Prologue
Standing at the helm of his eighty-foot Ferretti, Tomás Villagrande stared out at the vast ocean, his thoughts turned inward. He had been a vampire for a very long time. Some believed he had been turned by Dracula, but Tomás had been made long before the notorious count arrived on the scene. Ah, yes, if the truth were to be known, it was Tomás who had bequeathed the Dark Trick to the world’s most infamous vampire.
Tomás grinned at the memory. Vlad Dracula had been born to be a vampire. Tomás had turned many people in his time, but none had embraced the Dark Gift as fully or as eagerly as the Transylvanian warlord.
Tomás blew out a sigh. In his long existence, he had traveled the world countless times, seen and done all there was to see and do. And now, after more than fifteen hundred years of existence, he was bored with life as he knew it.
As a mortal man, he had been born to be a warrior, though he had always had a love for the sea. When he wasn’t at war, he could be found out on the ocean. But it seemed there was always another war, and another.
When he turned vampire, being a warrior became a whole new adventure, and, for a time, he had put his love of the ocean behind him. Impervious to death, he had stalked the night, instilling terror in the hearts of his enemies even as he turned the land red with their blood—what blood he didn’t consume. He grinned into the darkness. Ah, in those days, he had glutted himself on the warm, rich red elixir, sated himself until he could hold no more. Drank until he was drunk with it, and in so doing, he became stronger than any other vampire who walked the face of the earth.
Gradually, ground warfare had lost its appeal, and he had gone to sea where, once again, he instilled terror into the hearts of his enemies. Sailing under a black pirate flag, he had terrorized English ports and ships, robbing wealthy Englishmen of their riches and their lives until that, too, lost its allure, and he had come to the New World seeking peace.
Tomás drew in a deep breath, his nostrils filling with the scent of surf and sand. He’d had enough of peace. It was time to fight again, time to rally the ranks of the Undead and spread a little terror among the masses.
His lip curled with pleasure at the mere idea. It was time to stir things up, to remind mankind that there really were monsters hiding under the bed and in the closet.
Chapter 1
Reclining on a chaise longue on the balcony of his penthouse, a snifter of imported red wine in one hand, Rhys Costain stared out over the city of Los Angeles and contemplated the events of the last few months.
Mariah, the treacherous vampiress who had offered a sizable reward for his head, had been destroyed, sent to hell by Rhys’s own hand.
Erik Delacourt, the only being—man or vampire—Rhys had ever called friend, had moved to Boston with his new bride, the delectable Daisy O’Donnell. It was an odd match, Rhys mused, the vampire and the Blood Thief. Former Blood Thief, he amended, since she had given up that line of work when Delacourt turned her.
Ah, Daisy, Rhys thought. A tasty morsel, indeed. But she was a female, and, as a sex, they were more treacherous than the male and not to be trusted, a truth he had learned firsthand centuries ago.
He rarely let himself think of the fair Josette, but tonight, feeling maudlin and a little lonely, he unlocked the gates of the past and stepped inside.
He had met Josette Rousseau in the summer of 1575 in Warwickshire. He remembered the year well because Robert Dudley had thrown a lavish party for Queen Elizabeth I at his castle in Kenilworth. The gathering had lasted three weeks. Of course, Rhys hadn’t been invited. Commoners, whether vampire or mortal, didn’t mingle with royalty, but everyone, highborn or low, talked about the gala event for weeks afterward.
Josette had been a young widow and a woman of means, with an estate in the country and a small townhouse in London. Rhys had been a young vampire back then, bold and impetuous. One look at Josette’s clear porcelain skin and sparkling blue eyes and he had been hopelessly smitten. He could have mesmerized her and made her want him, but it hadn’t been necessary. The attraction between them had been instantaneous and impossible to ignore.
He had met her on a Saturday night and taken her to his bed the following Friday. Because he had been young and proud, he had refused to move into her lavish estate. Instead, he had insisted they meet at his flat, humble as it was. Fearing that he might hurt her, or worse, turn her in a moment of weakness, he had been careful to feed each night before she came to him.
He had never known a woman like her, as elegant and proud as a queen when they were with the ton, as wanton as any common courtesan when they were alone.
Several months passed, and Rhys had been happier than he had ever been, either as a mortal man or a vampire, so in love that he no longer cared that she was wealthy, or that he was far beneath her socially. So in love that he had decided to put their differences aside and ask her to marry him. It was a bold move for a man whose mother had been a prostitute, a man who had once stolen from the rich to keep body and soul together.
He’d had marriage on his mind the night he went, unexpected and unannounced, to her estate. It was a night he would never forget. Expecting to find his lady love in her bedroom dressing for dinner, he had floated up to her second-floor window, thinking how surprised she would be to see him at such an early hour.
The surprise had been his. He had found Josette in bed with a young duke, and in that instant, reality had come rushing in, and with it the certainty that she had never loved him. She had merely been using him for her own amusement. The lady and the commoner. Fueled by rage and a sense of betrayal beyond words, he had killed the young man. Deaf to Josette’s cries for forgiveness, unmoved by her incoherent pleas for mercy, Rhys had let her see him for the monster that he was. Her terror had driven him over the edge. Taking her in his embrace, he had buried his fangs in her throat and taken what he had denied himself for so long. Took it all, until she lay limp and unmoving in his arms. Horrified by what he had done, he fled the house.
In the four hundred and thirty-five years since that night, he had never let himself care for another woman. He had seduced them. He had made love to them. He drank from them, but he had guarded his heart like a fortress. Four hundred and thirty-five years, he mused, sipping his wine. It was a long time to be alone and unloved.
He thought again of Delacourt and his Daisy. Despite the fact that Delacourt was a vampire and Daisy had been a blood thief when they met, the two of them had fallen in love.
Rhys grinned inwardly. Knowing Daisy, it was hard to believe that she had once crept up on sleeping vampires, stolen a pint of their blood, and sold it on the Internet. But then, looks could be deceiving.
Rhys ran a hand through his hair. If Delacourt and Daisy could overcome obstacles like that, maybe it was time for him to try again.
Rhys snorted softly. What the hell was he thinking? If he had learned anything in the last five hundred and twelve years, it was never to make the same mistake twice.
Chapter 2
Megan DeLacey sighed when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after midnight. Two hours until closing and, except for the owner, Shore’s was empty. She didn’t really like working nights and, if the pay and the perks hadn’t been so good, she would have gone looking for a new job long ago.
Shore’s was an exclusive men’s shop that catered to wealthy clients—mainly eccentric rock stars and theater and movie people who preferred to shop late at night, thereby avoiding those who were less rich and famous.
Robert Parker had taken his knowledge of menswear and his friendship with a well-known actor and parlayed that combination into a tidy little business. Shore’s opened at ten A.M. and closed at four P.M. to accommodate those who preferred to shop during the day, and then reopened its doors at eight P.M. and stayed open until two in the morning. Megan and Mr. Parker worked the late shift.
Parker stocked only the finest men’s apparel—Shore’s most inexpensive shirt sold for $375. Megan thought it was an outrageous price to pay for a short-sleeved cotton shirt, but then, she had been raised by a frugal mother and a father who was frequently out of work.
Parker also kept an assortment of spirits and black caviar on hand for his exclusive customers, as well as imported chocolates for the ladies. The chocolates were one of the perks Megan enjoyed the most, as Mr. Parker let her take home whatever was left at the end of the week.
Megan had worked at Shore’s for just over a year, and, in that time, she had become a favorite of several of Mr. Parker’s clients, including a well-known Hollywood producer, an Oscar-winning actor, and a famous country singer, all of whom had become regulars and insisted that she cater to their needs. In return, they showered her with expensive gifts—jewelry, tickets to gala movie premieres, passes to concerts. She had felt guilty at first, accepting such costly gifts, but Mr. Parker had laughed at her reluctance.
“Honey, to guys like these, a hundred bucks, heck, even a thousand, doesn’t mean a thing.”
Looking at it like that soothed her conscience. Mr. Parker was right. To an actor making fifteen or twenty million a picture, a few hundred dollars was just chump change.
A handful of her regular customers wanted more from her than her fashion expertise, but she refused to mix business with pleasure. One of her customers, an up-and-coming rock star, proposed to her every time he came into the store. He was cute and rich and very appealing, and she might have at least dated him except for one thing—Drexel was only nineteen years old.
Of course, there were nights like tonight when the store was empty. Hopefully, Mr. Parker would decide to close early since his last appointment had left an hour ago and her midnight appointment had called earlier to say he had missed his flight from New York and wouldn’t be able to make it.
Megan was rearranging a display of imported French silk ties when a young man entered the store, bringing a blast of wind and a rush of cold air in with him. One look, and she knew he had never been in the store before, just as she knew she would never forget him.
A quick glance showed that his tan slacks were Armani, his boots were Gucci, and his dark brown leather jacket was top of the line Hugo Boss. It was said that clothes made the man, but this man didn’t need any help. He looked young, in his early twenties, but he exuded the confidence and authority of a much older man. His dark blond hair was short, though it had a slightly shaggy look, as if he were letting it grow out.
