finished with a shrug. I could have explained more, but it did seem a little too personal. Although…
An idea ran through me—a name—and it was like a jolt of electricity. I’d told Morgan I wouldn’t ask him, but I hadn’t said I wouldn’t ask anyone else.
“I do know it had something to do with Melody,” I said, looking closely for Stephen’s reaction.
There wasn’t any, other than a cool, “Who?”
“Melody?” I repeated. “I thought… I mean, I was under the impression she was Morgan’s… guest. You said he had guests before. And I know he bought shoes and dresses for someone else.”
A few seconds passed, and I could tell Stephen was trying to figure out whether to answer and, if so, what to say. In the end, he offered a cautious, “Not guests. One guest. Although I don’t think ‘guest’ was really the best word to describe her. And her name was not Melody.”
I’d been so sure… If Melody hadn’t been another of Miss Delilah’s gifts, another of Morgan’s guests, who on Earth could she have been?
“What was she called, then?”
But I had reached the end of Stephen’s patience.
“You know, Miss Angelina, I don’t think it’s up to me to discuss this particular topic with you. I only came in for a quick cup of coffee before I unpack. Is there anything in particular you’d like for lunch?”
And we were back to that. Wonderful.
Did I want to argue with him about my ability to prepare my own meals? I was tired of arguments. And maybe getting on his good side would help. I told him to surprise me, took my still half-full mug out of the kitchen, and started to walk down the hallway. My ballet flats didn’t make a sound on the carpet, but even so I tiptoed to the conference room in which I’d worked side by side with Morgan.
I pushed the door open and peeked in; it was empty, of course. I kept on walking. The door to Morgan’s office was closed. I paused there, listened in, but couldn’t hear a sound. I should have known better, but I went further still, all the way to Morgan’s bedroom, and there, too, I stopped and listened. Silly, I know. I’d stood right there before, quiet as a mouse, and Morgan had still heard my heartbeat through the closed door. Did I want to risk waking him again? Probably not. I turned on my heel, thinking I’d go back to my room.
And leapt about a foot in the air when I found Morgan standing three feet away, his head tilted to one side as he observed me. There might also have been a little shriek of surprise. And plenty of mortification, too. It’s a miracle I didn’t have a heart attack. Or didn’t drop my mug.
“Angelina,” he said, still considering me with the same unreadable expression. “Were you looking for me? Did you need something?”
“I… I didn’t… I mean…”
So, it wasn’t exactly my most coherent answer. What was it about him that could turn my brain to a puddle of goo in two seconds flat? Either that or I managed to antagonize him, also in no more than two seconds. Neither thing was particularly helpful in the long run. I tried again.
“I was just… walking around. I don’t really have much to do.”
All right, so I was lying, I admit it. Yes, I’m sure it’s obvious to you, I had been looking for him. And I’m sure it was obvious to him, too, if he’d watched me stand in front of his bedroom door for a few moments, as I suspected he had. But the thing was, I didn’t really have anything in mind. I didn’t have anything to ask him. Well, I did have a number of questions, but I’d told him I wouldn’t ask them, and I didn’t want to go back on that only a few hours after saying it. I didn’t really need anything, either.
Or maybe some company would have been nice. But could I say that to him? Could I tell him I was lonely? Could I complain that Stephen insisted on seeing me as someone he had to serve rather than someone he could be friendly with—which was a pity, because those few minutes when he’d told me about his grandmother had been pretty interesting? Could I just go to Morgan Ward, millionaire philanthropist and vampire, and tell him ‘I’m bored and you’re attractive, so you should keep me company’?
Of course I couldn’t. But damn if I didn’t want to.
“Is there anything you would like to do?” he asked, and I couldn’t read anything in his tone of voice. “Other than getting out of here. Anything in my power to give you. Just say the word.”
Say the word… but what word? ‘Kiss me’ would have been two, but then it’s a phrase, so it wouldn’t have been cheating, would it? Or how about ‘strip’? That was just one word. I doubt that was what he meant, unfortunately.
“I don’t know,” I said instead. “If I wasn’t stuck in here, I might go out for a run in the park. But you can’t help with that.”
It’d been more than two weeks since I’d had any kind of exercise, and I missed it. My near-death experiences had given my heart a few work-outs, but that didn’t really count as exercise.
“I’m afraid you’re right,” he said. “Anything else you’d be likely to do?”
I shrugged.
“Give a call to my friends and chat for a while.”
I’d kept in contact with them through email, but a couple of them had noticed that I was declining every offer to meet up or go out.
“Don’t you have a cell phone?” he asked. “I thought everyone in your generation did.”
How odd to hear him talk about ‘my generation’ like he was merely part of the previous one rather than part of a group that had been born—and, for the most part, died—four centuries earlier.
“I do have one. But it’s not doing me much good in the drawer of my desk at work.”
I’d had to leave it behind the night of his birthday bash because it didn’t fit in my tiny clutch purse.
“Well, you’ll forgive me for not letting you borrow mine,” he said, and now there was the barest hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. “Once was enough.”
Was he actually teasing me? I didn’t want to be teased. I didn’t want to be toyed with.
“Is there a TV anywhere in here?” I asked, my tone sharper now.
I knew, at the slight grimace that crossed his features, that there wasn’t. And I knew what he’d suggest. I shook my head before he could offer.
“No. Don’t buy one on my account, please. That’d make all of this seem too…”
“Permanent?” he finished for me when I didn’t.
I nodded and looked down into my mug. Better than to look into his eyes and get lost in them. Or in another fantasy. I’d asked him not to play that trick on me again, but would he listen?
“How about books?” he asked after a beat. “Do you enjoy reading?”
“I do. But I finished the book you brought from my place.” Which reminded me, it was overdue by now. Maybe I’d bill the library fines to Miss Delilah.
“Let’s see if we can find something to replace it, then. Will you come with me?”
Would you call me a pervert if I said my mind insisted on interpreting that very innocent question in a not so innocent way? I was blushing when I accompanied him down the hallway. I know he noticed, because I saw him glancing at me twice from the corner of my eye. He didn’t ask what was up with me, and I was grateful, for once, that he was a man of a few words.
I was far less grateful when I remembered what he’d said in our latest—our last, I hoped—shared fantasy: that he liked it when I blushed. And everything else we’d said and done in that fantasy. It didn’t help at all on the blushing front. More like the opposite, in fact.
I tried to get a grip. Now I was annoyed with myself for not being more annoyed with him. Shouldn’t I have been still upset about the trick he’d played on me? He had done nothing to earn my forgiveness, and it only added insult to injury that I couldn’t take a mental step back from my attraction.
Why, yes, my mind was a complete and utter mess, thank you for noticing.
At least, I didn’t feel like I’d self-combust anymore when he opened the door to his office and preceded me inside. I’d never been in there, and I paused for a second, taking in the lavish decor. Red velvet curtains were pulled aside, allowing light to flood the room. An imposing, carved desk took up a large part of the space, and the laptop resting in its center felt entirely out of place. Built-in shelves behind the desk were covered in books. I had time to wonder if that was what Morgan wanted me to see before he called my attention with a quiet, “This way.”
He was standing by an open door to one side of the room. I joined him, and entered what, back in my small home town, could have passed as a local library in its own rights.
The room was larger than my bedroom, maybe as large as my entire suite: bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room all together. At the center, a small table, two armchairs, and a Victorian fainting sofa that looked like a twin of the one Miss Delilah had in her dressing room were arranged together. The room had no windows, but recessed lighting in the ceiling made it feel as bright and comfortable as the office I had just passed through. A thick, richly patterned carpet covered most of the floor, stopping only a few inches from the bookshelves. And when I say bookshelves, what I mean is floor to ceiling wooden shelves covering all four walls, with each shelf packed with books. Only the door opening had been left free—but there were shelves and books above it and up to the ceiling. A three-step stool on the side would allow a reader to reach for the highest shelves.
“Take your pick,” Morgan said. “There’s a little of everything. Nothing very recent, I’m afraid, and there isn’t much organization to speak of, but you should be able to find something of interest.”
Nothing very recent? I could believe that! When I stepped closer to the nearest shelves, all I could see were leather-bound books, some of them looking quite fragile. I read a few titles: classics, all of them. With a careful finger, I drew one off the shelf and opened it to the first page. It was a first edition, autographed by Mark Twain to ‘The Lovely Irene.’
I swallowed hard. My throat seemed to hurt again, all of a sudden. My hand was trembling a little when I put the book back in place.
“Are they all hers?” I asked, proud when my voice didn’t shake.
Morgan, who had pulled a book from a different shelf and opened it halfway, didn’t even look up.
“Hmm?”
“The books. Are they hers? Irene said the Monet painting is hers. And Stephen said the house was hers.”
He finally looked up when I said her name, and a shadow darkened his gaze when it met mine.
“It was,” he said, setting the book back on the shelf. “But not at the moment. Not legally. It’s one of the necessary games we have to play. Every few decades, we have to die, at least on paper, so we can have a new life. New name, new identity. Last time she ‘died,’ she gave me this house. Next time it’s my turn, I’ll give it back to her. Including the paintings. And the books.”
That answered some of my unasked questions about the practicalities of living for centuries.
“So, the books are hers.”
As I said it, I let my eyes travel over the room. Such a large collection… I’d have loved to explore it. But if they were Irene’s, I wasn’t sure I wanted to lay a finger on another one.
“Only some of them,” Morgan said.
His eyes were back on me, but I didn’t meet them. I didn’t care to show him I was afraid of a woman who wasn’t even there.
“Some are mine,” he continued. “Some are Lilah’s. Some…”
When he trailed off, I did look at him. His fingers were brushing along a row of hardbacks that looked considerably newer than Mark Twain’s first edition.
“Yes?” I prodded. “Whose are those?”
He snatched his hand back and turned his back to that shelf, shoving his fists inside his pockets.
“What does it matter?” he said gruffly. “Like I said, take your pick. It’ll at least distract you for a while.”
“It does matter,” I said. “What if she comes back and tries to kill me again, this time because I’ve got my hands on her favorite first edition?”
Without thinking, I raised a hand to my neck. Morgan’s eyes followed my movement.
“I wish I could say she won’t threaten you again,” he said. “To be honest, I have no idea what she’s up to. And the idea is as unpleasant to me as it is to you.”
He’d known her for four centuries, and he couldn’t tell what she was up to? That wasn’t reassuring…
“You’ll save me again?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “If she barges in and…”
A crooked smile twisted his lips.
“Do you really have to ask?”
Part of me knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. But that was the same part that had a hard time differentiating between reality and fantasy, so I wasn’t sure I could trust myself, let alone him.
My throat felt tight when I said, “Every meaningful conversation you and I have had only took place in my head. So yes, I do have to ask.”
When he took a step toward me, my heart jumped, the way it always did whenever he was close. He reached out with a slow hand and brushed light fingertips to my neck, so delicately that I hardly felt the touch.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I would save you. Every time.”
Our eyes met, and this time, I didn’t feel like I was falling into those dark depths. This time, they actually looked inviting. They were as dark as ever, but they felt… I don’t know. Warm.
I never pretended I made sense.
In that moment, I wanted something I couldn’t quite name. To touch him as gently, as intimately as he was touching me, maybe. Or to kiss him. To step closer to him, and wrap his arms around me, and stay there until the chill brought up by the thought of Irene went away. Or maybe to tell him that the marks on my skin were not his fault, that they’d fade, and that he had no reason to look as guilty as he did right now.
Before I could decide what to do, he dropped his hand and shuffled away, turning back to the shelves. This time, he withdrew a slim paperback and flipped through it.
“And if you want to be technical,” he said, his voice suddenly aloof, “you were in my head, not I in yours.”
It was the second time he said something to that effect. The first time, we’d been arguing and I hadn’t picked up on it. This time, I couldn’t let it pass.
“What does that mean?”
He closed the book, picked up another one, and answered without looking up at me.
“It means I can’t read your mind. I couldn’t… I don’t know. Make you see the inside of your parents’ house, because I don’t know what it looks like. What I do is pull you inside my mind. Show you things and places I know.”
I tried to wrap my mind around that. It turned what I’d believed on its head. I had thought he poked into my head, my memories, my feelings, but it seemed to be the opposite. Did that mean he’d showed me who he really was—his soul, for lack of a better word? Or was it who he saw himself as, who he wanted to be? And how did the whole thing work?
“So… you could show me what things were like four-hundred years ago?” I asked, suddenly intrigued.
And of course, it wasn’t just a random number. He’d been a vampire for that long. I’m not sure why my mind went straight to what things had been like when he’d still been human, but it did.
Morgan’s answer was a simple, quiet, “No.”
I was a little taken aback. Had I misunderstood how this all worked?
“Why not?”
He set the book back on the shelf and turned to the door.
“Because you made me promise not to do this again.” On the threshold, before he stepped into his office, he glanced back at me. His expression was inscrutable. “Not even if you begged.”
The way he said that word, ‘begged’… It shouldn’t have sent heat running through me, should it? It was just a word. It shouldn’t have made my insides pulse with need. It shouldn’t have made me want him, here and now. The Victorian fainting chair looked comfortable enough. It would certainly be more comfortable than the dining-room table.
Did I go after Morgan? I sure did. But not to jump his bones like I wanted to.
He was playing with me. He could deny it for a hundred years, I still wouldn’t believe that he didn’t know exactly how he’d made me feel when he said that particular word in that particular tone of voice. Once again, he was doing the hot-and-cold routine on me, and I’d had enough of that. I could have accepted his desire to remain distant and out of reach if he was that much in denial. But I refused to let him play with my emotions without playing right back.
I took a few deep breaths to steady myself, set my empty mug on a chair, and went to the door. I leaned against the doorjamb; maybe I was trying to find some much-needed support.
“Did you figure it out yet?” I asked, and my voice was much colder than it had been moments ago. “Why you did the whole mind-trip thing again?”
Seated at his desk in front of his laptop, he looked up and gave me a pained look.
“Can we… not talk about this anymore?”
I can’t say his answer surprised me. Not talking was his default mode, wasn’t it? Too bad for him, I wasn’t in an accommodating mood.
“Can we not talk about how I almost offered you my blood?” I said with my sweetest smile. “How we had sex on the dining-room table? Or maybe how I told you I—”
“Yes,” he cut in sharply, dark, cold eyes boring into me. “Can we not talk about all that?”
“I guess it’d be easier if we didn’t, huh?”
Keeping my smile in place was one of the hardest things I’d ever done but, oh, was it worth it to see Morgan’s icy exterior crack, just a little.
“Are you going to fling that word at me every time we have a conversation?” he asked, and his voice shook a little.
“Maybe.”
I watched him work for a few seconds—but was he working, or was it pretend? His fingers were still on the keyboard, and his eyes, although directed at the screen, were not moving the way they would if he was reading. Another mask. Why did he always think he had to hide? Why couldn’t he just be himself?
“You knew it was a fantasy, didn’t you?” I asked. “I mean, when we’re in your mind, you still know what’s going on, right? You know it’s going to end at some point.”
He continued to stare at the screen.
“Yes.”
“Did it occur to you at all that I’d be mad?”
“Yes.”
“And you still let me go through with declaring my love.” More than the sex-that-wasn’t-really-sex, this was where things had gone one step too far for me. The one thing I wouldn’t get over easily. “You told yourself it wasn’t real, and you let it happen. But it was real for me. Did that occur to you?”
With a brusque gesture, he slammed the laptop shut. His gaze, when it found mine, was darker, deeper than the coldest ocean trench.
“I apologized,” he said in a very low voice. “I don’t know what else you want from me.”
Did he ever?
Wait, no, I’m being unfair. In the past two weeks, he’d proved that he did have a fairly developed insight. I’d watched him with my parents, in particular, and I knew he could figure out people and see what made them tick. I’d guess that four centuries’ worth of dealing with people would help with understanding them. The problem was only when it came to us. To him and me. To what I felt and what I thought—hoped, believed—he might be feeling, too. On those things, he was completely clueless.
“I want to understand,” I said, each word slow and precise, “what was going through your mind when I started saying it and you didn’t stop me like you stopped me when I was about to offer you my blood.”
He considered me for a long moment, long enough that I wondered if he’d bother answering at all. And then…
“And if I tell you that, you’ll stop talking about it?”
Probably not, but that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“I’ll try,” I said, which wasn’t exactly a lie.
He pressed his hands flat on either side of the laptop and pushed himself up with a deep sigh. He looked tired, more so than I’d ever seen him before. He walked around the desk and stopped three feet away from me. Much too far.
“I was thinking that it’d been a long time since anyone said those words to me.” He paused, his eyes flicking away from me for a second before coming back. “And that it’d be nice to hear them, even if it wasn’t real.”
“But it was real!” I protested.
He shook his head. “You don’t know me, Angelina. You don’t know anything about me. How could you love me?”
Those words…
I was about to tell you his words caused me pain, but that’s not it. Not pain. It’s more than that.
The first time I had a migraine, I was just eleven. After trying regular pain killers and realizing that it wasn’t working, my mother took me to the doctor. And the doctor, upon finding nothing wrong with me, decided that I was only pretending because I didn’t feel like going to school. There I was, crying my eyes out, telling this man my skull felt like someone was prying it open with their bare fingers, and he was telling me that, no, really, I didn’t hurt that much, I was just imagining it. In the end, we found someone who believed me, but I’ll always remember how I felt when that man said he didn’t believe me. It was like he was denying my very existence: like I was standing in front of him and still he couldn’t see me or hear me.
When Morgan said those words to me, it was the same thing all over again.
Before I could say anything, though, before I could yell at him or slap him or kiss him or anything else, he left the office. Left me behind. Once again.
*