mind.” She scowled. “They’re little more than drug addicts.”
“Such obstinance,” he murmured, and pushed open the door.
Whispered sounds, laughter, the tinkle of glass. It flowed out like an invitation. Raphael’s eyes dared her to step inside. Fool that she was, she accepted the challenge and—slipping a knife from an arm sheath into her palm—walked in, piercingly aware of the archangel at her back, the naked vulnerability of her spine . . . until her mouth dropped open in shock.
The vampires were having a cocktail party.
She blinked, taking in the muted, romantic lighting, the plush couches, the hors d’oeuvres accompanied by slender flutes of champagne. The food was clearly for the human guests, male and female, who stood talking, laughing, and flirting with their vampire hosts. Dinner suits lay snugly over lithely muscled shoulders, while cocktail dresses ran the gamut from long and slinky to short and sexy, the overriding themes black and red, with the occasional daring splash of white.
Conversation stopped the second they saw her. Then their eyes flicked behind her and she almost heard the collective sigh of relief—the hunter was on the archangel’s leash. Stifling the childish urge to show them different, she slid the knife discreetly back up into the sheath.
None too soon, too, because a vampire was walking toward her, glass of wine in hand. At least she hoped it was wine—the dark red liquid could as easily have been blood. “Hello, Elena.” The words were said in a beautiful, deep voice but it was his scent that was truly intoxicating—rich and dark and luscious.
“Doorvamp,” she whispered, throat husky. It was only when she found herself pressed against the living heat of Raphael that she realized she’d backed away from the clawing beauty of the invisible caress.
“My name is Dmitri.” He smiled, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth, not a fang in sight. An old vamp, an experienced vamp. “Come, dance with me.”
Heat uncurled between her legs, an involuntary reaction to Dmitri’s scent, a scent that held a very special—and highly erotic—allure for the hunter-born. “Stop it or I swear I’ll make you a eunuch.”
He looked down at the blade now pressing against his zipper. When he raised his head, his expression was more than a fraction annoyed. “If you’re not here to play, why come at all?” The scent dissipated, as if he’d drawn it into himself. “This is a place of safety and enjoyment. Take your weapons elsewhere.”
Flushing, she got rid of the knife. It was obvious she’d just committed a major faux pas. “Raphael.”
The archangel curled his hand around her upper arm. “Elena is here to learn. She doesn’t understand the fascination you hold for humans.”
Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to show you.”
“Not tonight, Dmitri.”
“As you wish, sire.” Giving a small nod, Dmitri walked away . . . but only after wrapping a tendril of scent around her as a parting shot.
His slow smile said he could scent her response, knew she was weak-kneed with it. But the effect faded with every step he took, until she no longer craved the sensual pain of his touch—Dmitri’s scent was as much a tool of mind control as Raphael’s abilities. But for the first time, she began to understand why some hunters became sexually—even romantically—intertwined with the very creatures they hunted.
Of course, they didn’t hunt the ones like Dmitri. “He’s old enough to have repaid the hundred-year debt several times over.” Not to mention his considerable personal power—she’d never met any vampire with that much sheer magnetism. “Why does he stay with you?”
Raphael’s hand was a brand on her upper arm, burning through the material of her shirt to stain her skin. “He requires constant challenge. Working for me gives him the opportunity to fulfill his needs.”
“In more ways than one,” she murmured, watching as Dmitri went to
“Such obstinance,” he murmured, and pushed open the door.
Whispered sounds, laughter, the tinkle of glass. It flowed out like an invitation. Raphael’s eyes dared her to step inside. Fool that she was, she accepted the challenge and—slipping a knife from an arm sheath into her palm—walked in, piercingly aware of the archangel at her back, the naked vulnerability of her spine . . . until her mouth dropped open in shock.
The vampires were having a cocktail party.
She blinked, taking in the muted, romantic lighting, the plush couches, the hors d’oeuvres accompanied by slender flutes of champagne. The food was clearly for the human guests, male and female, who stood talking, laughing, and flirting with their vampire hosts. Dinner suits lay snugly over lithely muscled shoulders, while cocktail dresses ran the gamut from long and slinky to short and sexy, the overriding themes black and red, with the occasional daring splash of white.
Conversation stopped the second they saw her. Then their eyes flicked behind her and she almost heard the collective sigh of relief—the hunter was on the archangel’s leash. Stifling the childish urge to show them different, she slid the knife discreetly back up into the sheath.
None too soon, too, because a vampire was walking toward her, glass of wine in hand. At least she hoped it was wine—the dark red liquid could as easily have been blood. “Hello, Elena.” The words were said in a beautiful, deep voice but it was his scent that was truly intoxicating—rich and dark and luscious.
“Doorvamp,” she whispered, throat husky. It was only when she found herself pressed against the living heat of Raphael that she realized she’d backed away from the clawing beauty of the invisible caress.
“My name is Dmitri.” He smiled, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth, not a fang in sight. An old vamp, an experienced vamp. “Come, dance with me.”
Heat uncurled between her legs, an involuntary reaction to Dmitri’s scent, a scent that held a very special—and highly erotic—allure for the hunter-born. “Stop it or I swear I’ll make you a eunuch.”
He looked down at the blade now pressing against his zipper. When he raised his head, his expression was more than a fraction annoyed. “If you’re not here to play, why come at all?” The scent dissipated, as if he’d drawn it into himself. “This is a place of safety and enjoyment. Take your weapons elsewhere.”
Flushing, she got rid of the knife. It was obvious she’d just committed a major faux pas. “Raphael.”
The archangel curled his hand around her upper arm. “Elena is here to learn. She doesn’t understand the fascination you hold for humans.”
Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to show you.”
“Not tonight, Dmitri.”
“As you wish, sire.” Giving a small nod, Dmitri walked away . . . but only after wrapping a tendril of scent around her as a parting shot.
His slow smile said he could scent her response, knew she was weak-kneed with it. But the effect faded with every step he took, until she no longer craved the sensual pain of his touch—Dmitri’s scent was as much a tool of mind control as Raphael’s abilities. But for the first time, she began to understand why some hunters became sexually—even romantically—intertwined with the very creatures they hunted.
Of course, they didn’t hunt the ones like Dmitri. “He’s old enough to have repaid the hundred-year debt several times over.” Not to mention his considerable personal power—she’d never met any vampire with that much sheer magnetism. “Why does he stay with you?”
Raphael’s hand was a brand on her upper arm, burning through the material of her shirt to stain her skin. “He requires constant challenge. Working for me gives him the opportunity to fulfill his needs.”
“In more ways than one,” she murmured, watching as Dmitri went to