Carnal Thirst

Chapter Two

Maggie woke from deep sleep completely disoriented. Her face pressed into the pillow, and she turned her head, wincing at the stiffness in her shoulders and neck. Something had awakened her—she'd heard a sound, something alien and unfamiliar. She held her breath, listening for the noise that had roused her, lying still as she tried to remember where she was.

This pillow wasn't hers. It smelled old, musty with age.

Of course, that wasn't much different from her own ancient pillows, but these were made of feathers instead of polyfiber filling. This definitely wasn't her house, which meant she definitely wasn't alone.

She rolled onto her back, biting her lip as her sore back connected with the bed. She touched the crook of her neck and found a small, square bandage.

It was all real. It had really happened. Had the bastard kidnapped her? Since she wasn't home, it was as good an assumption as any.

After listening for several minutes, she decided she was alone in the room. She felt like if she hadn't been there would have been a reaction anyway when she rolled over. Still, she thought it was better to err on the side of caution, and she scanned the room as far as she could see before she finally sat up.

To her relief, she saw that she really was alone.

The room was devoid of furniture save for the wrought iron bed. Directly opposite it stood two windows with heavy brocaded drapes. On the wall that housed the headboard of the bed were two doors. The right bedroom wall held another door, and on the wall opposite to that was a fireplace with a built-in mantel. The fire within it was the only light in the room.

It was an old room, evidenced by the hardwood floors and authentic plaster walls and ceiling. She had to be inside a Victorian era house, perhaps one even older.

From the twelve foot ceiling, a bare bulb hung from a chain in the center of the room, dangling a pull cord.

Old wiring too.

Maggie got up and pulled the cord. Light spilled down, weak, leaving the edges of the room still dim.

Seeing that her assessment of the room was accurate, Maggie decided to check the door closest to her.

It wasn't locked. She wasn't certain whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. It might mean nothing threatening at all. It could mean that whoever had brought her had only done so to help her.

On the other hand, it seemed to her that most anyone who might have found her would've taken her to a hospital. But how likely was it that her attacker would have taken her anywhere, much less patched her up?

After several minutes of indecision, she finally decided to err once again on the side of caution. Turning away from the door, she moved as quietly as possible to the first window. When she pulled the drapes back, she discovered that the window had been boarded over tighter than a nun's butt. Light squeezed through the minute cracks where putty had separated from the wood.

Maggie squinted painfully at the bright pinpricks, her heart skipping several beats as she let the curtains fall back in place. As much as she would've liked to believe that there was an unthreatening explanation for it, it seemed that she had to accept that she'd been imprisoned in the room. Unwilling to accept that assessment when she had already tested the door and found it unlocked, she decided to check the other window. It too was boarded up.

The unlocked door was either a trap, or the person who had left it unlocked had made certain that the rest of the building was secure. Regardless, she wasn't about to just sit and wait for whoever had taken her prisoner to come in and do whatever he wanted to her.

Maggie searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon. To her surprise, she found several objects that would make surprisingly good weapons. There were a pair of brass candlesticks on top of the mantel and near the fire, a poker leaned against the wall. Deciding she liked the looks of the poker best, because she really didn't want to have to get close enough to hit him with the candlestick, she took the poker and moved toward the door again.

Pressing her ear against the panel, she held her rasping breath, trying to listen above the rampaging rhythm of her heart. After listening intently for some time, she finally decided to open the door and have a look.

Turning the knob very slowly, she peered into the room—and discovered it was a bathroom.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” she whispered. She looked around the bedroom. There were two other doors.

She was betting one of them was a god damned closet.

The narrow one had to be the closet.

Tiptoeing across the room, she pressed her ear to the other door. Still tremendously unsettled by her first wrong guess, Maggie only listened at that door for a few moments. Slowly, she turned the knob.

It was locked.

"Shit!"

"If you'll tell me what you're looking for, perhaps I can help."

The deep male voice directly behind her nearly gave Maggie heart failure. Acting purely on instinct, she whirled, swinging the poker for all she was worth—and buried it into the wall on her other side. Plaster burst from the impact like snow.

Stunned, she merely stared at the poker for several moments, wondering how she could have possibly missed him. That thought made her look around quickly.

He was lounging very casually against the bedpost.

Maggie gaped at him.

Even if she'd been blind, she would've sensed the danger surrounding him. Lethal practically oozed from his pores. It was hard to explain with certainty why she felt it, but he looked like the last person in the world to play good Samaritan.

He wore a black, peasant-style shirt open to the middle of his chest—the opening revealing a pale olive expanse of sculpted pectorals free of hair except for the thin beginnings of a happy trail that disappeared beneath the fabric before she could follow it. Leather pants hugged every inch of his legs and groin, showing off his package like prime rib in the meat department. He wore ass kicking boots, laced up to the knee with overlay buckles meant for tearing the hide off anyone dumb enough to brush against them.

He had an odd ensemble going on. Part tortured poet, part bad ass biker—all succulent man.

Leather tended to lend itself to a “bad” image, but this guy went way beyond that. Inky black hair framed his face, falling around his shoulders in thick tendrils almost indistinguishable from his clothing. His face was the most arresting part of him, however, and what set her heart to pounding uncontrollably.

It wasn't the square jaw or high cheekbones that were testament to high testosterone. It wasn't the wickedly black eyebrows arched sardonically as she continued to stare at him. It was his eyes. They were the eyes of a predator—so dark a gray they could easily be mistaken for black, and with the smallest tilt to them, making them appear as exotic as an Egyptian painting. They were intensely scrutinizing without seeming to be, lazy and hooded, like a cat just before striking.

Calling him dangerous would be an understatement.

"How did you do that?” she gasped when her brain finally seized on the warning and began functioning again.

"Which ‘that’ are you referring to?” he asked, throwing her off balance. He didn't act in the least threatened by her weapon.

She stared at him. She'd been thinking about the fact that he'd managed to move so quickly out of the way when she'd swung at his head. The remark, however, reminded her that she'd thoroughly checked the room.

"How did you get in the room?"

"I walked."

Maggie gritted her teeth and jerked the poker out of the wall. “Look, I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you had in mind when you brought me here, but I'd like to leave now."

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, I can't allow that. You've been bitten."

Her eyes widened. “You son of a bitch! You're the one that attacked me, aren't you?"

He smiled faintly. “Not I."

She wanted to wipe that smug look off his face with the poker, but she didn't want to get that close to him. If he was the one who had attacked her, he had thrown her around as if she was some shrimpy ninety pound weakling. “Why is it that I don't believe you?"

Again, he shrugged, as if it was a matter of indifference to him one way or the other.

She studied him for several moments when he didn't respond. “You can't keep me a prisoner here."

He looked at her with interest. “Why not?"

She gaped at him. What the hell kind of conversation was this to be having with a maybe/maybe not killer? “What do you mean, why not? Because you can't, that's why not! People will be looking for me. I have friends! They'll have the cops down on your ass so fast you won't know what hit you."

He looked at her intently for several moments. “You have no close friends and no relatives. Even if you did, it would be of no consequence to me. Nor, might I add, does the thought of having cops on my ass particularly distress me."

"How do you know I don't have any friends or family?” she demanded indignantly.

He pushed away from the bed abruptly. Before she could even blink, he was standing practically nose to nose with her. She felt her jaw sag in disbelief. He lifted a hand and very lightly traced it along her temple.

"Because it is here."

Maggie swallowed with an effort. “What are you, a fucking mind reader or something?"

"No, I'm a fucking vampire,” he said, smiling thinly.

He wasn't sure why he'd brought her here. It was not physical attraction that had drawn his attention, though after he'd cleaned her, he saw that she was very appealing and womanly—reminiscent of women born in his own day. Physically, she was not what his “type” had become over the long years. He preferred small, slender women, but then, it seemed modern society had shifted to that preference decades ago and he along with it.

He'd tended to her for three days while she struggled to stay alive. Bathed the feverish sweat from her brow, changed the dressing on her wound, and cleaned the blood from her skin. He'd seen every inch of her body in repose.

It had almost been like tending a child, except she resembled no youth, and her appearance was such that he had no trouble distinguishing her from one so unsuitable for his carnal appetites.

She was buxom and tall, leggy. Her bare legs had entranced him while she writhed in bed. He'd had to sponge bathe her, touching every inch of skin, and he was surprised at how smooth she was, how hairless and fine her flesh. She was strong and muscled, but the hard edges of an average weighted woman did not exist on her. Softness appealed to him immensely. Women should be soft, malleable to a man's rough body.

It had taken a supreme effort of will not to explore her body as she lay helpless, but he found it distasteful to take advantage of a woman recovering from death and going through the change.

It amused him to know that he was not so much a monster as he'd supposed he was. Had he been, he could have fucked her as much as he pleased and left her to die when he was through. He'd known of others who had, and the act disgusted him more so now than it had before.

She was awake now. And the set of her jaw and stance, the fire in her eyes and her threat to take his head off both amused him and made his groin tighten uncomfortably.

This was no fleeting desire. She promised full, lasting passion, if only he could unleash it. Now he could press her and release the lust that had built inside him. He'd been long without a woman of any kind. The vampiresses could not move him as short lived humans could, vibrant with life and passion. He'd expected to have a human of his own by now, but the woman he'd found most appealing had been taken from him before he could complete binding her. He'd come upon Maggie after his fight with Raoul over that woman. How odd that losing her had led him to such a welcome surprise.

The resistance of her mind to his probing fascinated him. He marveled at her strength of will, perhaps more so because she could resist him even near death. Once he'd broken through, the memories that lay inside allowed him to explore the facets of her personality, to know the depression she'd sunk in to after her mother's death and the loss of her business.

Strangely, it moved him.

He'd not been moved emotionally in far too long, nor challenged in centuries, and he found himself eagerly anticipating it.

Arching a brow, he smiled as her eyes widened. She seemed caught between watching his face and staring at the bulge in his pants. She found him as appealing as he found her.

That was good. It would make the journey so much more pleasurable.

He could touch her any number of ways by bending her mind to control her sight, allowing him to move unseen around her. While parlor tricks were amusing among the inexperienced and unwary, he craved making her respond to him in a wholly new way.

She was shocked by his words, disbelief etched on her face. No one believed in vampires until they were bit on the neck....

His smile deepened as he brought his hand up to touch her face. In that moment, she tried to kill him.

Maggie had lost all desire to leave the room. She couldn't contain the shock on her face. She had thought the man was a serial killer or something. Then he had claimed to be a vampire, and she decided he was just plain insane. The problem with that comforting theory—and she would never have believed that would be a comforting theory before—was that the words were no sooner out of his mouth, than she swung the poker at him again for all she was worth.

Once again, she didn't manage to do anything except dig another whole in the wall. While she was trying to pry it loose, he skated a cool finger over one cheek that sent chills down her back.

"Such fire,” he murmured huskily. “I believe I'm going to enjoy this far more than I had anticipated. You will join me downstairs to dine, chere?"

He promptly vanished. Just vanished.

One moment he was there, and the next ... he was gone.

She'd never come as close to fainting in her entire life. She didn't even want to check the door anymore.

She scurried back to the bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Lying flat, she squeezed her eyes shut. I'm going to wake up. I'm going to wake up . She repeated the mantra until she calmed down enough so that her heart wouldn't beat her to death.

Idly, she wondered if fear induced pulse racing would burn as many calories as an elliptical machine.

She'd never felt more fatigued in all her life. This had to be good for something more than shaving years off her life.

When she finally nerved herself and pulled the covers down, she discovered she was in the same room and hadn't magically transported to her bedroom. The only difference was the door was now standing open.

Did he seriously think she'd eat with him? He'd attacked her, hadn't he? Maybe not. It didn't make much sense that he would reign himself in now, after she'd tried to brain him twice. She'd certainly provoked him enough if he was going to be violent. Then again, he had abducted her and wouldn't let her leave.

Maggie looked down at herself. Her clothes looked bad enough she wouldn't want her at the dinner table. Her jeans were torn at the knee, probably from when she'd fallen to the pavement. There were also brown patches along one hip. Her black knit shirt was ripped at the neck, making the neckline drape almost to her cleavage. They were clean though. That realization put her in a cold sweat. She felt sick to her stomach. Surely he hadn't undressed her and done her laundry? The thought was just too horrible—and unbelievable—to contemplate.

Maggie looked around the room for her sandals, but her shoes were nowhere to be found, and she mourned their loss. It would be impossible to get replacements at this time of the year.

She finally decided she'd stalled long enough. There was nothing for it. She had to leave here somehow.

Retrieving her poker—not that she thought it would do her much good since she'd only managed to hit the wall so far—Maggie exited the room, padding down the hallway on the dusty floor. Her skin crawled at that dirty feeling between her toes, but she ignored it. Almost immediately she spotted the grand, curved staircase leading to the lowest floor.

The front door stood at the bottom of the stairs like a beacon.

Maggie sailed down the stairs. She was halfway down them when she saw the man step into the foyer.

Escape was practically in her grasp, however. She tensed all over, envisioning the scenario in her mind.

Of leaping over the banister, landing sure-footedly on the floor below, and dashing for the door—all while he merely gaped at her in stunned amazement at her agility, too surprised by her speed to block her path.

Unfortunately, she'd never been terribly coordinated. She thought it was much more likely that she'd hang her foot in the banister and land on her face. And even if she managed to scramble to her feet and he was laughing too hard to move as quickly as he did before, she thought her limp would probably slow her down too much for her to make her getaway.

It was probably locked anyway, she thought glumly.

After her brief hesitation, while she tested the scenario in her mind, she continued down the stairs, pretending it hadn't occurred to her to make a break for the door.

A knowledgeable smile curled his lips. Asshole . He knew what had been running through her mind. She had to learn better control over her expressions and her bad habit of letting every thought show on it.

"Leave the poker by the stairs,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and gestured at her with one forefinger, pointing to where she should leave it.

Maggie thought about clobbering him with it, but she wasn't certain he'd stand still this time anymore than he had the last. Heaving a reluctant sigh, she leaned her weapon against the wall and stepped off the last step, moving toward him.

He bowed when she reached him, lifting her hand and kissing the back in the sort of quaint, old-fashioned chivalry that might have seemed ridiculous if anyone else had done it—or made her feel ridiculous. Instead, it made him appear indescribably suave, and it sent a delicious quiver through her belly.

Resolutely, she ignored it as he turned and walked her down the hallway toward an arched opening at the other end.

It was a formal dining room. And although, like the rest of the house, she knew that it was sadly aged, the tapers burning in the center of the table lent a mellow, golden glow that softened the harshness of the room's aging.

The tablecloth was pristine and set with elegant china and crystal. It seemed so incongruous, given the setting and situation. Nevertheless, she took her seat without comment when he pulled her chair out for her.

The entire situation took on a sort of bizarre, surrealistic edge as he removed the covers from the dishes on the table, displaying food that was as elegantly beautiful as the table setting. Try though she might to imagine him slaving over a hot stove, the image simply did not fit the man sitting across from her.

She didn't know why, but she'd assumed the two of them were alone in the house. Now she wondered if there was an army of servants lurking in the dark. That made no sense either, however. Surely if he had kidnapped her, he wouldn't have that many people that he could trust to aid him in his abduction?

She didn't bother to question him about it. She knew she couldn't trust anything he told her anyway.

Instead, she forced a smile. “The food looks delicious."

He nodded at the compliment and served her plate. She wasn't actually hungry. She was way too terrified to be hungry, but she thought that the best way to get him to let down his guard long enough for her to have a chance to escape would be to behave as if she accepted the situation.

When he'd served her plate, therefore, she smiled up at him again and thanked him. The first bite she took brought tears to her eyes. Not because the food was inedible, but because she immediately sank her teeth into her tongue. Her tongue went numb at the wound and throbbed in her mouth like a live thing.

The taste of blood filled her mouth.

With an effort, she chewed the food and swallowed anyway, feeling a little sick. It was her blood, of course, and she shouldn't have found it disgusting. She'd always had an aversion to blood though. She wanted desperately to spit the food out, but good manners precluded it, and even in her current situation, especially with that very elegant gentleman sitting across from her—kidnapper or not—she just couldn't bring herself to do anything that crude. Wouldn't her mama be proud to know that she could act like a lady?

"Is there a problem with the meat, chere?” he asked, arching a brow.

She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked at him. “Actually,” she said, blushing, “I bit my tongue."

"That would be the fangs, chere. They can be inconvenient. And it does take some time to grow accustomed to them."

She stared at him, but he didn't appear to be making a joke. “I don't have fangs,” she said.

"Didn't,” he corrected.

"Don't,” she said, feeling a little childish. “I'm not a dog."

"Certainly not. You're a vampire."