Bond of Darkness Page 2

  Ethan casually put the safety back on his Colt and holstered it, his pulse sliding back to a normal beat. He stretched, rubbing his back against the door’s frame.

  Rough Bear snickered softly across their mind-to-mind link. Only other Texans could hear them, thanks to being vampiros sired by Don Rafael. Trying to spook the opposition?

  Not this time, no.

  That alferez won’t wear such a pretty coat next time.

  Agreed. He’ll make sure he has more men on his side, too.

  Ethan tilted his fedora forward slightly, cutting down the damn lamp’s reflection, while Rough Bear’s knife vanished back into its sheath. He didn’t allow himself to listen to the conversation in the office—nobody eavesdropped twice on Don Rafael.

  A chair scraped back hard, followed by a second, and a third.

  He came to full attention, standing away from the door. Rough Bear promptly moved into the hall, blocking any shots from that damn little window, however unlikely they might be.

  Both of them surveyed Monsieur Armand’s men and were met with equally cold-eyed stares.

  Two of Don Rafael’s mesnaderos—Don Rafael’s household guard and Ethan’s most trusted men—came running up the stairs as backup. The Pierce-Arrow’s big engine came to a stronger note, the town car’s reliability and ruggedness more enjoyable than its luxury right now.

  The door swung open, revealing Monsieur Armand, a hawk of a man with close-set dark eyes above a sharp nose, pencil-thin mustache, and narrow mouth. His pristine black tailcoat was a dandy’s livery, tailored too tightly to permit most weapons.

  He’d come to this continent forty years ago with de Lesseps, the creator of the Suez Canal, to dig the Panama Canal, only to be halted by malaria and rain. Tens of thousands of their fellows had died, while de Lesseps had been financially ruined and publicly humiliated. Armand had survived as a vampiro, but rumor said he’d never forgiven the Americans who’d succeeded where Frenchmen had failed.

  Ethan would sooner have lain down with a rattlesnake than be alone with him.

  There was a burst of French from within the room and Monsieur Armand’s face changed, sliding into genuine excitement. “Ah, oui, mon brave!” he exclaimed, turning to face his countryman. He backed up, talking and gesturing.

  The other Frenchman followed him, nodding and conversing equally enthusiastically. Jean-Marie St. Just, of course.

  For a moment, he cast a long shadow across the hallway. It was sometimes all too easy, given Jean-Marie’s polite manners and clean-cut profile, to forget how strong he was. Or that he was a damn good fighter and a better spy. He also had enough of a silver tongue that he just might be able to bundle this agreement into something which would hold together.

  Then Jean-Marie was standing in the hallway, beside Monsieur Armand, and subtly blocking the two bodyguards.

  A muscle twitched at the corner of Ethan’s mouth. He could almost pity those two. If anyone tried to hurt Don Rafael, Jean-Marie would be able to grab the New Orleans patrón before that trigger-happy ex-soldier could block him. Bastard wouldn’t stand a chance of getting past him, either—and Monsieur Armand would become the perfect hostage for Don Rafael’s comfort.

  The third man reached the door. The largest one, he filled the frame—and Ethan grinned. Thank God.

  Don Rafael nodded to him, half smiling. He stood six feet four in his stockinged feet, with more than two hundred thirty pounds of bone and muscle. He had jet-black hair and olive skin, and looked like a straightforward young fellow working to build up his ranch. Until you looked into his eyes and saw six hundred years of pain and bitter living.

  Ethan moved forward into position, ready to take his master home to find a little peace.

  Chairs abruptly scraped back next door and four men sprang to their feet.

  What the hell?

  Don Rafael slammed into him, bowling him and Rough Bear halfway down the hall, moving with the blinding speed of a vampiro mayor.

  Four shotguns snarled as their masters pumped shells into their chambers.

  Trap! It was an assassination attempt, shielded against discovery by that blank wall.

  Don Rafael was now in front of the damn fake poker game, thanks to having knocked him and Rough Bear out of the way. Breaking all the rules yet again by putting his own life at risk.

  Monsieur Armand stared, wide-mouthed with shock. Jean-Marie yanked him, the obvious target, farther from the door.

  The damn alferez started to smile and drop to the floor, ignoring his master’s peril.

  Kaboom! Four ten-gauge shotguns, firing triple-ought buck, blasted through the plaster wall as if it were newsprint. Ethan’s ears rang from the concussion. Clouds of dust laced with lethal splinters burst down the hallway.

  Don Rafael barreled into the gap, heading for his enemies.

  Ethan fought to his feet, ignoring his broken ribs. Texans, with me—but stay low!

  Kaboom! came the bastards’ second round. Monsieur Armand’s office was fast becoming a shattered wreck with crystal shards, wooden splinters, and scraps of velvet shooting through the air like malignant demons.

  Monsieur Armand flinched, blood blinding him from a cut across his forehead. But without the dust caking the cut’s edges, it’d heal within minutes, thanks to his vampiro metabolism.

  Somebody screamed inside the assassins’ den, only to be abruptly cut off.

  Jean-Marie grabbed the treacherous alferez and cut his throat. Within a few instants, vampiro dust mingled with the wall’s remains on the carpet.

  A shotgun growled when a shell was chambered. But only one shell, not two. Nor was it fired.

  Ethan raced down the hallway, trying not to breathe any of the choking dust, followed by Rough Bear and his two mesnaderos.

  There was a loud thud from the room next door, then absolute silence. Light was filtering through the haze from the swinging lamp.

  “It is safe to stand up now, amigos,” Don Rafael called. “Our uninvited guests have departed for a better place, where they may answer for their—lack of manners.”

  Ethan stopped, silently cursing. Dammit, he was supposed to have prevented that—or at least clean up the mess. A quick gesture brought the other mesnaderos to his side, ready to rebuild Don Rafael’s protection.

  His master stepped back into the hallway, casually brushing dust off his white linen suit.

  “Merci bien, Don Rafael,” exclaimed Monsieur Armand, hastening forward to embrace the other patrón. “Do we know who they were?”

  “Vampiros, of course. They were difficult to smell and they have all turned to dust.”

  “An infinity of thanks to you, Jean-Marie, for destroying that worm.” Monsieur Armand ground his heel into the carpet, stamping out his alferez’s few remnants.

  “You would have done the same for me.” Jean-Marie waved the subject off. “Is there anything else we need to discuss tonight, mon cher Armand? Before the Texans leave us to the good wine?”

  Don Rafael chuckled quietly across their mental link at this dismissal of his wine cellar.

  “No, no, not at all.” Monsieur Armand shrugged, taking his lead from Jean-Marie’s attitude. Although Ethan suspected there’d be hell to pay later when Monsieur Armand questioned his alferez’s friends. “I will trade fine wines and liquors for Don Rafael’s black gold, as we just agreed.”

  “While you and I, mon brave, will negotiate the subtler points.” Jean-Marie’s eyes danced. “How many bottles of Veuve Clicquot per gallon of gasoline, for example.”

  “Trifles which can be readily settled by two Frenchmen,” Monsieur Armand agreed.

  Can you leave for Texas now, sir? Ethan asked quickly.

  No, I have to stay in case any sudden problems come up and to approve the final deal. It should be very profitable for all concerned. Don Rafael’s mental voice was resigned. Have you heard any news from the local ghosts?

  Nothing dangerous to us—no, sir. Revenants had chatted with him for as long as he could reme
mber. They couldn’t tell him much about what a patrón was planning, but they could usually say a lot about other threats.

  “I’d first like your opinion on some Château Mouton Rothschild,” the shorter Frenchman said, turning amicably toward Jean-Marie.

  “Armand!” A woman’s voice sliced through the hallway. “Who caused that disturbance?”

  A Frenchwoman?

  The New Orleans patrón stiffened and glanced toward the stairs.

  “Monsieur Armand, would you please tell these bores to let me come up? I bring a message from your friends at the ball, which you’re delaying.”

  “Merde,” Monsieur Armand muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat. “Don Rafael, Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne is a New Orleans resident. I give you my word she’s no, ah, physical threat.”

  Physical threat? Why the slight emphasis on the last word?

  “I would be delighted to meet any beautiful lady from New Orleans,” Don Rafael said gallantly, one eyebrow raised. “Mis hijos, let the lady come up.”

  The Texan mesnaderos stepped back, their sawn-off shotguns slipping back under their coats. A slender but very curvaceous female emerged like an actress taking her place onstage. Good Lord, but she was beautiful—dark-haired, ivory skinned, long-legged, like a she-cat made to prowl through a man’s dreams. The only weapons carried under her silk chiffon dress were those conferred by nature, more than enough to blow away most men. Her black eyes were glittering pools of carnal knowledge, backed by an icy intelligence.

  Most dangerous of all, she was hurling her will at them, insisting they hunger for her.

  Every vampiro could inspire lust by aiming their mind-to-mind channel on their desired prey. Hell, it was sometimes the only way to feed. Usually a vampiro sent vague thoughts, an elastic yearning that would catch at least one of a dozen people in a room.

  But this? This was like being lassoed with a steel cable, where a man couldn’t cut the bond once it formed. Shit, a man might just do anything she asked—anything at all!—to get between those white thighs. No wonder she was the true power in New Orleans.

  Ethan’s breath was rasping his throat. If his cock could have burst his fly to reach her, it would have. He’d gone to full readiness without once hearing his pulse skip a beat.

  Texans, stay alert, Don Rafael ordered quietly.

  A curtain slammed down in Ethan’s mind, bringing merciful clarity. It was the shield Don Rafael had forced upon each of his men before they left Texas: Nobody could force them to lust for somebody else, anymore than they could be compelled to break an oath to Texas. It had seemed silly back in the cedar-scented hills, but acceptable for visiting Mardi Gras.

  He shuddered briefly, like a dog shaking off a brief rainstorm, and felt cleaner. Jean-Marie and Rough Bear echoed the motion, followed by the mesnaderos at the stairs.

  Monsieur Armand’s two bodyguards whimpered softly.

  She sashayed down the worn carpet, hips undulating, her eyes measuring every man but always returning to Don Rafael.

  “Celeste, ma chère,” Monsieur Armand began, almost pleading. Lust’s knife-edge must be slicing deep into him.

  “Your guests at the ball are wondering when you’ll join them.” She didn’t even bother to glance at him. “Someone else can clean up this mess, since you’re alive.”

  She owed her patrón an apology for that, even though she was far older.

  Damn but Ethan would like to teach her a lesson in manners. Spank her until she couldn’t sit down for a week, then fuck her until she couldn’t walk for a month. That body was definitely made to be well ridden.

  He kept his face impassive.

  Stand aside and let her approach me, Don Rafael ordered quietly. I learned centuries ago how to shield myself from far worse than her.

  Ethan grumbled silently but obeyed, giving her one last suspicious survey.

  “Bonsoir, monsieur. Or should I say, Don Rafael?” She planted herself in front of the big Texan, visibly approving of his masculine assets. “I am Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne.”

  “Estoy encantado, señorita.” Don Rafael smiled down at her, amused.

  Monsieur Armand muttered something under his breath. Jean-Marie answered him soothingly and began to ease them toward the stairs, followed by the two New Orleans bodyguards. Smart man. Of course, Jean-Marie’d avoided being under her sway by never, ever being around her physically on every previous trip to New Orleans.

  “Will you be in town long?” She pursed her lips, almost sighing over the studs marching down the front of Don Rafael’s shirt. The very expensive pearl studs.

  Maybe she should be spanked until she couldn’t sit down for a month before being fucked.

  “For Mardi Gras, señorita.”

  “You’ll need a guide. Someone who knows the city.” Her eyes slid over his trousers approvingly. “And its most intimate pleasures.”

  “Verdaderamente,” he agreed.

  What? Ethan yelped, echoed a second later by Jean-Marie and Rough Bear’s even louder objections crowding the mind link.

  ¡Señores! Don Rafael barked, silencing them. She cannot be allowed to influence Monsieur Armand against us. Can any of you keep her away from him and out of Jean-Marie’s hair? No?

  Ethan curled his lip but couldn’t disagree.

  Besides, I’ll need physical companionship. Given this town’s dangers, it’s better if I find it with only one partner, rather than seeking multiple partners, sí?

  Ethan remained silent, seething at his inability to disagree. They’d previously planned to have the mesnaderos provide Don Rafael with physical companionship on the rare occasions he’d need to feed as a vampiro mayor. God knows they’d compete for the privilege—and pleasures—of sharing his bed. But the New Orleans alferez’s attack meant every man would be needed for guard duty, lest their enemies try again. As for Don Rafael sampling the varied delights—and unpredictable risks!—of New Orleans’s vampiros, never on this earth would Ethan willingly agree to that insanity.

  She’s a vampira who’s more than a century old and she should be strong enough to cope with me, Don Rafael continued. She doesn’t have a bad reputation, except for her enjoyment of parties and orgies. I’m five hundred years older than she is. She can’t manipulate me with that desire trick, nor is she physically stronger. Any other objections?

  No, Ethan agreed grudgingly.

  We’ll stay at the house, so Jean-Marie can find me easily.

  Ethan opened his mouth to object, received an arched eyebrow, and glared back but didn’t speak. They’d all be safer on the yacht, surrounded by the Mississippi. But Jean-Marie had to stay ashore, coaxing the rest of the deal out of Monsieur Armand, which meant the rest of them would live in the best fortress Ethan could provide.

  The Texas patrón’s mouth quirked in the slightest of movements. His eyes swept over Celeste, who’d been ogling his body during the brief pause.

  “Shall we go, querida?”

  He offered Celeste his arm and she accepted it, nestling against his body with a voluptuous flutter of her eyelashes.

  Ethan told himself the chill running down his spine came strictly from envy, not from wondering whether Celeste de Sainte-Pazanne’s middle name resembled T for Trouble.

  TWO

  NEW ORLEANS, ONE WEEK LATER

  The Pierce-Arrow town car had barely come to a stop before Don Rafael’s mesnaderos closed around it, forming a solid barrier against attackers.

  A shiver of delight ran through Celeste. Even Napoleon’s beloved Chasseurs à Cheval—his bodyguards while on campaign—couldn’t have done it any smoother or faster. It was even better than seeing cars scatter before Don Rafael’s speeding motorcade, like pigeons fleeing a pair of hawks.

  Stepping out of the shadows into the limelight, as she’d been born to do, was more exhilarating than a dozen new wardrobes.

  Ethan Templeton, Don Rafael’s handsome alferez, yanked open the door.

  Rumor had said Don Rafael required his me
n to obey him in all things, whether in the boudoir or on the battlefield. Templeton was a superb soldier and had already proven to be as skillful in the bedroom under his patrón’s eye. He’d clearly had the best of teachers.

  Nom de dieu, no woman could ask for a better lover than Don Rafael. Her derrière had taken almost an hour to heal from last night’s spanking and fucking before she could sit comfortably. Every movement had made her moan, reminding her of the exact pleasures which had given her those bruises.

  Even the orgies with other French exiles hadn’t left her so delightfully sated, and those companions had disappeared in the Civil War’s chaos, taking their diversions with them. Oh, she’d gotten anything she wanted from the fumbling patrones who followed. But, merde, it was magnificent seeing the world fall into place before a strong hand.

  Don Rafael rose from the car, drawing Celeste with him.

  An instant later, they passed through the warehouse’s double doors into a world of etched glass, gilded tracings, thick carpets, and sparkling lights.

  They’d arrived late for this party, and the room was empty of guests. The Texas patrón never allowed anyone to guess his schedule, either where he was going or when he’d show up—no matter how much Celeste argued or wept for a chance to prepare the best possible attire.

  He stripped off his cape and handed their wraps to a uniformed attendant, his midnight gaze sweeping the gaudy antechamber. The maid was a prosaica, of course, and under compulsion by Monsieur Armand never to speak of tonight’s activities. God forbid prosaicos learned of vampiros, even here in New Orleans with its wide tolerance for other peoples.

  Celeste preened in front of the mirrors, making sure her velvet kimono hadn’t mussed her fancy dress, especially the few layers of embroidered silk chiffon which formed her skirt. Her bandeau top à la Cleopatra barely managed to support her breasts, making it hardly worth thinking about—except for how easily her lover could take it off.

  Don Rafael’s mesnaderos fanned out around them, blocking him from any hidden dangers or enemies with their bodies, as they always did whenever he entered a room.