A Vampire for Christmas - By Michele Hauf Page 0,73
and an underlying drone that sounded like voices murmuring in prayer. Or maybe a choir singing glorious praise. He couldn’t be sure, although he was certain that the origin of the sound was not of this mortal realm.
Before his eyes, the light from her palms spread even farther, overtaking the confines of his bedroom and turning it into that Cuban den of iniquity, replete with sailors from the many ships docked in the port and the women who hoped to ply their wares to them.
Damien recalled the scene vividly, even after so long a time. He had just made a run down from Philadelphia to pick up a load of tobacco and rum. Such wares normally fetched a nice price back in the States, although not as good a price as slave running. The talk against slavery had been growing. It would be only a matter of time before that issue caused bloodshed, Damien had worried during that long-ago visit.
Despite his desire for money and success, Damien had never desired to trade in such misery. He had been a slave of poverty for too long and would not visit such a fate on another human.
But vices such as tobacco and rum had been a different matter, Damien recalled.
He watched the scene unfold before his eyes as people came and went in the vision. Only seconds passed before he heard a familiar voice—Angelina’s sweet tones—and then his own gruff and slightly slurred reply. “A pint of rum will do.”
Damien was drawn to the sight of the two of them. They were tucked into a far corner of the saloon. He had met Angelina just a few short days into his trip and had been instantly drawn to her.
That attraction had led to many a pleasurable night in her bed. Although Angelina had asked for no coin in return, he had left it nevertheless. He had money to spare and was certain she had need of it. Unlike his miserly father, who had provided nothing for him and his mother, Damien would not do the same to another woman.
“This was our first Christmas Eve, Damien. Remember it well. Remember how it ended,” the Angelina of the present said to him as she slowly faded from sight and the vision overwhelmed him, filling every corner of his bedroom with the sights, scents and noises from 1830 Havana.
When Angelina completely disappeared from sight, something powerful slammed into Damien, so intensely that he fell back against the edge of the bed, weakened. Then that force yanked him roughly from where he stood. He felt as if he were flying through the air, his arms and legs flailing for purchase. Then he landed with a jolt on a rough-hewn bench in that Cuban tavern.
“You all right, Captain? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” his first mate said from beside him.
His own ghost if any, Damien thought as he collected himself and peered around the room, trying to understand what had occurred. How was it possible that he had returned to 1830 and Havana?
Angelina approached not seconds later, carrying a large tray loaded with beverages and food for those at his table. She looked different from the apparition that had graced his bed just moments before. Sexily voluptuous, but more tired around the eyes.
He hadn’t noticed that fatigue during their first encounter over a century ago. All he had seen was a beautiful woman he wanted to be his. A diversion from his loneliness.
Her emerald gaze locked with his as she bent to pass out pints of alcohol and plates filled with fragrant chicken and rice. When she laid his drink before him, her position and the décolletage of her plain white blouse allowed him to see the tidily mended chemise beneath that barely contained the generous globes of her breasts.
A peek of a nipple popping free had him instantly hard as he imagined tasting her. Savoring the sweetness of her body.
She must have noticed where his attention had drifted since she brushed her breast along his arm as she laid the dish of food before him. The smell of her, that familiar aroma of warm sunshine and wildflowers, wafted into his senses, obliterating the foul odors of unwashed bodies, cheap liquor and the untold detritus littering the floor of the sleazy tavern.
When she would have moved away, he tenderly laid a hand on her arm. Skin smooth as fresh-picked peaches was warm beneath his palm. “We need to talk,” he said.