Dark Deception (Vampire Royals of New York #1) - Sarah Piper Page 0,60
workings of the art world; perhaps she’d heard about the fundraiser and decided to attend. Perhaps she was a companion to one of his guests. Or maybe she was employed by the museum—she did tell him she had a work event tonight.
You’re a fool, Redthorne. A bloody fool.
No matter his justifications—his hopes—Dorian could no longer deny the fact that she was dodgy. He’d followed her out to the gardens with every intention of confronting her about it too. But by the time he’d gotten her into the guesthouse, his priorities had changed.
Outside the nonstop fantasy streaming through his mind, he hadn’t seen her in days, and his memory was a poor substitute for the real thing. Her black dress clung to her curves, long hair hanging in loose waves over her shoulders, dark red lips damn near hypnotizing him.
And the gloves? Devastating.
An awkward silence crept in.
“You look stunning,” he finally said.
“You’re not so bad yourself, Mr. Redthorne.” Her gaze trailed down to his feet, then back up, her smile devious. “The tux suits you.”
“Really? I bloody hate it.” He loosened his bowtie, unbuttoning the top two buttons on his shirt.
Charlotte smiled again but didn’t say anything else. He hadn’t yet turned on the interior lights, and in the dim, moonlit entryway he couldn’t quite read her expression, though she’d come with him willingly after the garden ambush—almost eagerly. Still, her heartbeat was erratic now, and she hadn’t uttered more than a surprised greeting in the gardens, offering no explanation for her presence at his fundraiser, or—more importantly—for why she’d been sneaking around upstairs.
He hadn’t asked about that yet. Part of him was afraid of the answer—afraid he’d have no choice but to send her away for good.
Or worse.
Who was this woman?
Was she somehow connected to Duchanes? They’d both been at the Salvatore auction as well, but… no. Charlotte had seemed genuinely afraid of the vampire when Dorian had found them in the bedroom that night.
Had Armitage sent her to spy? To unearth secrets more desperate and depraved than the truths that had left the Redthornes unallied and witch-less?
Dorian took a breath, steadying his nerves. Ravenswood held only one dark secret, and right now, that secret was secured in the crypts, undeciphered from the mountains of journals his father had left behind.
Besides, the idea of a spy seemed preposterous, even for Armitage. The old mage was becoming a huge pain in Dorian’s ass, but he was a by-the-book pain in the ass.
No. Whatever Charlotte was up to, it was her own brand of trouble.
Trouble Dorian couldn’t get enough of.
“So, this was your work event?” he asked, reaching up to brush a lock of hair over her shoulder, his hand lingering on her soft skin.
She sucked in a breath and glanced up into his eyes, the sparks between them as undeniable as ever, burning Dorian’s resolve to ash.
“And your boring party?” she asked.
Dorian ran his hand down her arm, fingers encircling her gloved wrist. “What are the chances?”
“I was wondering the same thing.”
“Do you work for the museum?”
“No, I’m a… consultant.” Her pulse picked up, thrumming against the gentle press of his thumb. “But my company is a major supporter of their work. When we heard about the event, we couldn’t pass it up.”
Dorian relaxed, but only slightly. Even if her story were true, which he doubted, it didn’t explain why she’d been snooping upstairs, like she’d been snooping at the Salvatore auction.
“Have you been inside the manor yet?” he asked—a small test.
Please don’t lie to me, woman…
“Oh, yes. It’s incredible, but it’s… it’s so overwhelming in there.” She wrinkled her nose—the most adorable look of distaste Dorian had ever seen. “I kind of hate parties, to be honest.”
“That makes two of us.”
“We’re practically fugitives.”
“The opposite of party crashers.”
“Party dodgers.” Charlotte laughed, the music of it stirring something deep within him. “My dad used to say I was the easiest teenager ever. He never had to worry about me sneaking off to parties. I spent my weekends flipping through art history books and—”
Dorian’s mouth was on hers in a blink, silencing her as he took her into his arms. Even as he’d followed her upstairs, watching from the shadows as she snuck into the first bedroom, he’d wanted to kiss her.
She sighed in his embrace, nipples erect beneath the dress, and when she finally parted her lips and allowed him to deepen their kiss, all the awkwardness evaporated, bringing them right back to those precious, stolen moments in the Salvatore closet.