Vampire in Paradise

  He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, looking down at her. One arm was thrown over her head in abandon. The hand of the other arm was splayed over her flat stomach in a protective manner, which he found interesting. Was she reliving in her dreams all they had done? He hoped so. He certainly would for years to come.

  Damn, but Mike is gonna have my ass.

  Her hair had come loose from the combs that had held the long strands atop her head. He would look for the combs later. Bed-mussed hair . . . was there a greater turn-on for a man? Well, yes, there was, actually. Her breasts were full, the nipples still erect, like bruised rosebuds, from his ministrations. He liked that he’d marked her in that way. A secret he would have of her once she was clothed again, out and about.

  Although she was slim and leggy, her waist was uncommonly small, thus giving her a voluptuous appearance. Her stomach was flat, leading down to a thatch of dark curls. Many women waxed themselves there, but he much preferred the mystery of the female body the way nature intended. When spread wide to a man’s eyes, ’twas like opening a gift. Different every time, and yet essentially the same.

  He leaned down and sniffed her. Her musk, along with his seed, made a compelling scent that caused his cock to twitch. Who was he fooling? His cock had scarce left her inner channel afore starting to twitch. A nonstop sex twitch.

  I will have to tell my brothers about this new talent.

  Or not.

  She squirmed in the bed and made a snuffling sound, as if she might be awakening.

  He immediately drew back to his position at her side, knowing without a doubt that she would be repulsed by his smelling her intimate parts. Women were strange that way. He, personally, would not mind her sniffing him, as long as he was clean at the time. Cleanliness was an attribute most Vikings favored. Back in the day—Did I really think that? Back in the day? Am I becoming a graybeard?—the cleanliness of a Viking man was why women of so many countries welcomed them to their bed furs. That and their virile good looks, of course.

  The air conditioner in the room kicked on, and that slight noise caused her eyes to open suddenly and stare at him in shock.

  “Oh my God! It wasn’t a dream.” She glanced down and saw her wanton pose of nudity. The hand above her head shot down to cover her mons while her other arm pressed over her breasts. They did little to hide anything.

  “I’ve seen all your bits, sweetling,” he told her with a grin he didn’t even try to curb. “Nothing to hide now.”

  She groaned. “Where’s the sheet? Give me the sheet.”

  He was lying on the sheet and not about to budge.

  “This should not have happened.” As if some memory just came to her, she put a hand to her neck. “Did you . . . ?”

  “I did.”

  “Is it . . . the thing you keep harping on . . . gone?”

  “The sin taint? I don’t know. You tell me. Do you feel any different?”

  “I am supposed to have a date with Harry tonight, but the thought makes me nauseous. I think I would throw up if he touched me.”

  “Good,” he said.

  She glanced at the luminous numbers on the bedside clock and squealed, “One-thirty. I have to go. I’ll never be able to get up at four to go to work at the spa.” She threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, all in one motion.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” With a growl, he took her by the waist and tossed her up and over his body to the far side of the bed, the one against the wall. Arranging himself over her, he said, “I am not nearly done with you.”

  She paused in her squirming attempt to escape his embrace. “Is there more you need to do . . . related to the sin taint?”

  “No.” He licked at her lips, which were swollen from his kisses. Just before thrusting his tongue into her mouth, he informed her, “This time is for me.”

  Then, rolling her again, onto her belly, he raised her up on her knees, her face pressed into the pillow, and took her from behind, a position that allowed him to fondle and stroke her breasts and female bud at the same time.

  She screamed. Eventually.

  He roared. Eventually.

  Life was good.

  Chapter 15

  Sex, Viking style! Holy Valhalla! . . .

  Sigurd was insatiable.

  She was insatiable.

  He fanged her.

  She f—nailed him.

  He took her doggie-style.

  She invited him to shower with her. His suite might be modest, but the bathroom was not. Multiple heads, rainforest shower, and a Jacuzzi bathtub. Enough said!

  He showed her the Viking S-spot. With his tongue!

  She showed him how to salsa dance. In the nude.

  Finally, when every bone and muscle in her body ached with fatigue, she fell into a deep sleep, only to awaken abruptly several hours later at the sound of a food cart being rolled into the room. She hid under the duvet until the amused waiter left.

  “You can come out now,” Sigurd said with a laugh. “The boy has left. You made his day, by the way.”

  “What time is it?” she asked, sitting up, the duvet held up over her breasts.

  “Ten o’clock.”

  She tossed the bedspread aside and jumped out of the bed, uncaring now of her nudity. “This is bad, really bad.” She scrambled to find her clothing and discovered it folded neatly in a pile on the dresser, her underwear and the uniform. The high heels were tucked side by side against the wall. She was too distraught to be embarrassed over Sigurd handling her underwear. “This is bad, really bad,” she repeated. “Late for work my second day. I had five appointments lined up for this morning. I’ll be fired.”

  “Slow down, Mar-is-a. You do not have to be at work until five. I made some . . . uh, arrangements with the spa director. By the by, Hedy is a very nice woman. Didst know she took a fjord cruise to the Norselands on her vacation five years ago?”

  “Aaarrgh!” She found a hotel terry-cloth robe and put it on before confronting him, hands on hips. “What kind of arrangements?”

  Color bloomed on his face.

  Not a good sign.

  “Sit down and eat. We will talk.”

  “I don’t want to eat.” She glanced at the mirror over the dresser, then did a double take. “Oh. My. God!” Her hair looked like it had been pulled through a keyhole, backward. Her face and neck and the vee of skin on her chest revealed by the robe were whisker burned, or was it a sex flush? Same thing. Her lips were bee-stung swollen, better than Botox any day. There was a slight bruise on her neck that might be a fang mark. She could only imagine the condition of the rest of her body. A slight memory of Sigurd sucking on her inner thighs came to mind. “Oh. My. God!” she repeated.

  “You really should not use God as an expletive,” he told her, sitting down on one of the two chairs that had been arranged about the table, picking up a piece of toast, which he proceeded to butter.

  The last thing she expected from him was a lecture on her morality, especially after the night they’d just spent together. She moaned softly just thinking about it, especially . . . No, she couldn’t possibly have done that.

  She plopped down into the chair facing him. “What arrangements?” she asked again.

  “Hedy was very accommodating when I told her you were indisposed.”

  “Indisposed.” She put a hand to her aching head.

  “Unable to do massages in the spa this morning. Instead, you are doing personal . . . uh, therapy on me this morning in my hotel room. I paid her the spa fee, from which you will be paid, and if you would not be offended, I will give you a generous tip. No, no, no! Do not dare put that outraged expression on your face. This is not money for services rendered. This is just a friend helping you out.”

  “Friend?” she scoffed.

  “Lover. Angel. Whatever. I forced you to come with me last night, and I am responsible for your sleeping in this morning.”

  “You didn’t force me to do anything,” she admitted, and si
ghed with resignation. “But if you dare to leave me a tip, I’m going to cut off your favorite body part with a butter knife. No. I take that back. It better be a really big tip.”

  He grinned.

  “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

  “I never said I have no money. I said I do not have seventy thousand dollars in ready cash.”

  “How come you’re not working? Don’t you have to be in your doctor’s office for walk-ins?”

  “Karl is handling any routine patients. If there is a serious problem, he will alert me.”

  “Very efficient,” she said with what was becoming her usual sarcasm.

  He didn’t seem to mind. “I like that you do not whine and complain endlessly about having succumbed to my charms.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, helping herself to Eggs Benedict and small dish of fresh fruit, in addition to black coffee laced with two spoons of sugar. “I behaved out of character . . . and, believe me, I never do what I did last night . . . because it’s been so long since I had sex.”

  “Not nearly as long as me,” he said, not for the first time referring to a long bout of celibacy, which she still found hard to believe, especially after his performance with her. While he spoke, he spread peach jam on his buttered toast, then licked the remaining sweet preserve off the knife.

  She felt a throb of awareness between her legs at that unconscious gesture.

  “How old are you, Sigurd?” she asked, then sighed with pleasure at the excellent taste of poached egg topped with hollandaise.

  “Twenty-seven human years. One thousand, one hundred, and sixty-five vangel years. So almost twelve hundred years total.”

  She choked on the coffee she’d just swallowed and put a napkin to her mouth. “Say again.”

  “I was twenty-seven at the time I was turned vangel in the year 850.”

  More of his impossible-to-believe story! Maybe he’s crazy. I should be careful. Hah! Too late for caution when I’ve screwed him six ways to Sunday. Or he screwed me six ways to Sunday. Whatever. We’re both screwed. “So you live forever, and stay the same age? A good gig if you can get it. Did you take a swig from the Fountain of Youth?”

  “Not forever,” he said, taking her verbal jabs with total seriousness. “Originally, my seven brothers and I were given seven-hundred-year ‘penances’ as vangels, but being Vikings and tending to sin on occasion”—he grinned at that admission—“we have had more years added on with each transgression.” He shrugged and began to butter and spread peach jam on another piece of toast, having eaten the first one as he talked. “At the rate I am going, I expect I will be a vangel until the final Judgment Day. The Lord only knows how many years Mike will add for last night’s pleasures.”

  “What did you do that was so wrong . . . in the beginning?” She wasn’t about to ask him what was so wrong about last night’s “pleasures.”

  “Each of us Sigurdsson brothers was guilty of one of the Seven Deadly Sins in a big way. Vikar’s was pride. Vikar is my oldest brother and keeper of the castle in Transylvania. Trond, a Navy SEAL, sloth or laziness. Ivak, a prison chaplain, lust. Mordr, a military man, wrath. Harek, greed. Cnut, a security expert, gluttony. And me, for my sins, envy.”

  “Holy creepin’ cow! That is some story.”

  “If only it were a mere story!” He spooned some scrambled eggs and bacon onto his plate. “And that is why I have not had sex for thirty years.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “What is your story, Marisa? Why have you been celibate? And for how long?”

  “Six years since I was involved with Izzie’s father. Two years since my last partner.”

  “Pfff!” he said. “Two years is naught in the scheme of things.”

  “I suppose so if you’re counting by centuries,” she scoffed, still not buying his thousand-plus-year-old age.

  “Is your daughter’s father helping to raise funds for her operation?”

  She shook her head. “Chip is married with two kids of his own, one of whom is autistic. He can’t afford to help Izzie,” if he wanted to.

  Sigurd chewed thoughtfully on his bacon. “I have an idea,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin and laying it over his plate.

  “How to raise money for Izzie?” she asked hopefully.

  “No. I will have to think on that. Mike seems to think I will come up with a solution on my own,” he told her. He didn’t sound very confident.

  “Mike? Oh, you mean Michael the Archangel.” This was a bad sign when she was beginning to understand his references.

  “The very same. In any case, the idea I mentioned is of a different nature.” His eyes practically smoldered at her.

  “Seems to me you have way too many ideas.”

  “That is one of my talents.”

  “So what’s your big idea?”

  “We need a bath.”

  “We?”

  “Definitely we.”

  It was a devilish situation . . .

  Reynaldo Muniz was a high haakai Lucipire, recently raised to that rank by his master, Jasper, and he aimed to make a good showing on this first mission since his promotion.

  If he did well, Jasper might appoint him to the elite council of his advisers. There had been an opening since that bitch Dominique Fontaine expired a few years ago. Evil was all well and good for a demon, but Dominique had been a nasty, sly-tempered woman who enjoyed getting her fellow Lucipires in trouble, himself included. Satan had the dubious pleasure of her company these days. More power to him!

  Even though Reynaldo was only two hundred and ten years old, he was a powerful devil, having been taken when he was a thirty-year-old, Spanish-born wrecker living off the Florida Keys. Which made this new mission on Grand Keys Island especially suited to him because he knew the region well. Before he died and went to Horror, he had made a prosperous living plundering the many shipwrecks along the two-hundred-mile chain of reefs and shoals from Key West to the Dry Tortugas, no matter that hundreds and hundreds of sailors and passengers died in the operations. One of his favorite tactics had been to tie lanterns to donkeys’ necks and lead them slowly along the shorelines, leading distressed ships to believe they were lights on bobbing ships anchored at some port. In other words, a safe harbor, but were in fact rocky cliffs and beaches, rich pickings for Reynaldo and his men. In his heyday, Reynaldo had witnessed one ship a week go down.

  Those were the days! Reynaldo mused now as he paced the small office of the yacht where Jasper’s assistant, the French hordling Beltane, had led him a half hour ago. Reynaldo was here at his master’s command, but he would have come, anyway. He had news to report.

  It was not easy pacing in the limited space, seeing as how he was in his full demonoid form. Seven feet tall with a tail that would do a dinosaur proud, or a large alligator. More than once, he’d almost knocked over a porcelain jardinière that held a miniature palm tree in the corner. He was nervous.

  Jasper came striding into the room then, and Reynaldo almost swallowed his fangs at the sight. For the love of Lucifer!! Today his master was in humanoid form. He had a red scarf tied around his head, pirate style, with a gold hoop in one ear. His puffy-sleeved shirt was unbuttoned to expose his dark chest hairs and tucked into slim black pants and swashbuckler-type boots up to his knees. A long sword hung from a scabbard at his side. He looked and was attired exactly like that actor Johnny Depp in his pirate movies. Except for one difference. Jasper was sporting such a big cock that the ridge was evident almost up to the wide leather belt.

  Zebulan had warned him earlier that Jasper had been attired as Clark Gable from the movie Gone with the Wind when they had met. Apparently Jasper was trying out different personae to blend in with the island setting. Though what Gone with the Wind had to do with an island, Reynaldo wasn’t sure, possibly the smoldering temperatures, tropical suit, and such associated with a Southern plantation. Whatever the cause, the costume was something else to witness in person. Reynaldo schooled
himself not to show his amusement.

  “Reynaldo! Good of you to come so quickly!” Jasper said, sitting down behind a desk, where he lit and then puffed away on a thin cheroot. “Make yourself comfortable.” His master waved a hand toward the straight-backed chair sitting in front of the desk.

  Reynaldo contemplated the chair, then his size and inconvenient tail. Without hesitation, he morphed into the humanoid form he was taking for this mission. A six-foot-tall Internet entrepreneur, using his own name, Reynaldo was about to launch a website that would offer cheap sex films, mostly homemade by depraved couples with a taste for exhibitionism. As an incentive, monthly prizes ranging from one thousand to five thousand dollars would be given to the best entries. In the weeks since he’d set up his site and since coming to the island, he was already awash with five hundred offerings. It was amazing what folks would do for a few thousand dollars, and they were so clueless as to sign away their rights with the entries.

  Knowing how much Jasper appreciated a well-groomed demon, Reynaldo wore a designer suit of beige summer-weight wool, which practically matched his dirty-blond hair, arranged today in a neat ponytail low on his neck. A white silk T-shirt hugged his body and was tucked into his slacks with a leather belt. His skin was almost pure Castilian olive. You’d never know he had been born in a poor Madrid slum.

  Sitting down, Reynaldo crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, wondering with what was probably hysterical irrelevance if he should have worn socks with his brown loafers.

  “Cigar?” Jasper inquired, shoving an open desktop humidor toward him, where there were big, fat Cuban cigars, as well as the thin cigarillos.

  Reynaldo shook his head. He was so nervous he would probably shake ashes all over himself.

  “Tell me how things are going,” Jasper said.

  “This island was the perfect setup for this mission, and not just because of the decadence of many of the conference attendees, who are ripe for our picking. Like the proverbial fruit. Ripe, as in rotted souls.” He flashed Jasper a fangy smile at his witty comparison.