A Vampire's Claim

Page 2

Forcing himself not to look, Dev nodded his thanks to Elle and lifted his beer to his lips, closing his eyes to savor it as he tilted back. Perhaps it was because he was so aware of her proximity that he anticipated the woman, but he caught her hand a moment before she would have touched his exposed throat. Opening his eyes, he kept his hand firmly closed on her wrist. Intrigued, he noticed her men didn’t react, continuing their card game.
“Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, love,” he said without rancor.
“I’m a woman who likes to touch fine-looking things,” she responded. Her voice had a Brit and Aussie blending with an unexpected sultry cadence, probably because the sound of it had the smoothness of lava, pouring heat straight into his pants.
She might have said something else, but he missed the next series of words entirely. Like Elle, he wasn’t knocked off his pins by much anymore. But now, confronted with her close up, he was knocked full on his arse.
Her face looked as fragile and protected as a prize winning orchid. The blond hair was truly spun gold, like that found in the mines long ago, when the dust glittered on the walls like an enchanted castle.
Easy, mate. She’s no whore, though by God she’s acting willing enough to take you on. What in hell was a woman like this doing out here? The softness of the skin under his fingertips said she sure as hell didn’t live in the Outback. He noticed how she’d come in on his left side, which avoided the straining long patches of late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the open door and windows.
Nothin’ but trouble there tonight.
He’d gone and put his foot in it, hadn’t he?
Shifting his glance to a watchful Elle, he said, “Elle, love. Can you lend me a clean bar rag?” Elle slid one over. Picking it up, Dev released the blonde to clean off the sweat and grime he’d left on her skin. She had a narrow wrist, a gemstone on one finger in proportion to the one on her neck.
“Some nice baubles to be wearing way out here,” he observed, trying not to focus on how easy it would be to make his functional scrubbing a teasing stroke over her pulse, a hint of what he could offer to other parts of her. As she lifted her hand to accommodate him, he could feel that pulse beating like a bird’s heart. There was a delicate web of lines on her palm. Her lifeline was long, he noted.
“No sense in owning something if you’re not going to play with it. Show it off.” She turned her hand, interlacing a couple of her fingers with his own despite the cloth, and held them there at eye level, keeping his gaze focused on her face. He was a few inches taller than she was. “I’ll tell you my name if you give me the extra egg.” Considering that, he gave her a half shrug. “Well, I haven’t asked you for that, have I now? As pretty a name as I’m sure it is, it’s not much currency for what could provide me a good meal or two. Barter again, love.” She studied him, her mouth curving up. “A dance.”
“A slow dance.” Dropping the rag on the bar and letting her go, albeit reluctantly, he took another bracing swallow of the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. As he did, he let his gaze move down and then back up, with as much brazen appreciation as she’d indulged herself. He thought he saw that hint of a smile reach her eyes at his boldness, but something else, too. Something darker. “The kind of dance that tells a man what a woman’s got to offer under her clothes,” he added.
Elle muttered something under her breath. Dev was sure it was something like “stupid bugger,” but because he was cracking on to the pretty stranger way too hard or because he was going hip deep into trouble and trudging along happily, he didn’t know. Well, as for the first, the blonde had started it, hadn’t she?
“Done,” the woman said. “If you give me your name.”
He took one green-black egg from the bowl and pushed it a turn toward her. “Devlin. You can call me Dev.”
“Lady Daniela,” she responded. The way she met his eyes as she said it made something reach in, wring his heart out like the rag.
Pain came with it, of course, and the reminder of why he didn’t linger long around civilization, let alone with a woman. “How do I know it’s not rotten?” she asked. “The egg.”
“You got a straw from your broom, Elle?”
Though the older woman gave him a narrow look, she plucked a good one, knowing what he was about. Dev took the other two eggs out and brought the three together end to end, nodding to his fascinated audience. “Now put the straw on the top of your middle one while I hold these to it.” He shifted his body to block the air flow of the nearest fan.
When she did, he continued, “Now, if the straw spins, the egg’s good for eating. If it’s sluggish or dead in the water, well, I’ve given you a bad egg.”
Lady Daniela watched, obviously intrigued, as the straw quivered and then began to move. Rapidly.
“Check the others,” Elle groused. “I don’t want you giving away a good egg and leaving me a bad ’un for Joe’s cake.” He’d never bring Elle a bad egg and she knew that, but Dev let it pass. He tested all three to both women’s satisfaction before returning the two to the bowl and putting the other in the cup of his hat.
When Lady Daniela reached out to touch her new possession, her fingers drifted to the hat itself, tracing the sweat-stained band inside, her gaze rising to his forehead, lingering over the strands of his hair.
“It seems I owe you a dance, then,” she said. “Provided this bit of nonsense is true.”
“It’s true enough. What’s a flaming Pom doing out here, love? One with a bloody title?” Now that he had her commitment to a dance, he saw no reason to rush what might end up being only a dance. Though when he took another swallow of his beer, he found the way she studied the motion, riveting on his mouth as if she’d like to lick the foam off, a serious strain on his control. But in England he’d once seen a very pretty snow owl who, despite the inviting look of her soft feathers, still had a beak as sharp as a spear and the eyes of a predator. Watching, gauging.
Sliding onto the stool next to him, she leaned back, the white shirt she wore tightening over her pleasingly shaped breasts, drawing his attention back to the crevice where the amulet hung. The brown trousers creased up at the top of her thighs, making him want to reach out and trace those tiny gatherings of fabric. Follow their diagonal slant across her inseam, push her thighs open so he could rub between them, feel her heat reach out to him through cotton. He would have paid good money for another look at her backside. Why in the hell did he care about her background? Why’d he even ask?
“I’m returning to my family’s station to take it over.” She studied her egg, a thoughtful look crossing her face. When she didn’t say anything further, he cleared his throat.
“Sounds like you don’t really want the job.”
“It needs to be done.” Her gaze shifted back to him. “You strike me as the type of man who knows his way around the business of a station.”
“This a job interview, love?” He signaled Elle for another beer. He was setting too fast a pace, but if Lady D was going to dig around his past, he’d need to toss back a few more before he could accommodate her.
“You also don’t strike me as a man looking for work. I’d be interested in your opinion, though.” When the beer came into his hand, before he could pop off the top, she laid her own over it, preventing the motion. Her fingers curved in a bit, her nails pressing into the side of his hand.
“The current management is strongly opposed to me coming in and taking over,” she went on. “Do I try diplomacy right from the off, or do I invite them to dinner and stake them out on an anthill, letting their screams be an example to the others?” She cocked her head. “Hypothetically, of course.”
“Depends on whether you’re planning on serving red or white wine with the dinner.” When he directed a pointed look at his beer, she withdrew her hand, though with a smile. Ignoring the lingering tingle in his skin from her touch, he removed the top and brought it to his lips for a bracing swallow. He’d often wondered why men needed drink to give them courage around women. She was a blatant answer to that question. Her hand had settled on his thigh, was tracing it with a touch that was damn proprietary. He’d tell her to move it. After he finished the beer.
“The staking out seems a trifle heavy-handed. Might make them fall in line, but they won’t respect you. They’ll be afraid of you, and that’s one step away from contempt. The moment you stumble—and you always stumble—they’ll tear the flesh from your bones.
Hypothetically, of course.”
Hooking his arm on the back of his bar stool, he flicked a glance toward her hand. She’d turned it over, was stroking him with her knuckles way up high, too high. His cock was about to buck like a brumby in his pants. He cleared his throat. “But say you walk in, pull a gun and shoot two of them. Quick, no emotion, do the job. That says you’re a right bad girl, but you’re there with an objective. You’re not making it personal. Then you bring in the fancy talk. Explain to those left standing why it’ll profit them to look at things your way. Show them you’re not afraid to seize ’em by the balls, but you’d rather make everyone rich and better off.
Hypothetically,” he added again.
Her brows rose, her hand stilling. “And where did you learn all that?”
“Oxford. School of Business. Some of it. The rest of it is living out here. There’s some that respond to reason, some that respond to force. The wise leader is one that figures out how much of each to use depending on the situation. And also the one who listens to wise counsel”—he grinned, saluting her with the beer—“and doesn’t get sidetracked by the opinions of lazy bludgers.” In his current position, he was half turned toward her, knees splayed and one boot hooked on the bottom rung of the stool. Such that when she turned more toward him now, her knees were between his, making their posture far more intimate. He could almost feel the warmth of her body emanating toward the strained seam of his trousers.