Finalist for Best Paranormal Erotic Romance 2011, RT BOOKreviews
Vivienne knows the dark secrets of London’s desires. She fulfills them, twisting men’s lust for her into the power and status of a courtesan. But she understands little about her own pleasure and the mysteries it commands. Until, that is, she meets Heath, a vampire capable of giving her profound ecstasy—but sworn to let her taste its release only once…
Heath’s cravings for Vivienne sharpen into sweet torture as he guides her through erotic lessons, watching her abandon herself to ever-higher peaks of pleasure. As temptation melts away the bonds of his control, how long can either hope to survive?
Read an Excerpt
This excerpt contains explicit sexual material and is intended for readers 18 years of age and older.
“This is the pool, milord. The one yer brother looked in afore he vanished.”
Heath Winthrope, Earl of Blackmoor, swung off his mount. Ahead Tom, the moorsman who had led him here, pointed down to a tiny pond, encircled by a ring of granite boulders.
A full moon hung blue-white and plump in the sky. They stood high on the moors, alone, surrounded by quiet, dark hills of waving grass. Heath’s jaw tingled as it always did before his fangs erupted. So as he crossed over the granite stones in long strides, he kept his face turned away. No point in letting poor Tom find out what he really was.
Heath rested one foot on a large rock and looked down at the small pool. Ripples on its surface sparkled beneath streams of silvery light. “You claim that the reflection seen in this pool will be the next person to die.”
Tom pulled off his cap, twisted it in his hands. “Aye, milord. That’s the legend, it is. If you look into the water you will see the face of the next person who will die. Young Mr. Winthrope was a bit foxed, milord, and determined to prove the legend to be just a myth.”
Christ, he was going to have to take a look. Heath leaned over and frowned at the reflection he expected to see.
It was his face. Unchanged for the last ten years. He still looked to be a man of eight-and-twenty. His face was unlined, his features sharp and cleanly cut, his silvery-green eyes bright and cocky with eternal youth.
Tom stayed far enough back so his face would not reflect. Heath stared at the image of his unsmiling face. The magical powers of this pool were, as he suspected, nothing more than myth—
The water to the right of his image bubbled suddenly. The turbulence stopped and a woman’s face appeared beside his in the pool. A bewitching face. Blue eyes, large yet full of intelligence and lively delight. The face was oval, the cheeks smooth and ivory. The hair was like spun gold pouring over slim shoulders.
Through the shimmering veil of it, he could see her neck, a long, smooth column of white.
It was like the sight of a bottle of port to a drunkard, or the scent of opium smoke to a fevered addict. His fangs burst forth.
He could see more of her now. She was naked, possessing two perfect ivory breasts, topped with peach-pink nipples. A smooth belly. Generous hips.
He was hard with desire and fiercely hungry for her throat…. Then he blinked. Bare breasts and a bare neck reflected beside him?
Heath jerked around. His normally slow heartbeat became a hard pulse in his throat. Tom, lurking behind a granite boulders, looked up fearfully. Around, the Dartmoor hills stretched, empty and still. Up here, he could see for miles—right to where his estate house sprawled, surrounded by a stone wall, lichen-covered trees, and the little white dots of slumbering sheep.
There was no nude woman behind him.
Tom peered at him, uneasy and curious. “Whose face did you see, milord?”
How could he see the face of a woman who was not even there?
Right, Heath. And how can you be a vampire—cheating death and surviving by drinking blood? “I looked into a moonlit pool of water. I saw my own face, of course.”
Tom gave a strangled grunt of dismay.
Heath groaned. “Bloody hell, man, I am not going to die next. I can assure you of that. Your tale is nothing more than a faery story, meant to frighten and entertain.”
Of all the men in England, he was the least likely to have a sudden and untimely death. He’d already done that bit and had escaped the final reckoning. He was now immortal. The undead. Nosferatu.
But the woman…
Cold unease gripped his heart. How could he be seeing her reflection? Had he actually seen someone who was going to die? Who was she? He didn’t know, so he couldn’t warn her to be careful around carriages, firearms, and unknown plants.
Then his throat tightened. In the reflection, the woman ran her hand down his chest as she lowered to her knees in front of him.