Bond of Blood Page 8

  Rafael shifted too, testing the air until he caught the watcher's scent.

  ¡Cono! The lady vet was spying on him, she of the red hair and the even more incredible long legs. And she was unmistakably aroused, her sweet musk tickling his nose. His cock immediately came to full alert, filling his jeans with the white-hot pressure of intense hunger.

  Should I kill her? Ethan asked, his tone as dispassionate as if they discussed the best color for a new truck.

  No! Rafael snapped. The little lady was poised to fight. He'd never seen a human deliberately attack a vampiro. Such courage to protect someone she didn't know! She did not deserve to die, unless of course she did actual harm. No, she has made no move against any of us. I will order her to leave and forget what she's seen tonight.

  He focused his attention on Grania and reached out to her mind. He'd done this a million times before to thousands of other people. Just a simple suggestion followed by a painless bit of forgetfulness, the fundamental skill of vampiro survival among unpredictable prosaicos.

  His probe met a blank wall. He knew it was Grania, could feel the peculiar mental texture that made it uniquely her. But he couldn't find a way to speak to her.

  He searched her mind's facade for an opening. Every human had a portal for telepathic suggestions, whether they were an ancient vampiro or a prosaico.

  Nothing. He couldn't find so much as a crack.

  Abandoning subtlety, he tried force. Go away, pequeña. Go away!

  Her shields remained in place. Not a muscle of that gorgeous body moved.

  GO AWAY!!! Rafael shouted as strongly as he could on every channel. Ethan and his two men flinched.

  A faint quiver ran through Grania. Her scent hinted of pain but not panic. She stayed where she was, inside the thicket.

  Shielded by her satiation, Brynda sighed and stretched, an aftershock rippling through her.

  Rafael closed his eyes for a moment. He had to admire Grania's steadfast courage, her refusal to run although she must know she watched a vampiro. What now? Trust her not to kill him or to speak of him? His vampiro instincts stayed calm so it might work.

  Don Rafael, I've got her in my sights, Ethan offered.

  No, we will let her watch, Rafael decided, following his instincts. His cock promptly throbbed eagerly. He smiled wryly. Obviously being an exhibitionist appealed to a side of himself he hadn't seen in centuries. Or perhaps it was the audience that appealed.

  Afterward, you will watch and kidnap her if she starts to speak of this. ¿Comprendes?

  Yes, sir.

  Rafael ran his hand through his hair as he pondered how to provide the best show for la doctora. Then he brought Brynda across his chest, her expression open for Grania to see, and shifted her legs. The silent watcher would know what went on but not all the details.

  He glided his tongue over Brynda's lips, teasing her back into awareness.

  "More?" she muttered. "You want me to come again?"

  "But of course, señora. You are so beautiful under passion's spell."

  "Flatterer." She chuckled and opened for another kiss. "Oh yes," she murmured a moment later when he fondled her breast. "Oh yes."

  Rafael stroked her breasts, plumping them until she shuddered and groaned. He twisted her nipples lightly, then tugged them, as her hips rocked against him.

  The rich spice of Grania's musk teased him. He smiled in pure masculine triumph as his cock grew harder still. The red-haired vixen was interested and aroused by what he did.

  Rafael teased and tormented Brynda's superb breasts in all the ways she liked best. She sobbed and pleaded with him for a climax. Then she gasped that he was doing exactly the right thing when he outlined her intimate folds and played with her clit.

  He slipped two fingers, then three, into her, setting her hips rocking. She pumped hard against his hand, following his lead, and arched back against him. "Damn you, finish me!"

  Grania's scent built around Rafael, hungry and excited. His cock throbbed against the denim's bondage.

  The first pulse of climax swelled deep inside Brynda. Rafael's forefinger found her G-spot just as his fangs sank into her neck. She bucked and screamed as the powerful shock pummeled her, sending wave after orgasmic wave through her. "Oh yes! God, yes!"

  Grania groaned. The unmistakable scent of her climax slid into his nostrils.

  Rafael sucked hard, the sharp, bright taste of Brynda's carnal pleasure flowing into his mouth through her blood. A storm built from his spine through his balls and burst like a geyser from his cock. He fought to retain consciousness as stars burst behind his eyes.

  He recovered quickly, soon enough to feel Brynda shift away from his hand. He eased it free and kissed the top of her head, shuddering.

  Where had such a strong orgasm come from? And, Dios mió, what was he going to do with Grania?

  Grania straightened cautiously and slowly steadied her breathing. An orgasm. She'd had an orgasm without touching herself in any way, just by watching That Man with another woman. A scene that had felt—impossibly!—like reliving her own memory. She'd read of such orgasms in sexuality textbooks but never experienced one before.

  And yet it had undeniably happened.

  She closed her eyes for a moment.

  She had to think about something else, like a man who drank a woman's blood. But she'd seen Don Rafael do exactly that.

  She'd seen his teeth. Functional fangs, apparently razor sharp, comparable to those on a vampire bat. But those pests required their prey be asleep, not at an orgasmic climax.

  She'd seen him sucking on the woman. She'd seen drops of blood appear on the woman's skin afterward, and on his chin. The only conclusion was that he'd been drinking her blood.

  So what was he? A vampire? But vampires were creatures of myth and legend, studied by social scientists. No veterinarian, or other trained biologist, had ever observed one.

  What did the scientific method say to do when an observation didn't match accepted theory? Research, analyze, repeat the observation. Formulate a hypothesis only if absolutely necessary.

  She needed to see more of him before she could decide on an explanation. And she had to stop wondering what he'd look like without any clothes on.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  Rodrigo awoke with a start, a sword at his throat. He'd been dreaming of his return to Toledo and Blanche, now that his strength was returning, and was hopeful his ransom would follow quickly.

  His eyes flashed open and met Diego's viciously satisfied ones. Rodrigo began to sit up but the sword pressed deeper, drawing blood, and he desisted with a growl. Beside him, Fearghus cursed softly. The only other sounds were the normal ones of his cousin's men sleeping nearby, at his estate deep in Granada.

  "Madre de Dios, Diego, what mean you by this?" Rodrigo demanded. "I mourned you as dead."

  "I am—to you and all other infidels. Now I am Jamil and a true believer."

  "How could you renounce Christianity so easily? When you were supposed to have been knighted by the king this fall? Apóstata.'" He spat in Diego's face.

  Diego's expression contorted with rage and he lifted his sword for the killing stroke. Rodrigo poised himself to spring.

  Suddenly a leaden weight fell upon his limbs and he couldn't move. What devil's magic was this? Why didn't the noise of his argument with Diego wake his cousin's men?

  A figure took shape out of the shadows next to Diego. Wrapped in a black cloak, it barely reached Diego's shoulder. "Are these the infidels you spoke of, yaa ibni l-'aziiz?" the man asked in the pure Arabic of the Mediterranean's eastern edge.

  My dear son? Had Diego been adopted?

  Diego's hands clenched his sword in the moonlight then relaxed slowly. He lowered the curved blade carefully. "Yes, yaa 'abi l-'aziiz. They are the only Christian knights still held captive."

  Dark eyes, like pits under the cloak's hood, scrutinized Rodrigo, until his skin tried to crawl off his bones. Rodrigo fought to free himself bu
t could not. How was The Syrian binding him? He longed to kill the cochino and purify himself afterward by a good fast with his fellow Santiaguistas.

  "Filthy pig? You dare to befoul me, a true Muslim, by that name?" the newcomer snarled. He backhanded Rodrigo, sending him crashing off the cot and onto the floor. Stars danced before his eyes as blood's copper-sweet taste rushed over his tongue.

  Fearghus murmured a nearly inaudible encouragement as Rodrigo slowly hauled himself upright. He gathered himself to attack—but the same heaviness suddenly caught him.

  The Syrian surveyed him, as grudgingly as any farmer studying a balky donkey, before turning to Diego. "They certainly look strong enough to survive days of torture, as the others did not. Let's take them and go."

  Torture? Days of torture?

  "What of the others?" Diego asked humbly. "There are many other men here who could provide you with similar enjoyment."

  The Syrian slapped Diego, sending him staggering. Ay, mierda, how Rodrigo enjoyed that sight, despite his anger at his own helplessness.

  "Every other man here is a Muslim, a follower of Islam," The Syrian snapped. "No Muslim preys upon another Muslim. Unless you wish me to doubt your conversion, you will not mention this to me again."

  "Forgive me, yaa 'abi l-'aziiz. I did not mean what I said." Diego's voice and attitude were utterly humble as he prostrated himself to The Syrian. His eyes briefly promised vengeance to Rodrigo for having witnessed this humiliation before he kissed The Syrian's feet.

  "You are forgiven, yaa ibni l-'aziiz. All of us make mistakes and you will learn from this." He hoisted the now-bound Rodrigo effortlessly over his shoulder and turned for the entrance.

  "Our hosts will be furious that you have kidnapped us," Rodrigo growled, even as the air was jolted out of him. Furious is a very mild description of how Achmed and my cousins will feel. And they are a very proud and powerful family. Hope flickered in his heart.

  The Syrian laughed. "Let them be insulted and come after us. Even if they come with Abu Yusuf, who defeated those heathen dogs at Ecija, I can destroy them all."

  "Since you can read their minds and make their limbs turn to water," Diego agreed, as he dragged Fearghus out like a trussed goose, "you will pour their blood upon the ground like water or drink it like wine."

  Rodrigo's stomach knotted. Still he swore to Santiago that, no matter what it took or how long, one day he would come home to Blanche and his children.

  Grania told herself one more time, very firmly, that she couldn't possibly have seen a vampire. She'd seen a very handsome man—admittedly, a man so sexy she'd like to have an affair with him—masturbate a woman and bite her neck. But that was all.

  Okay, so he had long teeth, really long teeth. The female he'd been with had a few drops of blood on her neck, just above her jugular—a spot analogous to where the Mongols had routinely, and repeatedly, taken blood from their horses. Certainly, the female didn't seem to have been harmed, judging by how she was fondling his head as he licked her neck.

  But even if vampires existed, the only observations of them came from historians and anthropologists. Were those descriptions accurate enough to be reliable? But if anything like those vampires did walk the earth and did have evil intentions toward humans, she would not like to meet one. Nor fight one, even if they had only half the powers attributed to them.

  She'd thought of trying to stop Don Rafael from harming the woman. She'd even started to get up. But there didn't seem to be any doubt that—Brynda, was it?—was having one hell of a good time, the way the lucky woman was carrying on.

  "Oh, Don Rafael, as ever, you're so damn good for a girl," Brynda cooed eventually and kissed him on the mouth. Grania gritted her teeth, all too conscious of her pounding headache, the wetness between her own thighs, and her nagging jealousy of the other female. She might have had an orgasm but she'd have preferred to enjoy it in a man's arms, as the other had.

  Don Rafael kissed her gently and said something so softly, Grania couldn't quite catch it. Brynda blushed, looking almost like a teenager for a moment, before getting dressed as he gathered up their belongings. They walked back toward the lake together, arm in arm.

  Grania followed them cautiously, using all her years of training and experience in stalking wild animals and grateful for having walked this terrain a few times before. It was still nerve-wracking to plan her route as carefully as possible, keeping her quarry always in sight while staying downwind of them.

  They sauntered, dammit, with him supporting Brynda a bit in the beginning, while she told him he was better than shopping or chocolate.

  Grania used the upright crouch her godfather had taught her to follow them—placing her weight very precisely on her feet, outside first then rolling the foot on and off the ground, ever ready to withdraw it at the slightest hint that a twig underneath might snap.

  The humid air weighed heavily on her skin, while sweat beaded and rolled down her back under her shirt. Mesquite twigs slid into her hair and attached themselves to her jacket. She ignored them.

  She wished to God she had her shotgun. It would make even a vampire pay attention, should Don Rafael turn hostile toward Brynda or herself.

  Finally, Don Rafael and Brynda reached the lakeshore a mile from the resort. The road here was lined with great palm trees, tall but fat and round at their base, as if ready to hide Ali Baba's thieves. Beyond the public park's mesquite thickets lay a series of tiered gardens with sparkling fountains and finally, the marina and resort itself, like a vision of paradise against the hills beyond.

  The marina's bright lights danced across the water, illuminating small sailboats and powerboats. Above it rose the Arabian Nights fantasy of the resort's main buildings. Grania could distantly hear a band playing a country-western tune, while a DJ's voice exhorted dancers to come learn a new line dance.

  Grania promptly took cover behind a palm tree, where she could see but not be seen.

  Brynda kissed Don Rafael on the cheek, looking the very picture of smug femininity, and sauntered toward the marina.

  After she'd passed a turn in the road and was out of sight, Don Rafael stretched his arms and legs, then his back, in a manner similar to a large raptor—such as a condor—preening on its nest. His big, muscular body was incredibly graceful—and Grania's mouth went abruptly, embarrassingly, dry with lust.

  He shimmered in the moonlight and Grania blinked in surprise. When she focused again, a very large great horned owl was taking flight from where he'd been standing.

  Dear God in heaven, where had that great horned come from? And where had Don Rafael gone?

  She stepped out from behind the palm tree, determined to investigate. Suddenly a man's arm slammed around her neck and dragged her back against him, using a choke hold. Startled and angry, Grania fought hard, using every dirty trick she'd ever learned, but to no avail. She kicked, she jabbed him with her elbows, she tried to throw him.

  The fellow was simply much stronger than she was; he never even grunted when she kicked him. He wasn't Don Rafael, being only a few inches taller than her and more slender than Don Rafael. At least he was professional enough not to have a hard-on.

  Finally she forced herself to relax, trying not to curse him or visibly seethe, and waited for an opportunity to escape.

  Then Don Rafael walked onto the road, clad only in his shirt and jeans, and faced her.

  What the hell? Had he really turned into an owl? Were her eyes deceiving her? Where were the rest of his clothes?

  A lifetime of training as an observer was suddenly useless when faced with so many contradictions and impossibilities. She fought to remain calm.

  "Buenas noches, doctora."

  "Buenas noches, señor," she managed to answer, after only a slight hesitation.

  "Did you enjoy your observations, doctora?"

  She could have killed him for that quip. After all, he was the one who'd been behaving outrageously by drinking blood.

  She forced herself back to
calmness, deliberately relaxing every muscle in her body one by one. She'd talked her way past murderous ruffians in Colombian swamps, while counting owls, and survived. Surely she could deal with a pair of Texans.

  The man behind her eased slightly, as her body became supple, but was still implacable.

  "They were somewhat… unusual, señor." She shrugged, striving for a light atmosphere, and wished her headache would disappear.

  His dark eyes fixed on hers, as if he wished to rip her thoughts out of her. "Do you intend to share them with others?"

  "What's to share? A man and woman did some necking in the woods. Would anyone in authority believe the man bit the woman for a nefarious reason, especially when he's such an important member of the community?"

  "Do you mock me, doctora?" His voice was deadly soft. The forearm against her windpipe tightened.

  She swallowed, hard, and reminded herself they had power here, not her. "No, I'm just telling the truth."

  He studied her then nodded. The forearm left her throat but her attacker didn't release her. Grania managed not to wipe her brow.

  "How discreet are you, doctora?"

  Grania gave him the simple truth. "If the lady is unharmed, I will be completely discreet."

  "So very much the medical practitioner. If I hear you have been indiscreet about tonight's activities, you will immediately regret it. Greatly."

  "If I learn that the lady has been harmed in any way, you, sir, will immediately regret it. Greatly." She silently challenged him to contradict her.

  "Upon my honor, I would never harm a lady." He bowed to her, as formally as if at the royal court in Madrid. Oddly enough, she believed him completely.

  "¿Con el permiso? May I remove this impertinent twig from your jacket, doctora?"