it—”
“Let me see,” she whispered frantically, surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. She peeled his fingers back, and they both looked down. Zane frowned. Her clothes were torn, but her wounds were closed. Healed.
He sat back on his heels, confused, and he saw the same confusion in Vivianne’s eyes as she sat up. She ripped her blouse open, twisting to look at the wound that had been on her side. Nothing. No marks, no scars, not even a smear of blood. Zane reached out, stunned, and slid his hand over the skin, trying to find the wound he’d seen.
Her skin was flawless, smooth and golden. Warm. She wore a lacy sage-green bra, her breasts swelling above the decorative cups. Her breath hitched, and he raised his gaze to hers. He stroked her again, watching her eyes darken with awareness. She didn’t brush his hand away. She didn’t move away from his touch. She did tremble, though, and this time, it wasn’t from shock, judging by the heat in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, his eyes on hers, until he could gently press his lips to the silky smooth skin of her shoulder. She swallowed, a soft gulp drawing his lips up in a smile as he kissed her again, this time closer to her collarbone. She moved her head to the side, her hair sliding back over her shoulder.
Her scent hit him, low in his groin, tugging at him, hardening him. Cinnamon, musk and a zing of ginger. His lycan nose peeled back the layers of her natural fragrance, delighting in the full body and spicy tones, and his body throbbed. He slid one arm around her slender waist, the other sliding up the creamy column of her throat to delve into the dark curls that had tempted him for so long.
He lifted his gaze to her eyes. She was watching him, and she raised a dark eyebrow.
“What are you waiting for?” her voice was low, husky, and his beast inside perked up, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he’d regained awareness in that hospital room.
His lips curved. “Patience, princess.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
* * *
Vivianne closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, giving herself up to the sensation. His tongue slid inside her mouth, and her breath caught in her chest. She could feel her breasts swelling, rising for his attention. His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer, and she sighed when her breasts met the muscular wall of his chest.
He growled, his torso vibrating against hers, and she moaned at the exquisite sensation, her arms sliding up over his broad shoulders to twine around his neck. He leaned closer, and her mouth opened further as his tongue and lips played with hers.
Her heart thudded in her chest, her nipples tightening, and she scraped her nails lightly down his neck. He made a deep, low rumble of pleasure, his hand tugging her head back, and she arched her back. Her nipples were hard little nubs beneath the lace of her bra, a delicious friction sensitizing them further as his chest moved against hers. He slanted his mouth at a different angle, and the kiss got even better.
His hands roamed over her back, smoothing, scraping, smoothing, and she writhed to his rhythm, her own hands skimming the defined rope of muscles across his shoulders, delving into his hair. It was long enough for her to curl her fingers in and pull, and she decided she liked scruffy, after all, especially when his head tilted back, and she could trail her lips down his neck, feel his pulse on her tongue, smell that enticing male fragrance that was cedarwood and spice. He dipped his head again, and it became a playful tussle of nip and lick between them.
His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and Vivianne’s eyelids flew open.
She was flat on her back, the bedcovers twisted, and Zane hovered above her, panting. His eyes mirrored her shock, and she swallowed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.
Something dark and battered flared in his eyes, and suddenly he was gone, the midnight tendrils of inky fog swirling around her.
She sat up in the bed and stared out into her empty bedroom, blinking rapidly in the gloom. Had she—had she just dreamed that? Or had it actually happened?
* * *
Zane strolled along the line of shelves, scanning the spines of the several hundred books as though he gave a crap.
Whatever, as long as he didn’t have to look directly at Vivianne.
You shouldn’t be here.
Even the memory of the words still stung. No, he shouldn’t be here, watching her sleep, kissing her in her dreams—how the hell had that happened?—or just floating along like a shadow in her life.
She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, and he was secretly relieved. If they didn’t talk about it, they could pretend it didn’t happen, right?
“Tell me, what is this about a campaign?” Vivianne asked quietly. He wasn’t going to look. He wasn’t going to look. Zane glanced over his shoulder. Okay, so he looked. Her expression was remote, cool. He shook his head. She was talking to her father, and they both sat there as though facing off against adversaries. Vampire families were about as warm and cuddly as a porcupine on crack. His gaze drifted over her.
Today she wore her hair in a single braid that twisted from one temple, around the back of her head and over the opposite shoulder. Pretty. She wore a gray silk blouse that billowed and rippled with her movements, and a slim-line skirt that followed the shape of those sexy hips of hers. He frowned. He should be strung up. He should rip his fangs from his jaw and hand them in, skin that pelt of his and burn it, because after what he’d done last night he should resign from the lycan breed before he shamed them any further.
Kissing a damn vampire, even in a dream, was not the done thing.
“Well, it’s more of a bill, and you must keep this confidential,” Vincent Marchetta stated, his expression just as stern as Vivianne’s. Zane wrinkled his nose. The older man wore the stink of death, his dark eyes cold and soulless. A true vampire who made Zane’s skin crawl.
Vivianne sighed. “Dad, of course—”
“Don’t ‘of course’ me,” Vincent snapped. “I don’t take anything for granted anymore, not since your brother’s defection.”
Vivianne frowned. “Lucien didn’t ‘defect.’ You kidnapped his wife—”
“She wasn’t his wife at the time,” her father corrected, his tone harsh. “And don’t you dare defend him—or that woman. We kept you alive, Vivianne. The only reason you’re here is because of the trouble and risk your family went to in order to save your life.”
Zane’s eyebrows rose. Wow, that was harsh, coming from your old man. He could see what the patriarch was doing. He was trying to guilt his daughter into doing what he wanted. He glanced at Vivianne. It was like looking at a mask. No emotion. Strange. He guessed you could only guilt someone into doing something if they had the capacity to feel...guilt. He’d only ever seen her completely shut down her reactions with this man, but right at this moment, he wondered just exactly what Vivianne was capable of feeling. The woman sitting in the chair, her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, was nothing like the warm, vibrant, voluptuous vixen he’d held in his arms—or dreamed he’d held in his arms. He tilted his head. Had he dreamed it? Or had it happened for real? Like, as real as it could get with a ghost? If it was just a dream, had he dreamed
