He drew his hand back, unleashing a sigh from her lips, a gentle shiver trembling across her shoulders like a wave kissing the shoreline.
Dominic's mouth quirked into a smile. With nothing more than a touch, he had commanded such a response. It was as if her body had already foreseen its destiny, already resigned itself to a future pinned beneath his hungry, insatiable mouth.
The dizzying scent of her desire washed over him anew. And in that moment, he knew with utter certainty, despite his vows, despite his responsibilities, despite everything, tonight could only end in one of two ways.
He was going to fuck her.
Or he was going to feed on her. "…Desolate Rains by Hans Whitfield."
The announcement cut into his carnal thoughts, bringing the auction room back into sharp focus. His painting was up for bid, a moment he had been working on for years. He could not turn his back on it now, not even for her.
The woman glanced up at him, her eyes dark with unfulfilled need. But she quickly blinked it away, forcing a smile and wishing him luck on the bidding.
Clinging to the last vestiges of his control, he returned her smile and whispered a quick retort. "I don't need luck, gorgeous. I have got money."
Sliding the bid card from his suit jacket, he quickly scanned the room, assessing the competition. A handful of people leaned forward in their chairs, but to Dominic it looked more like curiosity than commitment.
He hoped that was not the case. He needed the adrenaline rush of a good fight to take his mind off the throbbing ache below his belt.
"We shall start the bidding at ten thousand dollars," the auctioneer said. It was an insulting opener for such a priceless piece, and several bid cards floated lazily into the air. He waited until the bidding reached $50,000 before making his first move.
"Fifty-five," he said calmly. He was prepared to go as high as a million, but from the looks of things, it would not get close to that.
"Sixty," Ducane said, turning to offer a smug smile. Irritation burned in his chest, but Dominic nodded politely, holding off on raising the asshole's bid. Another woman went to $70,000, volleying with a few others until it reached
$100,000.
Dominic raised it by ten.
"Do we have one twenty?" the auctioneer asked. "One twenty for Hans Whitfield's Desolate Rains, Series Two?"
For a moment it seemed no one else had any interest. Disappointment settled into Dominic's stomach, the painting had to be worth more than a paltry $110,000.
"One ten, going once," the auctioneer said. "Going twice…"
"One fifty," Ducane said.
Before Dominic could respond, another bidder jumped in at one seventy-five.
This woman.
He glared at her, unable to hide his surprise.
She raised her eyebrows, offering Dominic her best innocent-looking smile, the kind that was clearly anything but. "I could not let him get away with that."
Heat raced through Dominic's veins. "You are after my painting, love?"
"I am after a lot of things. Care to raise the stakes?"
"One seventy-five," the auctioneer said. "Do we have one eighty?"
"Two hundred," Dominic said.
His woman squared her shoulders. "Two fifty."
"Two seventy-five," Dominic said.
"Three."
So she likes to play hardball too.
He grinned, filing away the information for later. "Three fifty."
Ducane jumped in at $360,000, and then another bidder offered $400,000. Dominic's pulse kicked up with each new bid.
This is more like it.
He leaned forward, eager to keep his head in the game. His mystery woman might feel differently about what made these events bearable, but Dominic loved this part, the hunt, the strategy, figuring out when to jump in and when to ease up, knowing exactly when to deliver the final blow.
But by the time the bidding reached $600,000, the other bidders bowed out, leaving only Dominic, Ducane, and his woman.
"Six fifty," she said.
Dominic narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out her game. This was not a tag sale. You did not show up at an exclusive art auction to browse the shelves, pick up a bit of this – and – that for the summer cottage.
What are you playing at, darling?
"Do I hear six seventy-five?" the auctioneer asked.
"Seven," Dominic said.
"Eight," the woman countered.
"Nine."
"Nine fifty," Ducane said. Dominic's heart banged in his chest. He did not know what the woman was after, but Ducane was clearly antagonizing him.
"One million dollars," Dominic said.
The woman held her bid card against her chest, nibbling her lower lip, contemplating her next move.
Dominic leaned in close, whispering hotly in her ear "Is that all you have got for me, love?"
Her eyes blazed. She waved her card with renewed vigor. "A million five."
"Two million," Ducane said, sucking the last of the fun out of the game.
Dominic was already well past his intended max, but he could not quit now. Not while Ducane held the winning bid.
"Three million dollars," he said firmly.
Everyone held their breath as they awaited another volley. "Three million dollars for the Hans Whitfield," the auctioneer said. "Do I hear three million five? Three four?" She scanned the room, waiting for another bid that never came. "Going once. Going twice. Sold, to bidder fifteen for three million dollars."
The room erupted in applause, and Dominic closed his eyes, momentarily lost in the rush of victory such conquests always brought him… a wave of relief they usually did not.
By the time he regained his senses and turned to face her again, his mystery woman was gone.
"Ah, but they fly the nest so quickly." Ducane flashed a smarmy grin Dominic wanted to carve from his face. Then, with a slight bow of his head, "Mr. Wild, I would like to request an audience."
Dominic did not bother hiding his displeasure, but Ducane kept right on grinning. Since he had issued the request on neutral ground, honor and tradition prevented Dominic from refusing, especially in the presence of other vampires.
But he did not have to like it. "What do you want, Ducane?"
"It is not so much what I want, as what I can offer." The twat's eyes darkened with his unchecked lust for power, and Dominic knew before the words even graced his lips what was coming next. "In your time of need, House Ducane extends the invitation of an alliance."
"An alliance. With House Ducane." Dominic paced before the bar, the thin veneer of his patience finally shattering. His woman was still on the premises, her scent was all around him now, driving him to the very brink of sanity, but rather than hunting her down and devouring every silky, forbidden inch of her body, Dominic was here, listening to a bloodsucking opportunist he had been swatting away like a gnat since Prohibition.
Ducane swirled his bourbon, his gold signet ring glittering on a fat finger. "Consider your predicament, Wild. Your father is gone. You have no sired heirs in your line. Your family's power is waning. And last I heard," he said, lowering his voice as if he actually gave a damn about decorum, "there isn't a witch in all five boroughs willing to bind herself to the Wild royals."
Dominic seethed. He did not need Reuben Ducane to articulate his predicament, he could feel his very cells dying with each passing heartbeat. Tonight's curbside meal, which should have been enough to sate him for a week, had done little to ease the burn of hunger in his gut.
Even in low light, his eyes constantly ached. And every day the sun rose, the fog in his head lingered a bit longer, dulling his senses by degrees. Such was the nature of creatures of the night, a nature that could only be mitigated by a skilled witch, and only by vampires that could afford one.
Through spells and enchantments that enhanced their powers and muted their limitations, witches allowed vampires to live as humans in all the ways that mattered most, sparing them the agony of an immortal life in a dank cave or tunnel.
Hunting one another like so many of the wraith-like creatures Dominic had encountered when he had first been turned. Such creatures could never venture into the light, never taste human food, never love.
In return, a family of witches who bound themselves to a vampire line received protection, housing, more money than they could spend in a lifetime, and unlimited access to one of the most magical ingredients in the known world, vampire blood.
But as much as it burned Dominic's balls to admit it, Ducane was right. Aside from selling him the occasional one – off spell or hex, there was not a witch on the entire eastern seaboard suicidal enough to align herself with House Wild.
Dominic could not blame them. The last Wild witch had not survived past her twenty – fourth birthday.
Memories of his brutal failures wrapped their cold fingers around his heart, but he would not give Ducane the satisfaction of showing a shred of vulnerability.