From outside in the hall, a series of low gongings started to go off. It was the grandfather clock in the second floor’s sitting room announcing the hour.
He counted the callouts: One, two, three, four, five, six . . . seven.
Nothing else. So it was seven at night.
And it had to be at night, because he’d gone to bed at around eight in the morning. So yes, he was in the right place, at the right time. But as for the woman? Not a clue how she’d come to be in the Brotherhood’s very carefully hidden mansion, in his room—except . . . it must have been a dream.
Jesus, he was stupid.
Of course it was a goddamn dream. A subconscious, existential payback for what he’d left the Mrs. with back at that triplex.
Balz’s eyes went to his bureau. There, next to the lamp with the stained glass shade, still rocking back and forth as if they were babies in a crib who got fussy when they were trying to go to sleep, was the collection of the Mr.’s watches. All six of them. Right where Balz had left them.
So yup, all that shit at the Commodore with the safe and the Mrs. and those Banksys in the stairwell had happened—
Unease rippled up his spine.
Something else had happened, though. Something that had delayed him. Something that had interrupted his departure—
The image of the mystery female’s naked body, of her brunette hair and her dark eyes, of her incredible breasts, caused him to lock his molars—
Balz orgasmed hard, hot jets kicking out of his cock and landing on his thighs, his sheets, his lower abdomen, the streaks of come branding him. And as the release ripped through him, the woman was inside his room again, standing before him, her smile ancient, her body as nubile as one fresh out of the transition.
Except she was not a vampire. And she was not actually in front of him. His recollection of her was just that strong, though, every detail of her burned into his mind’s eye.
It was as if they had been lovers for years. In fact, he had the sense that this was not the first time she had made him come, but rather that they had been fucking all day long.
He was only remembering this particular—
Bang, bang, bang. “Balz! Are you dead? What the hell.”
Snapping to attention, he wrenched around to the door. Then he scrambled to pull the covers up and into his lap—where he held them in place like his erection was in danger of grabbing a top hat and a cane and tap-dancing off his pelvis.
Jesus, he was losing his fucking mind.
“Yeah, yeah.” He cleared his throat. “I’m good.”
Syphon, his cousin, and the best assassin anyone knew, poked his head in. “We’ve got a meeting in Wrath’s study in five. And why weren’t you at First Meal. And I brought you food.”
The bastard tossed over a croissant wrapped in a dish towel and followed the carb bomb with a sealed travel mug. Balz caught one. Caught the other.
“Sugar and cream like you like it. Now get your ass out of bed. I’ll meet you in there.”
The door shut with a clap, the light that had streamed in from the corridor getting cut off, nothing but the glow from the loo seeping through the darkness once again.
Balz looked to where his shower was. Then shifted his eyes down to the dish towel and the travel mug.
Everything seemed exhausting, and he let himself fall back into the pillows. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and smelled his own arousal. Even though he was always good to go for a meeting with the Brothers, and in spite of the fact he’d pulled plenty of sleep over day, he really didn’t want to go anywhere.
Maybe just a couple more minutes of shut-eye.
Yeah, just a second or two. Then he would grab a shower, and eat his First Meal on the way down to the study. Yup. Just a little more—
Oh, who the fuck was he kidding.
All he wanted was more of that woman. He needed her again like he needed oxygen to survive.
Even if she was only a figment of his imagination.
Standing on the threshold of a stone cottage that belonged in a dollhouse catalogue, Sahvage waited to be invited inside for coffee. ’Cuz, you know, he was a gentlemale. A real stand-up guy with the manners of a fucking aristocrat.
Meanwhile, the female he was in front of was looking at him like he’d lost his damned mind. And maybe she was right.
Then again, maybe he’d lost his marbles a long time ago, and they’d only just met.
The female glanced over her shoulder into a dim interior. Then she stepped out of the little house and closed the door. Her hair was back in a ponytail again, wisps of blond floating around her face like a halo. No makeup, but it wasn’t like she needed it, and she was wearing the same jeans she’d had on the night before—no, wait, probably not. He had a feeling, given her brittle self-control, that she was a clean freak and a little compulsive. No doubt she had three or four pairs of the same brand and size, and she rotated them through the washing.