“I’m saying, I’d feel a helluva lot safer, better about the next twenty-seven days, if I were to convert you sooner than later. As in today.”
Tiffany gasped and almost dropped her mug over the railing. She spun around to face him, certain that the terror she was feeling reflected in her eyes.
He didn’t wait for her to speak. “You’re too damn vulnerable as a human, baby girl, and it isn’t sitting well with me.”
She rubbed her neck anxiously. Oh shit, this was not happening. And it was not going to happen, not today. She floundered for a moment, searching for a way to express her thoughts. “Vulnerable, how?”
He sighed. “In all kinds of ways.”
“Like?”
He flicked at a piece of straw that had settled on the rail, possibly dropped by a bird. “You’re vulnerable to our enemies, Tiffany—Dark Ones, lycans, hell, humans with bad intentions.” He inclined his chin, gesturing toward the forest. “You’re even vulnerable to the wildlife, baby girl.” He smiled then, making somewhat light of the last statement. “And in some very real ways you’re also vulnerable to me.”
“To you?” Her voice rose in angst. Oh, dear Lord, someone just shoot me now. “How am I vulnerable to you?”
He frowned, as if the answer was plainly obvious. “Do you really need me to say it?”
“Yes,” she answered, “apparently, I do.”
“Pregnancy, Tiff. If I make love to you before I turn you, I could kill you.”
She literally gulped and fumbled her coffee mug again, this time catching it just before it hit the deck, but not before the contents spilled out all over the rustic stain.
Had he really just gone there?
And since when did he call her Tiff?
Apparently, Ramsey thought they were much closer than she did.
“Are you saying you could hurt me physically, sexually? What the hell… ” She almost choked over the words. “You think you would break me like a twig?” The thought made her want to dive right over the railing.
Ramsey eyed the dirty-beige liquid, now seeping into the wood beneath her feet, and chuckled, removing the pine needle from his mouth. “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I would be very careful not to break you like a twig, although, yes, vampires do have to be very careful with human women, but that’s not the issue I’m bringing up. The true danger is much more straightforward: In a nutshell, I have no idea how much self-control I have—how long I can wait—to be with you. And I have no idea how much self-control you have, how long you can wait.”
Now this made Tiffany see red as well as silver, a nice polished steak knife sticking out of his arm. “You have no idea how long I can wait… for sex… with you? How long I can wait?”
He grinned for all he was worth, seeming to get a great deal of amusement out of her discomfort and her ire. “Yeah… how long you can wait.” He paused. “I’m just keeping it real.”
She snorted. “Well, you arrogant ass.”
He toned his mirth down a little. “It’s not even like that. I’m just saying—”
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying, Ramsey. And frankly, you may as well be spewing diarrhea out of your mouth right now, because this is utter refuse, garbage, nonsense!” She marched over to the low-hanging pine branch, plucked a stiff reed off the tree, and tossed it at his chest. “Here, why don’t you stuff that back in there instead.” She snatched at the branch again, more forcefully this time, and plucked about five more reeds, tossing them wildly behind her back, one at a time, before spinning back around. “In fact, why don’t you just suck them all.”
Ramsey took a judicious step back, ignoring the flying debris, his sweet hazel eyes turning molten with determination. He looked mildly offended, yet defiantly confident, and Tiffany desperately wanted to remove that smug, self-assured look off his face. In fact, she wanted to remove it so badly it hurt.
“And for the record, Mr. Olaru, since you prefer to shoot straight from the hip”—she tapped her lower right side in a mocking gesture—“from where I’m standing, you’re doing anything but keeping it real. In fact, you’re somewhere out in la-la-fantasy land where real hasn’t even entered the hemisphere. The reality, Ramsey, is we’re nowhere near the possibility of having sex. And furthermore, as far as I’m concerned, I don’t even think we’ve approached the valley of holding hands, the county of brushing up against one another, or even the casual province of staging a thumb war.” She squared her jaw and took three deep breaths, realizing that she was breathing way too heavily—in fact, was she panting?
And, gods be merciful, but was that perspiration beading above her upper lip?
What the hell was happening to her?
He took a slow, leisurely step toward her, moving more like the wolf from her dreams than a man, and gently, intoxicatingly, bit down on his lower lip. “Are you always this easily flustered?” he drawled.
“I’m not flustered!” she hissed, taking a long, measured stride backward until she bumped into the rail.
“Oh, you’re flustered, all right,” he said.
“Stick. To. The. Subject,” she griped.
He bent over and braced both arms against the rail, anchoring them on either side of her waist, thus caging her in. “Oh, yeah, the subject: We’re not even close to holding hands… brushing up against each other… ” He pressed his hips way too close, without actually touching his pelvis to hers, and then he dropped that gorgeous head, allowing all those perfectly layered, dark blond locks to fall forward into his face, and purred like a freakin’ lion.
She gasped and tried to shove him back.
He didn’t budge. “From where I’m standing,” he murmured, “I’d say we’re about this close”—he brought his hand up between them and held his forefinger and thumb about a centimeter apart, right at eye level—“to brushing up against one another… real hard.”
She gulped, and he lowered his head even further so that his lips were hovering just narrowly above hers, so close that she could taste his breath on her tongue. Her heart was literally racing in her chest.
“In fact,” he said quietly, “I’d say we’re only one impulsive, reckless heartbeat away from the town, valley, and meadow of down-and-dirty, soul-searching, hair-pulling, name-calling, ecstasy-inducing animal sex.” He licked his bottom lip and growled, this time like a wolf. “What do you think?”
Tiffany stammered like a child, just trying to form a consonant. Hell, she would like to buy a vowel! She was trying to remember her name, let alone how to speak, and if she had been any braver, she would have slapped him.
If she had been any more honest, she would have kissed him.
But as it was, she could only stand there panting, her mouth gaping open, her palms sweating, and her heart racing, completely aware of the fact that her forehead was now… perspiring?
Ew…
She wanted to die of mortification.
He reached out to touch the pad of his thumb to her bottom lip, lightly tracing it, as if he owned it, and she literally trembled with confusion and need, utterly enthralled by the tangible power of his desire.
He withdrew his thumb and took an unhurried step back. “I wasn’t saying that you were acting sexual with me, baby girl, although if someone were to light a match around us, the whole damn forest would go up in flames. I was simply saying that the mere possibility of a pregnancy, even the chance of a fleeting, passing thought in that direction, is a very real danger, considering how I feel when I’m around you. Yes, my self-control is on a razor’s edge, and yes, if I lose my willpower, I can and will seduce you, bring you to the exact same level of heat I’m feeling in minutes, if not seconds.” He turned away, strolled across the deck, and took a seat in a nearby chair, giving her some room to breathe. “But mostly, I’m trying to say that something’s just not right. Something isn’t sitting well with me. I don’t know what. I don’t know why. I only know that you’re just too damn vulnerable right now in your human form.”
T
iffany pressed her hand to her heart and waited while the organ slowed down, finally stopped pounding. She took a deep breath to purge her thoughts and then just stood there, trying to process everything Ramsey was saying. She didn’t want to touch the whole I can seduce you whenever I want comment with a ten-foot pole. Not now. Maybe not ever. She tucked her hair behind her ear and decided to stick to the safer subject: his desire to ultimately protect her. “I hear you, Ramsey. I do. So now, I need you to hear me, too.” She leveled out her tone, making each word solid, deliberate, and poised. “The first contact I ever had with a vampire was with Napolean, watching him rip the back door of our cab off its hinges. The next contact was with you, when you erased my memories, supplanted them with something else, and sent me home, without my best friend.”
He shrugged. “Baby girl, I was just doing my job.”
She held up her hand to silence him. Yeah, she really did that. “I know. I know. That’s not the point. The next contact I had was in the basement of Kagen’s clinic, when Kristina Silivasi tossed me across the room and broke my arm.” She shuddered at the memory. “Granted, I was hanging out with a bunch of lowlife, miscreant, vampire-hunters who had just staked Ciopori through the heart and shot Jocelyn multiple times, but still—” She stopped abruptly. “It’s not important. Besides, it’s a long story.”
He held her determined gaze. “I know. I was there, upstairs, remember?”
She nodded. “Oh yeah, you were, weren’t you? Guarding Ciopori after the attack.”
He offered an affirmative nod and then waited for her to continue.
She wiped her palms on her jeans and pressed forward. “But the point I’m making is this: I’m not ready, Ramsey. I’m really, truly not ready. Not for the pain and suffering, not for what it means, not for all the terrifying events that come after. I’m just not ready.”
He rubbed his jaw and sighed. “And so you’re asking me to let you wait?”
She paused, trying to control her temper: Let her wait? “Let me? Are you serious?”
Ramsey frowned. He rose from his chair and started toward her, but then he stopped, stepped back, placed his foot on the chair, and braced his elbow on his knee instead. “Look, before you get all worked up, start calling me an ass and plucking leaves off the trees, let me explain. This is not about some antiquated caveman attitude. It’s not about me controlling you as some dominant male or trying to ride roughshod over you as a vampire. It’s about my role in the house of Jadon. It’s about my role as your protector and your mate. If a male vampire senses danger, Tiffany—when a male vampire senses danger—you’d better believe he’s gonna get his hackles up, jump right in the middle of the danger, and try to get between his female and the threat. He’s not gonna feed, sleep, or chill out until whatever it is, is handled. That’s just the way it is. That’s the way it has always been, and that’s the way it’ll always be. That’s not up for debate.”
Tiffany sighed. She brushed her hand through her hair and looked down at the ground. “You, Tarzan. Me, Jane?” she echoed, reducing all of his words to that one simple refrain.
He frowned. “Tiffany… ”
She met his eyes once more. “Ramsey, please… I’m asking you; don’t push this too soon. I hear you, and I’ll be careful. I promise. Just, can we wait?” She took several tentative steps forward and forced herself to place her hand on his massive shoulder, albeit very gingerly. “Please, vampire,” she lowered her voice to a delicate hush. “Let me wait.”
He blew out a frustrated breath and glanced at her hand. “Damnit.” And then his eyes turned impassive, his shoulders stiffened, and he locked that steely gaze with hers. “Three days. I’ll give you three more days.”
Tiffany virtually trembled inside.
Three days was nothing.
She had only been with him for three days so far, for heaven’s sake.
She studied his face, analyzing his hardened expression, noting the implacable resolve, seeing the sentinel before her. If she were smart—and she was—she would take the three days and run with it. Because truth be told, if she pushed him any further right now, he might just convert her right outside on the deck.
Besides, who knew what might happen in the course of three days? Perhaps they would make some inroads… as friends. Suppose his heart softened just a little bit more? Just maybe—what if—in three days, she could barter for a couple more?
Three days were better than no days.
“Okay,” she whispered reluctantly, at last giving in. “We’ll revisit this in three days. I promise.”
He frowned. “Revisit it?”
She sighed. “Ramsey… ”
He nodded. “Fine. Three days.”
*
Ramsey escorted Tiffany back down the hall, where she ducked quietly into her bedroom to get dressed, and he ducked lethargically into his, to get some sleep.
He would be of no use to her whatsoever if he didn’t let his body rejuvenate at some point, and his irrational concern over her safety was definitely interfering with his rest.
Just why, he had no idea.
Ramsey was not the type to worry.
He didn’t chew his nails. He didn’t pace back and forth across the room. And he didn’t let what-ifs and could-bes haunt him. He just dealt with things as they came and kicked ass when it was needed. But this was somehow different.
Paramount.
This was about his future, his very life…
His destiny.
Shrugging out of his T-shirt and tossing it across the room to hang over a dark gray upholstered chair, he slid out of his jeans and reclined on the custom, hand-crafted bed. He crossed his arms behind his head, overlapped his feet at the ankles, and let his chest rise and fall in deep, soporific breaths as he thought about the decision.
He would give her three days, and then he would convert her.
End of story.
There would be no revisiting the debate.
He shut his eyes and tried to make peace with the determination.
By the grace of his ruling moon, Gemini, he hoped he wasn’t making a mistake by waiting.
eleven
Tiffany thumbed through Ramsey’s guest-room closet, her guest-room closet, trying to pick out something comfortable for the day. She was just about to select a pair of light blue chiffon caravan pants, with a matching tunic, when her cell phone chimed in the background, playing the familiar upbeat ringtone that alerted her to an incoming call.
She frowned, wondering who it was. Brooke’s ringtone was the theme to Game of Thrones, and calls made from her parents rang to Tom T. Hall’s “Who’s Gonna Feed Them Hogs,” so this had to be coming from an outside line. She took three quick steps toward the bed, scooped up the phone, and stared at the display: local area code, unknown number.
Hmm.
She paused before hitting the call button, hoping it wasn’t a salesman, and then she placed the receiver against her ear. “Hello?”
“Tiffany?” The female voice was hushed and urgent, a noticeable panic in the tone.
“Yes?” She waited, her curiosity rising.
“This is Tawni.”
She frowned. “Tawni?”
“Tawni Duvall, the woman you met the other day in your office.” The woman fumbled with her phone, clearly dropping it, then she picked it back up. “The one who was wearing pajamas.”
Tiffany drew back in surprise. A clear image of the disheveled mess popped into her mind. “Yes, Tawni, how can I help you, and how did you get my private number?” The moment she posed the question, she realized she had forwarded her calls for the week. She had been waiting to hear back from an important client and was not willing to risk missing the call.
“Is this your private number?” Tawni asked, immediately sounding apologetic. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I thought I dialed your office.”
Tiffany winced—she was the one who’d more or less given out the number. “No, no; that’s okay. I forgot: I forwarded the line. What… h
ow can I help you, Tawni?”
The woman began to cry hysterically; she really sounded like she was losing it.
“Tawni?” Tiffany didn’t know if she should hang up or what. Not to be cruel, but it was really creeping her out. “Tawni… ”
The woman sniffled in the phone. “Yeah… yeah… I’m here. I’m sorry. It’s just… ” She lowered her voice. “Oh god, I think he’s coming!”
Tiffany tightened her grasp on the phone. “Who’s coming? Tawni, what’s going on? Maybe you should call the police.”
“No,” the woman choked out, her voice still wavering from fear. “Just hold on… please, just for a second.” Tiffany heard some movement in the background, the sound of a door slamming closed—was it a closet door?—and then Tawni began to whisper. “Okay, I’m here. I’m hiding.” She didn’t wait for Tiffany to reply. “Miss Matthews, I really need your help. My boyfriend is going to kill me if I don’t get away, and I don’t have anywhere else to turn.”
Tiffany recoiled. “Tawni, you really need to call the police. Get out of the house and call… right now.”
The woman continued to plead with Tiffany even as she struggled to keep her voice hushed. “I can’t get out, Tiffany. Not during the day. He won’t let me out of his sight, at least not until he passes out, drunk, usually somewhere around midnight. The only other time he lets me out of the house is when he takes me to my babysitting job—I watch a toddler from eight to ten on Tuesdays and Thursdays while his mother goes to the gym, and sometimes Sal—Saul—will drop me off at the park for a half hour or so, and his mother meets me there. But as for the cops? His brother is on the force, and his uncle is the Chief of Police. So there’s no way I’m getting a fair deal there. They both know he beats me.”
Tiffany felt the weight of the woman’s distress, as well as her impossible dilemma, and her heart filled with sympathy. “What about a shelter? Maybe a friend or someone could meet you at the park and pick you up, take you to a safe house.”
Tawni sniffled. “Maybe. I just… I just don’t know who I can trust. I don’t really have any friends, and Saul’s brother is just like him—they both abuse their partners, and he has so many connections in Silverton Creek. I’m just… oh god, Tiffany, I’m so desperate. I’m sorry I called you like this, but I don’t know what else to do. Who else to turn to. He’s going to kill me.” As if right on cue, there was a loud clamor in the background, and someone shouted Tawni’s name. “Oh god, oh god, he’s in the room.”