Chapter 6 Gideon #3
Interesting.
“What about Danny O’Hare?” Arabella whips back to me. “Was he a Thrall? And Patrick Stock?”
I tilt my head to the side. “Is this a tour, or is it a Nevermore Coven investigation? I thought we’d cleared up their deaths. Nine pieces of Baylor Godsven have been delivered to castles around Europe.”
I’m testing her. I know that we still have a husker in our midst, but I don’t know what Arabella and the Nevermore Coven know yet.
Hopefully nothing. I love Winnie and her friends, but I don’t want them snooping around in vampire business, especially not when the future of Sanctus hangs in the balance.
Arabella isn’t giving anything away. “I’m merely curious. At the ball, Baylor said, ‘I’m not the only one among you brave enough to embrace my true nature.’ Which implies that he had an accomplice.”
“I presume the others told you about that, since you weren’t at the ball.
And why was that?” I round on her. I’m not the only one with secrets, and this is a good chance to direct her away from dangerous vampire murderers.
“The Arabella I used to know would never give up the chance to be the most beautiful woman in a room.”
Why didn’t I see you at the ball? If I’d seen you…
“I was in the kitchens, as per the Nevermore Coven plan.” She smooths a hand over her buzzed hair. “And even with tomato sauce stains on my chin, I was still the most beautiful woman at that ball. Can we continue this infernal tour so I can get my keys?”
“As you wish.” I lead her back through Brimstone, which has started to fill up with residents as they begin their evenings, and into the administrative wing of Sanctus House. My mouth moves a mile a minute as I elaborate on every lavish detail.
“We have the mail room and staff offices. The security suite is through here. My apartment is on the top floor of this building, so I’m onsite in case anything happens. And I’ll—”
“What’s in there?” Arabella’s talons scrape across the red surface of an elevator door.
“Oh, that.” I wave my hand as though it’s not a big deal. My heart thuds against my ribs. “That leads up to the top two floors of the building. It’s protected by the same high-tech security system we use on all the houses. You can’t go up there without being on the system.”
“And why would I want to get into that elevator?”
I brighten. “As I said, the top floor is my private apartment, so if you’d like, we can retire—”
“So forward, Gideon. You’re supposed to woo a woman first.”
“I thought we’d been through the foreplay. I stole from you. You tried to have me killed. Ours is a romance written in the stars.”
A flicker of something like frustration passes over her face, but it’s gone before I can figure out what it means. “And what of the third floor?”
I swallow. “That’s the Sanctus Club – a private club for certain select members. I have sole control over the guest list.”
“I see. So I should expect an invite.”
I long to take her behind that door, but I know I can’t do it now, while she has me off guard. I need her to understand first. I need her to not hate me, because once she sees what’s in there…
My testicles will never be safe.
I place my body between her and the elevator doors, flashing her my most devilish grin. “Perhaps. If you behave.”
That smile again. “I never behave.”
She’s flirting with me. Why is she flirting with me?
I waggle my finger at her. “Then no private club for you.”
“Oh dear, how ever will I cope?”
“You’ll find a way.” I press my palm into her back, trying to ignore the way my hand against her cool skin is like a fire engine blaring and racing straight to my cock. “Let me show you your new home.”
I watch Arabella’s face as I walk her along the wide path through the manicured gardens.
Her house is built on stilts, allowing space underneath for a shaded garden and outdoor seating area while nestling the main living areas within the ancient trees.
The floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the woods back to us, so the house blends into the landscape.
I half expect Kevin McCloud to pop out from behind the artisan, wrought iron fence and shout, “By Jove, they’ve done it! ”
Damn, I love that show. Grand Designs is singlehandedly responsible for giving me the idea for Sanctus.
If anything could turn me from my life of vampiric crime to eco property development, it’s watching a delighted British man spouting poetry about concrete while the posh couple he’s following move into a caravan “for a few weeks”, attempt to build a wall out of horse dung, and stress about the Latvian window company going bankrupt.
My new goal in life is to be the vampiric Kevin McCloud, only without the architecture poetry or illegitimate children.
The vampires who’ve moved into their Sanctus homes are awed by this place, unable to believe that they can live in a house with such huge windows after so many centuries being consigned to draughty castles by the courts.
Patrick Stock may have treated Winnie badly, but he was a genius with glass. I am only sad that he couldn’t find it in his heart to take up my generous offer and went and got himself husked.
As we descend the steps to her front door, Arabella regards her new home with the same cool detachment that she’d greeted me with.
Not even this majestic piece of architecture could break her facade.
I notice a glass and steel enclosure filled with rocks and strange plants built alongside the kitchen and suppress a shudder.
It looks like Arabella is still keeping her preferred pets.
I show Arabella how to program her security system. “Input a four-digit passcode into this screen. You can change it any time.”
“Very well.” Arabella steps up to the console. “Turn around.”
“I’m not going to spy on your keycode.”
“Yes, you’ve proven yourself to be trustworthy beyond reproach. Turn around, Gideon. Or I shall rotate your head for you, permanently.”
I turn away as she punches in her new keycode.
I don’t bother to tell her that as CEO of Sanctus, I have access to override the security system on any of the houses as a safety precaution.
I don’t want to think about what that might tempt me to do, knowing that Arabella is only a few minutes’ walk from my apartment.
A movement flickers in the corner of my eye. It almost looks like a person moving between the trees…
I sniff the air, but Sanctus is too alive with the scents of vampires, the fragrant flowers we use for the gardens, construction materials, and the woodland, for me to pick out a new scent.
It’s just an animal coming closer for a look. Our fences are impenetrable, and there’s no way the security team would allow a stranger to skulk around in the woods inside our boundary.
The door clicks open. I turn back to her. Arabella peers through the front door into the open-plan living, dining, and kitchen area. Her lips form a thin line that anyone who doesn’t know her would take for disdain. But I notice the way her right eye twitches, her brow arching.
There it is. The crack in her facade.
She is moved. The way she was once moved by exquisite music or the stroke of an artist’s brush.
The way she was once moved by me.
I sweep past her, throwing my arms wide.
“Here you are, our first finished home in the executive range, and it’s all yours.
All the floors are Norwegian birch, the countertops are the finest Brazilian Preto Agata granite.
The walls have been finished and are ready for you to hang artwork. You have artwork, I presume?”
That twitch in her eye again. “A few pieces.”
And with the sultry pull of her voice, I’m back in a moonlit garden in Paris, the only sound the lap of water, the rasp of a painter’s brush, and the soft whispers escaping her lips as I—
I clear my throat. “The inbuilt sound system caters to our sensitive hearing, able to play every nuance of any piece of music, and the windows can be controlled by the panel over there. During the day, you can choose a blackout shade…”
I tap a button, and the windows flick to black, plunging the room into darkness. LED lighting fades in instantly, bathing us in a warm glow.
“Or, my personal favourite, a projection of the world outside with the harmful sunlight filtered away.” I click another button and the trees appear again. “What do you think?”
“It’s sufficient.”
“Sufficient? This is a masterpiece of home building. Kevin McCloud should be writing a sonnet to me right now.”
“Who is that? You know I detest poets more than you detest opera.”
Arabella’s heels clack on the floor as she steps deeper into the space. Her hand grazes the metal balustrade of the stunning spiral staircase leading up to the second level. Her brow arches again as she points to the stylised crosses in the metal. “This design is familiar.”
My heart hammers against my chest. Of course she would notice that.
“Er… the design team has borrowed inspiration from many periods in history.”
She frowns. “Which periods of history, Gideon?”
“Oh, you know, all the highlights. The Black Death, the Sack of Rome, that time when early humans were painting blobby antelope on cave walls with their fingers.” I throw up my hands. “The Belle époque.”
Arabella folds her arms.
“Fine. If you must know, I designed this particular piece.” The words rush out of me. “It’s the same design from the railings at La Petite Mort. From the VIP floor, overlooking the stage.”
Arabella’s shoulders tighten. Something that might’ve been grief flickers in her eyes, but it’s gone before I can claim it.
“You have an excellent memory.” She wraps her fingers slowly around the balustrade, one at a time, until my tongue has stuck to the roof of my mouth.
I wait for her to berate me or brandish a testicle-chopping knife, but she merely nods her head at me and moves deeper into the house. I follow her as if she’s the one giving the tour.
As we continue through the house, I point out more features that have my clients so enraptured with Sanctus – the wet bar with special storage for blood.
The comfortable feeding room with built-in sound system and views over a picturesque stream.
The dressing-room with the custom inbuilt cabinets she requested.
The bathroom with its clawfoot golden bathtub.
Arabella studies it all with detached indifference. If I didn’t know her, I’d think she found it all boring.
But I do know her. I know that inside that perfect skull of hers, she is plotting, scheming.
And when she accidentally-on-purpose brushes against me as we exit the closet, I know that some part of her scheme has to do with me.
Why is she torturing me?
I know why. Her acerbic teasing, her touching me, and that incredible outfit… This is all about revenge.
Maybe she’s simply trying to show me what I missed out on, what I can never have. Given how tight my balls are and how I have to keep adjusting myself to hide my erection, it’s working.
But Arabella won’t be content with that. If she blames me for her theatre burning, she won’t stop until she burns my dream to ashes. And Sanctus is too important for her to ruin it over a vendetta, especially when the Conclave have me in their sights.
So where does that leave me?
It leaves me utterly at the mercy of the woman I once loved.