sharp pain traveled up her shin. Luke’s fault: he’d chosen ridiculously dainty heels. Yes, blame him. Blame was easier, safe.
She stumbled and Luke caught her before she fell. “Hold onto me. Keep moving.” He guided her along a brick wall, carrying most of her weight.
A screech of tires ripped across pavement several hundred feet behind them. The black sedan which had followed them pulled into the entrance of the narrow street.
Savannah tensed, panic choking her chest. “What’s going on?” she whispered, scared to give away their position.
“I apologize, pet. You are going to have to trust me.” Pushing her into the shadows, Luke pulled her body close, rested his mouth on her shoulder. “I am going to kiss...your neck.”
* * * *
Luke would not have thought it possible, but Savannah stiffened even further along the length of him. Her blood, hot and sweet, pumped mere millimeters away from his fangs. Lips against skin.
“Savannah.” His fangs descended and it took his complete strength to put several inches between them. Christ almighty, he did not need this.
She gripped his shoulders, pulled him close. “I can hear them. They’re coming down the street.” She did not tremble like a coward but stood her ground. Her petite, curvy form fit beneath him, soft and inviting.
Luke inhaled deeply and savored her scent of orange blossoms. He hungered for more than the taste of her blood. “Stay close.” His voice even sounded strained to him, rough.
“Please hold me,” she said.
The air between them trembled. He lifted his hands, hovering over her back and shoulders. Bloody hell.
The woman was frightened, and he thought to possess her in every way. “Do not worry, pet.” He could not possibly promise her safety. For once, though, a need to try, even if it meant protecting her against him surged.
Savannah nodded and leaned forward, full lips parted.
He moved closer, kissed the delicate skin of her neck. It tasted sweet, seducing him to take his exploration a step further. As the black sedan drove past, his gut demanded he pull back, but temptation pushed him past reason. The enzymes in his saliva heightened the sensitivity of her skin, preparing it for the pleasure of his bite. She would not notice until too late.
Responding to his ministrations, she groaned and shifted beneath him, causing a thrill to move through the pit of his stomach. He curled back his upper lip, brushed a fang along her skin.
“Luke.”
He stilled as his name echoed in the night. Christ, he needed to feed. He did not want to take her yet. Reluctant and confused, he pulled away.
Color flooded her cheeks. “Are they are gone?”
“Yes.” He kept his gaze trained on her, willing her to face him and see him for what he was. Had she felt something between them? Had he? “Are you able to walk the rest of the way? It is not far.”
Savannah observed her surroundings but avoided looking at him directly. “Yes, I’m fine. Just tell me where to go. Where are we, anyway?”
“We are near Piazza del Popolo, heading north within Rome.” He placed a hand on the small of her back, intending only to guide her. “We will go to the end of the street and turn right. Francesca’s hotel is on the left hand side.”
As if his touch burned her, she turned and moved forward with speed, but favored her right leg.
When had she hurt herself? “What the devil did you do to your leg?” Lifting her left arm around his shoulders, he wrapped his right arm around her waist and supported her weight.
He furrowed his brows, and she exhaled loudly. “What did I do? These damn shoes, that’s what. And I didn’t choose them, you did. They’re one size too big. Do you know how difficult it is to walk around trying to look dignified in uncomfortable shoes?”
Luke opened then closed his mouth. Over two hundred years on this earth and he had not the foggiest idea as to what she referred. “Your shoes?”
“Yes, shoes you gave me to put on.”
He would have to let Broderick know he’d muddled up her shoe size. Or perhaps, he’d misread the conversion. “Tomorrow we can order more shoes if necessary. For now, those must do.”
“Fine excuse, when you’re not wearing them.” She pushed away and hobbled at a more rapid pace.
Calmness settled within him even as his body missed her nearness. If she possessed enough of her faculties to scold him, her injury must be slight. And she had obviously forgotten their chase.
The rumbling in his chest grew into a full-fledged laugh. She was a sight—gorgeous even in distress—with her black curls in disarray and her lips stained pomegranate.
“Please, wait.” He approached and scooped her into his arms. “I must say, you are nothing like what I expected.”
“Obviously. Neither are you anything like I expected. Now, put me down. I’m okay to walk.”
“I understood you the first time, but I have to disagree, based on your pace. My intention is to reach the hotel before tomorrow night. Francesca should have something to address any injury you have sustained.”
She yawned, finally allowing exhaustion to claim her. “Good. Something to look forward to.” She stopped struggling and settled in his arms, laying her head on his shoulder. “It’s dark now. Reminds me how much I hate night.”
7
Do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us; it is a gift.
—Dante Alighieri
Luke glanced up and down the dimly lit cobblestone street. The night air clung to his face and clothing. He approached an alcove beneath a painted, hanging sign which read Pensione di Francesca. He knocked on the wooden door before him. Almost immediately, it swung wide, revealing a slight woman with salt and pepper hair, big espresso-colored eyes and small red lips.
“Dante.” Francesca smiled and opened her arms wide in greeting. “Buonanotte. For what reason do I have this pleasure?” The sides of her eyes crinkled like accordions as she rose up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Who is this?” As if only now noticing he carried Savannah, she reached into one of the pockets of her navy skirt and removed a pair of spectacles. “More charity, Dante mio?”
“No, signora.” He dipped his head, entering her small hotel lobby. “She fell asleep in my arms. It has been a trying night. Would you mind if I let her sleep a bit?”
The older woman shook her head. “Of course not. You may lay her on the bed in my room, as it is closest.” She turned and led him to a cozy room with cream colored walls and a double-sized bed covered with a burnt orange quilt. Paintings and relics of the Virgin Mary adorned the walls. He had to credit Francesca’s taste. Each painting was startlingly unique with bold colors and a distinct essence of style.
He
