Victim Wanted You shivered when Dracula kissed Mina. You wish I'd come to your window, deep in the heart of night, and call you from your bed. I am all you imagine - tall, handsome, aristocratic, wealthy, irresistibly powerful, fatally sensual. I am a vampire. MEN SEEKING WOMEN, RN#675.

It began innocently enough with the same purpose that initiated all of my greatest mistakes. Twas Christmas night, all through the house, loneliness pursued me like a cat chasing a mouse. I found myself marooned at the window as a cold wind swept the first threads of dawn down the Mews. London slept under a blanket snow. Dickens-ish, chestnuts roasting over an open fire. Firelight flickered on the Jacobean paneling and throwing shadows on the art and antiques. The room was all oak-scent, old wood, haunted by the flat, grey fragrance of another morning. Scant comfort, the merry little fire or the treasure chest in which I lived. Boredom caught me at the bottom of this bleak night. Boredom in my hands was a time bomb that would explode. The question was merely where and when.

I picked up an alabaster statue of a Spanish horse. With a sigh, I glanced at the original Van Ruisdeal above the mantel. Passion. Art is passion. Each soul, at sometime, wishes to stand naked in passion's temple and face deepest, darkest desire—to be a helpless victim of passion—innocent of sin. Sweet mischief whispered in my ear. Lucien, my friend, but, moreover, head of the Council that governed us, might try to punish me for endangering the secret. So what? Since my rather shameful return from America, I'd faithfully toed the line, giving the powers that be no reason to slap my hand. No one was likely to nominate me for sainthood. I was tired of being a good man. Picturing Lucien, livid with outrage, as he slowly crumpled the newspaper, made me laugh. I hadn't laughed for days. I was still laughing as I dashed off a Men Seeking Women romance ad.

Vampires were no longer monsters, but fine seducers, purveyors of passion, and victims abounded. As I sampled the replies, I grew disappointed and left them disappointed, thinking me another nut. I failed to find the thrilling vintage I sought.

***

Two weeks before, a recording company had decided to produce Ravel's solo piano works as performed by a member of the British peerage. Schedules were suited to my nocturnal habits. With the first session done, I sat alone with my Bosendorfer and tried to decide where I'd go and what I'd like to do. Both the studio and I echoed with emptiness. Faraway, I heard the cleanup crew clattering and the sound engineer sauntering down the hall. James had somewhere to go—home to a family.

I claim title to several residences—the mews house in Belgravia; my ancestral home in Devon; the house on The High Battery in faraway Charleston, South Carolina. But I had no family. Neither was there a likelihood that I'd ever have the latter. Except the unnatural family of spooks who called me brother. An overwhelming sadness swept me close to despair. I rested my forehead on the piano's black breast and wondered why I walked on, down this eternal path alone.

Hands landed on my shoulders. The touch struck me with an electric, sensual thrill. I sat up sharply, as one feminine hand crept under my hair, gripping the back of my head, to keep me from turning around.

"Hello, darlin'." Her voice was Hershey's milk chocolate.

"You look like you could use some company."

When I turned my head slightly, curls tickled my cheek. I took a deep breath. Here was the vintage I'd been searching for. "I could."

"You got it." Warm breath fondled my ear. In my mind, I saw her leaning over me. Black hair, gently curling around a face carved by European art from Native American copper. Tawny bare shoulders sloped to finely tuned breasts. A tiny waist flared into generous hips. And the whole was packaged in a sleek leather sheath. She stood on fine long legs, but she was not tall. Exquisite, manicured nails dug into my shoulders. "I've been waiting."

A first-class, round-trip ticket to the Turks and Cacos Islands fell on the keyboard. Another fell on top of it. One of the tickets was issued to Morgan Gabriel D'Arcy. The other to Fiona Allman. I had to admire her style. But Fiona couldn't have come from the ad. Names and addresses weren't given.

Fiona was the given.

"What you waitin' for? Your bags are packed. We're leaving on a jet plane" The enticing voice grew darker, duskier. "To sunshine. No more of this fucking rain."

"Fiona I presume."

"It's me, darlin'—the one you've been waiting for." Lips, open and wet, landed on my cheek. Fingers worked deep magic on the tense muscles in my neck.

I found my head going back into the delicious pressure. The scent of her crept over my shoulder—rain-perfumed skin, Italian leather and blood laced with a single malt. Glenlivet? I hadn't fed. Hunger wrenched my stomach, broke under my tongue. Her fingers awoke another, totally carnal desire. I threw back my head and laughed because I knew I was in trouble. At last!

With long, slow caresses, she stroked the hair back from my forehead. "Come on, Pretty Baby, get up. We don't have much time. Heathrow's a good hour's drive from here."

"I can't go," I said, not believing it. I always did exactly as I pleased. "CD to cut."

The low, throaty laugh was as sensual as her touch. "I've checked your schedule. No personal appearances. These dickheads will wait until Lord D'Arcy returns. They have to."

"How did you find me?" I liked the way she stroked my libido. An image of taking her on the piano heated my blood. "How did you know my name?"

"Does it matter?" She tucked my hair behind my ear and sucked the ringed lobe into her mouth. "I wanna fuck your brains out."

"Anytime." I was ready. Desire throbbed, hot, taut in my belly and between my thighs. It didn't matter how, only that she had found me.

"I've been looking for you all my life," she whispered against my neck, sending shivers over me. "And you go and run an ad. I had to respond. Didn't I?"

"There's only a code," I moaned.

She applied her body to my back as her lips fluttered against my cheek. "I work at the paper. I never read those ads. This time I did. Fate, darlin'."

I turned and met eyes black as midnight oil and a smile that put the Bosendorfer's ivory grin to shame. The way she looked at me—I knew it well—that need burning bright in her eyes. From habit, I opened my mind expecting to hear her thoughts. I was in for another little shock. I caught nothing from her. A silent mind? Quick, bright images of a bronze child capering on a sunlit beach flickered before my eyes. Her smile matured with the slow grace of wisdom, and for the first time in many years, I was astonished.

Her eyelids drooped, keeping her secret, as she shook her head. "Don't try that with me."

I'd heard tales of mortals who could defy us. But never had I met one. I couldn't take my eyes off her as she stood back, cocked a condescending eyebrow and smiled. She tossed me a kiss as she walked away, swinging her hips in an invitation. At the door, she turned to crook a finger at me. "I like my men fair, with long hair and big blue eyes. Come on. Time's a-wasting."

Two hours later, a Virgin Air jet winged westward. The woman beside me was enough to make any man weak with desire—to make me, temporarily, forget Isabeau, whom I truly loved. I'd been warned it was tragedy when we fall in love with mortals. My heart twisted with the old pain. Fiona took my hand and squeezed it. Fiona was lust not love. After three hundred-odd years, I'd finally learned the difference.

I leaned nearer the fire, dying to get burned. "You believe the ad. You know what I am?"

"I knew." Her eyes sparkled, but was it mischief or triumph at nabbing the predator? "One reason I answered. And I'd seen your picture in the newspapers." She ran a fingertip down my chest. "I like your looks."

I smiled, wished I could blush. "Why are you taking a vampire to the islands? I'm not exactly a sun worshiper."

She put her mouth on my ear and flicked her tongue inside. "To fuck your brains out."

Looking at her made me hot. Her touch sent me into an agony of anticipation.

She reached down and rubbed my erection. "Are you a member of the Mile High Club? I'm going to the bathroom. Wait a minute, then join me."

She didn't wait for me to stand but slithered across me, stood and bared her teeth at me in a beautiful smile. A predatory smile like the one I'd given to many—before they died.

After an eternal minute, I excused my way down the aisle and slipped into the cubicle. Arms went round me. Breasts flattened on my chest. Her mouth crushed mine with all the passion she exuded like musk. My fangs lacerated my lips. The feral taste of my blood flavored the wrestling kiss as I lifted her and set her in the tiny wash basin. Arousal, deep, dark and pure as the Garden of Eden, perfumed her. I bit at her lips, her ears. Brown hands frantically mapped my body. Nimble fingers tugged, slipped beneath my zipper. Soft curls brushed my fingers as I reached down and dragged the leather skirt to her waist. She scooted her hips forward, her sex naked and wet.

"I'm ready for you, Baby," she moaned as I slipped a finger into her.

Her heart beat blood like a calvary charge up the right carotid artery. The other craving rose, an irresistible tide. My irises were changing from blue through purple to scarlet. Would I be able to control the hunger?

There was no time to think. Her hand closed on my shaft, tugging it free, pumping me with hard strokes. So slowly it was exquisite pain, she drew the head of my penis along the wet valley. Teasing myself, and teasing her, I nibbled at her neck, lapping the taste of her with my tongue. A long leg inched up, arched across my hips, driving me into her. She sighed as she met the thrust, wriggling into me, forcing me deeper.

She bit my ear and groaned, "Take me."

I grabbed her hair, snatched her head back, elongating her neck and making of the vein a tight chord. Fiona didn't want tenderness and I gave none. I stabbed my fangs through her smooth flesh and sucked hard while our lusty battle raged. Euphoria settled on me. She moaned as interior muscles clenched my driving shaft. I wanted this to go on and on until the last drop of wine spilled over my tongue. Both satin legs came up to wrap around me, holding me deep. Arms locked around my neck, as if she feared I might escape before she was satisfied, she writhed, snake-like, glistening in the light. Her hair spilled like ink on the stupid little mirror. All this, I saw in my mind. Eyes closed, I was lost in the blood, but I recognized the kindred spirit thrashing in my arms. Fiona, the drinker of passion; I the drinker of blood. Two predators locked in the ancient battle of the sexes. She swallowed me whole, grinding her wet arousal at the very base of my shaft. With each shuddering stroke, her body demanded me to give her climax.

The blood washed me nearer the point of no return. I had to stop. I jerked my head back, popping my mouth free of bliss. But we were still wedded in the frenzied throes—struggling, climbing and falling toward that split second of infinity when life shivers and death takes a step back.

"Oh, Oh, Oh," she cried. I clamped my hand over her mouth as she came and sucked me down with her into delirious oblivion.

For a long time, we stood trembling, staring at each other. Her eyes were smoky. Mine red. Without a word, we began to straighten our rumpled clothes. I glanced at her—covert little touches—and wondered. Her thoughts were closed to me. Her gestures threw up a barrier between us. After all these years, I was still a trifle uncomfortable putting away my tools while a moment's fling studied me with hooded eyes. I watched her with something akin to wonder as she left me without a word or a backwards glance. After a few moments, I followed. Her blood was hot in me and my cheeks flushed. But I didn't feel the customary exhilaration. Rather I felt a bit dazed, sleepily aroused. The man in the seat behind mine caught my eye.

Voice razor-edged with jealousy, he said, "About time. I almost peed in my pants."

I grinned at him as anger pierced the strange lethargy. I pinned his gaze to mine. His body jerked as he felt the urine soak through his clothes, run down his leg. My smile broadened, hinting at elongated incisors. I turned and took my seat as he stumbled down the aisle.

"What did you do to me?" My head felt light. Her blood left a warm trail where it flowed. My body smoldered. The red demon clawed behind my eyes. I was shaking like a man with malaria but none of it mattered. I just wanted to lie back and look at her. Mesmerized, the way I could enchant mortals.

"You beautiful yellow-haired devil," she ran those red talons through my hair. "I fucked your brains out."

But it was more than that and I knew it.

"Hon," she kissed my cheek, "there's something I want you to do for me."

Here it comes. The price of passion.

"You do have one engagement in the islands. An important one." She turned those eyes on me. "You're giving a private concert for Sir Brown-Hughes and his family."

"The Lord Mayor? Why?" I was amused, amazed, but impressed. I should have been angry, but her blatant disregard for convention—and my wishes—struck an echo in me. The dark amusement in her eyes told me I was gaping at her like a fool. She was laughing at me and that, too, was enticing. Rarely did anyone surprise me. Fiona had succeeded in manipulating the master of manipulation.

We checked into a tinsel-town resort, skipped dinner and rode each other unmercifully until dawn. The first lesson Fiona was to teach me: A door opens between heaven and hell, and she, of all the women I'd known, held the key. That thought troubled my daily slumbers. The next evening, I awoke to find her astride me. She was gazing at me in a very odd way and smiling to herself. Her expression changed instantly when she realized I was awake.

"The vampire awakens." She sounded very proud of herself. With a delighted giggle, she reached behind to tease my waking erection. As I reached for her, I wondered if she ever got enough. Fiona took pleasure from my feeding and allowed me to do it leisurely while she teased and coaxed the explosion that, when it came, left us both gasping for breath. Within minutes, the lethargy returned. I just lay on my back watching her move around the twilight room.

Her movements delighted me. The scent of her clung to me. The taste of her was rich on my tongue. The feel of her lingered on a lazy erection. When I uttered a dreamy sigh, she turned and laughed at me. Presently, I became aware of a piquant herbal odor pervading the air like incense and asked her what it was.

"Perfume. Like it?" She slithered into a plain white dress that clung to her. "Get up, darlin'. Shower and put on your tuxedo. Tonight's the night. We dine with the Lord Mayor."

"I don't want to go. I feel odd." Almost nauseous, as if I’d tasted the fruit in the basket on the dresser.

She danced across the room and tugged me to my feet. "Oh, but you're going."

She wrapped me in her arms. "Aren't you?" She gave me a little shove toward the bathroom. "I'll give you a bath. We'll tie back your pretty hair with this black velvet ribbon." She tickled my shoulder with the ribbon.

My hair was knotted from tossing on her stormy sea. I winced as she brushed it.

"You want something, Fiona."

"I want you to play piano for the Lord Mayor of the Turks and Cacos." She tapped the top of my head with the brush. "Is that so much to ask?"

Willingly, I surrendered. Pleasant change to allow someone else control. As lived the moment, it was interesting. But each second, in passing, became totally unimportant. Docility was foreign to me, but it wasn't worth the effort to resist Fiona.

The cab ride was a blur of erotic touches, hot kisses and the driver's wide eyes framed in the rear view mirror. Holding hands, we walked up the tile path. Carved doors opened and a butler ushered us into a low, sprawling mansion. A light rain fell, deepening the enchantment of the tropical night. My head began to clear but I still felt lackadaisical.

When I met the President, I knew why Fiona had brought me to the Turks and Cacos. Ian Brown-Hughes was one of those men who believed that England was the world, and the world England's. He'd totally missed the fact that the Empire was dead. He was short and stout with a ruddy face and the slight lisp one associated with the nobility. It was almost too funny. I'd come halfway across the world to escape England's climate and my own people. Outside, the soft rain had become a tropical downpour. And I was shaking hands with a hangover from the glory days of the British Empire.

"Lord D'Arcy, we're honored," he said before introducing us to his family.

"My wife Jane." Regal in a flowing floral dress. "My daughter Heather."

Heather offered me a delicate white hand. Now, here was England at its sweetest. Heather was the complete opposite of Fiona. Silky hair, blond as my own, tied back from her high forehead, flooded down her back. Clear, cool blue eyes met mine. Her skin was cream; her cheeks blushed with roses. She held herself with a quiet dignity that was, in its own way, as enticing as Fiona's sultry posture. When Heather spoke, my heart ached with all the loveliness that is England. Fiona sensed my attraction and edged closer to me. I'm a sucker for beauty but accustomed to the presence of beautiful women. And I am, after all, to the manner born. Usually, I can maintain my composure, but I found myself staring at Heather over dinner while Fiona ran her foot up my leg.

After the meal, we retired to a stately drawing room. Despite the island setting, the room was as British as Yorkshire pudding. The single redemption was the Steinway commanding center stage. While I played, Fiona leaned on the piano like a cabaret singer. Heather sat amongst her family, her feet firmly planted on British soil and in tradition. Once or twice, she closed her eyes.

Ian wouldn't hear of calling a cab. He sent us home in his Bentley.

Back in our room, Fiona rounded on me, and I thought: Now I'm going to get it.

But instead, she slid her sheath over her head and stood there in her lacy snowflake bra and panties. Slowly, she smiled at me. "You're rather pale."

When she started to walk, the liquidity of her movements rinsed Heather from my mind, and I felt the heat rising. "You haven't fed enough. You haven't killed," she purred as she applied herself to me.

I was rigid. "I won't make you a vampire."

She snuggled her face against my neck. "Morgan, not everyone wants immortality."

I realized it was the first time she'd used my given name.

"What do you want?"

"Something easy for you to give." She reached up and tugged the ribbon off my hair. "I need a hero."