"I thought your own couldn't betray you."

Raphael turned to regard her, his dark eyes unreadable. “I said it was unlikely, but not impossible. In any event, this is most probably not one of my own children."

"How do you know she's still alive?” she asked suddenly, wanting to crack his ever present cool façade. “Bait doesn't have to be living."

He regarded her steadily, not saying a word, but she felt the reproach all the same. She met his gaze, refusing to look away. He smiled slightly and said, “We are ... linked, Alexandra and I, in more ways than one. I would sense her death in the instant it happened. Vampire bait does need to be living, sweet Cyn."

Cynthia blushed, ashamed at her lack of subtlety, though she'd never admit it to him. She raised her chin defiantly. “Do you know who has Alexandra, then?"

"A suspicion, nothing more. Someone who has sworn an oath of loyalty and is now reconsidering."

"Kind of like your buddy Albin."

"Does it please you to know I have enemies, Cyn?"

Cynthia thought about that. “No,” she said finally, knowing it was true. “No, it doesn't. Will you help them?"

He frowned. “Help whom?"

"I promised Judkins I'd try to help his wife and daughter. You bragged to me how fair you are to your men, how you help their families when they die for you. That man served you faithfully for ten years. He was stupid, not malicious. His family shouldn't suffer for that. They've already suffered enough, and only because he made the mistake of working for you."

"As you do.” His voice was smooth, but there was an underlying anger.

"As I do,” she agreed wearily. “So, will you give them his death benefits?"

He regarded her somberly, and then lifted one side of his mouth in a bare smile. “I will indeed, Cyn.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “If you deliver the benefits personally."

"What? No. I don't know these people. I don't want—"

"Ah. So there are limits to your compassion? Or is it that you don't want to face the result of what you wrought this evening?"

He was right. She didn't want to look in some woman's face and say her husband was never coming home. Didn't want to make up a story to explain why he had died, to try and make him a hero. But maybe he was a hero. Everything he'd done had been to protect his family, misguided perhaps, but he had tried.

"Fine. I'll do it myself,” she said, then turned away, staring out at the ocean. “Are you safe out here?” she asked, hoping he'd go back inside.

A soft scuff on the tiled balcony warned her as he drew closer, until he was standing right behind her, his mouth next to her ear. “Are you worried about me, Cyn?” He was so big his body blocked the light from his office, casting a shadow that eclipsed her own. She could feel his strength surrounding her, his breath stirring the small hairs on her neck, a hint of aftershave teasing her senses. He stood so close that if she inhaled too deeply their bodies would touch. And she would be lost.

"Please,” she whispered.

"Please?” Raphael repeated in a low voice. “Please what, Cyn?” He stroked her hair behind her ear, fingers trailing down her neck and over her shoulder, barely touching the curve of her breast before resting his hand below her waist. The slightest pressure, a mere tightening of his fingers, pulled her against him, eliminating that last tiny fraction of space that separated them. His erection was hard against her as his long fingers stroked her belly, teasing downward. A wave of need washed over her, so intense her knees almost gave way, and she swayed with the force of it, leaning her head back against his shoulder. His warm mouth bent to her neck, his tongue darting out to lick slowly along her jaw, before pausing over the steady rush of her jugular.

"No. Please,” she whispered, barely able to force out the words.

"Which is it, lovely Cyn? Is it no?" He sucked her neck gently, letting his teeth press into the skin without breaking it, and a frisson of desire made her gasp before flowing down to light a fire between her legs.

"Or is it, please?" His hands came up under her swollen breasts, cupping them, holding their weight in his broad palms, his thumbs strumming her sensitive nipples to the edge of pain. “I can smell your arousal, Cyn. I can hear the racing of your heart beneath your ribs.” His voice grew even lower, more sensuous, the words flowing from his mouth directly into her brain. He rubbed his obvious arousal along the cleft of her ass, letting her feel its hard length straining against the rough denim of his jeans. “I know you want this."

Cynthia covered her face with her hands, almost laughing at the wretched absurdity of it. Raphael froze. She could feel the muscles of his arms tighten with anger, no longer caressing, but trapping her against his body.

"Yes, I want you. I want you until I can think of little else,” she whispered, not even trying to break away from him. “You stalk my dreams and haunt even my days when I should be free of you. Every nerve in my body is tortured with wanting you, wanting to touch you, to fuck you, to have you fill me until I scream with the delicious pain of it and beg for more.” She did laugh then, a sobbing cry of desperation.

"Then, why?” There was an edge to his voice now; she was not the only one aroused and he was not accustomed to being denied.

Because I'm terrified, she wanted to say. Terrified my own need would drown me until there was nothing left of who I am, nothing but the smell of you, the touch of you on my skin, until there was nothing but you.

She opened her eyes and turned to find his glittering black orbs staring from only inches away. Her fingers reached up to touch those sensuous lips for the first time, and she sucked in a breath, unable to bear their softness. She took a step back, wiping away cold tears as the night air flowed between their bodies again.

Raphael watched her, his jaw clenched, his nostrils flaring with every breath. He blinked and his eyes became only eyes once again, beautiful and dramatic, but only eyes. “You will be mine before the end, Cyn. Make no mistake about it."

"And what will happen when you grow tired of me?” she asked softly. “Will I be discarded too, Raphael? Trapped in a pretty palace with nothing but memories? I have seen what you leave behind.” She slipped by him, almost running back to the house. His words made her stop.

"It is not what you think,” he said harshly.

Cyn turned and stared at him. “Then what is it?"

"A long story.” He walked over to her and paused to stroke her cheek with one finger. “For another night, perhaps, when you are more inclined to listen.” He pulled the sliding door open as Duncan appeared from the hallway. “Sleep well, Cyn."

She fled without looking back.

Raphael stared at the ocean, brooding about Cyn, about Alexandra. His discarded lover? He choked back a laugh. If only it were that simple. Memory took him back to that fetid dungeon in Paris. Nothing was ever simple with Alexandra.

Chapter Twenty-one

Paris, 1793

Raphael roamed the bowels of the prison, breathing in the scent of human suffering, the heady fragrance of terror beneath the reek of expensive perfume. The cells were filled to overflowing with the pampered aristocrats of Paris, their fine clothing now tattered and torn, their soft skin covered with filth that no amount of perfume could conceal. The women's cell blocks were his favorite. Oh, to be sure, the men were overwhelmed with rich despair, wondering if the next day would be their last, or perhaps the one after that. With every thump of the guillotine in the great courtyard, the fear soared that their own heads would be falling into the basket all too soon.

But the men, for the most part, were mewling cowards, huddling in the corners of their miserable cells, unable to believe such a fate had befallen them in the very heart of French high society. They had already surrendered their hearts and souls, if not their bodies.

But, the women! Fierce defenders of their lives and virtue, defiant until the moment the bright blade fell upon their delicate necks. Their terror was so much more vivid, their spirits so much more alive than the men, even in this hellish hole.

He walked freely through the dank halls, cloaked in shadow, in the anonymity of a forged uniform that declared him one of the victors ... today. For the victors of today could easily become the victims of tomorrow. He'd seen empires and kings rise and fall too many times to believe anything about the human race would be permanent. The women in the cells looked up at him as he passed by, drawn to him in spite of the animal instinct that warned them to flee. He paused by a nearly empty chamber, eyeing its lone occupant. She was no longer young, but still comely, a woman of flesh which indicated wealth in this city, at this time. Her dazed eyes watched him warily as he opened the cell door.

"Have no fear, little one,” he soothed. “I will make it better."

She fell easily under his spell, her body going slack in his arms as he bent to her fleshy neck. He grimaced at the taste of her blood, the disease tainting her life. It was all too common to find a fine woman so corrupted, infected by her own husband—a good upstanding member of society who fucked the whores on the docks, then brought their sickness home to his wife, filling her with death even as he filled her with life. Vive la revolution, he thought cynically. They deserved to be swept away by the great broom of history. He swallowed, fighting the urge to spit out the blood. The disease would not infect him and the blood nourished regardless.

From outside the cell, a young woman's laughter caught his attention. He lifted his head, scenting the air. So familiar that sound, it tugged on his memory, calling to him...?

He dropped the dying woman, remembering at the last moment to ease her to the ground before stepping into the corridor, his nostrils flaring. He stalked through the halls with new purpose, intent on finding the source of this disturbance, this thing that called forth a long dead emotion he could not even name.

Rounding a corner, he saw the pack of prison guards, their honest uniforms a sad imitation of his own forgery, their bodies no cleaner than the prisoners they watched over. They'd found some pitiful sport with one of the women; he'd seen it before, these scabrous street villains taking pleasure in the soft folds of a woman only a few months ago they'd never have dared even to gaze upon. They had this one backed into a corner, gathering around her like a pack of wolves. Her laughter danced over their heads and he frowned. Why would she—