 
** **

**WARD OF THE VAMPIRE**

**Ward of the Vampire Serial – Part 1**

**Kallysten**

_It's THE party of the season. Socialites, artists and A-list stars have been invited to Morgan Ward's birthday bash, including Angelina's boss, Delilah._

_For months, Angelina has been looking at the preparations from afar, but never did she imagine that, come the day, Miss Delilah would put her in a gorgeous gown and bring her along as her 'plus one.'_

_Wandering from crowded room to crowded room in the sumptuous mansion, Angelina grows overwhelmed and escapes onto a balcony, only to find it occupied by her host. That first meeting doesn't go all that well and leaves her struggling for her very life, but she soon gets an unexpected do-over._

_Meeting Morgan Ward for the first time all over again, Angelina finds herself falling into his arms... But is it all only a fantasy?_
Copyright © 2013 Kallysten

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The right of Kallysten to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Published 2013

All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Edited by Lilith Kyper
_ _

**TABLE OF CONTENTS**

Ward of the Vampire

Excerpt from My Reluctant Warden

A closer look at the Compulsion Cycle

About the author

**WARD OF THE VAMPIRE**

Who in the world would have said no?

Certainly not me.

And don't fool yourself; you wouldn't have said no either.

If I'd known what was going to happen... No, even then I'm not sure I'd have refused to go. I couldn't have. And I mean that quite literally. Couldn't, as in not physically able to. Not without my body refusing to obey my commands, or losing the simple ability to breathe.

The biggest holiday bash in New York City, with reportedly a dozen different caterers booked for the event, five bands, everyone from New York's 'who's who' on the guest list, along with a few A-listers flown straight in by private jet from Hollywood, all that in a renovated mansion—a castle, really—right off Central Park... And of course, one of the most famous yet elusive men in town, a businessman, philanthropist and friend of the arts, just turning forty, and an eminently eligible bachelor...

Well, at least that was what newspapers, TV anchors and various blogs had been saying since October. I should know. I'd been reading every article and blog post, watching snippets of news where the party was mentioned almost obsessively.

Why, yes, I did make a scrapbook about it, but that's part of my job, not a sign that I have OCD, not at all.

See, I think I was one of the first people not directly involved in the planning of that party to have heard about it. It was mid-August when Miss Delilah, my boss, received the envelope, and she must have been one of the very first guests who did. In the following months, that blue envelope became famous enough that dozens of articles and blogs posts were written about it.

Someone—someone obsessive, not at all like me—played Sherlock Holmes and discovered that the thick, textured paper from which the envelope and matching stationery were made had been handcrafted in a French monastery, and that the distinctive blue color came from a local flower. I could tell you which flower, but that's hardly the point and again I'm not that obsessive about it. Really.

As I was saying, Miss Delilah received the envelope in August, and I got to open it, the way I do all her mail. She wants business correspondence on her desk when she comes down from the penthouse, which is usually around two or three in the afternoon. Personal letters, invitations to Broadway shows, gallery openings and things like that don't make it to her desk until seven or eight when she's done with work.

I knew which pile this would go in as soon as I looked at the return address. It was handwritten in elegant cursive letters, like Miss Delilah's address. I recognized the sender's name at once. I knew Morgan Ward to be Miss Delilah's brother.

He'd never come to her office, at least not when I was there, but he called, every now and then. He'd never said more than a few words to me—"Mr. Ward for Mrs. Stanford, please."—but he has the kind of voice that makes you shiver, and never mind what he says.

You know the kind of voice I mean; one of those rumbling, warm, rich chocolate voices with a touch of whiskey, the kind that any single woman, and probably quite a few married ones, too, would listen to for hours on end even if it meant listening to something as dull as the entire Federal tax code.

Or maybe that's just me.

I couldn't recall him writing to her before, and I'd undoubtedly have remembered if he'd sent such a distinctive envelope, closed with a perfect circle of red wax imprinted with a seal in which a W and M were superimposed. It felt old-fashioned and elegant, and I wondered if he'd addressed the envelope and imprinted the wax himself, or if he had a personal assistant to do these things for him.

I carefully slid a letter opener under the wax to lift it without breaking the seal and pulled out a sheet of blue paper that matched the envelope. The same W and M symbol was embossed in silver in the upper right corner.

A dozen or so of these letters have appeared in the press or online; you've probably come across one or two. Each one is worded a little differently from the others, but they basically all say the same thing: big birthday bash in December, everything red and black, starting at nightfall and until morning, pleasure of your company, in lieu of gift donate to charity, etc.

Miss Delilah's letter was different. I must have read it three or four times, so I recall what it said pretty well.

"Dear Lilah," it started, and that threw me off. I've never heard anyone call Miss Delilah 'Lilah,' not even Mr. Stanford before he passed away. It had to be a pet name from when they were kids, I thought at the time, but I've learned since then that if it is a pet name, it doesn't go back that far. But I'll get to that eventually. Let me go back to the letter for now.

_Dear Lilah,_

_ _

_I yield._

_You already knew I would, I suppose. Between you and Mother, what chance did I have, really? I'd tell you that there is no need for you to contact her and that I already informed her myself, but that would be robbing you of half your fun. So go ahead, gloat. But rest assured that the party is the only thing I changed my mind about._

_Before you ask, no, I won't need any help from you. I am quite capable of throwing a decent party on my own, even a party I give despite my better judgment. The same goes for the menu; I can plan it for myself, and as my guest I hope you will enjoy my choices of refreshments. I'm sure you will be busy enough deciding on your wardrobe and I wouldn't want to trouble you with any such concerns._

_There is no need for you to bring a gift, and I really do mean it, Lilah._

_December twenty-first, nightfall, although I assume you'll be fashionably late._

_ _

_Yours,_

_Morgan_

_ _

_PS - NO gift. Please._

The letter was handwritten in dark blue ink except for his name, which was a deep red. Every other letter I've seen is all blue. None was sent before mid-October. Family first, I guess.

Now, I've worked for Miss Delilah for almost five years. I like to think I've learned to know her well—or at least, I believed that before the party. She always took Mr. Ward's calls, even when she was busy. Once, she interrupted a meeting with an ambassador to talk to him.

I folded the letter again, set it sideways in the envelope so it'd be easier to pull out, and set that on top of her business letters. Ten minutes after coming in, she buzzed and asked me to put the party on her calendar. I said I would; truth is, I already had.

There was no RSVP card, no number to call. Mr. Ward must have assumed the people he invited would show up, and I doubt anyone who received one of those blue envelopes declined. Or maybe he didn't care all that much who did show up in the end. With so many guests, it's not like he'd notice anyway.

I didn't realize right away what kind of party it would be, and by 'what kind' I mean the sheer scale of it. I'd seen Miss Delilah get excited about finding the perfect dress for an event before, so that was nothing new. The first time I noticed a mention in the press of the 'Ward Bash' as it came to be known, I felt a small thrill.

One of the perks of working for someone like Miss Delilah is that I often hear about things that will make the news long before they do. Some people would take advantage of it and try to sell what they know. I'd never do something like that. Miss Delilah's trust is important to me. Or rather, it was. I'm not sure what to think of her anymore.

She ended up buying four dresses, from four different designers, all four of them blood red. Two of those were custom-made according to her own sketches. All were sumptuous, and I couldn't wait to see which one she'd end up wearing. I doubted she'd decide until the day of the party.

That day, she didn't come down from the penthouse; instead, sometime around four in the afternoon, she had me bring her mail up.

An advantage of owning the entire building of your company's headquarters and of living there yourself: if you don't feel like going to work, you can have work come to you. She doesn't do it all that often, but I'll admit I like it when she does. The penthouse is just breathtaking.

Every time I take her private elevator to get up there, I feel I'm stepping into a whole different world. The offices, and the rest of the building for that matter, have this open feel that comes from being high above the city with windows from floor to ceiling. There's a lot of glass and steel all around. It was featured in some architecture and style magazine, once. The penthouse...

How can I describe it?

For one thing, it's a sort of maze. When you walk out of the elevator, you're presented with a half-moon wall with four identical doors spaced out evenly. In my mind, I call that first room the flowers room because there are always large arrangements of fresh flowers on stands between the doors. Most days, Miss Delilah comes down with a flower on her lapel or pinned to her breast, and I guess that's where she gets them.

Of the four doors, I only ever go through the second on the right. I'm not sure where the others lead, although I wish I dared explore when I know she's out of the building. The next room could be called a sitting room, I suppose, with its heavy carpets, assortment of sofas, love seats and armchairs, and the gas fireplace made entirely out of glass like a throne in the center of it all. Thing is, I've never seen a sitting room that was as large as my apartment. And no, my apartment is not tiny.

This room also has four doors: the one that goes back to the flowers room, and one on each wall. Again, I only know what's behind the door directly across. If I didn't have a good memory for places and directions, I'd probably get lost. As it is, it only takes me two or three minutes to cross five extravagant rooms and finally reach the antechamber where Miss Delilah always waits.

I say antechamber but really it's a walk-in closet. A closet as large as my living room, but still a closet, with a shoe rack taking an entire wall, and opposite that wall rows of gowns, dresses, skirts, shirts and pants all perfectly organized. There are only two doors in that room, the one I come in and the one to her bedroom. I caught a glimpse, once, when she was walking back in. It's done all in dark blue and navy colors, and the bed could fit at least five or six people.

Do I think it ever welcomed that many? I told you, I'd never betray Miss Delilah's trust, not even now.

Especially not now.

That afternoon, she was still in her dressing gown, reclining in the Victorian fainting chair in the center of the room. The chair was upholstered in shiny black velour and looked simply gorgeous. So did she, in fact.

Her hair was done, half of it piled on top of her head in a regal bun set with pins accented with what I'd bet were real diamonds, and the rest framing her face and neck in elegant curls. Her skin is so pale that her hair seems darker for it, jet black, shiny and beautiful. Her make-up was perfect, too: just a hint of lipstick, a burst of pink in her cheeks, and smoky eye shadow that deepened her green eyes. Except for the robe, she was ready for that party.

She set the correspondence aside without giving it so much as a look when I handed her the tray and then she gestured for me to sit on the chair next to her.

"I can't make up my mind," she said, and only after I sat did I know what she meant.

Facing us, four mannequins displayed the dresses she'd had made for the party. I couldn't help but smile.

"I can't blame you," I said. "They all look beautiful. And I bet they look even better on you."

No, I wasn't sucking up to her. It was only the truth. She has the kind of body that could make a potato sack look like high fashion. It's not just her body, though. It's her poise, the way she carries herself like she's beautiful, knows she's beautiful, and knows everyone looking at her, male or female, thinks she's beautiful.

She made a little sound that could have meant 'Of course they look gorgeous on me' or maybe 'you're just saying that.' I could feel it when her eyes turned to me—believe me, there's no way not to know when she looks at you, the air is charged with electricity all of a sudden—but I kept looking at the dresses, thinking that if I'd been in her position, I would have had a hard time making up my mind as well.

"I think what we need is a fashion show," she said, her voice a little aloof like she'd been musing aloud.

Immediately, I slipped into Private Assistant mode and worked up a battle plan. I would contact the designers, and have each of them pick a model that would best display the dress. Either they could contact the girls directly or I would do so myself. An hour, maybe an hour and a half depending on traffic, and Miss Delilah would get what she wanted. The way she always did.

Except... that was not what she wanted.

"The one on the far left first," she said with a small gesture of her fingers. "Go ahead."

I didn't move. Blinking, I turned my eyes to her. She was watching me with a small smile and a perfectly shaped raised eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, Miss Delilah. I'm not sure what you mean."

She clucked her tongue. "Of course you do, Lina. You're going to model these dresses for me. Come on. The one on the left first."

I was confused and amused and annoyed and absolutely certain that no, I wouldn't do this, it was way beyond my job requirements.

And still, I stood and slipped out of my jacket.

Five years, I've worked for her. I've done a couple of strange things during these five years. Once, she had me jump in her private jet to go and have a pair of earrings fixed in the shop where she'd bought them in Paris.

"Only Michel can fix them right," she'd said.

Michel turned out to be a master jeweler. He was also close to ninety, retired, wearing glasses as thick as my pinky, and his hands shook worse than the plane when we'd passed through nasty turbulences.

He came to the store in a taxi, took off his beret, sat down at what had once been his workbench, and took three hours to fix what in my humble opinion could have been repaired anywhere by any jeweler in ten minutes at most. But hey, I got to spend the afternoon in Paris so who am I to complain?

This had to be the strangest of her demands. I'm no model, after all. I mean, I'm not ugly or anything, and I try to keep reasonably in shape, but I already knew these dresses would not look anywhere as good on me as they would on her. She could be a high fashion model and wear the ridiculously small sample clothes that parade down runways. As a matter of fact, once, she was asked to be a guest model during fashion week. When she strutted down that catwalk in a black gown, I swear the entire audience stopped breathing.

Me... Well, I have curves. Generous ones. Also, who wants to undress in front of their employer? There was nothing sexual about it, but that's beside the point.

I didn't want to do it. And still, I was already down to my panties and bra.

At least I was wearing clean underwear.

My face felt on fire when I unzipped the dress, slipped it off the mannequin and stepped into it. I sucked in my stomach, expecting it to be tight, and was surprised when it zipped up easily. Well, when I say easily... I did have to play contortionist for a few moments to do the zipper in the back, feeling absolutely ridiculous and all too aware that Miss Delilah was watching. She didn't offer to help. I didn't ask.

At last, the dress was zipped. It fit like a dream. Do I betray my overly deep interest in bridal couture if I describe it as a mermaid-style sheath with a sweetheart neckline? The bodice had just enough draping to accentuate my curves without being over the top. Gorgeous, but the satin fabric looked like it might wrinkle just from being looked at too intently. It was a bit too long for me, or so I thought until Miss Delilah gestured at the floor near the mannequins.

"Put on some shoes. The peep-toe ones, I think."

I hadn't noticed the shoes until now. Three pairs, all high-heels, all red—and all to die for.

I slipped on the shiny leather peep-toe pair. They fit just as well as the dress, which surprised me because I knew Miss Delilah's shoe size was larger than mine.

"Go ahead, take a few steps around," she said. "Is it too tight to move in? How about the shoes?"

I walked around the room, feeling incredibly self-conscious. I'm not ashamed of my body in any way, but it's one thing to be confident in my own clothes and quite another to feel at ease in a gown that costs about half what I make in a year. Never mind the price; I'd never worn something that low cut or long enough to brush on the floor with each step; even my prom dress wasn't that long.

"Hmm." Miss Delilah tapped a finger over her lips. "I like it, but there's something off about it. It doesn't move quite right."

"Maybe it's just me," I said. "I'm not used to wearing gowns like this."

If she heard me, she didn't reply, and instead she motioned toward the other dresses. "Let's see the next one. With the black trimmed shoes this time."

I dutifully slipped out of the dress, careful not to wrinkle it. The next one—and again you'll have to forgive the bridal talk because I have no idea how else to describe it—was a ball gown. Think Disney's Cinderella in a deep ruby red. Layers of tulle, a lace overlay and thin beaded straps. It was beautiful but heavy, and before I even zipped it up Miss Delilah shook her head.

"No, definitely not it. Next."

I can't say I was having much fun at that point, but it never occurred to me to protest. Looking back, I guess it should have been a clue that something not entirely natural was going on.

The ball gown went back onto the mannequin form. I turned to the next dress and realized this one was a back-laced corset. How was I going to put that on by myself? Before I could figure it out, Miss Delilah stood, her robe swishing gently around her as she came to me.

"You'll need to lose the bra for this one," she said, lifting the dress off the mannequin.

I gulped.

Another perfectly reasonable occasion to say no. I still didn't.

I turned around until my back was to her and slipped my bra off. It's not that I'm that much of a prude, but come on, how often do you find yourself topless and wearing nothing more than panties in front of your boss?

After fumbling with it for a second or two, I dropped the bra to the floor and, at her command, lifted my arms. She slipped the gown over my head and tugged it down in place, immediately starting to do the laces in the back while I was still smoothing down the skirt. Made from bright, light chiffon, it fell as an A-line from a dropped waist. The corset was made of a thicker fabric, with a scalloped top and crystals scattered throughout.

"The trick to a corset," she said on a conversational tone, "is to tighten it until you can't breathe anymore."

She demonstrated, and I let out a huff as every last bit of air was squeezed out of my lungs.

"And then," she continued, "to release just the width of two fingers."

She did release the laces somewhat, and I didn't feel anymore like I would die of asphyxia in the next minute. As she finished the lacing, I did feel rather glad that I'd only have to wear the dress for a few minutes. The corset was giving me a cleavage to die for but I do enjoy breathing very much.

"Peep-toe shoes," she demanded as she stepped back.

I slipped into the shoes and stood there, arms at my side, watching her watch me and thinking that, lack of air notwithstanding, this had to be the most beautiful dress I'd ever worn. And there wasn't even a mirror in the room for me to look at myself.

Miss Delilah apparently agreed. She nodded once and smiled.

"Perfect. All we need is to get your hair up, freshen up your make-up a bit, and we'll be all set to go."

I stared at her, confused beyond words. She couldn't have just said what I thought she had said, right?

She had.

As it turned out, she'd known all along which dress she'd wear: the fourth one, a long sheath that hugged her body like a second skin, with a black train hanging in the back. The other three, she'd bought for me. No, not just bought. She'd had them made for me. That was why they, and the shoes, fit so well. How she knew my measurements, I have no idea.

I wasn't wearing the Cinderella dress, but when she was done with me, I did feel like I'd just met my fairy godmother and was about to go to the ball to meet the prince.

Except that, as far as I can recall, there weren't vampires in the fairy tale, and the godmother didn't offer Cinderella to the prince as a midnight snack.

*

We took a limo to the party. Maybe the livery service was out of pumpkins.

I kept thinking I'd start hyperventilating any moment, now, but while she was curling my hair and pinning it up—she'd done it herself, telling me to stay still and let her work her magic and I'd had a hard time stifling a giggle at that word—Miss Delilah had told me to relax and I'd done exactly that.

I was going to _the_ party of the season, I'd brush elbows with people I was accustomed to seeing in magazines, on TV or on movie screens, but I was calm. Relaxed. Just like she'd told me to be. Another clue, but I was too mellow to pick up on it.

In hindsight...

No, forget hindsight. There is no amount of clues that would have made me understand.

Or believe.

I'm still not sure I believe it now.

Would you?

Be honest, now. You've read stories in which vampires are real. Or magic. Or elves. Or aliens with ten heads who eat nothing but sushi. You've seen movies with the same. All right, maybe not the sushi-eating alien, but that could be a fun movie. Anyway. Would you be any less shocked if you were suddenly confronted to that alien? Or for that matter, vampires?

No, you wouldn't be. Even if you really enjoy vampire stories, even if you sometimes think to yourself 'I bet vampires really do exist and I wish I could meet one someday,' deep down you know there is no such thing and it's all just pretty—or not so pretty—stories.

We like to tell ourselves stories. Like to be scared, or thrilled, or enthralled. Like to forget our lives are nothing more than ordinary. But when your life turns out to be anything but ordinary, it's like nothing you ever imagined. I know that firsthand. Just like I know all those stories have a nugget of truth to them, but don't quite tell us what vampires are truly like.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit and return to that limo.

It stopped right in front of the mansion. The chauffeur came around to open the door for us, and we stepped out onto, I kid you not, a red carpet, complete with security guards keeping photographers and curious passersby at bay.

Miss Delilah walked onto that carpet and under these flashes as though she does that every day. Which, okay, isn't far from the truth. Me? Not so much. All I could think as I followed her was, 'Don't trip.' I really didn't want to end up on one of those blogs I was reading as the nobody who humiliated herself before even getting to the party.

I managed to step inside without making a fool out of myself. A man at the door greeted Miss Delilah by name and gave her a little bow. He threw the tiniest of questioning looks toward me. Miss Delilah simply said, "My guest," which apparently was enough. The man inclined his head toward me, said, "Welcome, Miss," and started turning to the guests who had arrived after us.

Again I followed Miss Delilah's lead and handed the wrap she had draped over my shoulders, a twin of her own, to the coat check. I slipped my ticket in the tiny, beaded black clutch Miss Delilah had let me borrow.

She linked her arm with mine, then, and leaned in close to whisper in a conspiratorial tone.

"Now, Lina dear, this is as far as we go together. It's a nice house, I'm sure you'll enjoy exploring it and have fun meeting new people." Her voice slipped into a deeper, thicker tone as she held my gaze. "Be nice to my brother when you see him, and don't you dare leave without me."

I was taken by the urge to laugh.

Be nice to Mr. Ward? Why did she think she needed to tell me such a thing? Did she really expect me to be rude to our host, one of the most powerful men in town—or even in the world? Did she think I'd trade barbs with him and call him a jerk?

If that was what she thought, she was entirely right.

Before I could reply to her admonitions, she stepped away from me. In moments, she had disappeared into the crowd, the red of her dress blending with a hundred other red dresses that were twirling around a hundred black tuxedos. I don't mind crowds, but all of a sudden I was feeling entirely out of my depth.

Every single one of the people around me was the kind of person I'd usually welcome in Miss Delilah's office with 'May I take your coat?' or 'Can I offer you a refreshment?' and I had this unshakable feeling that they would know, just by looking at me, that I didn't belong to their world.

I took a champagne cup from a passing waiter, hoping to give myself a countenance. Everyone around me was chatting, greeting old friends, and I felt utterly alone. Some part of me was upset with Miss Delilah. What game was she playing, bringing me to this party and then leaving me by myself?

Not that I'd have felt much better if she'd stayed with me. She was my boss. We didn't chitchat, or pretend to be friends. She told me what she wanted, and I did it, it was as simple as that and I was quite happy with it.

Now it's not to say my job was easy. If she said she wanted a bouquet of roses on her desk by the time she came to work, it wasn't much of a challenge to call one of the four florists I used regularly. On the other hand, the one time she decided she wanted black orchids in the lobby... that was altogether trickier.

As I quickly learned, there are plenty of plants called 'black orchids' but they aren't actually black. Instead, they're usually a very deep dark purple, so dark it does look black under the proper conditions. That? Is not what Miss Delilah asked for. I actually contacted orchid specialists and subsidized two of them into creating a new variety for Miss Delilah. But since that might take years, I had to improvise to provide her black orchids in the meantime.

A chemist came up with a blend of dyes and additives that are injected into the flower bud before it opens so the petals turn black as ink without the flower losing its scent or dying prematurely. Miss Delilah loved it. She actually told me I'd done a good job.

Three weeks later, she wanted bonsais in the lobby.

I told a friend about the orchids saga, once. Okay, so he wasn't a friend, he was a guy a friend had set me up with as a blind date. We were having fun, and I told him the orchid story thinking he'd find it amusing, like I had. All this work, all this money spent, and in the end when Miss Delilah got what she wanted, she moved on to the next shiny thing the way a kid would.

He thought it was 'horrible' and 'demeaning' to me. He actually told me that if I wanted to find another job, he'd put in a good word with the bosses at his company. That was the first and last time we went out. I've never felt demeaned by my job with Miss Delilah, but I was rather insulted that this guy I barely knew decided that my job was meaningless and unworthy of me.

The way I saw it, she set challenges, and it was up to me to figure out how best to fulfill them. And truth be told, it was a lot more fun investigating black orchids, even if it took me two months to do something that would last three weeks, than it was to pick up the phone and order three dozen long-stemmed roses.

As I sipped on my champagne, I started thinking of the party as a new challenge she had set for me. She'd told me to explore, to meet new people—to enjoy myself. And I'd be damned if I didn't do all that. How many people would have paid to be right where I was? How many had dreamed of it?

And yes, I had dreamed of it too. I just had never expected that particular dream would come true. I'd accompanied Miss Delilah to a few shows or events, but only when she was offered extra tickets. We'd gone there our separate ways, and I'd done no more than smile when seeing her across a room. She'd never taken me to a party like this before. Maybe she never would again. I might as well enjoy the opportunity.

For the next couple of hours, I passed from room to room, approaching people who were alone as I was, striking conversations about the pieces of art displayed everywhere or the music drifting from another room or the elegant platters of food that passed through the crowd along with refreshments.

One woman I talked to turned out to be the very artist who had created the oversized painting in front of which she was standing, a beautiful rendering of Central Park.

"This is the largest piece I ever sold," she confided. "And I'd never seen my work in a place such as this before."

At which point, she gestured to the painting on the opposite wall, the canvas equally as a large and half concealed by the crowd admiring it: an original from Monet. It was worth millions.

One of the men admiring the Monet heard her and turned to her piece. He observed it for a moment before asking the woman for her name and questioning her about her creative process. Others joined the conversation, and soon the crowd around her was even thicker than it had been around the Monet. I listened for a little while then let her have her moment in the spotlight and slipped away to the next room.

I had a hard time figuring out what each new room was like when a chattering crowd wasn't flowing through, laughter bubbling on their lips like the champagne in their glasses. All these art pieces belonged in galleries, or maybe museums, but there were armchairs in each room, sofas, a desk here and there, even a dining table, complete with matching chairs, long enough to host a Thanksgiving dinner for a large family. The furniture wouldn't have been out of place in a museum either.

I don't know how long I toured the first floor. I wandered until I found myself in front of a wide marble staircase. It looked inviting. Music was drifting down, melding with the fast pieces the string quartet in the front had been playing one after the other since I arrived. I went up.

And I was stunned to realize that the second floor was identical to the first: artwork, antique furniture, room after room full of noise and beauty and people I recognized but didn't dare talk to. And everything everywhere was red and black.

It was overwhelming. Or maybe I should have had something to eat along with those two—three?—glasses of champagne.

Feeling a little lightheaded, I looked around for a bit of quiet and solitude, but guests were everywhere. When I passed by heavy curtains, I lifted a corner, and was almost relieved to get a glimpse of a balcony behind a window.

I checked that no one was paying attention to me, then slipped behind the curtain and opened the window. It was only when I stepped onto the balcony that I realized someone was already there.

He was leaning forward, one elbow resting on the ornate stone balustrade, his chin propped in his palm. His hair was darker than ink. When he glanced back, I barely saw the cigarette hanging from his lips.

My eyes went straight to his, and I couldn't suppress a quiet gasp. They were so dark that they seemed completely black. I knew it was only because of the lack of light, but just the same, that look made me shiver. That, and the cold December air. He didn't seem to mind the cold at all. He'd taken his tuxedo jacket off, and it rested on the balustrade next to him.

"The freaking party's inside," he said in an exhalation of smoke, looking away again. "Go back in and leave me the hell alone."

At any other time, I'd have stammered an apology and gone back in. I honestly don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe I simply couldn't stand going back to all that noise, all those people quite yet. Maybe it was the smoke; I quit a long time ago, but when I'm stressed I still crave nicotine. Or maybe I was just tired of doing what other people told me to.

"I don't think so," I replied, stepping to the other end of the balcony, as far away from him and from that delicious smoke as I could. "Why go in and enjoy the company of so many pleasant people when I can be out here with a jerk?"

I was looking down at the park on the other side of the street, but from the corner of my eye I could see him turn his face to me, the end of the cigarette flaring bright red when he sucked in a breath.

"Why indeed inflict such charm on them," he drawled, "when you can focus it on me? Name your price, already and go."

I turned fully toward him, outraged.

"My price?" I repeated, probably in a too loud voice. "My price for what? Who do you think I am?"

"I have no idea whatsoever who you are," he said, looking away from me again. "But I know your kind. I know why you come to parties like this, showing skin halfway down to your navel."

I gasped in disbelief, my free hand instinctively coming up to the exposed skin above the top of my gown. Compared to some other décolleté dresses I'd seen that night, mine was nothing if not conservative. And it definitely didn't go down to my navel.

"How dare you," I started, but he wasn't finished.

"Your kind only wants two things. To meet famous people or to swindle money out of them. Either go back in or name your price. Or would you rather I get you thrown out of my home?"

My outrage and protests vanished in the time of a heartbeat, as I understood who he was.

My home, he'd said.

I shuddered as I remembered Miss Delilah's admonition. She'd told me to be nice. And instead...

My heart jumped to my throat. My chest constricted until I couldn't breathe anymore. Every inch of my body felt as though my skin were being sliced with shards of glass.

I knew only two things in that instant. I was in front of Morgan Ward, my host, Miss Delilah's brother, whom I'd been rude to. And I was about to die.

*

I opened my mouth, tried to draw air in, but I was already beginning to feel lightheaded. Every breath came out in a gasp. It was all I could do to remain upright.

I didn't notice him coming closer. When his hand closed on my bare arm, it was like ice covering my skin.

"Look at me," he said in a low, intense voice.

I looked up. I couldn't not have looked up. Even with the high heels I had on, he towered over me by a few inches. His eyes were dark wells and without the tight grip he had on my arm, surely I would have fallen right into their depths.

"Breathe."

Again, that thick voice, so compelling.

Yes, compelling is exactly the right word. He wasn't just making a suggestion or giving advice. He was telling me, demanding that I do something for him. And I would have. I'd have done anything.

If he'd asked me to jump from the balcony, I would have. If he'd asked me to fly, I'd certainly have tried my hardest. But he told me to breathe, and I just couldn't.

Black dots were already swimming in front of my eyes. I dropped my purse and clasped his forearm with both hands, scared out of my mind, silently begging him to help me.

He frowned, and said that one word again, a little louder, the weight of it pressing on my mind and body.

"Breathe."

I shook my head. Tried to say, 'I can't' but all that came out was a wheezy, "Ca... can..."

My knees were weakening. I couldn't stand anymore, not even with his support. I folded down to the floor of the balcony, and he crouched next to me, never letting go.

His frown deepened a little more and his nostrils flared. I was taken by the crazy thought that he was angry with me not for being rude to him but for failing to follow his order. I was seconds away from blacking out when his eyes suddenly widened and he hissed out a name like a curse.

"Lilah."

I blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision, but his features were fading.

"You came with her, didn't you? What did she say? It's important. Try hard to tell me what she said to you."

I tried. I really did. It took every last ounce of strength and energy I had left and the words were little more than mumbles.

"Nice... you... be nice."

"She told you to be nice? Be nice to me? Is that it?"

I tried to blink yes, but couldn't manage to open my eyes again. My ears were buzzing. He was saying something, but his words were lost to me. Even the sirens of a police car driving right under the balcony felt distorted.

I started slipping into darkness, but he pulled me back. With the most delicate of touches, he peeled my eyelids back. His face, his eyes filled my vision. He was close enough to kiss me and my last thought was that he might try to give me CPR.

Something gleamed in his eyes, attracting my attention, and I fell into his gaze, into his mind, really. Or maybe he entered mine. I'm still not completely sure how it works, I just know that time came to a standstill and when it started again I was back inside the mansion, pushing the drapes away with one hand and slipping out onto the balcony.

"Oh," I said when the man leaning against the balustrade looked back at me. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I'll just..."

I started turning away, but a warm murmur stopped me.

"It's all right, you don't have to go."

I recognized the deep, chocolate and whiskey voice right away.

"You're... you're Mr. Ward, aren't you?"

He tilted his head as he looked at me.

"I am. But I'm sorry to say I have no idea who you are."

My heart stammered at the apologetic smile he offered me.

"Oh, of course not. We've never met. I'm Angelina. Happy birthday."

Without thinking, I held my hand out to him. He pushed away from the balustrade and turned fully toward me, transferring his cigarette to his left hand. He didn't shake my hand. Instead, he took it and brought it to his lips for a touch to my knuckles so light I barely even felt it.

"And how did you come to be invited to my party? Not that I mind. This place can always use more beauty."

Heat suffused my cheeks and for a second I was afraid I wouldn't be able to answer coherently. When I met his eyes again, though, I was drawn in and the words just flowed out.

"I accompanied your sister."

He nodded, and with a gesture invited me to come closer to the balustrade with him. Something gleamed at his wrist, attracting my eyes: a cufflink. It was a finely cut square stone, so bright that even in the poor light it was still brilliantly red. It was breathtaking.

And so was he. Not that I was looking. Much.

Oh, all right, who am I kidding? For months I'd read all I could about Mr. Ward, and had never so much as seen a picture of him. Now that I was in front of him, it was hard to look away.

He'd taken his tuxedo jacket off, and his shirt was fitted close enough to his body that it revealed every curve of his shoulders and arms, every hard plane of his chest. His face, pale in the darkness, was a study of angles and shadows, strong and masculine with a bold nose and sensuous lips. And his eyes... I couldn't see much of them, but I already knew they were as dark as bottomless wells.

Eyes someone could fall in forever, and the thought troubled me, somehow making it hard to breathe.

"Do you work with her, then?" he asked.

Should I tell him the truth? Working with Miss Delilah sounded a lot better, a lot more interesting than working for her. And still... I didn't want to lie to him, even with a small play on semantics. I don't like lying as a rule, and it felt important not to lie to him.

"I work for her, actually. I'm her personal assistant."

He took a deep drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke away from me. It was very considerate of him, although unnecessary. My fingers itched for a cigarette.

"You answer her phone, don't you?" he said when he looked back toward me. "Your voice. I recognize it now. I always thought it was lovely. And now that I have a lovely image to go with it, I might have to call Lilah more often."

I wasn't simply blushing anymore. I was burning. And I had no idea what to reply. So I just looked over at the park on the other side of the street and said, "The view is beautiful."

As soon as the words passed my lips, I wanted to kick myself. Could I have come up with something any more banal and boring than that? At least I wasn't talking about the weather.

"It really is," he murmured, and when I glanced toward him I noticed he was looking at me.

Self-combustion was moments away.

I looked away again and tried to find something, anything to talk about. My mind was blank. It didn't help that from the corner of my eye I could see that his face was still turned toward me. A shiver coursed through me.

He dropped what was left of his cigarette in an empty flowerpot at his feet that seemed there just for that purpose, then picked up his jacket from the banister and slipped it on my shoulders. And they say chivalry is dead.

I don't know who 'they' are, but tell them from me that they're wrong.

"Thank you," I said with a small smile.

He smiled back and I started to melt.

"How come you're out here when all your guests are inside?" I blurted out.

He shrugged. "I'm out here _because_ my guests are inside. This party was never my idea."

I remembered the invitation and what it'd said. I took an educated guess.

"Your sister's idea?"

"It can be hard to say no to her."

I couldn't help but laugh quietly at that.

"Even harder when she doesn't ask and just makes you do whatever she wants."

He eyed me at that, his expression oddly assessing.

"Indeed. You seem to know that from personal experience."

I did, and it had nothing to do with my job.

"Two hours ago, I thought she was coming to your party alone," I said. "And here I am."

He raised an amused eyebrow at me.

"And you just happened to have such a beautiful dress ready on the off chance you'd have a high society party to go to?"

My heart jumped at the word beautiful, and I had to point out to myself that he'd called the dress beautiful, not me. Still, it was the third compliment he offered me—not that I was counting. I hadn't received much of those in the past couple of years; since my last break up. I'd missed it. And I'd missed that look in a man's eyes.

You know that look, don't you? The one that takes your breath away and makes you weak in the knees. The one that says if he wasn't a complete gentleman he'd be quite happy to ravage you right here, right now, and make you pass out from pleasure before starting all over again.

Yeah, that look.

"Your sister, again," I said, and my voice was a little rough. "She had everything planned."

With a low chuckle, he shook his head and looked down at the park again.

"Oh, I'm sure she did, yes. As usual."

He made it sound like a joke, but I had no idea what the punch line was. I wanted to know. I wanted him to tell me—to say anything, just as long as he kept talking.

"I don't mean to pry, but... What do you mean?"

His eyes were as dark as the night around us. He considered me for a little while before inclining his head.

"I guess you have a right to know. Lilah..." He sighed. "She happens to know I've been on my own for a long time. And she also knows that I have... a type, I guess, you could say."

My mouth dried up.

"A type. You mean, a type of women you like?"

He nodded but didn't say anything, leaving me to finish that thought.

"You have a type," I said slowly. "And I'm it?"

When he nodded again, I gulped. Now I could understand better why Miss Delilah had brought me along tonight, dressed me up, done my hair and makeup. I didn't know whether to be flattered she thought I could interest her brother or insulted she'd taken me with her as a treat for him.

I suddenly remembered the invitation, and the repeated admonition. No gift, Mr. Ward had written.

It seemed to me that Miss Delilah had ignored his request. She'd even wrapped the gift herself in the finest fabrics.

Stunned speechless, I could only stare at him. For a second or two, he smiled, but soon the curve of his lips took a bitter tint.

"Sorry," he said, turning around to lean back against the balustrade. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Lilah says I'm not always the most tactful of men."

"Well, she's the one who brought me as a gift so maybe tact is not her strongest suit either."

He let out a quick, surprised laugh, but of the two of us I was definitely the most startled. I had just badmouthed my boss. Well, maybe not badmouthed, but... said something unflattering, definitely. I'd never done that before. I'd never even had a bad thought about her. Granted, she could be demanding at times, but she'd never asked me for anything I had a problem with. This...

I didn't know how I felt about this yet.

Unflattering or not, my words were definitely true. Even Mr. Ward didn't try to deny it.

"I hope you had a good time, at least," he said. "Unless you hiding out here means you didn't?"

As conflicted as I was about Miss Delilah's intentions, Mr. Ward had been nothing but gracious to me, and I almost stammered as I hurried to answer.

"No! Of course I did. It's a great party. You have a beautiful home. And your guests are really something."

That same slightly bitter smile was back on his lips.

"My guests, yes," he murmured, then raised his voice again as he asked, "Would you be surprised to know that I could walk in there, go from room to room, and other than Lilah and my staff few would have a clue who I am?"

I wasn't surprised. I was astonished. Also, confused.

"That can't be possible." I couldn't help but frown at him. "You're one of the most famous people in New York. Everyone has been talking about this party for months. Of course people have to know you."

Even as I finished, I realized that yes, it was possible. After all, I hadn't known what he looked like, and I not only worked for his sister, I had also been tracking every bit of news about this party.

"I am famous, yes. Famous for my money. Can you imagine how tiring it is to constantly fend off people who only see dollar signs when they look at me?"

"I'm not sure I can," I admitted. "But I've seen how people are with Miss Delilah. It must be very lonely."

His head jerked back. My answer had surprised him.

"Lonely?" he repeated. "You think Lilah is lonely? She's the very definition of a social butterfly."

I shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable. I felt a little guilty about talking with someone else about my employer. But it wasn't just anyone. It was her brother. So that made it okay, didn't it? At least, that's what I told myself.

"I think many people orbit around her," I said. "I also think there aren't many she cares for. Any of them could disappear tomorrow and she might not even notice."

He looked at me for a long time, and I couldn't help but shudder under that unforgiving stare. What did he see, when he looked at me? Another gold digger?

"You're in her orbit as well," he finally said. "Would she notice if you disappeared?"

As a matter of fact, I had asked myself the same question before. And I'd had the beginning of an answer when I'd caught the flu the previous winter. I had returned after four days thinking I'd find a mountain of mail on my desk and a hundred urgent emails waiting for an answer: signs that I was needed.

My desk had been in perfect order. All correspondence, paper or electronic, dealt with. It was as though I hadn't missed a day of work. Miss Delilah hadn't even asked me if I felt better, like I hadn't been away for the best part of a week.

"She might be a little inconvenienced," I said, turning back to the park. "But only because she'd need to interview potential PAs and train them."

Why, yes, it had been a rather unpleasant experience to realize just how much she did not need me, do you really have to ask? Everyone likes to know their work is appreciated. I enjoyed my job. I prided myself on doing it well. I'd have liked it even more if Miss Delilah had depended on me at least a little. I guess the point is moot now anyway.

Mr. Ward must have noticed the turn my mood had taken, because he rested a hand on my shoulder. Even through the fabric of his jacket, I could feel the gentleness of his touch. It was reflected in his words when he murmured, "Something tells me she's not the only one who's lonely."

I looked at him and gave him a half smile.

"Funny. I was going to say the same thing."

Once again, he smiled back, and his smile looked just how I felt at that moment: a little sad, a little bittersweet, a little resigned.

And a lot like he was pleading for warmth and comfort.

I don't know why I did it.

Honestly, I'm not the kind of girl who just kisses a guy on the first date before she even knows if he likes her. For that matter, it wasn't even a date. Add to that what he'd said about people who only saw money when they looked at him... Kissing him was probably the worst possible thing to do right then.

But I did.

I turned fully toward him, tilted my head up and leaned in, so slowly that he had plenty of time to move back. He didn't. His eyes widened a little, and they dropped to my mouth for a second before locking with my eyes again. I crossed the last inch and laid my lips upon his. At first, it could hardly be called a kiss at all, just a touch, no stronger than the touch of his hand on my shoulder. Companionship. Comfort. Closeness.

Just simply human contact.

Well... At least one of us was human.

His hand tightened a little. My heart beat as fast as a hummingbird's wings. I don't know which of us deepened the kiss. I just know that my eyes started closing, and the last thing I saw was his eyes closing as well.

His lips were cool and ever so soft; they parted, and the tip of his tongue met the tip of mine. A hint of cigarette lingered, but as I said I don't exactly mind. That's not what made me push harder against him, though. Actually, I'm not even sure I could explain it. There was something in the way he held me, with that single hand on my shoulder, tight but not too tight; in the delicate way he stroked my tongue and palate.

I almost want to call it a restraint, but it was more than that. It felt like this kiss, this touch he was giving me were little more than masks, like the mask he wore in there for his guests.

I didn't want a mask. I didn't want Mr. Ward, the dollar signs, the philanthropist and businessman.

I wanted the man who had come out onto that balcony to escape people who were nothing to him, and who had nonetheless tried to offer comfort to someone he didn't know.

My arms wrapped around his neck to capture that man. I pressed my body against his, pushed him back against the window, deepened the kiss a little more... and the restraint broke. The man appeared. He kissed me back with the fierceness and heat of a thousand suns.

*

I was so caught up in the kiss that I didn't notice when he reversed our positions, trapping me between the window and his body. His jacket slipped off my shoulders and joined my purse on the floor. I honestly couldn't have cared less, not when his hands were clutching my waist, as possessive as though we'd been dating for years; not when his mouth devoured mine as if he'd die if he stopped—or maybe, I was the one who would die.

I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, but I could say this simple kiss aroused me more than my last boyfriend's weekly efforts at putting me 'in the mood.' The fact that those efforts, such as they were, came back like clockwork every Saturday night at nine... Let's just say he wasn't my boyfriend for very long.

I could also mention how hard his cock was, pressing against my upper thigh, and how much trouble I had keeping my hands around his shoulders. Don't judge me. It'd been a long, long time with nothing more than my own hands and my trusted vibrator.

When he pulled back, I was breathless, lightheaded, and certain I would die if he didn't kiss me again.

That idea somehow scared me for a second. I heard sirens down the street. Something felt very, very strange, like I was in a dream and so close to waking up that I knew it was a dream. Right then, I looked into his eyes and was trapped once more by his stare.

"Is that what you came here for?"

Although his words came out as a murmur, I thought I could hear a whole array of emotions behind them. Desire, but also wariness. Hope, drenched in fear. Or maybe they were my emotions I was projecting onto him.

"No," I replied, still a little out of breath. "I never imagined... No. And if you want me to go, I will."

"It might be best if you left, yes," he said, but the way he caressed my cheek with the back of his fingers made his words entirely unconvincing. Also, his free hand still rested on my hip; with his body so close to mine, he was effectively blocking my way out. Talk about mixed signals...

"If you want me to leave," I said with a small smile, "you'll have to let me go."

He didn't move one inch.

"I didn't say I want you to leave. I said it might be best if you did. I don't always do what's best. Do you?"

Clearly not. There had to be a thousand reasons why this, whatever this was, couldn't possibly end well. At that moment, however, I couldn't think of a single one. And even now, even knowing what was going on, I have a hard time imagining myself walking away after that kiss.

"I try to. But in my love life it has rarely been that easy."

His eyebrows shot up and his fingers stilled on my cheek.

"Love life? Is that what you think this is? Love?"

Never mind the coolness of the air. All of a sudden, my face felt burning. He started stroking it again, warming his fingers.

"We don't know each other." I choked on the words a little. "So no, it shouldn't be love."

"Shouldn't?"

I trembled at the intensity of his voice.

"Can't, I mean."

"But you said shouldn't. Why?"

Why, indeed. Why had I said shouldn't? Why had I kissed him? Why had I come out onto that balcony when clearly he wanted to be alone?

For some aspects of my life, I'm not too attached to the why of things. When Miss Delilah sent me to Paris that one time, or when she demanded black orchids, or when she had her chauffeur drive me five hours out of town to hand deliver an envelope to a young woman, I didn't ask why.

Even that night, when she'd dressed me and taken me along to the party, it hadn't occurred to me to ask why she wanted me to go. She was my boss, she did strange things, sometimes, and I had learned not to question her. But that was work.

For things outside of work, for my own decisions, I liked to reason and get to the best, the most logical course of action. That first kiss, those words, they weren't logical in the least. They were the very opposite of logical, in fact, and I could barely admit it to myself, let alone Mr. Ward.

"I don't know," I breathed.

He shook his head once, gently chastising, and leaned close to whisper in my ear.

"I think you do."

I trembled. If his hands hadn't been on me, surely my knees would have given in and I'd have slipped to the floor.

"It feels... you're gonna think this is stupid."

"I won't. Tell me."

He'd pulled back to look into my eyes again. I had to answer. I couldn't refuse. Not when he used that voice, not when he stared at me like that. Like my answer mattered more than anything else. And maybe it did. At least, I want to think it did. What can I say? I'm very good at deluding myself, especially when it comes to men. Logic and reason only go so far.

"It feels like I know you," I admitted. "Like I said, it's stupid. We don't know each other. But I look at you and I feel this... this connection."

Even as they passed my lips, the words didn't only sound stupid, they sounded ridiculous and pathetic. They sounded like something someone a lot less scrupulous than me might have said—or someone in a daytime soap opera. I looked away, and if my cheeks still burned now it was from shame.

"God, you must think I'm one of those people who'd do or say anything to get to your money."

His smile sharpened into something I didn't like so much anymore, but I could hardly blame him. He must have had countless women throw themselves at him the same way I was doing. That'd make anyone cynical.

Still, I flinched when his hand fell away from my face and he took a small step back before he asked, "Is this the moment you assure me you're not a gold digger?"

"Would you believe me if I said it?"

I was almost proud of myself for not sounding hurt.

"I don't know." He turned his face away from me then added, "I'd want to believe, at least."

"Really?" Hope tore through me like a burst of lightning tearing the clouds in an old WB cartoon. It was all I could do not to reach for his hand, but I had to ask. "Why?"

I watched him worry his bottom lip with his teeth for a few seconds, and the entire time all I could think of was how soft his lips had been against mine, and how much I'd enjoy biting his lips for him myself.

"What you said?" His gaze came back to me, and that cynical glint was gone, leaving a softness that made me want to open my arms to hold him close. "About a... connection? I think I feel it too."

A second earlier, I'd have given the world to hear him say those words. But now that he had, I was... scared? No, I don't know if it was fear coursing through me. I was jittery, certainly, but not scared. More like that feeling of nervous anticipation when you're on a roller coaster, right in the very first seat, and you reach the top of the tallest peak with an endless drop in front of you. You know you're going to enjoy it, but at the same time a tiny bit of you is always ready to step out.

"Or maybe," I said, picking up his hand ever so gently, "it's just because I'm your type, like you said."

His fingers twisted against mine, sliding between them then against my palm. His eyes never left me.

"Maybe. Or maybe it's more than that. Lilah knows what kind of women I like on the outside. She also knows what I like on the inside."

My insides, at the moment, were fluttering with the wings of giant butterflies—or maybe bats. Wings that big, actually, they might even have been eagles, or something even larger. Quite possibly pterodactyls.

"And what is that?" I asked, trying to fill the silence so he wouldn't hear those wings beating so hard.

His hand twisted again. His fingers entwined with mine, then closed. Just like that, the butterflies, or eagles, or whatever they were stilled.

"Someone who's not afraid to take that first step into perfect darkness even when she knows it's far from the best thing to do."

I looked at our joined hands. His was bigger than mine, colder, paler, and yet, they seemed perfectly matched.

"Someone like you?" I said.

He smiled.

"You could say that."

This time, he was the one who initiated the kiss, and I was the one who deepened it. Kissing him was like that deep breath before a dive, when you know you'll be going down longer, farther than you ever have. Our tongues played together as if we'd done this dozens, hundreds of times before. When he retreated to nip gently at my bottom lip, I gasped an encouragement at him.

Our hands let go of each other, and while mine clung to his shoulders—his strong, thick, rippling shoulders—his hands cupped my breasts. Or rather, he tried to, but the corset thwarted his efforts somewhat.

At his small growl of frustration, I couldn't help chuckling and our mouths came apart. Right away, he pressed his lips to my jaw and drew a line to my neck. Each new kiss sent tingles down my spine and I tilted my head to give him better access.

One of my hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his head. His hair slipped through my fingers like liquid silk. His scent wafted over him, a mix of cigarette and, ever so faintly, subtle cologne. And on top of it all, that musk, almost animal-like, that speaks of desire and need better than the most erotic sonnets.

"I hate corsets," he muttered, barely lifting his lips from my skin. "Always did. Invention of the devil."

My chuckle, this time, ended in a moan.

"I thought... I thought you said the dress was beautiful?"

His teeth pressed in at the crook of my neck before letting go, and I closed my eyes at the sparks of pressure that weren't quite pain.

"The dress is beautiful," he conceded. "And you look amazing in it. But access is somewhat limited."

To demonstrate, he cupped my breasts again, pushing them up into the corset so that he could press kisses to the top. I had to agree with him that this didn't feel anywhere near enough, but neither of us suggested the obvious: unlacing the corset. I guess we both knew we'd never have managed to set it right again. Oh, and I'd have frozen half to death, but that was the least of my worries.

"I don't think—" I had to stop and moisten my lips before I could continue. Limited access or not, his mouth felt heavenly against my skin. "—the designer ever imagined I'd be fooling around in this."

His laugh, low and deep, made something clench with need inside me, and I clung to his hair a little more tightly. I had to be hurting him, but he never protested.

"Fooling around? Is that what we're doing?"

He raised his head to look at me. His eyes gleamed with amusement.

"I don't know," I said, as primly as I could manage when I was breathing so fast and smiling so widely. "Are we doing more than that?"

He grinned back at me even as he tugged the bottom of my dress up until he could slide a hand underneath. He laid his hand over my panties, his palm cupping my mound and his fingertips pointing down between my thighs, where I was so hot and so wet, then whispered, "You tell me. Is this still fooling around?"

His fingers wiggled ever so slightly, and whatever I had been about to say vanished in a flash of heat.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his eyes boring into mine.

I shook my head.

"May I remove your panties, then?"

Another wiggle of his fingers and I was oh, so grateful for the support of the window behind me.

"Please, yes," I breathed.

I made a sound of protest when his hand lifted off me, but he shushed me gently. Still grinning, he knelt in front of me and took hold of the bottom of my dress. I had to bite my lips to stop a nervous giggle when he didn't simply reach underneath for my panties but actually ducked under my skirt.

Once he hooked his thumbs on the sides of my underwear, however, when he tugged down and I felt the cool, wet pressure of his mouth right at the apex of my legs, it wasn't a giggle I was suppressing anymore, but a ragged moan.

All he did was lay a gentle kiss there, then he stopped to wait for my assent. I gave it by opening myself to him. I arched back against the window behind me, and raised my left leg. He helped by guiding it onto his shoulder, and the play of his fingertips on my calf, the back of my knee, my thigh sent tingles of electricity right up to my core—right where his mouth soon returned.

I didn't think about the cold, or getting caught, or how long it'd been, or how I'd just met him. I wasn't lying when I said I felt a connection with him. I couldn't explain it even now, but it was as though I'd seen his soul. As though I'd caressed it. And it had caressed me back, as gently, as deeply as his tongue now did, discovering every part of me, exploring the most intimate folds of my body the same way I imagined he'd explored my mind.

There wasn't much left of my mind, at that moment. As he licked and nipped and sucked and coaxed me, bit by bit, toward an abyss of pleasure as deep as his eyes, I lost every train of thought I'd ever possessed.

I don't know how long he remained under my skirt, feasting on my wetness and creating more as he did. All I know is that I was milliseconds away from falling into that abyss when he pulled away and emerged into the night again, and I was too out of breath, too blank-minded to offer more than a wordless, protesting whine.

Still kneeling at my feet, he met my eyes and said simply, "I wanted to see you."

As he said the words, his hand caressed up my leg again, and just as he finished he thrust two fingers up inside my body, crooking them just so, and I knew, as my mind soared and my body burst into tiny, shimmering sparks of pleasure, exactly what he had meant.

He wanted to see me come.

I don't know if I cried out, or moaned, or made any sound at all. I don't know either if I remained upward until the wave had passed or if I fell into his lap right away. I just know that my heart was still pounding, loud and wild, when he drew me down into his arms and kissed me again, making me taste myself on his lips.

He'd touched me, touched the most intimate parts of me, and suddenly I had to touch him, too. I could feel how hard he was, but I still felt a little lightheaded from coming, and I wanted my entire faculties when I first touched his cock. Besides, he'd given up in front of my corset, but all that stood between his skin and me was his shirt.

His bowtie was already undone and I quickly got rid of it. The silk of his shirt yielded under my hands—buttons are completely overrated. I didn't think twice about tearing it, but when I tugged it off him, pulled on the sleeves and caught a flash of red, I froze.

His cufflinks.

His expensive-looking, gemstone cufflinks.

One of them had just flown right off the balcony.

"Oh my... I'm so sorry! Your cuffli—"

His mouth crashed on mine and shut me up for the time of a quick, almost brutal kiss.

"I don't give a damn about cufflinks. Or I won't if you just put your hands on me."

He was asking so nicely... How could I have said no?

I touched him, the way I craved to do. I touched him with the very tips of my fingers, as lightly as I could. His skin was cool and he trembled as I caressed his shoulders and his chest, but I knew that shiver didn't mean 'I'm cold.' That shiver meant 'touch me' and 'more' and 'now.'

So I did.

I slipped a hand down the perfection that his chest was, over smooth skin and tight abs, and to the fastenings of his pants. The button and zipper came undone easily, and his cock appeared, still covered by his boxers but already pushing up to meet my hand. I caressed it once over the smooth cotton, then tugged the boxers over it, revealing beautiful hard flesh. Even with so little light around us, I could see how flushed it was, the veins protruding heavily along a thick, long shaft that trembled under my fingers.

I licked my lips, already thinking about returning the favor along with the pleasure he had given me, but a single look at his face changed my mind. I realized in that moment that he wouldn't ask for anything, but he wanted me. Not just my mouth, but all of me.

I'd lie if I said I didn't want him just as much.

It took a bit of maneuvering to get my dress out of the way, but he quickly caught on to what I was up to and he helped, leaning back a little, holding his cock up, then guiding me when I lifted my hips and lowered myself onto him.

He'd made me so wet that my body welcomed him in one, slow downward movement. His eyes remained locked with mine the entire time, but halfway down he started blinking, his nostrils flared, and his mouth fell open on a sigh. When he was fully inside me, a shudder ran through me, immediately echoed through him. For a few seconds, I was still, and so was he.

I had a handful of lovers before him. Some of them were very nicely endowed. It's even possible there might have been a measuring tape and games with it in my past. I knew, just from taking him inside of me, that none of them had been as gifted as he was. Still, that wasn't why this felt so new, so raw, so good.

Too late, I realized I hadn't even thought about a condom. I hadn't thought about anything more than my need for him. I'd never done this before. I'd never lost my mind to lust. I'd never slept with anyone without protection, never felt smooth, slippery skin against my folds. It felt odd. New. Naughty and delicious.

More than that, it felt right.

I started moving, shifting my hips, lifting myself up and pushing down again in small thrusts, and right away he helped me. His hands were tight on my waist, anchoring me, guiding me again, sometimes caressing me over fabric I wished hadn't been in his way.

We found a slow rhythm together, and it didn't matter anymore that we were on this balcony, that the city was around us, that a party was just behind the window and its drapes. The only thing that existed for me was him, his body, and how well it fit mine.

Maybe I should have been worried at how my brain seemed to have short-circuited. But as I kept looking into his eyes, all I felt was this sense of rightness. This was what was supposed to happen. This was why I'd come here.

The thought made me falter and lose my pace. At once, he reached up to caress my cheek.

"What's wrong?" he murmured.

I covered his hand with mine.

"Is that why your sister brought me here? So that we'd—"

He drew me down and kissed me gently until the question had all but disappeared from my mind.

"Did she tell you to sleep with me?" he asked then.

"No, of course not."

He nodded.

"All right. Do you want this? For yourself?"

I didn't hesitate for a second.

"I do, yes."

He kissed me again, no more than a brush of his lips against mine, then clutched my waist with both hands and rolled our bodies over, laying me down on the cold tiles as gently as he possibly could. He was still inside me, as he lay prone above me. He captured my gaze again and slowly started moving, making love to me with such intensity it felt like he was trying to engrave each second in his memory—and mine.

Suffice to say he was doing a very good job of it.

Little by little, he increased his pace, and his cock caressed, stroked and reawakened every part of me. At first I let my hands play over his chest and shoulders, and tried to accompany his movements, but soon he was moving too fast, too hard, and all I could do was cling to him, my short nails digging into his shoulders.

"Next time..." My words came out as moans, each one pushed by another thrust from his hips. "Can we... do this... in a bed?"

Surprise lit his eyes and he laughed breathlessly.

"Already thinking about next time?" His rhythm never faltered; instead, it shifted ever so slightly and sparks lit up my vision like fireworks. "Is this time so boring that you're thinking of something else?"

I had to struggle to answer coherently.

"No. It's so good I... I want it to happen again."

Now, he faltered. Now, he stilled mid-thrust, blinked down at me, then smiled. I smiled back, and curled a hand at the back of his neck, where tiny hairs were so soft, to pull his mouth down to mine.

The kiss started as sweet, as slow as sugar syrup trickling down. It ignited in a blink with a twist of my hips and his answering thrust. We were both too close to last much longer. Falling into him, with him, was almost too easy. It was—again, stupid, ridiculous, pathetic and yet true—like my whole life had led me to that very moment.

His body completed mine, and we trembled as one, not from the cool air but from the heat we'd created together.

When he ended the kiss, he looked at me for a long time and I couldn't help but wonder why there was so much surprise in his eyes. He rolled away from me, lying down at my side, and I had to close my eyes for a second not to protest at the deep feeling of loss I felt. Silly, really, when I could feel him pressed alongside my body.

*

But then...

I opened my eyes. The world sort of shifted around me, I don't know how else to explain it. I was still on the floor of the balcony, but in a different place, and Mr. Ward wasn't lying next to me anymore, he was crouching at my side, his face so close to mine that I thought he would kiss me. He was wearing his shirt again, and me, my panties. I was clutching his arm, as I'd been doing when I stopped being able to breathe.

Except...

I remembered that. I remembered being sure I would die. I remembered the cold words we'd exchanged before that.

But I also remembered a different version of events, one in which we'd chatted, flirted, then succumbed to lust.

Down in the street, a police car was just passing us. Somehow, I realized that it was the same car I'd heard when I'd been so sure I was dying. Only a second or two had passed, even though my body and mind were telling me something entirely different.

"What..."

Air. Sweet, cool, delicious air. I gulped it down almost greedily. Next to me, Mr. Ward slowly stood.

"What's going on?" I managed to finish.

After a beat, he held both hands out to me and helped me to my feet. His shirtsleeves were still fastened with those beautiful cufflinks, and yet I still couldn't help feeling guilty at the way I'd lost one of them. Both versions of events were warring in my mind and confusing the hell out of me.

"Can you breathe now?" he asked, and there was a waver in his voice that hadn't been there when we'd argued.

"What happened?" I asked again.

He passed a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Lilah happened, that's what. You said she told you to be nice to me?"

I nodded, unsure what he was getting at.

"You were rude."

My eyebrows shot up, and he amended that at once.

"We were rude to each other. When you realized who I was, Lilah's compulsion kicked in but it was too late. You'd already broken it. That's why you couldn't breathe."

It made absolutely no sense, and I wanted to say as much, wanted to demand an actual explanation. Instead, what came out was a plaintive, "Did we... did we just have sex?"

My panties were soaked. My entire body still shivered from pleasure. My skin remembered the touch of his hands, his lips, his cock. I knew exactly what his mouth would taste like, a hint of smoke and the headiness of champagne.

But at the same time... it hadn't happened. It couldn't have. That simply wasn't how things had gone after I stepped onto the balcony.

Mr. Ward's expression remained guarded.

"I did not lay a finger on you," he said. "I gave you a second chance to be nice. It was all a fantasy. Your fantasy, I might add. I was just along for the ride."

Did I say I was confused? Never mind confused. I was two seconds away from having myself committed for psychiatric evaluation.

Words were escaping me. I needed him to actually explain everything and start making sense, but I could hardly even think. Only when my teeth started chattering did I realize I was trembling. Every inch of my exposed arms and back was covered in goose bumps. Mr. Ward lifted his gaze to the sky, sighed heavily, then picked his jacket from the banister and thrust it toward me.

In my memory, he'd wrapped it over my shoulders ever so gently. The dissonance made my head hurt, but I did take the jacket and slipped my arms in the sleeves. It was too big, but that hardly mattered. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to warm up. The fabric was too light to help much for that, but the scent clinging to it, his scent, the barest hint of cologne mixed with cigarette smoke... Heat zinged through me.

"Come on." He sighed again, picked up my purse and handed it to me. "Let's get you inside before you die of hypothermia."

He didn't wait for me to answer and opened the window; I followed him inside, my mind still churning over images and sensations—a fantasy, he'd called it. My fantasy.

What on Earth had just happened?

Without thinking, I followed him through two guests-filled rooms, and a tiny part of me noticed that he'd been right. No one stopped him to congratulate him on his birthday. No one knew who he was. No one, or almost.

In the back of the second room, a man was standing against the wall between double doors and a tapestry that had already been ancient by the time this country was founded. He wore an expensive-looking suit, but his white tie and gloves marked him as one of the staff, as did the way he inclined his head toward Mr. Ward.

"Stephen, would you be so kind as to find my dear sister and invite her to join me and my... guest upstairs?"

The man inclined his head again. His eyes flicked toward me and something gleamed in them. I almost want to say recognition, but I was pretty sure I'd never met him before. I'm good with faces, and he had distinctive features that looked finely chiseled from a dark wood. A neatly trimmed goatee was barely more than a shadow around his mouth and down to his chin, a few gray hairs betraying he wasn't as young as the rest of the servers offering drinks and canapés to the guests.

"When you say 'invite,' sir," he said in a deep but quiet voice, "how forceful do you wish me to be?"

Mr. Ward had started to reach for the door handle. He paused and looked at Stephen, his eyebrows furrowed as he considered the question.

"Don't get yourself hurt," he finally said. "If Lilah is reluctant, please tell her she already insulted me once tonight. That should be enough to convince her."

Stephen inclined his head again then pushed away from the wall. He was gone without another word. And I was more confused than ever. A 'forceful' invitation? Not getting hurt? An insult?

"Come," Mr. Ward said, and my body was moving before I even knew it.

He'd opened the door, revealing a narrow staircase. Well, when I say narrow... The other staircases in the house were on a 'Gone With the Wind' scale. This one? Three people could have climbed side by side. He closed the door behind me, and at once the sounds of the party faded. They weren't just muffled. They just ceased. Talk about insulation. Someone could have screamed, right where I stood, and no one would have heard even if they'd been standing right outside the door.

It did not make for a pleasant realization.

Mr. Ward started walking up the steps. When I didn't immediately follow, he glanced back at me. I jumped into motion and went after him, my hands clenched on the sides of my dress, lifting it up so I wouldn't trip over it.

We soon reached the third floor. Like the first two, it was decorated with pieces of furniture and art as beautiful as they seemed old. We stepped through a small salon and into a sitting room, and while I paused to take in my surroundings Mr. Ward went to the fireplace on the far wall. If he'd extended his arms on each side of him, he still couldn't have touched both ends of the carved stone mantle. He crouched next to the hearth, fiddled with something on the side, and fire came to life, the faux logs instantly glowing like embers.

"Well?" he said as he glanced back at me. "Don't just stand there. Come warm yourself."

I shuddered at his impatient tone, remembering the gentleness of his words in my 'fantasy.' Dropping my gaze to the floor like a scolded child, I crossed the room to approach the fireplace. Even as I did, I couldn't help but wonder what was going on with me.

Why was I jumping at each of his commands? He was bordering on rude—no, forget that. He _was_ rude, snapping orders at me and glaring without reason. And instead of telling him what I thought of his manners, I just obeyed.

"What's happening to me?" I mumbled when I was standing two feet away from him, close enough to the fireplace that already the flames were warming me. "This isn't me. I don't let people talk to me like that. Order me around like... like..."

I didn't even know how to finish. I looked at him, and was surprised to see a flash of guilt cross his features.

"I'll try to get a grip on myself," he said as he walked away from me.

I watched him go to an ornate cabinet against the wall. The whole front was carved, colorful glass panels set into branches and leaves so realistic I almost expected to see them move against his hands.

He opened the topmost door and drew two glasses out, setting them on the flat surface below. After a beat, he pulled out a third glass and closed the door. He then reached for the larger doors beneath. They opened to reveal a collection of bottles. I don't know much about alcohol, but when he poured a deep amber liquid in each glass, I assumed it was some kind of scotch or whiskey.

He drank deeply, refilled his glass, and then put the bottle away. With his glass in one hand and a second one in the other, he came back toward me.

"It'll help clear your mind," he said as he handed me the second glass.

This time, there was no order to take the glass and drink. I crossed my arms and refused to take it.

"I'm pretty sure alcohol is the last thing I need to clear my mind," I said. "How about an explanation instead?"

Shrugging, he poured the contents of my glass into his and took another sip. Four plush armchairs were set in a semi circle around the fireplace. He sat in one and placed the empty glass on the floor.

"Lilah owes both of us an explanation," he said, his eyes fixed on the flames behind me. "She'll be here soon."

Something told me it was useless to argue with him, but I'd only been too compliant so far. Now that I could fight back, I did.

"How about we begin without her? How about you start by telling me what the hell you mean by fantasy? Why did you say I broke her... her..." I struggled to remember the word he'd used.

"Compulsion," he breathed. "It's called compulsion. Or sometimes, thrall. That's what she did to you when she told you to be nice to me. It was an order, like when I told you to follow me up here. You can technically refuse to follow that order. But if you do, you die. That's why you couldn't breathe. It was your punishment for not being nice to me like she told you."

Punishment? Thrall? I wanted to laugh at the idea. It was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

At the same time, I remembered all too well being unable to breathe.

I remembered, also, how I'd been unable to even think of saying no, back in Miss Delilah's dressing room, when she'd told me to try on the gowns. I remembered her tone of voice, the depth of her words. It had been the same strength in Mr. Ward's words every time he had told me to do something. And every time, I'd obeyed without so much as a hesitation.

Feeling a little weak in the knees, I stumbled to the armchair opposite Mr. Ward and sat down, clutching the purse in my lap simply to cling to something.

"Is this... is this like... Did you... hypnotize me or something?"

Still a ridiculous idea, but I was trying to put things in a frame of reference I could at least recognize if not understand.

He took another sip from his glass, watching the fire over the rim for a while.

"Some people call it that," he said at last. "It's a bit more complicated—"

Heels clicking on the room's wooden floor interrupted him. He didn't look back toward the door, but I did. Miss Delilah had just come in.

She threw a glance toward me, but said nothing as she walked over to the liquor cabinet. She set down the empty champagne flute she was carrying, and picked up instead the last glass Mr. Ward had filled. She came over, then, perching herself on the arm of the chair next to Mr. Ward.

"Morgan."

"Lilah."

He still didn't look at her.

"Do you like your gift?" she asked with a faint smile.

His jaw tightened.

"Stephen didn't mention—"

"That I supposedly insulted you? Yes, he did. I thought it was your sense of humor peeking through."

That finally drew his eyes to her. Out on the balcony, I'd thought it was the night that made them seem so dark, but here, with plenty of light from the chandelier over us or the fireplace, they seemed as dark, as deep as ever.

"My sense of humor, yes. I've been told I'm uproariously funny."

Delivered in such a deadpan voice, the remark _was_ funny. Miss Delilah didn't smile.

"Honestly, would it kill you to say thank you? She's absolutely perfect, you can't deny that."

She gestured toward me at that, but barely threw a glance in my direction. It was like I wasn't there. Or actually, more like I was an object, a thing that couldn't hear, couldn't understand what was being said about her. Annoyance flashed through me and I cleared my throat.

She raised an eyebrow in my direction. Every angry word that had filled my mind disappeared in a blink.

Mr. Ward's eyes remained on her.

"I told you repeatedly I don't need you meddling in my affairs."

"Well, if you _had_ affairs I wouldn't need to meddle." She emptied her glass and set it on the chair, then stood, hands on her hips as she stared him down. "Mother agrees with me, so don't bother running to her. It's more than time you moved on. Put her in your bed, feed from her, kill her. I don't care. She's your charge, now. You'll have to take care of her, one way or the other."

A sound erupted through the room, a low, deep growl, and it startled me to realize it was coming out of Mr. Ward. I'd have been less surprised to discover a lion or a tiger crouching behind him.

He stood and faced Miss Delilah. In his hand, his glass was empty. It shattered in his fist, sending shards flying as far as the fireplace. A few landed at my feet. Mr. Ward and Miss Delilah didn't even seem to notice. They continued to glare at each other. Anxiety surrounded me like a cold, unpleasant fog until I wanted nothing more than to hide, but I didn't dare move.

"Do you think I have any desire to play this childish game?" He all but growled the words. "Do you think I'll take that child as a replacement?"

"Like I said, I don't care what you take her as. But she's yours." She glanced at me, and the cold smile on her lips sent a shiver to me. "Your ward, Morgan. See? I have a sense of humor, too."

"A sense of humor? Is that what you think this is? A joke?"

But she wasn't listening. She came to me, and glass crunched under her feet. I flinched when she reached for me and cupped my face in her hand.

"Tell me something, Lina. Do you remember what I said to you when we arrived?"

I nodded, as unable to look away from her gleaming eyes as I was to speak.

"Tell my brother what I said to you, dear."

Again, that voice... My mouth was opening before I even decided to say a word. I tried to fight it. Hypnotism, thrall, compulsion... I didn't care what it was, I didn't care how she did it, I just knew I was me, and I had free will, and I wouldn't let her manipulate me.

The words spilled out and there was nothing I could do to stop them.

"You told me to be nice to Mr. Ward," I heard myself say. "And not to leave without you."

She smiled that cold smile again. Her nails were pinpricks against my cheek and it was all I could do not to whimper at the pain.

"That's right," she murmured, and while her voice was lower, her tone was the same. "Don't leave without me. Not tonight. Not ever."

She leaned down. I remained frozen, encased in ice, and shuddered when she lapped at my cheek where her nails had pricked me.

"Lilah!" Mr. Ward's hand settled on her shoulder and he pulled her to face him. "If you think I'll let—"

She was gone before he could finish, before I could even blink or let out the breath I'd been holding.

I say 'she was gone' but really it's something else that happened. I'd almost say, 'she ran,' but nobody can run that fast. She flew? Nah, vampires can't do that, Mr. Ward told me as much. She just left. To her, it might have been little more than a stroll. To me, it was just a blur of movement, gone before I knew it.

The next second, Mr. Ward disappeared as well.

I sat there, alone, for a few minutes. And again, 'sat there' is so, so far from what actually happened. There was a war raging in my mind. I wanted to leave. I'd never wanted anything more in my life. But I simply couldn't move.

The more I thought about it, of going down those stairs, going to where sane people were drinking champagne, eating finger food and laughing at their own jokes, of moving past them, all the way down to the front door and out, the less I was able to move. Tears of frustration started running down my face, and I now regretted refusing that drink when Mr. Ward had offered it to me.

No sooner had I thought about it, about going to the liquor cabinet and helping myself to something strong, that my legs started obeying me again. I took three steps to the cabinet before shaking my head at my own silliness. I'd get a drink when I was away from this place.

My legs locked. I wavered, and had to catch myself on the back of the closest armchair or I would have fallen down.

It didn't take me long to understand. She'd told me not to leave without her. If I even thought about doing so, my body stopped cooperating. But if I thought of something else...

I looked at the liquor cabinet again and stumbled forward as my feet moved before I even knew it.

"She's gone."

I let out a gasp at Mr. Ward's quiet words. I hadn't noticed his return. When I turned to him, he was standing by the door, hands in his pockets, deep frustration inscribed on his face. He wasn't looking at me.

"She just... left?" I asked in a small voice.

He nodded.

"That means... that means I can't leave, doesn't it?"

He snorted.

"You tell me. I assume you tried?"

I swallowed hard.

"What she said... about you... about you killing me... She was joking, right? She didn't mean..."

His gaze finally came up to me. In his eyes, his dark, bottomless eyes, I could see the answer to my question without him needing to say a word.

I didn't know, still, what he was. It was only later that he told me about vampires and compulsion, and it took a lot more time before he finally told me why Miss Delilah had chosen me as her gift to him—why, probably, she had hired me as her assistant, years earlier, in anticipation of the right moment.

At that time, however, I only knew two things: no, she hadn't been joking. Yes, he was perfectly capable of killing me.

"I won't kill you," he said in a gruff voice, and I wasn't sure I could believe him.

I wasn't sure either why it felt like a 'yet' should have ended his sentence.

Truth be told, I wasn't sure about much that night. But I was pretty certain my life was about to change.

I could never have guessed how much.

_Continued in **My Reluctant Warden**_

_Keep reading for an excerpt._

**_ _**

_This serial is available as 5 installments (Ward of the Vampire, My Reluctant Warden, Awkward Holidays, The Coward's Way Out and Homeward) or onecomplete ebook with a bonus epilogue scene, The Best Present._

**EXCERPT**

**My Reluctant Warden**

"I won't kill you."

As far as reassurances go, that one didn't do much for me. I doubt it would have done anything for anyone, not when it was uttered in Mr. Ward's cool, emotionless voice and he was barely looking at me, already turning away.

A few hours ago, before setting foot in his mansion as a guest of Miss Delilah—his sister and my boss—for his birthday bash, all I'd known of Morgan Ward was his voice, which I had heard on the phone a few times, and the gossip I'd read on blogs and in newspapers. Now, I knew a lot more.

I knew how dark his eyes were: darker than endless wells.

I knew something was different about him. Not different like a reclusive millionaire bachelor can be, but different in a not quite natural way. Not quite human maybe, but I had a hard time wrapping my mind around that idea even after seeing him and Miss Delilah move with speed that should have been impossible.

I also knew how soft his skin was, the feel of his lips on mine, and the way he moved when he made love. Except it had all been a fantasy; that was what he'd called it. But no fantasy, daydream, or dream of mine had ever felt that real. I'd almost died on that balcony. I'd also experienced two very intense orgasms. That, at least, was no fantasy.

The most important thing I knew, however, was that none of it made sense.

"I don't understand," I said before he could walk away.

He turned the faintest of smiles back at me.

"How could you?"

"Explain to me." It wasn't the first time I'd asked him to explain, and I suppose, if I'm completely honest, I can say he'd tried. But every word of explanation had only confused me more. Still, I insisted. "What happened here tonight?"

His smile faded.

"Which part? The part about you intruding where you weren't wanted? Or the part about my dearest sister giving you to me as a gift, also very much unwanted?"

"I'm not anyone's gift," I started, and Mr. Ward laughed.

This, believe me, was not a happy laugh. It chilled me down to my bones. For a moment, it was like we were back on that balcony where I'd sought refuge from the bustling party. The December night air had been cold, but my host even icier. At least, at first he'd been icy. In my fantasy, not so much.

"Also true," he said. "But since, as I told you, I am not inclined to kill you, and since you can't leave, I guess the semantics don't matter much. I'll have Stephen show you where you can sleep."

And with that, he left the room.

I had a dozen, a hundred questions, but when I said his name, he didn't stop or look back. He just left me alone.

I tried to leave again, to tell my feet to move toward that same door he'd gone through so I could go down the staircase and back to the party. Back to where Mr. Ward's guests were still celebrating. Back to where a door opened onto the street and beckoned me to freedom.

As hard as I tried, however, I soon had to resign myself to the fact that, like he'd reminded me, I couldn't leave. Miss Delilah's words were trapping me in this house.

"Don't leave without me," she'd said. "Not tonight. Not ever."

I didn't know how that was possible, how simple words could bind me better than ropes. It was another one of these 'not so natural' things I wished Mr. Ward had explained better to me. But I couldn't deny it was true.

A discreet cough drew my eyes away from my unmoving feet and up to the door again. An African-American man stood there, clad in the livery suit of the staff, observing me through eyes that glinted with amusement, although his expression remained perfectly neutral. I'd seen him downstairs: Stephen.

"Mr. Ward asked me to show you to the guest suite," he said with a small inclination of his head. "If you are ready, Miss?"

"No, I am not ready." I couldn't help the hint of hysteria creeping into my words. "I don't want to go to the guest suite. I want to leave."

His steps didn't make a sound as he crossed the room to the liquor cabinet. He poured a generous measure of the same golden drink Mr. Ward had offered me earlier and I'd refused. This time, when Stephen held out the glass to me, I took it gratefully and downed the alcohol in one go. It burned my throat and made my eyes water—better to tear up because of the drink than because I felt so helpless.

"I understand that you are unnerved," Stephen said in a slow, calm voice. "But it is also my understanding that you are not able to leave the premises. So unless you intend to sleep in an armchair until Mr. Ward can persuade Miss Stanford to release you, a guest suite seems appropriate. Don't you think?"

When explained like that, it sounded perfectly reasonable for me to accompany him. Call me stubborn, but I still tried to find a reason not to. I didn't come up with anything. He took the empty glass from me, set it on the cabinet, then went to open a door on the other side of the room.

"If you would, Miss?" he said in that polite voice again, inviting me to follow him.

"You can call me Angelina," I said as I walked with him into what turned out to be a corridor.

We passed several closed doors and as many paintings, all of them set in elaborate frames. The length of the hallway was covered by a long rectangular carpet that stopped a few inches from the walls, exposing the gleaming wooden floors.

"Stephen?"

He looked at me, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"You know what's going on, don't you? I mean, you know I can't leave."

We'd reached the end of the corridor, or rather, what I'd thought was the end. Instead, a new hallway started on the left, mirrored by another one on the right. Stephen turned right, and I followed.

"Mr. Ward informed me of your predicament, yes," he said.

"How is it possible?" I asked, and the edge of plaintiveness in my voice made me cringe. "No one can just order someone to do things like that. It's just not possible."

When he glanced at me again, I could see that the amusement was back in his eyes.

"Not possible," he repeated, "and yet, here you are. I take it you do not know what Miss Stanford is?"

The turn of phrase startled me. What, not who. What could she possibly be? At that moment, my mind was blank.

"She's my boss," I said, confused.

My boss, a woman accustomed to only the best life had to offer, a socialite, an occasional model, the head of a multi-national company, a patron of the arts, the widow of Emmet H. Stanford the Third, the sister of Mr. Ward... What else was she?

"That's not what I mean. And it's probably best if Mr. Ward tells you himself. Here we are."

We'd reached the end of this corridor, and he opened the door in front of us. He walked inside, turning on the lights before moving out of sight. For a few seconds, I remained in the doorway, unable to make myself step forward. If I went inside, that was it. I was admitting to myself, Stephen, and Mr. Ward that I accepted my situation. I accepted my captivity.

And it was captivity. Isn't that the very definition of being detained against one's will?

I was a prisoner in Mr. Ward's mansion.

And yet I wasn't Mr. Ward's prisoner.

Not really.

He'd made it clear that, if it were up to him, I'd be long gone.

If anything, I was Miss Delilah's prisoner. She was the one who had ordered me to remain in his house. But 'ordered' is the wrong word. She had compelled me to stay here. That was what Mr. Ward had called it: compulsion. I could have refused to obey an order. She was my boss, sure, but this, whatever this was, didn't fall under my duties as her personal assistant. I couldn't refuse to obey this compulsion. I physically couldn't, as I proved to myself every time I so much as thought of leaving and found my feet frozen in place.

When it came down to it, though, whether I was Mr. Ward's prisoner or Miss Delilah's, it didn't really matter. I was here, and I didn't want to be.

"Miss Angelina?" Stephen came back to the door. "Something wrong?" After a beat he added, "Other than the obvious, that is."

"I want to talk to him," I heard myself say. "I want to talk to Mr. Ward. I want him to explain... to explain everything."

"I'm sure he'd be delighted to ignore you," Stephen said deadpan. "But I'm afraid he left the mansion."

"Left?" The word felt strangely alien on my tongue, like I didn't know the meaning of it anymore. "Where to?"

"If I were to venture a guess, I'd say he went to try to talk Miss Stanford into releasing you. Between you and me, I wouldn't count on him returning with good news. Now, will you come in?"

I did.

I didn't want to, but what else could I do? Spend the rest of the night in the hallway?

He showed me around the suite. Part of me recognized that the furniture and art on the walls were as expensive and classy as the pieces I'd seen in the lower floors of the mansion. Another part only saw the sitting room, bedroom and en-suite bathroom for what they truly were: a cell. The gilding merely hid the bars.

The one thing that reassured me was that the bedroom locked from the inside, and I was quick to turn the key once Stephen had left.

I dropped my shoes on the floor, my clutch purse and Mr. Ward's jacket on an armchair, and headed for the bathroom. I tried to freshen up a little, but the woman who stared back at me from the mirror looked dazed. Even washing away my raccoon eyes and the mascara trails on my cheeks didn't help much.

Returning to the bedroom, I climbed onto the plush, queen-sized bed, right on top of the coverlet, and didn't care one bit about the state the gown would be in if I slept in it. I certainly wasn't going to sleep naked, and I didn't have anything else to wear.

I grabbed a corner of the coverlet, pulled it over me like a cocoon, and went to sleep like that, with the bedside lamp still on, curled up like a kid in a strange bed. Even as uncomfortable as the gown and corset were to sleep in, I was mentally exhausted and asleep in just moments.

_Continued in **My Reluctant Warden or the full serial**_

** **

**A CLOSER LOOK AT THE COMPULSION CYCLE**

** **

** **

Most of my vampire stories take place in the universe I established in my first stories, with a past in the Pacts series, a present with the On The Edge and Special Enforcers series, and a future with the Demons Age series...

But this is a different universe! After ten years of writing vampires with the same 'rules' I wanted to shake things up a little and play in a new sandbox.

In the Compulsion Cycle, unlike my usual universe, the human world is not aware that vampires are real. Vampires drink blood and their physical appearance remains the same as it was when they were turned, two 'classic' rules, but sunlight is not deadly to them—although they can get bad sunburns if they remain in the sun for too long.

One of their 'powers' is that they can compel humans to do exactly as they are told with nothing more than a look and a few words. With eye-contact, they can also enter a human's mind—or rather, draw a human into their mind—and share an elaborate fantasy with them that looks and feels entirely real.

The first story I created in this universe is the **Ward of the Vampire serial** , which is available as one complete ebook or five installments. Narrated by the human heroine Angelina, it shows her try to untangle the life and emotions of vampire millionaire Morgan Ward after she is compelled to live in his mansion.

The other stories are companions to Ward of the Vampire, though all three stand on their own.

In **Serenade** , we follow vampire Irene, a secondary character from Ward of the Vampire, as a human and his vampire companion work their way into her life despite her best efforts to remain unattached.

In **Vampire Delights** , it's Delilah that we join when one night with an old friend turns into something much more complicated... and much more rewarding!

** **

**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

Kallysten's most exciting accomplishment to date was to cross a few thousand miles and an ocean to pursue the love of her life. She strives to give her characters the same 'happy ever after' she found... although their lives are significantly stranger than hers! But whether they have fangs or an inner beast, whether they play with magic or with whips, whether they're looking for 'the one' or a single night of fun, in the end it's all about love...

To see her other stories, visit **<http://kallysten.net>**.

Subscribe to her **newsletter** for free stories, bonus content and to get notices about new releases, discounts and giveaways.

Join her **Facebook group** to keep in touch and know more about her and her books.

