* * * *
Bronwyn had felt like a country bumpkin when she’d been turned away from two different restaurants because she didn’t have a reservation. After standing on the sidewalk indecisively for a few minutes, wondering if she should just give up and head back to her apartment, she’d finally decided to try one more before she gave up. It was a tiny place, and busy, but the smells coming from the kitchen were divine and the host hadn’t looked down his nose at her as if a roach had approached him and asked for a table. He’d smiled, told her to wait and left. Wondering if he was just trying to snub her a little more subtly than the last two, Bronwyn waited and was rewarded when the man came back and took her to a tiny table in a corner near the kitchen. She supposed it was a very undesirable table, but she didn’t mind being near the kitchen. The brisk traffic in and out of the kitchen made it impossible to feel ‘alone’, occupying her with something of interest while she was waiting for her food. The food, French cuisine, was fabulous and her waiter was friendly.
When she asked him if he could recommend any night spots within walking distance, he hovered by her table long enough to name off nearly a half dozen and give her a description of the places from the music to the crowds that generally attended them.
Feeling considerably cheered by his friendliness, her full stomach, and the two glasses of wine she’d had, she left the restaurant with a sense of anticipation and excitement she hadn’t felt when she’d left her apartment earlier. A tiny bit of guilt hovered at the fringes of her mind as she set out. It almost seemed ‘wild’ and ‘decadent’
even to consider going to a nightspot—especially alone—when she’d never done anything like that before.
It wasn’t as if Greenville had had much of a nightlife!
They had a grand total of three watering holes, all of which catered to the country and western crowd—and she’d never been much for country music. Then, too, there’d been her reputation. Not that she’d had the chance to form a bad one on her own, but the rumors from school had followed her and those had been enough to make her a target for wagging tongues and young men bent on counting coup.
She shook the thoughts off as she came at last to one of the nightclubs the waiter had mentioned that had piqued her interest. He’d said it was an upscale club that catered to a ‘slightly older’ crowd as opposed, he’d added hurriedly, to those that were predominantly attended by the barely legal.
She’d tried to take it philosophically. She thought she looked good for her age, but she didn’t delude herself into thinking she looked like a teenager. There was no sense in getting insulted about the truth, especially when she knew he hadn’t intentionally insulted her.
He’d succeeded in depressing her, but she’d managed to set it aside and focus on trying to enjoy her evening.
She thought she would’ve been a lot more depressed, in any case, if she’d gone into a club and found that everyone there was barely twenty.
The line outside the club made her a little uneasy. True, there seemed to be
8
almost as many men and women lined up to go in that appeared to be in their mid-to-late twenties or early thirties, but most of them seemed to be wearing black leather or at least black clothing. Her pink halter-top and blue jeans made her feel almost as out-of-sync as she would’ve felt if she’d discovered the crowd was mostly teens.
She stood in line debating whether to stay or leave until she finally reached the front. The bouncers, she saw, were also dressed in black—finely tailored black suits that set off their muscle bound physiques wonderfully. The woman taking the cover charge stared at her for a moment and flicked a questioning look at the two bouncers.
Feeling her belly tighten with nerves, Bronwyn glanced questioningly at the two men, as well. She discovered the man who’d been stamping everyone’s hand as they went in was studying her clothing. “I’m not dressed for the club?” she asked uneasily, withdrawing the bill she’d held out to the woman.
He tilted his head, scanning her length again. “You haven’t been here before.”
Bronwyn felt her face heat. Nothing like sticking out like a sore thumb! “I just moved to the city a few weeks ago,” she said apologetically. “It’s ok. I’ll leave.”
He blocked her path. “Did I say you weren’t welcome?” he murmured, a faint smile curling his lips. “I’m just wondering if you know what you’re getting in to here.”
Bronwyn blinked at him, blushing harder. “The waiter at Chateau Marseilles suggested I might like it if I liked rock music.”
His dark brows lifted. He flicked a glance at the other bouncer. “I’ll tell you what … I’ll let you go in and have a look around since you’re new to town. If you like it and come back, we’ll take your money.”
Bronwyn smiled back at him tentatively. “I don’t mind paying,” she assured him.
Shaking his head, he took her hand and lifted it, the stamp poised in the air.
Instead of stamping the back of her hand, however, he caught sight of the edge of her tattoo and turned her hand over, studying the small design on her inner wrist.
Surprised and a little embarrassed, Bronwyn studied his expression, trying to decipher what the frozen look on his face might mean. She couldn’t imagine what there might be about the tattoo itself, however unique it was, that he’d find so fascinating.
Everyone else she’d seen in line had had more than one tattoo and all sorts of piercings.
For what seemed an eternity, he stared at it and finally seemed to shake himself.
Lifting his head, he studied her piercingly. “Cool tat. Where’d you get it?”
Discomfort wafted through Bronwyn. She shrugged. “I was born with it, actually—well mostly,” she admitted. “I know. It’s weird. All the kids at school teased me about it. Nanna said I shouldn’t let it bother me. I should be proud of it … because it was so unusual, you know. Anyway, she tattooed the twining vine around it and added the head of the unicorn. She said it was a family symbol from way back when the family had a coat of arms.”
He frowned. Almost as if he wasn’t aware of it, he traced the pattern in the center of the twining vines with the tip of his index finger. “You were born with this?” he murmured, his voice sounding strange.
Bronwyn shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah—weird, huh? It almost looks like a sun and crescent moon, doesn’t it?”
He swallowed audibly, flicked a quick glance at her and finally stamped the back of her hand. She noticed the hand that held hers was shaking ever so faintly. “Yeah. It almost does.” He turned from her and jerked his head at the other bouncer. “Marco—
9
why don’t you show our guest around, huh? And tell Clyde and David to get out here. I need to talk to the boss.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t want to put anyone out!” Bronwyn exclaimed in dismay, glancing around uneasily at the line behind her and noting with faint alarm that the crowd had grown steadily longer since she’d been holding up the line and that most of the people in line were glaring at her.
He released her hand. “Marco would love to show you around. Wouldn’t you, Marco?”
Marco, a handsome blond who looked to be in his early twenties, grinned at her.
“Hell yeah!”
Bronwyn couldn’t help but chuckle when he winked at her audaciously, but she still wasn’t comfortable about anything that had transpired. Since she was even more discomfited to find herself the center of so much unwelcome attention, though, she allowed him to draw her inside and out of view of the crowd that had begun to grumble loudly about the hold up at the front of the line.
She found herself in a huge foyer that looked more like the entrance to a grand hotel than a nightclub. She sank into the thick, dark red carpet on the floor with her first step and felt like she was walking through cushy quicksand as she crossed the floor. A huge chandelier and wall sconces lit the room with a soft golden glow. Thick, wine red velvet curtains covered the double doors that obviously led into the main area of the club and explained why the music was muted enough that very little spilled outside the club.
Settling a hand lightly on the back of her waist, Marco directed her toward the two men standing on either side of the double doors. “Stephen wants you two outside,”
he said to the men when they reached them, jerking his thumb in that direction.
They glanced at each other, making it clear that the order came as a surprise, but strode away without question. All the sounds of a wild party—muted by the thick carpet and drapes of the foyer—hit her as Marco opened one of the doors and ushered her inside. She noticed that even the backs of the doors were covered in velvet—upholstered actually to create a sound barrier.
The familiar hand Marco had placed at her back slipped upward to her shoulders as they entered. “A drink first. What would you like?” Marco asked, his lips so close to her ear that his warm breath sent a shiver through her.
Bronwyn was tempted to decline. She’d already had two glasses of wine and that was more alcohol that she usually drank. With a mental shrug, she dismissed her qualms.
There was no getting around the fact that she had a buzz already, but, by her calculations, she’d been walking and waiting in line at least an hour. It wouldn’t hurt, she decided, to have a mixed drink as long as she nursed it.
She tipped her head up. “Suggest something,” she said, smiling mischievously at her own daring.
The look Marco gave her made her little heart go pitter-patter. His blue eyes seemed to glow with an inner heat. A slow grin curled his lips. He chuckled. “Don’t tempt me,” he muttered, ushering her toward the other side of the room where she discovered there was a long bar.
* * * *
Constantine was lounging on the long couch in his office when Stephen arrived. A young woman was curled up on the floor at his feet, stroking his thigh. A second,
10
completely naked, was sprawled on the couch beside him, her knees bent, her thighs spread wide. The naked girl was stroking her clit, her eyes closed, her face slack with pleasure.
Constantine was watching her from beneath hooded lids, but as Stephen entered, he turned a cool look upon him. “As you can see, I’m busy,” he murmured.
Stephen froze in his tracks but resisted the urge to beat a retreat. “You’ll want to hear this,” he said with more confidence than he felt.
Constantine lifted one tawny brown. “You sound very certain, day-walker.
Convince me.”
Stephen swallowed convulsively. “She’s here. She just walked right up to me at the door. I told Marco to look out for her.”
Constantine frowned, but he tensed, abruptly sitting upright. “She?”
“The lady,” Stephen said shakily. “
Your
lady!”
11
A mixture of disbelief and more excitement than he’d felt in centuries swept over Constantine. Flicking the woman off of his leg, he got to his feet slowly. “It could be nothing more than some vampire wannabe … someone who’s heard of the prophesy and thinks to profit from it,” he muttered to himself, then flicked a piercing look at Stephen.
“Show me.”
Stephen swallowed a little sickly, but he couldn’t have evaded the hand Constantine stretched out if he’d tried and he knew better than to try. He was one of Constantine’s favorites, but no one who crossed him—or attempted to—remained in favor long.
Blinding pain shot through his head as Constantine pilfered his memories, pausing so long to study the incident at the door that Stephen fell to his knees when he was finally released, curling into a tight ball as he struggled with the urge to vomit.
Constantine was peripherally aware of it, felt a momentary pang, but no more than that. As fond of Stephen as he was, he’d learned long, long ago not to allow himself to grow too attached to a day-walker. They were pathetically weak, their life spans so fleeting that allowing himself to feel any fondness at all was welcoming pain to himself, and he’d never been particularly fond of pain—especially not when it was avoidable.
Striding to the door, he left Stephen to recover and dispose of the women. They would be disappointed that he hadn’t fed on them, but they’d get over it. They always did … and they always came back.
As early in the evening as it was, the club had already begun to fill by the time he reached the main salon. Regardless of the half naked bodies gyrating on the floor, however, his height gave him the advantage of being able to scan the room quickly and spot his quarry—or at least Marco. Frowning when he didn’t see the woman, he strode across the dance floor, oblivious of the day-walkers and his brethren alike as they parted before him, clearing a path.
Relief flickered through him when he saw that there was a woman standing at Marco’s elbow, and then wry amusement at the touch of panic that had seized him when he hadn’t spotted her at once. She was a tad shy of medium height—maybe a little more than a tad—but he dismissed it along with the brief, wry reflection that he might have known she wouldn’t be just to his taste—call him old fashioned, but he’d always preferred the tall, buxom feminine form. And spotted, he didn’t doubt, if the gleam of red highlights in her woefully common brown was any indication. There’d been nothing in the prophesy to suggest she would be ‘perfect’ … only that she was the one … the first.
Actually, the prophesy had no more than suggested that she would be the first.
She might very well be the
only
, although how the prophesy was to unfold if that was the case, he was damned if he knew.
He shook his thoughts off as he reached Marco and their mystery lady. At closer range, he saw that she was definitely short, but certainly no midget. The top of her head
12
reached his shoulder … almost, which meant he had a fine view of the top of her head.
Her hair was certainly a medium brown—but luxuriously thick and full bodied with just the hint of a curl here and there—giving him the urge to burrow his fingers into the healthy mass to see if it felt as silky as it looked. Her plumpness, he saw, was a well-rounded, shapely figure compacted to fit an undersized torso—at least she didn’t seem to be a fan of the waif look. She’d tipped her head back to smile up at Marco as he reached them and he had a moment to examine the face that he’d tried so hard so many times to envision—and to feel an unaccustomed stab of possessiveness.
He was pleasantly surprised by her face which, although far from beautiful, was at least passably pretty. He paused to examine her features more thoroughly and decided to revise that to definitely pretty although certainly not in the sense of classic beauty. Her features weren’t symmetrical enough, or precisely balanced enough to earn that distinction. Her mouth was a tad too small for her face, her lips too thin. Her nose was a bit too long and her admittedly beautiful eyes too big for her small face, and the jut of her chin ended in a rounded little upturned ball that somehow made her look vulnerable and pugnacious at the same time.
And, although her skin was smooth and blemish free, she had a light sprinkling of the freckles he’d expected.
It was an intriguing, pretty face even if she wasn’t beautiful, he decided, relieved that if she wasn’t just as he would’ve liked at least he didn’t anticipate a problem bedding her.
“Boss!” Marco exclaimed, such a jolt running through him that he sloshed his drink down the front of his shirt.
Constantine studied him in frowning disapproval, both for the term of address—
which he’d never particularly cared for—and the fact that he’d soiled his shirt, trousers, and left shoe as the liquid followed the path of least resistance. A fastidious man himself, he couldn’t abide untidiness.
His frown deepened as Marco set his glass on the bar and wiped the residue of liquid from his hand to the leg of his pants.
“This is Constantine d’Valdmir—the owner of the club. Mr. d’Valdmir, this is Bronwyn ….” He trailed off. Blushing faintly, he added apologetically to Bronwyn,
“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your last name.”
Bronwyn chuckled huskily and Constantine felt a rush of desire that startled him.
She was far more than ‘just’ pretty when she smiled, he decided absently, not entirely certain how that could be when she had a decidedly crooked smile that tipped higher on one side than the other and he’d always found anything asymmetrical … disturbing since it offended his since of balance.
And still he found himself responding to her laugh with a smile of his own.
“Williams,” she said.
“
Enchanté
, Ms. Williams,” Constantine murmured as he availed himself of her hand, realizing with a touch of surprise that he
was
enchanted as he leaned low to salute the back of her hand lightly. It was an opportunity to see her mind and he felt no compunction about taking advantage of it.
There was neither darkness nor light, but rather a combination of the two in a dizzying kaleidoscope of images that flew past him too swiftly for him to capture any until the image of an old crone abruptly filled his mind. The woman glared angrily. It
13
took him a handful of seconds to realize that she was actually glaring
at
him.
She’s
protected, you lecherous sod! And not for the likes of you to use your powers to bend to
your will! No man—or beast—can simply claim her and take her gift. I’ve seen to that.
You must win her heart by giving her yours—if you’ve one to give. Only then will you
earn
her gift.
Constantine released Bronwyn’s hand abruptly, jerking upright.
He felt oddly drained and lightheaded from the experience, and supremely disconcerted. There was an odd buzzing in his head.
“Are you alright?”
Blinking, struggling to dismiss the curious sensations, Constantine stared down at Bronwyn’s concerned face blankly for several moments. “Witch,” he murmured.
The look of concern vanished. “What?”
Constantine forced his lips into a smile with an effort. “Which drink are you having?” he improvised.
She studied him a little curiously—a little suspiciously if it came to that—but finally smiled … at Marco. “I forget. What did you call it?”
Marco smiled a little uneasily, flicking a quick, apologetic look at Constantine.
“A Golden Cadillac.”
“It tastes like a milk shake,” she commented.
Constantine flicked a hand in Marco’s direction. “You’ll want to clean yourself up,” he said coolly. “I will entertain our guest.”
“Oh!” Bronwyn exclaimed, dismayed, struggling with the uncomfortable sense that she’d somehow gotten Marco in trouble and further discomfited by the attention of the owner no less—as if she was some sort of celebrity—wondering if they’d somehow come to the erroneous conclusion that she was someone of importance. “That’s sweet, but completely unnecessary. I wouldn’t want to put you out. I probably won’t stay much longer anyway. I’ve almost finished my drink.”
Constantine took her hand and hooked it on the crook of his arm. “No trouble at all, I assure you. I understand that you’ve just moved to the city?” he asked as he led her away from the bar, headed in the direction of the quiet alcove table set aside for his use.
She looked back worriedly at Marco. “I didn’t get him in trouble, did I?”
“Do I seem like an ogre to you?” he asked lightly.
She thought it over—just a tad too long to for her response to be anything more than a polite lie. “No.”
“But?”
“I did get him in trouble. He was just being nice and the guy at the door told him to show me around anyway—and
he
was just being nice and I don’t remember his name.”
Constantine helped her into a booth and then slid in beside her. She scooted a little further … all the way around to the opposite side. A mixture of annoyance and amusement flickered through Constantine as he studied the wide-eyed, hunted look she sent him across the table. He lifted a hand. A moment later, a waitress appeared beside the table. “Bring the lady—Bronwyn—another Golden Cadillac. I’ll have a glass of my special blend.”
“Oh no …!” Bronwyn broke off in consternation when the waitress disappeared again before she could object. “I really shouldn’t have anymore. I’ve got a definite buzz going already. I may get lost on my way home if I have another,” she added jokingly to
14
take the sting out of her rejection.
Constantine shrugged. “I’ll see you home.”
Bronwyn gaped at him, feeling her face heat. “That’s … uh … very kind of you to offer, but I was just joking. I’m sure I can find my way home.”
“And home is …?”
Warning bells went off in her head. “Oh, just a couple of blocks,” she said airily.
“I love your accent, by the way, and your name is beautiful. Is it Spanish or French?”
Constantine smiled thinly. “Neither.”
The expressions that flickered across her face made him distinctly uneasy although he couldn’t, at first, fathom why until it occurred to him that he was clueless about her. Beyond that, he’d clearly failed to enthrall her, for he was as certain as he could be that that wasn’t adoration he’d read in her expression. Accustomed to being able to enthrall any woman who caught his interest and to read anyone with no more than a light touch and know exactly what made them tick, he discovered he didn’t like the sense of uncertainty that settled in his gut in a hard knot.
He frowned in displeasure but decided to take a different tact. If he couldn’t
‘read’ her—and he still found that highly disturbing—there seemed no alternative but to try to wheedle information out of her the old fashioned—day-walker way—questions and more questions. “What brought you to the city?”
Bronwyn’s face turned so red she felt a hot flash all over. She cleared her throat, scrambling for a lie that wouldn’t sound completely unbelievable. “I just … decided I was ready for a change.”
Irritation and amusement flickered through Constantine. Amusement won out.
“You’re a very poor liar, Bronwyn,” he murmured caressingly, unconsciously reverting to the use of his voice to mesmerize her. “Maybe when you get to know me better, you’ll tell me the truth?”
Bronwyn felt her color fluctuate several times while she tried to think of a response to that. Foremost in her mind—beyond her discomfort that he’d immediately realized she was lying—was the implication that he wanted to get to know her better.
Disbelief settled in her. He was so amazingly handsome—so sophisticated—he made her feel gauche and tongue-tied—and dizzy and breathless and terrified to open her mouth for fear she’d sound like the country bumpkin she felt like. Why in the world would a man like him have any interest in getting to know her?
He certainly couldn’t be laboring under the belief that she was in his class. He was clearly wealthy, well educated, and way, way out of her league.
Unless he had a fetish for unsophisticated ugly ducklings?
She found even that hard to believe, although it seemed more likely as a possibility than the anything else that came to mind. She could easily envision him with a starlet on his arm—or top model—women of wealth and amazing beauty.
Not that she actually
was
an ugly duckling. She was just average, though, light-years from beautiful.
She’d felt far more comfortable with Marco, she thought miserably, wondering if Constantine would think she was terribly rude if she made an excuse and left before the drink she hadn’t wanted arrived. “It was just … something I promised Nanna,” she said finally, uncomfortably.
He lifted his brows with interest, but before she could decide whether to add
15
anything to that the waitress returned. Grabbing her wallet from her jeans, Bronwyn tried to pay for the drink. Constantine waved the waitress away. “You’re my guest,” he said almost chidingly. “Do the gentleman back home allow the lady to pay?”