|
An Excerpt From: BLOOD OF THE RAVEN
© Copyright
ANYA BAST, 2004.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.
“He can make you forget your own name in bed.”
Fate snapped out of her reverie and blinked at her
acquaintance, Cynthia Hamilton. “Excuse me?”
“That man you were just staring at.” Cynthia took a sip of
her white wine and glanced up to the balcony that overlooked the crowded
room of charity ball goers. A tall, broad-shouldered man with glossy black
hair stood by the balustrade, watching the milling crowd below him.
Fate had noticed him earlier, since he wasn’t a man
easily missed. That black hair fell to the middle of his back, framing a
ferociously masculine face with full, sensual lips and dark blue eyes. The
shadow of a beard graced his strong, square jaw. The length of his hair
didn’t make him seem any less male. Fate doubted anything could weaken the
powerful masculine energy the man emanated even from across a crowded room.
His tall, well-built body was clothed in an expensive
looking tux. The women did a double take when they noticed him. Interested
sexual heat emanated from their designer gown-clad, workout-sculpted
bodies.
Aside from his gorgeousness, Fate had noticed him
earlier because he seemed familiar to her for some reason, and also simply
because he was a man a woman did not glance past. But if she’d been staring
at him now, she hadn’t been aware of it. Too lost to other thoughts.
“That’s Gabriel Letourneau,” said Cynthia.
Fate nearly choked on the sip of martini she’d taken. “That’s
Gabriel Letourneau?” She knew the name well. He was the keeper of the
Vampiric territory in which Newville fell, and was a member of the Council
of the Embraced. Notoriously private and reclusive, it wasn’t often he
ventured into the public light.
“Yes.” Cynthia leaned in, her dark red hair falling
loose over her shoulders, and enveloped Fate in a cloud of Eau d’Issey.
Behind them, the crowd seemed to heave and
sigh. “That man fucks like he
does business, ruthless, intense and all-consumed by the project…at hand.”
Cynthia laughed softly at her own little joke. “He’s an absolute god
in bed.”
Fate eased back away from Cynthia and drained her
martini. That was a bit too much information. Her companion must be a
little tipsy. “Really.”
“Mmmm hmm. He’s an Embraced, but I never saw any fangs
during the night we spent together.” She drained her glass, and then
shrugged. “Mores the pity.”
Fate’s gaze flicked back to the man. The ranks of the
fully Embraced Vampir mostly kept to themselves except for the few
narcissists that sought the admiration of the humans who worshipped them.
For the most part the Council of the Embraced “handled” those few
aberrations with their own force of peacekeepers. The attention seekers
disappeared as soon as they surfaced to give a controversial interview or
start their own short-lived rock band. The Embraced were feared, and
therefore hated, by many activist humans. As the leaders of their kind, the
keepers were the very few that were publicly known to be Vampir. They took
most of the heat from those who feared the Embraced and most of the danger,
too.
Fate pulled the olive off the plastic spear in her
martini glass with her teeth and bit into the salty meat as she studied
him. The man in question turned his head and looked at her…right at
her. Fate straightened, her eyes widening. His gaze took her in from the
top of her head to her feet, seeming to undress and caress her as it slowly
slid down her body. Those sultry, full lips of his curved in a smile as he
lifted his glass and took a drink.
The heated look in his blue eyes made her nipples tighten
and her sex tingle—and she thought she’d been paralyzed from the neck down,
a sexual quadriplegic. That man had just aroused her with one very potent
look. He’d awoken her libido with a glance.
Unsettled, Fate swallowed the olive, set her glass on a
nearby table and turned to look in the other direction. Instantly, she
froze. Christ, what were Christopher and Lisa doing at Dorian Cross’s
charity ball? God, that was a dumb question. Christopher was Dorian’s
attorney. He worked for Dorian. Half of Newville did.
“He’s an asshole and she’s a bitch,” summed up Cynthia,
after her head swiveled in the direction Fate’s had gone.
Fate glanced at Cynthia. “I—I have to go.”
“Wait, Fate, you have to stay at least until after Mr.
Cross auctions off your paintings.”
Oh, God. Cynthia was right. She was trapped here for
another couple of hours. Fate backed up into the crush of people behind
her. Cynthia worked for Dorian Cross, too, sort of as a personal secretary.
She often acted as a go-between for Fate and Dorian. “I know. I meant, I
have to go—uh—powder my nose.” Inwardly, she cringed. Did women ever say
that in real life?
“Dorian would very much appreciate it if you stayed
until the end, if possible, Fate. You’re the star of this show.”
Oh, God. She feigned a nod of assurance. “Of
course, I will.”
Cynthia smiled in relief.
Fate hesitated, remembering what she’d wanted to ask,
the reason she’d initiated conversation with Cynthia in the first place.
“Cynthia, do you know if Dorian sent me any packages earlier today?”
Cynthia frowned. “No. I mean, if he did, he didn’t tell
me about it.”
Fate bit her lower lip. Then who had? Granted, she was
slightly relieved that the rich man who’d become the patron and benefactor
of her art had perhaps not sent the gorgeous designer-made dove gray gown
and heels—not to mention the under things, a delicate, lacey gray demi bra,
thong and silky thigh-high stockings. Nestled in the gown’s box had also
been a lushly packaged bottle of Clive Christian’s No.1. Even poor, starving artist Fate knew that was an
outrageously expensive perfume. Whoever had sent the clothing had also
provided a pre-paid appointment to a swanky local salon for a session of
complete pampering and a makeover, of which she had availed herself.
She was glad Dorian might not be the one playing prince
to her Cinderella. Fate didn’t know what she’d do if he ever made that kind
of an advance in her direction. But if he hadn’t, then who had? Then again,
maybe it had been Dorian and he hadn’t wanted Cynthia to know for some reason.
Fate forced a smile. “Okay, see you later then.”
“See you.” Cynthia turned to greet a tall silver-haired
man who’d approached her, and Fate disappeared into the crowd.
Tottering on the dove gray four-inch heels and wishing like
hell for her far less glamorous painting sweats and slippers, she made her
way across the room…away from Christopher and the woman he’d left her for.
She’d celebrated New Year’s Eve—nearly
a year ago now—with Chris. She’d figured what better way to meet the New
Year than making love? Instead she’d just ended up getting fucked.
What was it with love? What made it real? Fate sure
hadn’t found out yet. All she’d found was self-induced illusion. It was
amazing how people could delude themselves into believing someone was
something they needed, when they were really just poison.
CLOSE WINDOW
|