Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1) (25 page)

They stayed on the phone until she saw his headlamps in the rear-view mirror. Disconnecting the call, she checked to be sure her blanket covered her private parts. Thankfully, the wounds inflicted by the rougarou had already healed.

She waited, gut like a fist, as Beau approached the car. After suggesting he drive her home and come back tomorrow with a locksmith, he very graciously helped her out of the Taurus and into his Volvo. As she carefully buckled her seatbelt, he got in behind the wheel. When both of them were settled, he held out to her the gris-gris he’d promised to bring along.

“Here you go,” he said. “One gris-gris talisman to keep supernatural predators at bay.”

She reached for the charm, then hesitated. Even from where she sat, the pouch smelled like a graveyard.

He moved the talisman closer to her. “Go on. Take it.”

With reluctance, she did. It was warm to the touch, which startled her a little. It also felt lumpy and crunchy. What the hell was in it? Before she could ask, her fingers began to burn like she was holding a lit flame. What the hell? Dropping the pouch, she shot him a look of alarm.

He regarded her darkly. “That’s what I thought.”

Worry knotted her gut as she sucked on her smarting fingers. “Thought about what?”

“That it burned you tells me all I need to know,” he said, sounding rather ominous as he reached to retrieve the dropped talisman.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you being like your friend Lord Lyon,” he said, eyes narrowing. “You have to be. It’s the only way to explain how you survived the attack. And healed so fast.”

“Are you mad?” She chased the question with a cool laugh that in no way matched her inner temperature.

“I don’t think so.”

She forced another dismissive laugh, still hoping to diffuse the situation. “Lord Lyon is a normal person, just like you or I.”

“Nice try, but I know better…and so do you.”

She eyed him with feigned disbelief as she fought to keep her cool. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed. “Don’t mistake my drawl for stupidity, sweetheart. I sent you to Scotland to confirm what I already knew. Lyon is the vampire of Barrogill, only he’s not quite a vampire, is he?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied. “I found no evidence of a vampire, as I told you before, and, furthermore, not a scrap of evidence to suggest Callum Lyon was anything more than an ordinary man.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, which means, you know his secret as well as I do. What I can’t figure out is why he turned you…and then sent you back here to further prove what I already know.”

She tried to lock gazes, hoping to erase his memory or, at the very least, to find out what he knew. Though Callum hadn’t taught her to use her mental powers, she prayed they might come naturally.

Beau met her gaze head-on and laughed. “Go ahead. Try to mess with my mind the way your boyfriend did. It won’t work as long as I’m wearing my talisman. That’s how I know he’s supernatural, because he tried to erase my memory.”

She knew she shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t risk confirming his suspicions, but she had to know. “Why would Callum try to wipe your memory?”

“We were at a conference on the occult,” he said. “Not together, of course, but there at the same time. I took my last assistant, hoping to get closer if you catch my drift. But she had other ideas—ideas involving a certain Scottish Adonis we both know who was there to give a talk and sign books. It fried my ass, let me tell you. I mean, how was I supposed to compete with someone who looks like he swung down from Mt. Olympus on a star? So, I did the only thing I could. I raised the stakes by telling the little bitch I’d fire her and see to it she never got another job if she didn’t spread her legs.”

Vanessa bristled, reviled but still curious. “That doesn’t explain why Callum would try to wipe your memory.”

“Let me finish,” he said, his tone gruff and impatient. “We were in the bar. Me and the girl. When I started to make my move, Goldilocks Lyon came to her rescue. At breakfast the next morning, I noticed the bite on her neck—a twin of the one he gave you, I might add. When I later confronted him with my suspicions, he tried to glamor me…or whatever the hell your kind calls that eraser-stare of yours.”

“You can’t prove anything.”

She didn’t like the gleam in his eye as he said, “I don’t need to. I only need to cast suspicion on him by serving you to the media on a silver platter. And probably make a small fortune in the bargain, given how hungry the jackals are for proof of the existence of supernaturals.”

If she was exposed, it would ruin her life and Callum’s political career, which she couldn’t let happen. But how to stop Beau? She could see only two options, neither of which thrilled her. The first was to kill him. The second was to give him what he wanted. Because, clearly, blackmail was his intent.

Otherwise, why not just go straight to the press?

Hands shaking, she pulled the blanket tighter around her. “What do you want to keep quiet?”

“Can’t you guess, sweetheart?”

She could. “Sex in exchange for your silence?”

He ran a finger under the edge of the blanket and teased her left nipple until it stood at attention. “Much as I’d like to fuck you, that’s not at the top of my list.”

“Then what is?” She curtailed her relief until she heard what was.

“Everlasting life.”

Now feeling like a cornered animal, she revisited option number one. Could she kill him and live with herself?

Tempted as she was, the answer was a resounding no.

“Fine.”

“Excellent.” He swept the hand on her thigh up her body, pushed the blanket out of the way, and began fondling her left breast. “We can fuck while you’re turning me. That way, I can kill two birds with one stone.”

“Which two birds?”

“Immortality and revenge. Lyon’s a Leo. He won’t like knowing I’ve had his mate. Won’t like it one little bit, I’ll bet.”

She bit her lip and looked away, tears welling in her eyes. This was all her fault. She’d left Callum to protect her freedom and only ended up putting herself in chains.

Beau pinched her nipple, recalling her attention. “Oh, and don’t even think about telling anyone about our arrangement…or skipping out on me. Because I’ve already put a contingency plan in place. You so much as squeak about our deal and the media gets the whole sordid story faster than you can say
Mardi Gras
.”

Chapter 16

Back in Scotland, Callum felt as on edge as he had a Flodden Field when he pushed through the door into the offices of the
Caithness Crier
. A fresh-faced lass with ginger hair looked up from the reception desk, meeting his entry with striking blue eyes.

“Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

“I’m Callum Lyon, here to see Miranda Hornsby.”

The reporter had jumped at Duncan’s offer of an interview with his candidate of choice.

“I’ll let Randy know you’re here.” The receptionist pointed toward a row of nearby chairs. “Please have a seat while you wait.”

Before sitting, he grabbed an outdated issue of
People
magazine. Thumbing through the flimsy pages of celebrity faces, he recognized none of them. After about five minutes, he heard a velvety voice speak his name. Looking up, he found Miranda Hornsby’s big charcoal eyes peering back at him from under sweeping dark lashes.

Tossing the magazine on the table, he sprang to his feet and extended his hand. She took it, but held it rather than shaking it. “It’s nice to see you again, gorgeous.”

Alarm and titillation prickled in unison. Randy Hornsby, true to her name, wanted more than an interview. Endeavoring to get off on the right foot, he allowed her to keep his hand as he drank her in. She had on a tight, short skirt and a lightweight knit top. Through the clinging fabric, he could see the outline of a black lace bra.

“Should we do it here or go somewhere?”

The question unnerved him, until he realized she meant the interview. Pheromones wafted off her like steam from a Christmas pudding. His lust stirred, calling blood to his cock. To maintain the appearance of nonchalance, he shrugged and said, “Either way.”

She let go of his hand, but her eyes still held his. “In that case, let’s go down the row for a coffee.” She batted her long lashes. “Or would you prefer something harder?”

He would, actually, but wasn’t sure drinking was wise. While the alcohol would take the edge off his cravings, it would also lower his inhibitions. Randy Hornsby was a drug in an alluring package, and he was an addict in need of a fix. If he didn’t want to tumble into temptation, he’d best keep up his guard.

“Coffee, I think.”

She led the way out of the newspaper office. He followed, trying not to stare at her shapely arse. It wasn’t easy given the tightness of her skirt and the way she was swinging her hips like a hypnotist’s pendulum. He tried to imagine it was Vanessa’s backside, but that only made things worse. The fantasy also gave him pain.

Biting his lip, he averted his gaze and tried to think of something unappealing to temper his lust. Like all the speeches he’d be giving over the next few weeks, starting with tomorrow’s announcing his intention to run against Sinclair.

Miss Hornsby, come to think of it, had not yet run the promised take-down piece. Why? As he opened his mouth to ask, she stopped short before the door of a café. He ran smack into her. Taking advantage of the moment, she pressed a hip against his crotch. A smile stole across her lips as she nudged his half-hard manhood meaningfully.

“Well, hello there.” She fluttered her lashes again. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He swallowed, equal parts aroused and horrified. Stepping back, he let out a tense chuckle. What could he say? He had even less control over his cock than his heart. He needed to get laid and his butterfly had flown away. Had he been mistaken in her? Had she played him? Her failure to call only deepened his suspicions he’d been made a fool of.

As Miranda pushed through the door and made her way to the counter, he stuck to her heels. Try as he might, his gaze kept slipping to the curvaceous swell under that tight wee skirt of hers. What was she wearing under there? As he scanned for panty lines—or, better yet, garters—his cock pulsed with interest.

She ordered a skinny latte; he a black coffee with a shot of espresso, praying the caffeine would tether his lust. They took their beverages to an out-of-the-way table. She sat across from him, set down her cup, and pulled out her notebook.

He sipped his coffee, doing his best to ignore its bitterness and the persistent ache in his groin. His heart ached, too. Try as he might to fight his need for sex, his body wouldn’t be denied.

“Your opponent has been slinging a lot of mud in your direction,” she said, recapturing his attention, “claiming you’re a bleeding-heart liberal with no experience who will base his decision on New Age hocus-pocus. How do you respond to these allegations, Lord Lyon?”

He gaped at her a moment, unsure what to say. There was no blood left in his brain to answer hard-hitting questions, which she had to know. With her seductive looks, revealing clothing, and double-entendres, she teased him into a frenzy. Had she done it deliberately to throw him off his game? Were all women wicked vixens who used men like playthings?

“Please.” He forced a smile. “Call me Callum.”

Her eyes locked with his. “All right then. How do you respond to these allegations,
Callum
?”

He regarded her, waffling between suspicion and confusion. Was she manipulating him or simply seeking to do her job and seduce him at the same time? Whatever her motives, he needed to answer the bloody question. He searched his voided brain for a response.

“I may be inexperienced,” he said, doing his best to appear composed, “but I say better fresh blood and new vigor than a washed-up party puppet like Sinclair.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

He nodded his answer, fighting to maintain his focus and poise. He picked up his coffee, took a swig, and ran his tongue across the points of his sprouting fangs.

“I like your confidence…among other things.” As she said it, she slipped a stockinged foot between his legs. She wriggled her toes against his erection, stretching his self-control to the limits. “But tell me why the voters of Caithness should choose you?”

He drew a deep breath, licked his lips, and gulped his coffee. All his focus was in the spot her toes were massaging. His cock was throbbing with arousal and he was starting to sweat. “With the incumbent, it would be business as usual, wouldn’t it?”

Aye, he sounded lame, but it was the best he could manage without an ounce of blood in his brain. She was still holding his gaze, still walking her toes up and down his prick.

“Where do you stand on the question of independence?”

He coughed, broke free of her gaze, and slurped his coffee, burning his tongue again. “Why don’t you ask me how I feel about what your foot is doing in my crotch?”