Darkness Revealed
Page 1
Prologue
London, 1814
The ballroom was a startling blaze of color. In the flickering candlelight the satin-and-silk-draped maidens twirled in the arms of dashing gentlemen, the brilliant flare of their jewels making a rainbow of shimmering fireworks that was reflected in the mirrors that were set in the walls.
The elegant pageantry was near breathtaking, but it was not the passing spectacle that caught and held the attention of the numerous guests.
That honor belonged solely to Conde Cezar.
With the amused arrogance that belonged solely to the aristocracy, he moved through the crowd, needing only a lift of his slender hand to have them parting like the Red Sea to clear him a path, or a glance from his smoldering black eyes to send the ladies (and a few gentlemen) into a fluttering frenzy of excitement.
Much to her annoyance, Miss Anna Randal did her own share of fluttering as she caught sight of that faintly golden, exquisitely chiseled profile. Stupid, really, since gentlemen such as the Conde would never lower themselves to take notice of a poor, insignificant maiden who spent her evenings in one dark corner or another.
Such gentlemen did, however, take notice of beautiful, enticing young maidens who would boldly encourage the most hardened reprobate.
Which was the only reason that Anna forced herself to follow in the wake of his lean, elegant form as he left the ballroom and made his way up the sweeping staircase. Being a poor relation meant that she was forced to take on whatever unpleasant task happened to crop up, and on this evening, her unpleasant task included keeping a close eye upon her cousin Morgana, who was clearly fascinated by gentlemen such as the dangerous Conde Cezar.
A fascination that might very well end in scandal for the entire family.
Hurrying to keep the slender male form in sight, Anna impatiently hiked up the cheap muslin of her gown. As she had expected he turned at the top of the stairs and made his way down the corridor that led to the private chambers. Such a rake would never attend something as tedious as a ball without having a nefarious assignation arranged beforehand.
All she need do was ensure that Morgana was not the beneficiary of that nefarious part and Anna could return to her dark corner in the ballroom and watch the other maidens enjoy their evening.
Grimacing at the thought, Anna paused as her quarry slipped through a door and disappeared.
Damnation. Now what? Although she had seen nothing of Morgana, that was no assurance that she was not already hidden in the room awaiting the Conde’s arrival.
Cursing her vain, self-centered cousin, who considered nothing beyond her own pleasures, Anna moved forward and carefully pushed open the heavy door. She would just take a quick peek and then…
A scream was wrenched from her throat as slender fingers grasped her wrist in a cold, brutal grip, jerking her into the dark room and slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 1
The reception room of the hotel on Michigan Avenue was a blaze of color. In the light of the chandelier Chicago’s movers and shakers strutted about like peacocks, occasionally glancing toward the massive fountain in the center of the room where a handful of Hollywood B-list stars were posing for photographs with the guests, for an obscene fee that supposedly went to some charity or another.
The similarity to another evening was not lost on Anna as she once again hovered in a dark corner watching Conde Cezar move arrogantly through the room.
Of course, that other evening had been nearly two hundred years ago. And while she hadn’t physically aged a day (which she couldn’t deny saved a butt-load on plastic surgery and gym memberships), she wasn’t that shy, spineless maiden who had to beg for a few crumbs from her aunt’s table. That girl had died the night Conde Cezar had taken her hand and hauled her into a dark bedchamber.
And good riddance to her.
Her life might be all kinds of weird, but Anna had discovered she could take care of herself. In fact, she did a damn fine job of it. She would never go back to being that timid girl who wore shabby muslin gowns (not to mention the corset-from-hell).
That didn’t, however, mean she had forgotten that fateful night.
Or Conde Cezar.
He had some explaining to do. Explaining on an epic scale.
Which was the only reason she had traveled to Chicago from her current home in Los Angeles.
Absently sipping the champagne that had been forced into her hand by one of the bare-chested waiters, Anna studied the man who had haunted her dreams.
When she had read in the paper that the Conde would be traveling from Spain to attend this charity event she had known that there was always the possibility the man would be a relative of the Conde she had known in London. The aristocracy was obsessed with sticking their offspring with their own name. As if it weren’t enough they had to share DNA.
One glance was enough to guarantee it was no relative.
Mother Nature was too fickle to make such an exact duplicate of those lean, golden features, the dark, smoldering eyes, the to-die-for body…
And that hair.
As black as sin, it fell in a smooth river to his shoulders. Tonight he had pulled back the top layer in a gold clasp, leaving the bottom to brush the expensive fabric of his tux.
If there was a woman in the room who wasn’t imagining running her fingers through that glossy mane, then Anna would eat her silver-beaded bag. Conde Cezar had only to step into a room for the estrogen to charge into hyperdrive.
A fact that was earning him more than a few I-wish-looks-could-kill glares from the Hollywood pretty boys by the fountain.
Anna muttered a curse beneath her breath. She was allowing herself to be distracted.
Okay, the man looked like some conquering conquistador. And those dark eyes held a sultry heat that could melt steel at a hundred paces. But she had already paid the price for being blinded by the luscious dark beauty.
It wasn’t happening again.
Busily convincing herself that the tingles in the pit of her stomach were nothing more than expensive champagne bubbles, Anna stiffened as the unmistakable scent of apples filled the air.
Before she ever turned she knew who it would be. The only question was…why?
“Well, well. If it isn’t Anna the Good Samaritan,” Sybil Taylor drawled, her sweet smile edged with spite. “And at one of those charity events you claim are nothing more than an opportunity for the A-listers to preen for the paparazzi. I knew that holier-than-thou attitude was nothing more than a sham.”
Anna didn’t gag, but it was a near thing.
Despite the fact that both women lived in L.A. and they were both lawyers, they couldn’t have been more opposite.
Sybil was a tall, curvaceous brunette with pale skin and large brown eyes. Anna on the other hand barely skimmed the five-foot mark and had brown hair and hazel eyes. Sybil was a corporate lawyer who possessed the morals of a…well, actually she didn’t possess the morals of anything. She had no morals. Anna, on the other hand, worked at a free law clinic that battled corporate greed on a daily basis.
“Obviously I should have studied the guest list a bit more carefully,” Anna retorted, caught off guard, but not entirely surprised by the sight of the woman. Sybil Taylor possessed a talent for rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, wherever they might be.
“Oh, I would say that you studied the guest list as closely as every other woman in the room.” Sybil deliberately glanced across the room to where the Conde Cezar toyed with a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger. “Who is he?”
For a heartbeat, Anna battled the urge to slap that pale, perfect face. Almost as if she resented the woman’s interest in the Conde.
Stupid, Anna.
Stupid and dangerous.
“Conde Cezar,” she muttered.
Sybil licked her lips that were too full to be real. Of course, there wasn’t much about Sybil Taylor that was real.
“Euro trash or the real deal?” the woman demanded.
Anna shrugged. “As far as I know, the title is real enough.”
“He is…edible.” Sybil ran her hands down the little black dress that made a valiant effort to cover her considerable curves. “Married?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmmm. Gucci tux, Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes.” She tapped a manicured nail against too-perfect teeth. “Gay?”
Anna had to remind her heart to beat. “Most definitely not.”
“Ah…I smell a history between the two of you. Do tell.”
Against her will Anna’s gaze strayed toward the tall, dark, thorn in her side.
“You couldn’t begin to imagine the history we share, Sybil.”
“Maybe not, but I can imagine all that dark, yummy goodness handcuffed to my bed while I have my way with him.”
“Handcuffs?” Anna swallowed a nervous laugh, instinctively tightening her grip on her bag. “I always wondered how you managed to keep a man in your bed.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “There hasn’t been a man born who isn’t desperate to have a taste of this body.”
“Desperate for a taste of that overused, silicone-implanted, Botox-injected body? A man could buy an inflatable doll with less plastic than you.”
“Why you…” The woman gave a hiss. An honest-to-God hiss. “Stay out of my way, Anna Randal, or you will be nothing more than an oily spot on the bottom of my Pradas.”
London, 1814
The ballroom was a startling blaze of color. In the flickering candlelight the satin-and-silk-draped maidens twirled in the arms of dashing gentlemen, the brilliant flare of their jewels making a rainbow of shimmering fireworks that was reflected in the mirrors that were set in the walls.
The elegant pageantry was near breathtaking, but it was not the passing spectacle that caught and held the attention of the numerous guests.
That honor belonged solely to Conde Cezar.
With the amused arrogance that belonged solely to the aristocracy, he moved through the crowd, needing only a lift of his slender hand to have them parting like the Red Sea to clear him a path, or a glance from his smoldering black eyes to send the ladies (and a few gentlemen) into a fluttering frenzy of excitement.
Much to her annoyance, Miss Anna Randal did her own share of fluttering as she caught sight of that faintly golden, exquisitely chiseled profile. Stupid, really, since gentlemen such as the Conde would never lower themselves to take notice of a poor, insignificant maiden who spent her evenings in one dark corner or another.
Such gentlemen did, however, take notice of beautiful, enticing young maidens who would boldly encourage the most hardened reprobate.
Which was the only reason that Anna forced herself to follow in the wake of his lean, elegant form as he left the ballroom and made his way up the sweeping staircase. Being a poor relation meant that she was forced to take on whatever unpleasant task happened to crop up, and on this evening, her unpleasant task included keeping a close eye upon her cousin Morgana, who was clearly fascinated by gentlemen such as the dangerous Conde Cezar.
A fascination that might very well end in scandal for the entire family.
Hurrying to keep the slender male form in sight, Anna impatiently hiked up the cheap muslin of her gown. As she had expected he turned at the top of the stairs and made his way down the corridor that led to the private chambers. Such a rake would never attend something as tedious as a ball without having a nefarious assignation arranged beforehand.
All she need do was ensure that Morgana was not the beneficiary of that nefarious part and Anna could return to her dark corner in the ballroom and watch the other maidens enjoy their evening.
Grimacing at the thought, Anna paused as her quarry slipped through a door and disappeared.
Damnation. Now what? Although she had seen nothing of Morgana, that was no assurance that she was not already hidden in the room awaiting the Conde’s arrival.
Cursing her vain, self-centered cousin, who considered nothing beyond her own pleasures, Anna moved forward and carefully pushed open the heavy door. She would just take a quick peek and then…
A scream was wrenched from her throat as slender fingers grasped her wrist in a cold, brutal grip, jerking her into the dark room and slamming the door behind her.
Chapter 1
The reception room of the hotel on Michigan Avenue was a blaze of color. In the light of the chandelier Chicago’s movers and shakers strutted about like peacocks, occasionally glancing toward the massive fountain in the center of the room where a handful of Hollywood B-list stars were posing for photographs with the guests, for an obscene fee that supposedly went to some charity or another.
The similarity to another evening was not lost on Anna as she once again hovered in a dark corner watching Conde Cezar move arrogantly through the room.
Of course, that other evening had been nearly two hundred years ago. And while she hadn’t physically aged a day (which she couldn’t deny saved a butt-load on plastic surgery and gym memberships), she wasn’t that shy, spineless maiden who had to beg for a few crumbs from her aunt’s table. That girl had died the night Conde Cezar had taken her hand and hauled her into a dark bedchamber.
And good riddance to her.
Her life might be all kinds of weird, but Anna had discovered she could take care of herself. In fact, she did a damn fine job of it. She would never go back to being that timid girl who wore shabby muslin gowns (not to mention the corset-from-hell).
That didn’t, however, mean she had forgotten that fateful night.
Or Conde Cezar.
He had some explaining to do. Explaining on an epic scale.
Which was the only reason she had traveled to Chicago from her current home in Los Angeles.
Absently sipping the champagne that had been forced into her hand by one of the bare-chested waiters, Anna studied the man who had haunted her dreams.
When she had read in the paper that the Conde would be traveling from Spain to attend this charity event she had known that there was always the possibility the man would be a relative of the Conde she had known in London. The aristocracy was obsessed with sticking their offspring with their own name. As if it weren’t enough they had to share DNA.
One glance was enough to guarantee it was no relative.
Mother Nature was too fickle to make such an exact duplicate of those lean, golden features, the dark, smoldering eyes, the to-die-for body…
And that hair.
As black as sin, it fell in a smooth river to his shoulders. Tonight he had pulled back the top layer in a gold clasp, leaving the bottom to brush the expensive fabric of his tux.
If there was a woman in the room who wasn’t imagining running her fingers through that glossy mane, then Anna would eat her silver-beaded bag. Conde Cezar had only to step into a room for the estrogen to charge into hyperdrive.
A fact that was earning him more than a few I-wish-looks-could-kill glares from the Hollywood pretty boys by the fountain.
Anna muttered a curse beneath her breath. She was allowing herself to be distracted.
Okay, the man looked like some conquering conquistador. And those dark eyes held a sultry heat that could melt steel at a hundred paces. But she had already paid the price for being blinded by the luscious dark beauty.
It wasn’t happening again.
Busily convincing herself that the tingles in the pit of her stomach were nothing more than expensive champagne bubbles, Anna stiffened as the unmistakable scent of apples filled the air.
Before she ever turned she knew who it would be. The only question was…why?
“Well, well. If it isn’t Anna the Good Samaritan,” Sybil Taylor drawled, her sweet smile edged with spite. “And at one of those charity events you claim are nothing more than an opportunity for the A-listers to preen for the paparazzi. I knew that holier-than-thou attitude was nothing more than a sham.”
Anna didn’t gag, but it was a near thing.
Despite the fact that both women lived in L.A. and they were both lawyers, they couldn’t have been more opposite.
Sybil was a tall, curvaceous brunette with pale skin and large brown eyes. Anna on the other hand barely skimmed the five-foot mark and had brown hair and hazel eyes. Sybil was a corporate lawyer who possessed the morals of a…well, actually she didn’t possess the morals of anything. She had no morals. Anna, on the other hand, worked at a free law clinic that battled corporate greed on a daily basis.
“Obviously I should have studied the guest list a bit more carefully,” Anna retorted, caught off guard, but not entirely surprised by the sight of the woman. Sybil Taylor possessed a talent for rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, wherever they might be.
“Oh, I would say that you studied the guest list as closely as every other woman in the room.” Sybil deliberately glanced across the room to where the Conde Cezar toyed with a heavy gold signet ring on his little finger. “Who is he?”
For a heartbeat, Anna battled the urge to slap that pale, perfect face. Almost as if she resented the woman’s interest in the Conde.
Stupid, Anna.
Stupid and dangerous.
“Conde Cezar,” she muttered.
Sybil licked her lips that were too full to be real. Of course, there wasn’t much about Sybil Taylor that was real.
“Euro trash or the real deal?” the woman demanded.
Anna shrugged. “As far as I know, the title is real enough.”
“He is…edible.” Sybil ran her hands down the little black dress that made a valiant effort to cover her considerable curves. “Married?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmmm. Gucci tux, Rolex watch, Italian leather shoes.” She tapped a manicured nail against too-perfect teeth. “Gay?”
Anna had to remind her heart to beat. “Most definitely not.”
“Ah…I smell a history between the two of you. Do tell.”
Against her will Anna’s gaze strayed toward the tall, dark, thorn in her side.
“You couldn’t begin to imagine the history we share, Sybil.”
“Maybe not, but I can imagine all that dark, yummy goodness handcuffed to my bed while I have my way with him.”
“Handcuffs?” Anna swallowed a nervous laugh, instinctively tightening her grip on her bag. “I always wondered how you managed to keep a man in your bed.”
The dark eyes narrowed. “There hasn’t been a man born who isn’t desperate to have a taste of this body.”
“Desperate for a taste of that overused, silicone-implanted, Botox-injected body? A man could buy an inflatable doll with less plastic than you.”
“Why you…” The woman gave a hiss. An honest-to-God hiss. “Stay out of my way, Anna Randal, or you will be nothing more than an oily spot on the bottom of my Pradas.”
