his best effort to dismiss her from his thoughts hadn’t worked. He’d not intended to go to her in sleep. Shock washed over him in steady, rising ripples. She’d entered his dream, called on him for his attentions. Just like that, with as little as a flick of her painted fingernails, she’d commanded him to appear. Impossible. Only Julia had ever been able to lure him to her in such a way.
Unlikely, improbable, but no matter what he thought about it, the dream had happened. And he’d gone to her in his alter form, as the beast, a thing unknown before. The girl had been terrified. Her sheer fear told him she’d no clue what she’d done to call him. Unlike Julia, Miss Armstrong unwittingly dabbled in dangerous waters. Yet even Julia hadn’t dared to beckon the beast he hid within. He rose from the bed, walked into the shower and stood beneath it.
But he’d scented desire, power, need, and the unmistakable lure of a female he’d obey. He could scent her still. Fragrant, sweet, beckoning him to take her, fill her, follow her every command. Running his fingers through his hair, he fought to forget the dream, and flipped the shower on. He had to be honest with himself, if with no one else. Miss Armstrong was the sexiest woman he’d met in decades. No one, not even Julia, had offered him the hope of so much.
He poured some shampoo and lathered his hair. Centuries had passed since anyone had aroused the need to mate as Miss Armstrong did, or as Julia once had. Closing his eyes to find her again, he leaned his head against the shower wall while the hot water coursed over him.
Her smooth rounded buttocks...her skin, glistening, satiny and pressed tight against him, the aroma of female, ripe and lush, raised the once-familiar sweet sensation. The delicate beauty of her body had teased at him as she’d slipped away in her fear, and he’d weaved and undulated, slid around her to grab another dose of the exquisite torture. Soft smoothness he dared to lick, cool yet warm, and the scent of her had filled his senses to the breaking point. All of it flooded back through him, and the shackles of control broke. A guttural cry tore from him and orgasm took him.
Once his breathing slowed, hanging his head, he let the water pour over him, cleanse him, and tried to still the image of her in his mind. The pleasure she brought, unlike so many of his past experiences, wasn’t from the enticement of her fear, nor his temporary moon-stoked lust for blood.
No, it was her sheer force of will. How? He draped a towel around his waist, rubbed another over his hair. Who and what was the delicious Miss Armstrong? He could eat her. What will did she have to overcome his?
Perhaps she was another Julia.
Impossible. Maybe he’d simply gotten lazy. Or desperate.
He dressed, his skin so sensitized the shirt rasped at his nipples. Holy gods, what had this wench done to him?
Down in the kitchen, he made coffee and sipped as he sat at the massive table. When he set his cup on the white scrubbed board, the sound echoed. There were two possible routes he could go in dealing with Miss Armstrong. Leave, and wait until no scent of her called to him anymore. Alternately, he could follow where she led. Dreams would do; he’d no need for this to become flesh on flesh. Their dream world offered the perfect venue, where he could take up her challenge in his own form. He’d enough control to make sure he didn’t return to her as the beast, surely. The old impossible question nagged, tore, clawed at him and as ever, any answers could not be found.
From his earliest youth, he’d known he was a being apart. How many had he watched grow, age, wither and die? Only once had he given in to the emotional call, and... The disaster of his love for Julia reached up like a hard hand and slapped his face. Did he need anything more to tell him he must live this way? He would be alone for the millennia it took for his spirit to succumb to the rules of the universe in which he had the misfortune to live. Downing the rest of the coffee, he considered whether he ought to control the need flowing so hot in his blood with medication. He’d done it before, and the opium had freed him from much of the pain.
No. He paced out of the kitchen, headed from habit up to his study. Something about this sudden invasion, from so intriguing a woman, made him want to go all the way, find out how this beautiful jewel among the flotsam of humanity had come to him. Could she be the savior he’d once dreamed Julia was? What might happen, when he dreamed tonight?
At his desk, he pulled open the console of his computer and saw the e-mail from Miss S. Armstrong. S, what did it stand for? Sam? Sarah? Sexy? Screw me? He’d not be surprised at any or all of those.
As he’d asked, she’d suggested three possible dates for meetings regarding the film shoot, which she’d scheduled for the beginning of November. At least, he’d made his point. He studied the screen. The desire to see her again in the flesh made his mouth dry. Denial proved a mere folly, useless. She’d invaded his world. Now there must be some reckoning between them.
He hit Reply and wrote Miss S. Armstrong an invitation for a second visit on either Tuesday or Thursday next week, larding it with the suggestion she might wish to view more of the grounds which could be suitable for the film shoot, on a better, drier day. Moreover, he’d like to discuss... What would he like to discuss? The way her eyes gleamed and called him, how she aroused his body with her luscious fragrant appeal. How he’d love to... His erection throbbed.
No. Concentrate on the damn email. He’d like to give her the opportunity of viewing both the dining room, which she hadn’t seen on her last visit, and the small private chapel.
Yours... He shook his head. Best regards... Not enough. He needed something to pique her interest, lure her to him, and deleted the humdrum phrase.
You will like what you see, he wrote instead.
The words flew from his fingers, and before he could stop himself, he hit Send. The bait was laid. To still the need for more of her, he took a long walk in the damp gardens.
Today was one of those unusual days when the moon, a pale washed-out splotch, hovered in the sky some way from the sun. The wretched thing. How far was it from full? At least another two weeks would pass before he let the beast take all his control from him. Then he’d chain himself in the darkest recess of the cellar, or give in to the sheer lust for blood, and kill. Over the years, he’d tried both methods and satisfaction came only in one way.
If she came to the house next week, it was well before his savage need would make him the monster in truth.
The housekeeper had left his lunch in the study, as he usually ate there. On his return, he found his appetite for food gone. He checked his email. Nothing from her, and he thumped his fist on the roll top desk.
The email program running in the background, he continued his other research activities. Hope shot through him with the irritating little bling announcing an email delivered. He opened it immediately. Not from Miss Armstrong.
“Bloody hell, woman! Answer your damn mail.”
He closed the message from the local garden center whose staff replaced the floral displays at the front of his house twice each year. Right now, he didn’t care if the winter display had a focus on red or orange.
By seven, he’d given up, refused the meal Mrs. Tyson offered before she left for the night, and stared at a Carrara marble statue on his computer screen without really seeing it. When Miss S. Armstrong’s reply came, he answered it and agreed Tuesday next week would be fine. Best Regards,
Magnus Johansson.
Only as he looked at the small box claiming sent mail, did he realize she’d responded. He’d won himself another day and a chance
