Midnight Kiss
Other Books by Nancy Gideon
available from ImaJinn Books
Touched by Midnight Series
Midnight Kiss
Midnight Temptation
Midnight Surrender
Midnight Enchantment
Midnight Gamble
Midnight Redeemer
Midnight Shadows
Midnight Masquerade
Midnight Crusader
From ImaJinn Books (Out of Print)
In the Woods
(Novelization of the horror movie In the Woods)
Midnight Kiss
Touched by Midnight
Book 1
by
Nancy Gideon
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-659-8
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-661-1
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 1994 by Nancy Gideon
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
A mass market edition of this book was published by Pinnacle Books in 1994
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Couple (manipulated) © Valua Vitaly | Dreamstime.com
Alley (manipulated) © Zacarias Pereira Da Mata | Dreamstime.com
:Akmk:01:
Dedication
For Elizabeth McKinsey Fortin Hinds, whose enthusiasm helped me sink my teeth into this project!
Chapter One
FOOTSTEPS.
Light, quick; a definite female pattern of sound. A rhythm slightly louder than that of the rain upon cobbled street.
Fear.
Its scent was on the moisture-laden air, like mist, like night, as subtle in its perfume.
Heartbeats.
Echoing the tempo of the rain, of the footfalls; increasing now; throbbing with life and warmth.
Hunger.
Sharp, pulsing in time to the scents and sounds, yet unlike them, unnatural in origin. It rose without control, as swift and steady as the torrent of the storm, as consuming as the fog rising off the steaming alleyways, akin to the darkness, attuned to the fear. Alive with the lust for blood.
He moved like a shadow through the damp night, though he didn’t cast one himself. The icy rain sliced down upon him, but the only chill he felt came from within, from the emptiness there, from the desperate need to know sustaining heat. Burning with a cold desire that brought him out to stalk the slick byways of London’s grimy East Side. Drawn by the inexorable craving that both seduced and horrified him. It was strong, that insatiable appetite, stronger than what weak-moraled men felt for drink or gaming or sexual satisfaction. An addictive vice from which there was no relief other than the appeasing taste of the forbidden.
Even as he tried to resist, instinct urged him onward. His senses quivered with anticipation, honed by the rapid panic fed through the veins of his unknowing victim. A taste, no more than a taste, he vowed, as if that would soothe the rage of future conscience. For now, it was enough. Enough to distract him from his noble intents, enough to cloud his mind and allow his thirst to overcome him. Restraint, like remorse, failed to hold back the tide of compulsion. It could not change what he was. And what he was on this dismal night was hungry.
She was a prostitute. Her gaudy clothing proclaimed her profession, as did the fact that she was out on streets no innocent would tread. She felt danger closing in on her the way she would a chill wind or a bad omen. She shivered and turned to face the fear she couldn’t outrun, hoping that by giving it a name, she could escape it. Later, when the Bow Street Runners questioned her, she would recall yellow lights, brilliant, burning, transfixing her, and a voice that came from all around, yet seemed to speak within her mind.
“I will not harm you.”
She gave a great sigh of relief as a figure separated from shadow. A man; a nobleman, from his fineness of dress. A fluttery hand rose to her laboring breast. “Oh, my, but you gave us a scare. Be you lookin’ for a bit o’ sport, me lord? For a mere token, I can warm you up right proper on this miserable night.”
The gentleman smiled, a flash of stark white upon white. “Yes. Exactly what I had in mind.”
His voice flowed like honey, mellifluous and oddly calming. His eyes held an intensity that almost shook her from her notions of business. But she’d been well schooled: get the blunt up front. Moistening her lips with the tempting swipe of her tongue, she named her price and he extended it without a quibble. A real gentleman. She stuffed the money between scented breasts.
“I gots me a place not far—”
“Here will be fine.”
She blinked and glanced about the litter-ridden alley. “Wouldn’t ’ave pegged you for a queer one, me lord, but ’ere’s as good a place as any, if you be in a hurry.” She began to ruck up her skirts obligingly, but the touch of his hand stilled her, a surprisingly gentle touch, along one painted cheek. The doxy looked up and was mesmerized by the flare of his gaze. It seemed to draw the soul from her. Or so she would remember. She couldn’t look away from those eyes, those glowing amber eyes.
His fingers curved beneath her chin, tilting her face up. His mouth brushed over hers in a whispered kiss.
“Oh...”
She was quite taken by that courtly gesture, she who was so unused to tenderness. Her hands opened, releasing soiled skirts. Her hem dropped to the puddled street as she grasped his forearms and uttered an illicit moan. She leaned into him, mashing ample breasts to the starched front of his shirt bosom, flinging back her head in wanton encouragement. The power she felt moving beneath the clutch of her fingers startled her. And he was no longer gentle.
His arm curled about her waist, crushing her against him. The hand that had so reverently stroked her now became a viselike grip upon her jaw, wrenching her head to an uncomfortable angle. Self-protective terror surged too late to save her.
“Please—” A weak beseechment from an already fading will. The need to struggle left her and she was malleable to his purpose.
She never knew why he released her so abruptly and unharmed, aware only that he was gone. Strengthless without him, she crumpled to the cold, cutting cobbles. She realized after her interview with the police how lucky she was to escape a fate five others had succumbed to. The others were found in hazy daylight, rumpled and weak and marked strangely about the throat. But like them, she had no memory of her attacker. Just the image of yellow lights and the liquid quality of his voice. And the knowledge that she’d barely eluded the clutches of death. A knowledge that would haunt her ceaselessly for nights to come.
WHAT A PERFECTLY beastly night, Arabella Howland thought to herself
, as she fought to claim her pelisse from the pull of the wind. Dodging standing pools of water, she managed to gain the front steps of her address without too much damage to her sturdy footgear. The door was instantly opened, offering a dry retreat and the uncompromising scowl of their housekeeper’s features.
“Miss Arabella, have you any notion of the hour?”
“No, Mrs. Kampford, but I’m certain you will tell me.”
“No need to take that snippety tone with me, Miss,” the dour-faced woman warned, as she efficiently stripped her young mistress of her damp outerwear. “A bit of mothering will do you no harm. Heaven knows your errant father has been remiss in his proper duty.”
Arabella let that pass without comment, used to the woman’s chidings. “Is my father at home?”
“Not yet. He’s still at the hospital. ’Tis glad I am to have you here safe and sound, what with the odd doings outside and him in the doctor’s study.”
Arabella was aware of a disconcerting pleasure. “How long has he been waiting?”
“Better than a half hour, and he’s in odd spirits. I don’t like him coming to the house and I’ve told the doctor as much. ’Tisn’t seemly with your father so often away. There is something wrong with the man.”
“Of course there is, Mrs. Kampford. Why else would he be here for my father’s help?”
The elder woman sniffed at that, but cautioned, “Let him wait, Miss. Your father should be home soon.”
“Nonsense. I’ll not ignore a guest in our house.”
“He’s not a guest. He’s a patient.”
“Yes, Mrs. Kampford, he is, but he is a fellow human being deserving of a hot drink on such a night, so please excuse me while I see to his comfort.”
The tiny woman frowned and looked as though she meant to block the way until forcibly set aside. Then she sniffed again and carried the sodden wrap down the hall with an indignant air.
Smiling to herself, Arabella paused at the hall mirror, checking the arrangement of her hair. Really, Bessie Kampford was the most possessive creature. One would think she was her child, for all her fussing.
Arabella observed her reflection wryly. Most of the pins had fallen, and what coils of glossy black hair chose to remain in place were hopelessly frizzed by the damp night air. It would have to do. After all, she was no green girl entertaining a prospective beau. Thank heavens those awkward days were years behind her! At three and twenty, she no longer had to please anyone other than herself. And usually, she didn’t make the effort. Except where Louis Radman was concerned.
Something about the man was infinitely intriguing.
Perhaps it was the secrecy. He’d appeared in the midst of the Season to pursue its distractions, but not its more voluptuous delights. More than one comely female was said to have lost her head and heart over the mysterious marquis. Arabella had heard her share of speculation. Some said he was French, some Slavic, but all agreed he was obscenely wealthy and more than slightly eccentric. Though his title and his pocket value opened all the doors of society, he stood cautiously on the outside, content to study the goings-on from its fringe. He accepted few invitations and never issued them in return. He was a paradox of charm and reserve, and Arabella thought him the most exciting man she’d ever known. And she had more of a chance to know him than most. He’d been coming to her father’s home office for nearly three weeks for reasons her father refused to divulge. And in all those after-hour visits, she’d managed to secure little more than a polite nod and a softly drawled “Good evening.”
Of course, Bella had no reason to think she held the power to charm the likes of Louis Radman. She’d discovered the truth of her appeal most cruelly when she’d come of age. Her come-out in society was classed a disaster even by those inclined to be kind. Not that she lacked for beauty. There was a certain loveliness in all that dark hair and in the strong set of her features. But she had a way of fixing a fellow with her somber gray eyes, a way of molding her lips so they held a hint of inner amusement that was far from flattering. After her first few appearances, she was labeled too bold, too high-minded, too large, too opinionated, too everything to be deemed fashionable. And the finishing stroke was that she didn’t seem to care what they thought. She took herself off the list of the available without a trace of regret and applied herself to her father’s work with a passion she couldn’t muster for the social set. For all intents and purposes, life in her father’s house suited her just fine. She didn’t miss the attentions of men or the complacency of marriage... except on the occasions when Louis Radman visited. It was then that her passions betrayed her most annoyingly, and she found herself wondering what kind of woman would appeal to the intensely private marquis.
She went to her father’s study. Anticipation beat within her breast, but she did her best to quell it. This might be her only chance to converse with the man. Usually, the door to the office closed behind him the moment he appeared. She could only hope he didn’t find her as unexceptional as the rest of London’s elite. Taking a breath to calm her mounting palpitations, she knocked once and entered. The lamplight was dim, casting the large room in shadow. At first, she didn’t see him.
“My lord?”
“Where is your father?” Half whisper, half growl, his voice startled her. Her gaze searched the darkness, fixing upon movement there by the damask-covered windows.
“He hasn’t come home from the hospital yet. Can I get you—”
“Get him here! I need him here, now!”
The rasp of labored breathing reached her ears, a tortured pull and ebb that dissolved her caution in an instant. He was in pain. Rapidly, she started across the room, careless in her concern. “What is it? Are you all right? Is there something I—”
“Get away! Get away from me!” There was a scraping, a frantic shuffle of furniture being pushed aside as he tried to meld into deeper obscurity. “Come no closer.”
Arabella paused. She knew nothing of the condition that had brought him to her father’s door. The thought that it might be some sort of contagion held her, but only until the sound of his anguish came again, a low, suffering groan. She went to him without hesitation, then, kneeling beside the chair into which he’d fallen. In the darkness, she was clumsy in her offer of compassion. Questing hands touched the sharp angles of his face. His skin was moist, cold, and rigidly set. He jerked back and half rolled from the chair to awkwardly gain his feet.
“No.” It was a moan of sheer torment. He stumbled in haste to put a saving distance between them. By then, he’d reached the room’s central pool of light, and Arabella gasped at the sight of him. He was so pale! In the dimness, his flesh seemed almost translucent. Lean features were drawn into taut relief, all highlight and hollow, as if ravaged by a wasting sickness. Wet hair clung sleekly to the contour of his skull. The folds of his greatcoat dragged with the weight of rainwater. Only his eyes burned, a hot, luminescent gold. A trick of the light, surely, for in that moment, she could have sworn they blazed like coals beneath the dark slash of his brows. Then he turned his head away, denying her the sight of his misery.
“Please sit,” she coaxed, trying not to betray her alarm. “You’re obviously ill. Some fever, perhaps. You must get out of that wet coat. Can I get you some wine or a brandy?” The words rattled out, more like a nervous babble than the professional calm she sought. Her heart was racing with panic and frustration. Raised a physician’s daughter, she was not exactly unskilled. If only she knew the source of his malady. Ignorance held her helpless.
“Leave me. Please. I will be fine if you leave me.”
As he spoke, he paced. The movements were virile poetry, strong, aggressive strides that devoured the distance from wall to wall across the costly Aubusson and defied the ravages of his expression. He didn’t look at her as he stalked side to side with that volatile grace so scarcely contained. At his sides, his hands wor
ked convulsively. He wouldn’t be fine. She could tell by watching his agitation. Something was dreadfully wrong and he’d come to her father for help. But Stuart Howland was not at home.
Choosing to disregard his command, Arabella came to him once more. Even without turning, he felt her nearness, for he tensed all over as if with some new and terrible pain.
“Please,” she cried out softly. “Please tell me what I can do for you.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then came the slow, hissing draw of his breath. And he came about to face her. They were quite close. He had no difficulty reaching out to catch her by the upper arms. His long fingers bit into tender flesh, the pressure hurtful. What kind of illness left such strength in a man’s hands, she wondered somewhat frantically, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t complain. For he was staring down into her eyes, and suddenly nothing else existed beyond the pull of his unblinking gaze. An odd lethargy spread through her as she heard him speak, his tone quiet and somehow soothing. It seemed to melt her very bones.
“What can you do for me?” he repeated, as if considering the question. His arms bent until she was compelled forward, until she could feel the force of his rapid breath against her upturned face. There was no warmth to it. Nor was there any sign of weakness or distress in him. Power... she sensed power. It engulfed her, swallowing her whole.
“Arabella.”
Up until that moment, she hadn’t been aware he knew her name. But when he spoke it with the intimacy of a caress, everything inside her tingled with shivery sensation. It wasn’t exactly pleasure she felt. It was sharper, more starkly defined, almost frighteningly intense. Like his stare. Entrancing yet repelling. The reaction was all wrong, not like her genuine delight at the prospect of seeing him. This... this was something almost beyond her control, and with the feeling of powerlessness came the first threads of fear.
His grip was painful. She used that knowledge and the sudden uneasiness to break from whatever thrall he cast over her. Her palms came up to push against the dampness of his coat and she squirmed in protest. For a moment, his grasp tightened. She gave a soft outcry and abruptly the compression eased. Before she could jump away, the hurting squeeze became a sensuous massage.