Immortal Heat (The Guardians of Dacia Book 1) Read online

  "Ah, Miss Reddlin," the hotel manager greeted her from the lobby. "We've been expecting you. Mr. Vamier has taken care of all your needs while you are here. Dinner is on the house and Yves will escort you to your suite. If you need anything, please do not hesitate to let us know."

  "Thank you."

  Yves led her to the elevator that took them to the second floor where she was shown to a beautiful suite fit for a queen. The canopied antique bed and elegant Victorian furniture were wasted on her for a single night's stay, though. Maybe a quick, relaxing shower would renew her before going down to have dinner.

  Marilyn tipped Yves, receiving a smile and a jaunty salute from him before he closed the doors. Placing a 'do not disturb' sign on the outside of the double doors, she locked them and stripped to the private bath, leaving her wrinkled travel ware and fatigue behind her as she turned on the various jet sprays of a soul-reviving shower.

  The wine steward replenished her glass of merlot for the third time. Marilyn enjoyed the benefits of having someone take care of her. Professor Vamier was generous with his hospitality, even from afar. He'd guaranteed her exceptional treatment, gave her carte blanch for the night, and the staff treated her like a queen.

  Though Marilyn never wanted for anything, except her father, her mother never let them splurge on frivolous things. She was a woman who pinched her pennies and those of the company to a degree she fought over with many of her board members. Diane Reddlin knew her job and got the company where they were. Though Marilyn's early life was taken care of by a nanny, her mother was always there at the end of the day. Working for Livedel and its generous CEO, Rick Delvante, provided a wonderful life. They'd never met Mr. Delvante personally since he was based somewhere in Europe, but still he treated them like family. When her father had gone missing, he'd sent his condolences, made sure her mother had the best medical treatment available through Livedel during her pregnancy and would always have a supporting job within the company. Now her mother was the chief financial officer of Livedel Enterprise and a respected member of Livedel both nationally and internationally.

  Even with the pleasant lifestyle her mother made for them over the years, Diane Reddlin taught her not to take advantage of good fortune. Only blood, sweat and tears could get you where you needed to be in life. So having the opportunity to indulge in what a five-star European hotel had to offer, especially when it was bankrolled by a generous benefactor, made her feel special.

  Professor Vamier had even taken the expense to book her a day in the spa before her flight. She looked forward to indulging in a prepared spa treatment tomorrow—it might help with her recent bout of aches and pains to get the whole Vichy shower, mud bath, facial and massage. It was a treat to be able to splurge on a vintage red wine much less a luxury spa day.

  Taking a sip of said wine, Marilyn stopped with her glass half-way to her lips.

  The odd sensation returned, like at the airport, as if someone watched her. She peered at the other guests. Only a few couples dined, engrossed in each other. Yet prickling awareness pinched the nerves in her spine. This was ridiculous. Her mother's foreboding had her paranoid. How could she control her half a world away? Rolling her eyes, she chuckled. Knowing her mother, if anyone could, Diane Reddlin would find a way.

  Swirling the remaining liquid in the bowl of her glass, she let it bleed along the sides. The effect of the tannins took hold of her, making her giddy. Smiling within her own silent thoughts, she exhaled and downed the final sip of wine in salute to her new, adventurous life as she pushed her empty plate of meat juices away.

  But the liquid called to her like a temptress. She'd soaked up much of the prime rib juices with her dinner roll but the remainder still sat there sinfully teasing her. The rare meat had tasted so good, filling a hunger she'd never experienced when eating.

  She wasn't much of a meat eater but when she did, she liked hers cooked well. Perhaps it was the way the prime rib had been prepared? Pressing her lips together, Marilyn hoped her waiter would show soon to remove the offensive drippings from her sight before she made a spectacle of herself by grabbing the plate and licking it clean.

  The server rolled out a dessert tray, and Marilyn automatically possessed room for the piece of decadent Belgian-chocolate cake whispering her name. She couldn't pass up the temptation. Besides, it was only a sliver of cake. She needed something to absorb all the wine. The rich chocolate would complement the merlot and appease her craving.

  The first bite hit her taste buds with the smooth, sinful flavor of Belgian chocolate- ganache. Marilyn sighed blissfully and closed her eyes, allowing the sweetness to pleasure her senses as she dragged the fork through her lips to capture every last molecule of taste.

  Upon opening her eyes she saw a man sitting at her table, staring at her. She inhaled a crumb of chocolate cake, setting her to cough. Marilyn tried to breathe as her eyes watered behind her spectacles. The man handed her the water goblet and their fingers touched. Trembling at the jolt of electricity shooting through her hand, Marilyn took a sip to clear her throat.

  She picked up the subtle scent of the amber and musk she'd noticed in the airport. Was it him? Was he spying on her?

  He didn't blink. His electric blue gaze bore into her soul. Small tremors of the fear her mother had addressed for years came running back, but she sat immobilized, staring back at him.

  Dressed all in black, his raven hair blended in with the black leather of his jacket and turtleneck shirt. Those blue eyes caught fire from the reflection of candle light between them. Little bubbles of sensual awareness boiled within her bloodstream, and her mouth went dry as if the cake she'd been eating left behind a sawdust residue. She tried to laugh away the nervousness, but what came out was more of a croak. "I think you have the wrong seat," she said in broken Romanian.

  "You have to leave," he said.

  He spoke in perfect, modern English with a hint of accent. She wasn't sure what kind. You have to leave, her mind echoed. She shook her head at the distracting sound of his voice. Like the Belgian chocolate ganache, the thick tenor drizzled delicious intent that could make a woman fantasize about what that voice would sound like whispering rich, sweet words into her ear. She needed to stop drinking red wine. It made her think silly things.

  What would her mother do in a situation like this? With the stiffened spine she'd learned from Diane Reddlin, she met his gaze—difficult as it was to look into his eyes without melting. "This is my table. You are the one who needs to leave." She took another bite of her cake as if he weren't there. Whether the cake was more acceptable to bite into than he was would be a matter of decorum, but she bet he would taste yummy.

  Hands joined in a single fist planted on the table, he leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. He studied her every move as she ate. The intensity should have unnerved her, and yet a wine induced boldness hit her, coupled with a determination to put him in his place, whoever he was. His good looks and dark, sensual appeal could only mean trouble.

  The flickering candlelight created shadows along his jaw line, making him appear even more mysterious. His elegant European nose flared, the muscles in his jaw flexed. The mixed scent of the aroma she'd been alerted to at the airport and leather from his jacket again hit her senses. As much as she tried to fight her feminine instincts, her inner woman wasn't cooperating. Her nipples hardened, and a quiver started in her core. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  "You are in danger, Marilyn Reddlin. Leave now. . . before it's too late."

  Those eyes penetrated straight through to her soul. She hoped to God he didn't know what her body was saying. Then his words and the fact he'd just addressed her by her name hit her like a bucket of icy water. She shook off the strange enchantment.

  "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

  "That's my business. Now, leave Romania…tonight."

  Marilyn sat stunned, fighting the commanding lilt of his voice. There was an odd, suggestive pull
. She fought it but he'd already left. She hadn't seen him get up. But when she looked, he'd walked out of the restaurant into the hotel lobby towards the entrance.

  A few moments later she grabbed his hand, halting him. His eyes flared up at her, and then down to where her hand had attached itself to his wrist. She stopped and realized she didn't remember how she'd gotten from the table to being outside, trying to stop his departure. But here she was. They stared at each other for a moment, both astounded at the circumstances.

  He jerked his hand from her touch and popped the collar on his jacket, glaring at her before walking away.

  You will leave.

  Did she just hear his voice in her mind or had he said that aloud? His back was to her, so she wasn't sure. She shook her head to get the sound of his voice out of her senses. This was too bizarre.

  Like hell I'll leave, asshole, she thought while staring after him. Who did he think he was? Had her mother put him up to this?

  Stopping dead in his tracks, he slowly turned around. Marilyn stood her ground, her hands fisted on her hips in defiance. Did she hear him curse? That was impossible, his lips hadn't moved, and they were now a parking lot away from each other.

  A logistics truck pulled up through the circular entrance of the hotel, blocking her view, before driving away. When the view was clear, her mystery man had disappeared into the night, leaving only the echo of his warning behind in her head. She walked back to the dining room puzzled over the man's audacity.

  She'd be damned before she turned tail and ran back home to Mama.

  Chapter Two

  The plane had less than fifty people on board. Not many must fly into Cluj-Napoca—or maybe not at this time of night. It was the last flight from Timisoara into Cluj for the day. Professor Vamier had reserved it to coordinate with his nocturnal schedule. He attended to other duties during the day and wouldn't be available until the evenings. He would need her help with his nightly workload as she attended his classes. Marilyn didn't mind. She would plan her day accordingly, so she could accommodate his time frame if needed. Adapting to schedules was the least of her concerns. Aiden Vamier had been generous enough, she could at least give in to his wishes.

  Settling into the seat, she thought about reading for awhile. Happy nobody sat beside her, the dose of meds she took a few minutes ago would kick in soon, and she'd be able to curl up in the two seats. The overhead light instructed her to buckle the seat belt. With nails embedded into the armrests, she closed her eyes as the plane jerked forward for take-off. On an inhale of breath, Marilyn quickly went through her usual prayers in her head. It was always the same prayer, asking God to keep her safe, guide the pilot in his flight and if by some chance it was her time to die, to make it quick and painless. She never deviated from the routine, just in case it was that one time which disaster happened.

  The plane leveled out as it reached altitude, and the security of knowing they were above any obstacles they could crash into helped her relax her grip on the arm rests. Opening her eyes, she gasped. Her mystery man sat right next to her in the empty aisle seat.

  "What is it with you? Are you some sort of stalker?" she seethed.

  "I thought I told you to leave."

  "So you did."

  "You didn't? Why?"

  Marilyn stared at him. "I don't have to answer to you—Who are you? What do you want with me?"

  "Draylon Conier. And you need to leave Romania."

  Well he'd answered both of her questions. She couldn't fault him for that. Draylon Con-yea? The way he said his name made her think of velvet on satin. "Should I know you?"

  It was a rhetorical question aimed at him, but he turned to face her. Even under the small cabin lights of the plane she thought she saw flames licking the sheer brilliance of his eyes.

  "Should you?"

  Okay, he was weird—sexy as hell, but weird. "I don't know who you are or why you want me gone, but I'm not leaving . . . and you can't make me."

  That sounded juvenile but right now she didn't care.

  "I've been sent to let you know you are in danger."

  "In danger? From whom?"

  "Vamier."

  "You're crazy." She turned back to face forward, putting her book up to separate them. "Now, leave me alone. I'm not going anywhere unless you can give me some real reason."

  She sensed Draylon relax beside her and he closed his eyes. His breathing turned heavy but even.

  Get on the next plane out of Cluj.

  Drop dead. She turned the page in the book.

  You will get on the next plane out of Cluj and leave Romania, Marilyn Reddlin. He stood up and left the seat to head towards the back. Besides, I couldn't die even if I wanted to.

  She craned her neck around at his odd comment but got caught up in admiring the way his black jeans hugged his lean, strong thighs. So what if he was handsome as sin and built like a sex god? No man was that perfect. He was a strange guy—a would-be killer maybe? Marilyn refused to believe any of this. He was a psycho who could read minds. Or maybe she was the psycho since she thought she could read his?

  The meds lulled her enough to relax in fetal position upon the two seats until they dipped over the Carpathian Mountains. The rocking and dipping of the plane as it hit turbulence brought her upright, clutching the armrest and squealing under her breath. She closed her eyes.

  It will be all right, Marilyn.

  Draylon's velvet smooth voice echoed in her head. Opening her eyes, she turned in her seat, forcing herself to look up and over the head rest enough to see further back in the plane. He was within sight, but he appeared to be asleep. His lips quirked into a semi-smile. Marilyn wondered how many hearts he'd broken with that grin. Her heart rate sped up as another dip took her stomach into a flip-flop swirl. The Caesar salad she'd eaten during her day spa threatened to come back up if they took another belly flopper.

  Breathe. Relax.

  She turned back around to face the front of the plane and found herself listening to his voice and doing as he told her.

  That's it. Let go of the armrest.

  She did.

  Close your eyes.

  She wanted to fight his voice. She didn't want a stranger controlling her mind. The vibration of his accent eased under her consciousness, held the power to lull her.

  Am I a stranger?

  Marilyn relaxed. The image of his hand caressing her face stamped itself behind her closed eyes. Lips whispered in a language she'd never heard against her ear—exotic, foreign, ancient in its guttural syllables. Like a soothing spa room set with aromatherapy and sounds of the ocean, she transformed into dreamland where she floated above the clouds in the arms of a dragon in black leather.

  Disoriented, Marilyn lumbered off of the plane at Cluj Avram Iancu International Airport. The few passengers on her flight maneuvered around her to reach their destination as she tried to focus on just being able to walk. Tired, her brain registered a fuzzy mass of confusion and distorted visions.

  She had her purse and knew she needed to retrieve her baggage from the luggage belt.

  I must leave, she thought to herself.

  She held out her passport to the official. He stamped it. She had a passport? What did the stamp say? Cluj-Napoca?

  I must leave Cluj. I need to leave Romania.

  But why? She was here for a purpose. She shook her head to clear it. Was she meeting someone? That's right, Professor Vamier. She should call him and let him know she arrived. But first she would get her luggage so she could find the ladies room and freshen up, call her mother before Diane Reddlin alerted the airport. Hopefully the baggage claim would be quick. There weren't many passengers around this time of night. It would be like her mother to have her paged over the public announcement system if she didn't call right away.

  Suddenly propelled forward, her arm was nearly jerked from her socket, and she gasped in shock. Skidding to a halt, her assailant spun her around like a rag doll. Draylon held on t
o both of her arms, shaking her out of her stupor.

  "Which bag is yours?"

  "Let go of me," she hissed under her breath, trying in vain to shake her abductor. I'll scream, she threatened.

  No you won't.

  Marilyn was about to prove him wrong when his mouth clamped down on hers, stealing her breath, her scream, her will to resist. She went shock still as memories of her debacle with Daniel seeped into her brain. The pain…she hadn't been ready.

  Pressed between the cold concrete pillar and the unrelenting heated solidness of Draylon Conier, fear settled into Marilyn's lungs, keeping her from breathing. He stared down at her, his brows screwed in confusion, his mouth a firm line of disgust.

  He stopped what he was about to say and instead pulled her along with him.

  Don't look. You're being watched.

  You're full of crap. No one knows who I am…except you.

  Following him, Marilyn felt like she was trapped in some James Bond movie, mistaken for someone else, except for the fact he kept referring to her by name.

  Which suitcase is yours?

  Scared, confused and still recovering from the meds she'd taken, all Marilyn wanted to do was crumple in a heap on the floor and sob.

  His hand came up to cup her cheek. Its cool, solid strength startled her as his thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

  Marilyn. Your life is in danger…that is all I know. I've been sent to keep you safe. Please tell me, which suitcase is yours.

  "The large black, rolling case over there," she whispered aloud against the pad of his stroking thumb, pointing to the case just making the first turn.

  Locking her wrist in his grasp tighter than any pair of handcuffs, he pulled her along behind him. She was about to protest when she sensed eyes on her from the few remaining passengers. A prickling sensation crawled up her spine. They approached, closing in on her. Turning around to flee, she saw a gaggle of blond groupies dressed in varying degrees of designer clothing approach. Fangs elongated as they opened their mouths, and the sound of a hundred snakes hissing erupted from them.