to have started again. Or perhaps it was that the fountain had been turned off or had run out of water, and now the sounds of the jaunty three-step dance tune more easily reached her ears.
The dull roar of people laughing and talking filled the air, filtering through the music as the two of them stood in the dark corner. Her hands settled on his chest, his covering her upper arms, something stretching and shimmering between them.
Voss drew in a rough breath and pulled away. “Thank the fates,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Releasing Angelica, he fought to steady his voice, to keep himself from sounding breathless. And to keep his damned fangs from showing.
He wasn’t certain whom to call on for assistance, and in response, the Mark on his shoulder twinged with pain.
Good. Pain. Distraction.
His incisors retracted and he drew in a breath that sounded embarrassingly ragged.
“For what?” Angelica’s eyes were glazed and her swollen, crinkled lips parted. She’d sagged against him and he was certain she had no idea how lazy and beckoning she sounded.
With one side of the gown pushed half off her shoulder and her head collapsed back against the wall, she looked as if she’d been ravaged. He wondered what had kept him from doing just that.
One moment, he was ready to drag the glove from her arm and sink his teeth in—or, hell, right into her bared shoulder, in that soft hollow above her collarbone. Her sweet, ivory skin had been there, beneath his mouth, smooth and warm, sweet and salty against his tongue, her pulse racing madly against his lips…and the next moment, he was pulling away, setting her back from him.
Just as well he hadn’t. This wasn’t the place. She’d scream, there’d be a mess, he’d be found out.
The fact that Corvindale would not be amused was the least of the considerations. Dimitri could sleep on a wooden stake for all Voss cared.
It took Voss a moment to realize that Angelica was waiting for him to explain, looking up at him with shadowed, bedroom eyes. A delicious expanse of creamy bosom and throat was exposed by the off-kilter V of her Greek gown. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on everything else around them: the scent of gardenias attached to the hanging vines, the nearby roar of laughter and the spritely tune from the string quintet. The painful ache at the back of his shoulder and the dull throb of his cock. The pressure of his insistent fangs.
Everything but her.
He tried not to breathe too deeply, not to look at the smooth white skin in front of him. He fought to block out the lingering scent of blood—not hers, but it didn’t matter—and to keep his eyes from glowing. Too much.
“That bloody squeaking chair,” he said, having collected himself. And he stepped back.
She opened her eyes fully and looked at him. “Pardon me?” she said. “I don’t understand.”
He resisted the urge to reach over and adjust the shoulder of her gown. “One of the musicians is sitting in a chair that squeaks. I think it’s the violist, for his movement seems to match the squeak.” That, in part, had been what had dragged him from the depths of red heat and need. That incessant squeaking.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she told him, and cocked her head as if to listen.
He managed a bemused smile. “Most people don’t. It’s an affliction of mine. One of many, in fact.” He couldn’t wait to introduce her to some of the others. Voss held his smile in check.
“Indeed?” she replied, and the look she gave him—an unlikely combination of innocence and sass—made him want to grab her again.
But before he could respond, she said something that turned his body to ice. “Your eyes,” she said, looking at him closely.
“They were almost glowing, a moment ago. It must be a trick of the light, because his were, too.”
He forgot to be reticent and polite. “What?
She shrank back a bit, but not as much as she could have. “The man from outside. His eyes looked like they were glowing or burning. It must have been the moon—”
A rush of comprehension blasted through him and he grabbed her by the arms.
Instinctively Voss turned, reversing their positions so he could see beyond the hanging vines. People were dancing, talking, laughing. The damned chair was still squeaking, the pianist fumbled a note.… “What exactly did he do to you?” he demanded as he scanned the room, looking for anything or anyone that upset his instincts.
A vampire had no way to sense or otherwise identify the presence of another vampire unless one came face- to-face with him, and even then, it was more of a
There were ways, of course…subtle comments that might be made, or a certain way of looking at one to test the waters, so to speak. It was almost like being able to tell when a man preferred another man in his bed, instead of the sweet bundle of female curves.
Angelica’s eyes had widened, all trace of sensuality and teasing gone. Now she looked frightened, and by damn, she should be. Voss flattened his lips, an ugly gnawing in his belly.
“He was insistent on going into the dark part of the garden, and when I hesitated, he pulled my mask down so I couldn’t see…then he picked me up—”
A shrill scream from beyond the alcove drew their attention and Voss reacted immediately, shoving Angelica back into the corner and positioning himself in front of her.
How could he have been so distracted? By the stones of hell, he should have taken Angelica out of there as soon as he found her instead of dallying on the dance floor and in the corner. But the blood…the smell had scattered his mind, dangerously diverting him.
Voss could see little beyond the vines, but he didn’t dare move them for fear of drawing attention. From between velvety white gardenia petals, he watched a faction gather on what had been the dance floor. Five of them, large and imposing. Eyes burning red. And then he smelled it. Blood. Saw it soaking the front of one of them, thanks to Angelica’s shears.
Tension settled over Voss and he looked around for a weapon. The gun tucked into the deep pocket of his cloak would do nothing against the vampires. There was nothing else in the corner he could utilize for a weapon, either. He’d been a damned fool to not think Moldavi would move so quickly.
The crowd had edged back from the five menacing figures, but Voss knew they couldn’t go far. The doors would be guarded by more Dracule or at least their footmen armed with rifles and bayonets. Everyone was trapped…until the vampires got what—or who—they’d come for. And finished feeding.
One of the vampires swept out a powerful arm and grabbed a Roman emperor, jerking him to the center of the room. When the man attempted to fight back, the Dracule twisted his fist into the throat of his victim’s shirt and cloak and yanked tightly, lifting him off the floor as the man struggled to kick free.
And where the hell was Corvindale? Voss couldn’t handle five of Moldavi’s men plus their footmen,
The vampire slammed his prisoner to the floor and shoved a heeled boot over the man’s windpipe, pinning him on the smooth wooden surface as he choked and gasped. No one moved. No one made a sound.
Then Angelica shifted behind him, just a little shuddering breath. Voss slammed a hand back, whirling to face her. “Hush,” he breathed into her ear. “Be still.”
“That’s him,” she whispered, and Voss saw two Dracule shift toward their hiding place, listening.
He put his face close to hers and lifted a finger, pressing it sharply against his lips in a fierce command of
“Miss Woodmore.” The strained silence was broken by a low, commanding voice. “Show yourself.” Angelica jolted behind Voss, and he was vaguely aware that she’d clutched his arm tightly. He closed his fingers over her
