Blood and Bondage Page 4

  As they returned to the balcony, Oliver’s sixth sense stood on high alert. Once in their seats, a maître de approached their box. In his hand, he carried a glass of what appeared to be red wine. He set it down on the small marble table between the two chairs. Next to it, he placed a small rectangular object Oliver assumed was a napkin.

  “Compliments of Monsieur Gaucher,” the man said with a bow of his head.

  At the words, Oliver shot to his feet, shoving the server against the wall while his fingers wrapped around his throat. “Where is he? Tell me before I strangle you with my bare hands.” But the servant couldn’t speak, not with Oliver choking the life out of him.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver saw Anaïs pick up the napkin, and read the distinct handwriting scrawled in the center.

  Having fun? Me too.

  P.G.

  That was it. Short and sweet. Oliver watched her turn the card over onto its back, and stare at the grotesque image. A photograph, not a napkin. On it, the reflection of another female vampire with her throat mercilessly slashed, red oozing down her naked flesh.

  The sight left Oliver teetering on the edge, ready to murder the messenger for his part in provoking the woman he felt compelled to protect. Yet with a firm hand to his bicep, Anaïs helped still his rage.

  “Please. Stop. I just want to go home.” He sensed the fear in her voice, and saw bloody tears swimming in the depths of her amber eyes. When he didn’t release his grip on the server, Anaïs let out a growl, revealing two serrated canines at the corners of her mouth. The vampire’s turbulent emotions rolled over him and he knew that he had to get her out of there before she lost all semblance of control.

  Oliver unclenched the fist that held onto the man’s throat, and yanked Anaïs by the arm, dragging her down the stairs. On the way out of the theatre, he pulled out his phone and screamed a command to one of his men.

  “Bring the car around to the front. Now.”

  ****

  Pierre peered through the binoculars he’d brought with him to the opera house. Thus far, he hadn’t used them to view the show. It hadn’t been necessary since his seat was situated smack dab behind the orchestra section. He did, however, need them to spy on his former flame, who sat high above him with another man in a pair of swanky balcony seats.

  Anaïs looked as beautiful as she had the night he’d met her more than a hundred years before at the Moulin Rouge cabaret. The pale pink ball gown she wore highlighted her lustrous red locks. They spiraled in waves down the sides of her face, while the swell of her bosom flounced over the edge of her slightly flushed skin.

  Pierre’s heart raced, captivated by her breathtaking loveliness. For innumerable days and nights, he’d fantasized about the naughty escapades they’d once wrought and yearned to be reunited with the ravishing red head. Like him, Anaïs’s tastes bordered on the sadomasochistic side of things. Over a few short months at the turn of the twentieth century, they lived together in blissful coupledom. The two of them had run amuck all over the streets of Paris, leaving a trail of mangled, lifeless bodies in their path. Even after they’d parted ways, Pierre stayed abreast of her whereabouts.

  Anaïs was a creature of habit and rarely left her Parisian flat. Spying on her as he often did, Pierre was surprised when his former lover hopped a plane to the United States. From what he could gather, she’d made the trip to New York City in order to attend the nuptials of her infamous godson, Andreas Kristopolous.

  Pierre felt compelled to follow her. He’d been able to sneak into the wedding reception without raising suspicion. For more than an hour, he lurked from the corner of the Four Seasons ballroom, a bottle of plasma resting on the far end of the serving table where he sat. Glass after glass, he’d gorged himself on blood. With Anaïs dancing arm-in arm with the same human male all night long, he needed something to help keep the beast inside him leashed. Pierre had refused to lose his cool because when that happened, bad things often ensued.

  He’d eyed the couple as they swept across the dance floor, their heated sensual touches forcing him to chase down another bottle of the intoxicating brew. The more he drank, the more belligerent he had become.

  Every fiber inside Pierre had screamed at him to scoop up the scrawny bastard glued to his lover’s side and shank him in the neck. The urge to draw blood increased tenfold once he realized the guy with Anaïs worked for BPA. But with a roomful of vampire assassins in tow, he’d opted to stall his burning rage. Besides, it’d be infinitely more exciting to exact his revenge on some random female, then use her as bait. Of course, Anaïs was the one he truly wanted to ensnare.

  Unfortunately, the vivacious vampire had made it perfectly clear that she’d have nothing to do with him. Years ago, she’d fed him some line about them not being meant to be. Ever since, Pierre had kept his distance, admiring her with adoration from afar. That is, unless some worthless, undeserving love interest got too close and tried to weasel his way into her heart.

  Once that happened, Pierre had been forced to act. He wouldn’t let anyone steal his soul mate, regardless of whether or not Anaïs would agree to cop to that subtle distinction. The two female fledglings he’d cut up then photographed, were sent as a reminder of that grim fact.

  As intermission came to an end, Pierre waited for the couple to re-emerge from behind the balcony’s curtain. A sadistic smile spread across his face while he watched the scene unfold. As soon as the maître de’s lips began to move, he saw the human who’d accompanied Anaïs clamp down on the other man’s trachea, cutting off vital oxygen to his lungs.

  After a bit of his own investigative work, Pierre had learned the guy that had come to his lover’s aid time and again was the counsel general of the BPA. Oliver Polinski not only worked for an organization that hunted down and killed his kind, the mother fucker ran the whole damn shebang. That made Pierre’s little game all the more thrilling.

  For the time being, he’d let Anaïs have her fun, parading all over town with public enemy number one. But soon, Pierre would make his move. He’d slit her boy toy’s throat, then drag his woman back home to Paris by the skin of her incisors.

  Chapter Six

  The Desire to Drink

  “Sit down,” Oliver shouted, setting Anaïs down on the chair next to the bed in her suite. Her knees buckled at the forceful gesture. He took a Swiss Army knife out of the pocket of his trousers and cut a tiny slit across his left wrist. “Here. Drink. Before you topple over and faint.” Anaïs shook her head in vigorous denial. She didn’t want his blood. At least, not like this. She needed to be the aggressor, the one in control.

  The only thing she could think about was the brutal image reflected in the photograph. Again, Pierre had hurt an innocent woman. All because she dared to live a life without him in it. Of course, she couldn’t share her true suspicions with Oliver. She didn’t want to get him involved.

  But involved, he was. In fact, the musky, metallic scent of Oliver’s life essence called to her. Maybe just one little taste. Unable to stop herself, Anaïs darted her tongue out, lapping up the thin dribble of crimson that threatened to stain the cuff of his white collared shirt. It tasted sweet with a hint of spicy, exotic ginger. Anaïs groaned, intoxicated by the sultry mix of flavors.

  She inhaled, taking in his familiar masculine scent. Damn, if he didn’t smell like sex on a stick. Why was it that Oliver seemed to cause her to swoon? That was the second time he’d made her feel dizzy. In need of precious blood. Once his warm deliciousness hit her tongue, Anaïs’s nipples peaked into tight rosebuds. Heat rose up from her chest and spread across her cheekbones, then gravitated lower to settle in her loins. She felt Oliver stir, his body inching toward hers. Liquid pooled between her thighs as her body prepared itself for pleasure. Then he went still, hovering motionless over her pliant curves.

  Anaïs couldn’t wait any longer. She held onto the back of Oliver’s neck, nudging him eagerly toward her puckered lips. Again he stopped short, shying away from the kiss. Eve
rything inside roared at her to take the lead. But Oliver wouldn’t let her. Instead, he lifted her off the chair and carried her in his arms to the bed.

  Finally, he crushed his mouth to hers. It was hot and demanding, searing its way to her soul. After a few moments of rapture, he pulled away, replacing his lips with his still bleeding wrist, and forced her to drink.

  This time, Anaïs lacked the willpower to refuse. She was starved and Oliver tasted so fucking good. She grabbed hold of his arm, and drew his muscular forearm to her breast as she increased the suction, feeling the effects reverberate in her needy sex. Anaïs bucked off the mattress, grinding her mound against the ridge of his muscular thigh. With his free hand, Oliver reached between her legs and rubbed two fingers over her sensitive clit, relieving some of the pressure that had built. Hot damn! She needed more. She wanted him naked, their bodies entwined in an age-old sensual dance.

  Anaïs rose up, fisting his shirt in her hands. She fumbled to undo the buttons. But Oliver grasped her wrist, stopping her advance with a rough, no-holds bar. “You’ve had a rough night. Get some rest. We’ll finish this another time.”

  “No! Don’t leave. I’ll make it worth your while to stay,” Anaïs said, one hand clutched in his salt-and-pepper hair and the other kneading the firm wall of muscle underneath his dress shirt.

  Oliver’s knees teetered on the edge of the bed. One moment he looked ready to retreat, the next, he suddenly froze. His resolve seemed to slip. Anaïs eyed the undeniable bulge in his trousers and realized what had caused the hesitation. With no time to waste, she reached out to stroke the thick, rigid shaft through his pants. But Oliver swatted her hand away, then clasped both wrists above her head to keep Anaïs from moving.

  “I can’t. Not tonight,” he said, bending down to place a tender kiss to her forehead. “I’ve got work to do. I need to get a jump on the killer. Perhaps another night.” God damn, the man had willpower. Something Anaïs generally admired, but not at that particular instant.

  You bastard, she screamed in her mind as he walked away from the bed, headed toward the door. The mind reader must have heard the words because he glanced over his broad shoulder and shot her a wickedly sexy grin.

  “Call me what you will. But I’m looking out for your own good.”

  “Fine. If you say so,” Anaïs said, trying to appear aloof. Inside, the need for his touch burned like a flame.

  “I’m leaving some paperwork with Adam. It’s a questionnaire I’ll need in order to build a profile on Gaucher. Be sure to fill it out before you fall asleep.”

  Anaïs turned over onto her stomach, and groaned into a soft, plush pillow as her unrequited lover slammed the door shut. She was frustrated—sexually and otherwise.

  What gives? Men never refuse my advances.

  Originally she’d picked Oliver out of the crowd because she thought she could overpower him without too much of a fight. Boy was she wrong. With most other man, she had been the pursuer, the predator. Always ready to take what she wanted, then leave them on their knees begging for more. But with Oliver, the opposite turned out to be true. Whenever he came around, she felt weak, powerless in the wake of the man’s sexual prowess and domineering presence.

  A natural-born leader, he’d grown accustomed to pushing people around. Much to her chagrin, Anaïs proved just as easy to manipulate as the rest. Hell, she’d invited him up to her room to fuck his brains out. What better way to forget about Pierre’s most recent stunt? Yet once again, Oliver took charge, bending her to his formidable will. Sure, he’d allowed her to drink his blood; but the key word there had been allowed.

  It wasn’t only his ability to take control of her body that scared her. He had the power to read Anaïs’s thoughts and force her fears and aspirations to rise to the surface. Already, he knew too much about her connection to Pierre. That fact alone unnerved her. So far, he hadn’t pushed for answers, but she it was only a matter of time. Soon he’d also uncover the truth about her past.

  As far as she was concerned, Christine was the only person who knew about the tragedy of Anaïs’s youth, and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. It had been four hundred years since she’d locked away the details of her father’s betrayal and subsequent death. She had no intention of rehashing all the gory details. Still, Oliver had a knack for being able to strip her bare in order to reveal all her best kept secrets.

  Although I just might enjoy letting him get me naked in the process.

  Before she could explore her feelings for the BPA’s counsel general, Anaïs had to find the root of Pierre’s recent brutality. As she answered the items on the questionnaire Oliver had left for her, she realized that a pattern had begun to develop. Pierre possessed all the psychological tendencies of a sociopath. Glibness and superficial charm, manipulation, lack of emotion, and a grandiose sense of self to name a few. Sure, many of these traits were inherent to the vampire species, and that included her. Yet Pierre often took them to the extreme.

  Then, it came time to fill out the section of the profile that asked Anaïs to recall her last few interactions with the killer. It wasn’t until she had written the third narrative, that it finally hit her. Once she discovered the common thread, it felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off her shoulders. Other than the new photographs Pierre had left for Anaïs to find, their other interactions had been taken quite some time ago. Coincidentally, the encounters occurred around the time that she’d struck up what Pierre must have construed as a romantic affiliation with another man.

  One such event had unfolded in December of 2008 when Francois, a handsome, fifty-something playwright had taken up temporary residence in her Parisian flat. They’d met at a performance of his work at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysees. While the human had been utterly enamored by Anaïs’s beauty and charm, he had turned out to be nothing more than passing fancy on her part. For a month, they’d made love day in and day out, sharing bodily fluid as if it were water. However, in the end, the playwright’s flighty whimsicality didn’t prove to be a good long term match. She’d craved the brainy, intellectual type and unfortunately, Francois hadn’t quite fit the bill. That was the last time she let romance lead her astray.

  Not long after they’d ended the affair, she received a huge assortment of wilted, long stem roses with a note from Pierre.

  I see you’ve ended your silly infatuation.

  Missing you.

  P.G.

  Another threat had arrived in May 1997, almost fifteen years to the day. Christine had recently passed and her grieving husband, Aristotle, needed an escape from reality. He’d stolen away from his vast responsibilities as the head of the New York City coven in order to properly grieve. He had visited Paris for a little over a week, then left, having made the decision to cede the position of power he long held to his only son, Andreas. Anaïs couldn’t remember the exact words in the message Pierre had sent afterwards; the cat’s severed head had left the biggest impression. At the time, she had merely thought he was a sadistic freak. Now, she realized his behavior went beyond that. The puzzle pieces were starting to come together and all she had to do was confide in Oliver and let his people work their magic.

  Easier said than done.

  Chapter Seven

  The Body Count

  After leaving Anaïs’s hotel room, Oliver received a call from a buddy of his by the name of Ronan O’Shea, a man who worked for the NYPD. It was a call that came often when suspicious, supernatural deaths registered on police radar. Luckily, his detective friend remained active on the BPA payroll and knew exactly what to look for and who to contact if he found anything out of the ordinary.

  In this case, two female bodies had washed up the shores of the Hudson River, their heads and limbs missing from the rest of their burned, battered torsos. Since Adam was the most efficient agent he had at collecting forensic evidence, Oliver called in someone to relieve him at the Four Seasons. The two of them met by the docks a short time later, ready to get down to business. They
not only had to work fast to gather the information they needed, they also had to dispose of the remains of the charred bodies. While the sun from the previous day had already burnt the vampire corpses to a crisp, they still had to make sure that no proof of their existence would ever be unearthed by human hands. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.

  It was almost sunrise by the time they’d wrapped up the investigation and headed back to BPA headquarters. Oliver had put in a few hours of sleep, then woke up refreshed and eager to get back to work. Once in his office, he pulled out the paperwork Anaïs had reluctantly agreed to fill out. The agent left in Adam’s stead had faxed the information to him that morning, so he sat down at his desk and browsed through the files. Nothing proved surprising in the Myers-Briggs personality assessment, considering he’d already seen the bastard’s graphic handiwork. Pierre Gaucher displayed all the classic characteristics of a serial killer. In addition to the psychological profile, the photographs he’d taken and the crime scene he’d left behind left little doubt in his mind. Yet the man was smart, leaving no fingerprints and very little clues to help Oliver’s team hunt him down.

  The only task Oliver hadn’t had time to do yet was pore over the narrative text that Anaïs had been gracious enough to complete. In fact, it surprised him that she’d even taken the time to fill it out, especially after she’d been so tight-lipped about her personal life.