D'Argent Honor - Vampire Justice Part 1

Vampire Justice.

by Ann Jacobs.

Prologue.

The Beginning

A chill wind blew across the Channel that night in the year of Our Lord 935. The moon was nothing but a sliver of silver in the black void of a winter sky. Rolfe d'Argent, youngest brother of Rollo the Viking, paced in the great hall of the stone keep he'd completed the previous summer, s.h.i.+vering despite his fur robe in the draft that had flames dancing in the fire. There! Above the whimper of the wind and the crackling fire he heard a l.u.s.ty cry. The babe was born. Please the G.o.ds of his ancestors, 'twas a son. First of a dynasty to rule this fiefdom he'd carved out above the rugged cliffs of Normandy's sh.o.r.es.

Rolfe bounded up the stairs, only to be met halfway by the terrified-looking girl who was his wife's maid. "Tell me, Melinde, the babe? Is he-"

"He seems strong, my lord, but I fear my lady is dying. The blood..." Her voice trailed off as she made the sign of the Cross.

"Do not delay then. Hasten now, and fetch a priest." Kicking the door open with one booted foot, Rolfe crossed to the bed where his wife lay, so pale and quiet he thought at first she had already pa.s.sed from this earth. His heart heavy, he reached down and wiped sweat off her glistening brow. Cold sweat. He shuddered then regained control. "Elaine?"

Her eyes opened briefly, and she attempted a smile. "I have borne you a son. Just as we prayed for."

"Yes. I thank you for him. But do not tax yourself. I order you to be strong, to live for both of us." He chafed her icy hand between both of his, as though by sheer will he could force his own strength into her frail body. "I will not allow you to die."

"'Tis of no use to bl.u.s.ter, for we both know it is too late for me. Promise to take care of our son. And love him as I would."

'Twas as though those words, spoken with surprising clarity, sapped the last of her strength, for she closed her eyes and took one last shuddering breath. Laying her hand across her still chest, Rolfe blinked away the tears that threatened and turned his attention to the screaming babe. He had to take care of the child, honor his wife's last request. "Why do you stand there gawking? d.a.m.n you, woman, go and find a wet nurse for my son," he bellowed at the cringing midwife.

"My lord," she said, her hands shaking as she crossed herself, "the babe will need no wet nurse, for he's one o' them."

"Speak up, woman, or I'll rip your foolish tongue from your head. What mean you?"

"He's a blood drinker. A vampir born. Best ye drive a stake through his tiny heart now, ere he grows too powerful for the likes of us to kill."

"Kill? I'll have you burned as a witch if you breathe a word of this madness. Hand me my son." Rolfe lifted the baby. His only living heir. As he held the baby he understood what Elaine had meant. A feeling swept over him, one he'd never experienced before. Could that look he'd seen in his wife's eyes, the surprising strength in her voice as she uttered her last words as though not all the armies in the world could obliterate what she was feeling-was this love? If so, then for the first time in his life, he knew what it was to love.

The babe's clear green eyes seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages in their depths. His tiny body was full, well-formed. Rolfe laid him on the bed by his mother's lifeless body and watched him flail about, as though wanting...something. Then he noticed what the midwife had already seen. Fangs.

"See. I told ye." The woman crossed herself again when Rolfe gave his son his index finger and watched the infant pierce the skin. The babe's face pinkened as he sucked Rolfe's blood. This child was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. Rolfe would nourish him, watch him grow, teach him to be a warrior of renown, a leader of mortal men.

"His name is Alain d'Argent, and he will live."

Except for Claude, they'd all heard the story of their beginnings many times over the centuries, whenever Alain had called them together, rallied them to action in some worthy cause. Alina repeated the tale now for the benefit of her young uncle, for it was his first time to join in the Counsel.

Claude listened, his dark eyes focused intently on her, studying her face as she spoke. She knew what he saw. What they all saw. Alain's eldest granddaughter, thrust seventy-four years ago at an impossibly young age to lead an equally young clan. Claude had been an infant in his mother's arms, Alain's last son born mere months before his death. But he'd been nurtured on stories like these and knew he must follow in his father's proud tradition. Still Alina was terribly afraid, afraid of losing him. Like all the d'Argent males, Claude was a beautiful man, so darkly handsome he turned female heads, vampire as well as mortal. More important, Claude had a deep inner goodness-a trait they all valued but one she feared might result in his destruction.

The threat that put their clan, indeed all vampire clans, at jeopardy could easily catch him up, might even destroy them all. Alina hoped Claude would not take his mother's tales about Alain's legendary feats too seriously, for he was yet very young-not quite seventy-five in mortal years.

Not that the threat would treat Stefan and Alexandre more kindly, but they at least had been hardened in battle. Their formidable powers had been proven and were not in doubt. Alina counted on them to destroy the most potent enemy they'd faced in her lifetime. She hoped that in the process they might s.h.i.+eld Claude from the worst risk as they went out to find and destroy the evil vampire who threatened the existence of all their kind.

Silently cursing the feminine weakness that had her longing for her grandfather now, some seventy-four years after his death, Alina got a lump in her throat. She dared not shed tears. Had to be strong emotionally. Once again the d'Argent clan must rally to a cause-this time, the protection of innocent mortal women from the evil of a single demented vampire, the current head of the infamous Reynard clan. Louis Reynard, known in vampire circles throughout the world as the Fox.

"I hate that I must ask you to take on Reynard." Alina looked first at Stefan then at Alex and Claude. "I hate even more that I am the cause of his vendetta."

"It's not your fault Louis Reynard is insane," Alex said, shaking his head. "No vampire in his right mind would take out his anger with you on mortal women. Not when doing so risks infuriating mortals into starting another vampire hunt, the likes of which no one has seen since the time of the Medici."

"No one doubts the Fox has lost his mind. Nonetheless, we're the ones who must stop him." Stefan moved toward a window, stared out over the narrow channel toward England. "I will take to the hunt myself. Claude is too young. Too inexperienced."

Alina noticed all eyes turning toward Stefan. He rarely ventured from this ancient castle except when called on to do battle for the clan, not since he'd inadvertently killed his mortal lover while trying to change her centuries earlier. Of all the d'Argents, Claude and Alexandre would go to whatever lengths necessary to spare their beloved elder cousin pain. So would Alina, but she had no choice now. After a long, silent moment, Claude spoke up.

"No, Stefan. You're needed here. I may be young, but I'm not afraid to fight."

Alina turned and looked at Claude. He'd spoken in a voice she'd not heard before, as a force to be reckoned with. Their young uncle had always amused them with his ability to defy vampire physiology by snacking on pizza, brioche-an interesting combination of various mortal foods, washed down with soft drinks or the occasional beer. And her heartstrings tightened over the image as only a loving relative's heart could, even as she realized Claude had the maturity as well as the inborn right to fight for the honor of the d'Argent clan.

This wasn't the laughing young vampire who inspired indulgent sighs from the others of the clan. A warrior stood before her, galvanized to earn the honor promised by his birthright. In Claude's eyes Alina saw the raw courage of her grandfather...his father. The same fierce determination to fight evil wherever it lurked that had driven all the d'Argent males to champion freedom right up until the moment of their own destruction. "For now, Stefan, let us leave the pursuit to Alexandre and Claude. You will remain here and coordinate the hunt." She paused, then looked Claude and Alex in the eye. "Both of you, take care. I do not wish to have to tell your mothers you became reckless one too many times."

Chapter One.

The present day, Miami Beach, Florida

The night had always been his friend, but it closed in on him now, choking him in its sultry, damp embrace. A starless sky met the black expanse of the Atlantic, the horizon seemingly without beginning or end. Only the slapping sounds of waves kissing the sh.o.r.e punctuated an uneasy silence.

A silence Claude d'Argent had not experienced since that day two weeks ago when he'd come close to dying at the hand of the killer vampire for whom he now lay in wait. This strip of beachfront wouldn't stay silent for long, because the clubs would be opening soon. Claude sighed. Miami Beach hardly held a candle to his favorite haunts in the Marais district of Paris, even when it was buzzing with teeming bodies bent on finding pleasure...and courting danger.

But a vampire could mingle unnoticed here, stalking his prey. A killer like Louis Reynard might mingle with crowds of tourists once night fell, stalking his next victim. Having so recently encountered the Fox face-to-face, Claude would know him, recognize him. Hopefully be able to confront him and destroy him before he could kill again. He still woke in cold sweats, remembering the hot blonde in Buenos Aires that he and Alex hadn't been able to save, the night Reynard had practically destroyed them both.

I'd sense his presence if he were here. Wouldn't I? The killer had an uncanny ability to f.u.c.k up his vampire radar. That radar was kicking in now, warning Claude of trouble even as neon signs began to flash across the way, their garish messages luring patrons to sample barkeepers' wares, indulge in mortal vices under a moonless sky.

Fronds of tall royal palms swayed like so many dancers in the night as the wind rose, brought dissonant sounds of music to Claude's ears from the clubs across Highway A1A. His gaze drifted toward the sign that featured a hot-pink neon stripper doing her thing in lights above the sign advertising a place called, unimaginatively, The Strip. His hotel loomed large and opulent, its pink stucco facade commanding the scene directly south of the section of beach where he stood.

Claude rubbed at the still tender scar on his chest-a reminder of the wound from Louis Reynard that had come close to destroying him. d.a.m.n the b.a.s.t.a.r.d anyhow. If not for him, Claude would have been enjoying the Paris nightlife instead of acting as lookout here on the off chance Reynard had picked Miami Beach for the site of his next gruesome murder. Or, even better, chasing the Fox in a more active way instead of staking out a place where none of his elders seriously thought Reynard would seek out his next victim. Knowing this a.s.signment had been handed out more to take him from his amus.e.m.e.nts and facilitate his recuperation than because of any real need for him to stake out the beach here didn't set well-but then he was used to his elders in the clan cosseting him as though he were no more than an infant vampire.

The way the neon dancer's hips undulated reminded him of a certain woman he'd enjoyed in Paris-the enthusiastic way she rode him while he tugged on her ma.s.sive enhanced b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She'd had her moves down, for certain.

Claude's c.o.c.k ached. It had been too long-much too long-since he'd had a woman. He even had a painful hard-on from staring at the stripper flas.h.i.+ng him from the neon marquee across the highway. He scanned the deserted beach once more before he let his gaze drift back to the neon sign.

What the f.u.c.k? Angry voices floated into Claude's hypersensitive vampire ears. Strolling casually, he crossed the highway toward the club-and the sounds. When he strained his eyes, he made out the silhouettes of two men in the alley beside the club. s.h.i.+t. They apparently were threatening a pet.i.te woman who, from the sound of her voice and the way she had a hand raised up over her head, was giving back as good as she got.

But she was no match physically for one, let alone two grown men. Incensed that the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds dared gang up on a lone woman, Claude headed for them. He'd save the woman, and he'd work out some of his frustration by kicking some mortal a.s.s.

"Bloodsuckers!" she spat out, terror evident in her voice despite her loud defiance. When she shook her fist at the larger of her tormentors, he laughed, said something in rapid Spanish and turned away.

"You've had it, a.s.shole." Claude took to the air now, determined to punish the attackers, but by the time he reached the alley, they'd disappeared as if by magic, and the woman herself had disappeared through the stage door to the club. Claude cursed fluently, hated the weakness that must still be lingering after his encounter with Reynard. f.u.c.k, he should have been able to overtake the two mortals without breaking a sweat.

He recalled what the woman had called them, let out a chuckle.

Bloodsuckers the two men might very well have been, but he was satisfied that neither of them was a vampire-Reynard or otherwise. From the snippets of conversation he'd understood, he gathered some drug deal must have gone sour-and that the men were shaking down the woman. Vampires, even villains like the Reynards, didn't sink so low as to deal in the stuff that enslaved so many mortals. Too bad he couldn't have translated faster. He might have learned where they were going and meted out some vampire justice. He shrugged, making a mental note that he needed to improve his Spanish vocabulary.

As much as he'd have loved to chase them down, he was here on a mission to find and destroy the Fox before he killed again. Scanning the beach and the sidewalks outside the clubs for any sign of his prey and finding nothing, Claude made his way inside The Strip. If Reynard were there, they'd fight...if not, he'd enjoy an hour's entertainment before resuming his vigil. Perhaps he'd even see the woman from the alleyway, talk with her, find out how he might help...

"Five grand, pretty lady. Your brother cheated the patron. Pay up, or the little c.o.c.ksucker dies."

"B-but I don't have that much."

"Get it, or Raul dies." Marisa shuddered when she remembered how the larger of the patron's messengers had slashed his finger across his throat, at the same time shooting a condescending grin her way. "I give you two days. Forty-eight hours. We see you here, same time Thursday." As quickly as they'd come, the two thugs who did the drug lord's dirty work had evaporated into the blackness of the night. But she had no doubt they would be back as they'd said they would.

Marisa Delgado s.h.i.+vered in the dingy dressing room at The Strip. The air-conditioning blew cold, but she doubted that had much to do with her feeling chilled. She'd felt the same outside, despite the damp warmth of the summer night.

G.o.d, but she hated drugs, had done her best to talk Raul out of using them. She'd warned him against getting caught up in the circle of using and dealing, selling c.o.ke in order to feed his growing habit. More and more using, more and more dealing until the cops or the drug got you and destroyed your life. She might as well have saved her breath.

Worse, she hated the thought of having to reimburse the patron for the cocaine the police had confiscated when they caught her brother selling and charged him with trafficking. It wasn't my c.o.ke. It shouldn't be my problem. But it was Raul's problem, and if she didn't pay his debt, her young brother would die. It didn't matter that she'd had nothing to do with those drugs or with Raul's business of selling enough of them to support his filthy habit. All that concerned the drug lord was getting back the money represented by the cocaine her brother had lost.

Dios. There's only one way I can get that much cash that fast.

No! She'd sworn on her mother's grave that she'd never sell her body. But she couldn't see any other way. Much as she hated Raul for getting them into this mess, she knew Mama wouldn't have wanted her baby boy to die. She didn't want her brother to die. And the drug lord Raul had gotten himself indebted to was known for making good on his threats.

She had about a thousand left in savings after bailing Raul out of jail two days ago. Maybe if she worked double s.h.i.+fts both days... No, she was dreaming. If business was good she might earn a thousand, even two, giving lap dances to the customers. No chance she could earn all she needed in The Strip, not in time to pay off the patron and save Raul's life.

Whatever happened to the avenging angels, gargoyles and other fanciful creatures her mother had read stories to her about all those years ago? The ones with supernatural powers who would swoop down from above and destroy the evil people here on earth? Then she remembered. Those avengers, even the fearsome ones like gargoyles and vampires, only saved good boys and girls. And as she looked at her face, painted in a garish wh.o.r.e's makeup, she knew she was far from that. That decided it. She clenched her jaw.

There was only one way she could make the remaining four thousand dollars in two days and nights. Her c.u.n.t tightened at the prospect of picking some temporary s.e.x partners and doing whatever it took to please them. Antic.i.p.ation or dread?

It has to be dread making your p.u.s.s.y twitch. This isn't about s.e.x, it's about necessity. About money.

So...she'd become the puta she'd promised Mama she'd never be-but then she'd also promised Mama before she died that she'd take care of Raul. Perhaps she'd have to keep on hooking, because if there was one thing her boss at The Strip wouldn't put up with, it was having his dancers soliciting the customers for s.e.x. If he found out, she wouldn't have her job. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them back. It did no good to grieve over something that hadn't happened yet, might not happen at all.

Even if she had to make a permanent living as a wh.o.r.e, it wasn't as if she'd be the only girl from the barrio who'd given up on the idea of making it inside the law, let alone in keeping with the morality the priests talked about in the confessional.

Marisa shrugged out of her robe in the shadows of the stage curtains and tried to push away the fear that still quivered in her belly. She'd figure it out. But first she had to do this job.

"Get your a.s.s out there, baby. You're on," the stage manager whispered, punctuating his order with a smart slap on her naked b.u.t.t as the opening strains of her signature salsa music blared through the club's speakers.

It was time. As she'd done a hundred times before, Marisa strutted into the spotlight and began to gyrate to the distinctive Latin beat. She smiled, enticing the crowd, getting into the beat, twirling the ta.s.sels on her pasties, enjoying the mild arousal that came from feeling the erotic brush of silk on the bare skin of her rib cage, her belly. Like a lover's touch, almost...enticing her, as if she were stripping for a special man, dancing only for him in his garden or out on the beach where moonlit waves undulated behind her. For a few moments she forgot the hundred or so pairs of lascivious eyes that glowed eerily through the multicolored floodlights pulsating all around her. As she did each time she performed, she managed to escape the club's sleazy surroundings for the erotic fantasyland of her mind.

But she couldn't set aside her woes for long or forget what she had to do. It wasn't that she didn't like s.e.x. She did. She'd dreamed of a white knight finding her, sweeping her off her feet, taking her to a world where there was no poverty, no patron, nothing but indulging the senses, celebrating the beauty in each other. But this wasn't about fulfilling fantasies or even about pleasure. It was about surviving alone, clawing her way out of the Cuban barrio, dragging Raul along for the ride. About using her body to buy her way to freedom, respectability. Strutting around the stage, Marisa eyed the crowd of customers and settled on a dark, dangerous-looking man whose gaze seared her with its intensity. She sensed something about him, felt an erotic charge in the air unlike any she'd felt with other customers on other nights. If she had her way, he'd be her very first john.

When the next dancer came onstage, Claude clenched his gla.s.s of cola. Blood slammed into his c.o.c.k, leaving him dizzy. As dizzy as he'd have been before his injury if he'd tried to handle something heavily alcoholic instead of the beer or soft drink he'd always been able to enjoy without ill effect. Had the sultry creature who exuded s.e.xual invitation been the same one he'd seen at the back entrance moments earlier, trembling while the two bullies had issued her some sort of ultimatum? It had been too dark for him to see her clearly, but she was about the right height. Tiny, like the woman outside. She wouldn't even come up to his shoulder.

For such a little thing, this dancer packed one h.e.l.l of an erotic punch. His fingers itched to dig into that tousled mane of ebony, find all the erogenous places there...to trace the pulsating vein in her throat. He'd tug at her reddened, pierced nipples that poked impudently through gold s.h.i.+elds that lent their glow to satiny olive skin, and then move lower to tweak her c.l.i.t and find her c.u.n.t that even now filled his nostrils with the heady scent of s.e.x.

Other customers smelled it too. He could tell by the slackening in their jaws, the s.h.i.+fting of legs to accommodate sudden arousal. It made no sense, yet Claude couldn't help wanting to chase them away. Not just the customers, but the men who might have been threatening her out in the alley. They'd wanted something, they'd wanted it now, and they hadn't been inclined to take no for an answer. He'd understood that much of the conversation, smelled the fear and sensed the terror she'd been trying so hard to hide. This was the same woman.

He had no reason to be so certain, yet he was. Although she showed none of that fear now as she enticed him and every man in the place to fantasize they were f.u.c.king her, he sensed a desperation beneath her smile, the come-on sway of her hips to the beat of that Latin tune. She wanted something, needed something beyond a few dollars tucked into her G-string.

He wanted something from her too. Steamy, sweaty s.e.x. s.e.x the pretty Latina was blatantly peddling from a few feet away on the stage. Swirling lights made her sequined pasties and G-string sparkle, inviting his gaze. His b.a.l.l.s ached with antic.i.p.ation when he looked beyond the glitter to her full, firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her dusky, silky mound. Around him equally attractive women in similar states of undress offered lap dances to the patrons, dances he imagined would be delivered in the privacy of the VIP rooms every strip club had.

But it was the woman dancing onstage who intrigued him, the soft look of innocence barely visible in her dark eyes that belied her blatant come-on when she rolled her hips his way to the sultry beat of a conga drum. Claude gasped when the delicate tip of her tongue wet her painted lips. He could practically feel those full lips surrounding his c.o.c.k, sucking out his come.

Oh, f.u.c.k. He wanted to sip the glistening sweat from her brow, her a.s.s, her flat, tanned belly. His fangs itched to penetrate the creamy column of her throat and sip ever so gently from a vein he saw pulsating there. What was it about this woman, this night, that made him desperate to have her...to taste her blood while he f.u.c.ked her glistening little c.u.n.t?

Her female musk swirled in the air, the aroma tempting yet elusive across the distance between them. Though he'd felt instant l.u.s.t before, he'd never wanted a stranger so strongly, never been compelled to have her, master her, give her the pleasure she silently requested with each sultry move of her hips, every come-on gesture. Each upward curve of blood-red lips as she tempted him and every other patron in the club. It was as though destiny had brought him here, to her, on this night in this place in time.

A nearly naked blonde sidled up to his table, a huge smile on her beautiful but too-heavily made-up face.

"Buy me a drink, honey?" she asked, bending until her cleavage was in line with his face so he got a good look at her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s. b.r.e.a.s.t.s so perfectly round and firm they had to have been created by a plastic surgeon's skilled hand.

She straightened, giving him an eyeful of her shaved p.u.s.s.y, naked except for a jeweled G-string that helped display instead of hide her considerable charm. "Like what you see?"

Unfortunately for her, she reminded Claude of the blonde Reynard had killed in Buenos Aires, and that did almost as much as an icy shower toward squelching his libido. "You're very pretty." Wanting to let her down but do it easy, he smiled. "I'll buy you a drink if you'll take a message to the dancer who's onstage now. Tell her I'd like to see her when she finishes her act."

He pressed a folded bill into the woman's outstretched hand. "Marisa? Ha! If you're looking for a good time, better pick me instead, handsome. The best you'll get from the Madonna's a half-a.s.sed lap dance."

A ten-minute lap dance from her would be worth an all-night f.u.c.k with you. Claude liked to do the hunting rather than being the object of such blatant pursuit. "No offense, but I'll take my chances." Peeling another bill off the roll in his pocket, Claude tucked it into the blonde's G-string before she pivoted and headed off in search of a more promising customer. "Thank you."

He leaned back in the chair, imagining how Marisa's firm, shapely legs would feel around his waist. His b.a.l.l.s tightened. h.e.l.l, he didn't want a lap dance, he wanted to f.u.c.k her until they both were spent. Then he wanted to fall asleep with his head pillowed on her full, lush b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

His mouth went dry as though he needed to feed, although he'd partaken less than a day ago of life-sustaining blood. Maybe one of the prefab pizzas he'd seen at some of the other tables would take the edge off. Quickly he denied that temptation, for since his injury he'd practically lost his taste for mortals' junk food. Sighing, he took another sip of the cola, now watered down with melting ice. Thankfully the club didn't serve alcoholic beverages, an oddity he'd learned resulted from an ordinance that prevented sale of booze in clubs that featured nude entertainers. If it had and he'd given in to the temptation to drink some, his head would have been spinning. His c.o.c.k was painfully hard already, but it began to throb insistently as he watched Marisa toss her sparkly pasties into the audience. He managed to raise a hand in time to catch the tiny G-string he'd imagined tearing off her with his fangs.

The drumbeat accelerated. Totally nude now, she straddled the pole at center stage, humping it to the accelerating beat of the music. The small hoop in her c.l.i.t sparkled against her glistening p.u.s.s.y, beckoning Claude as clearly as a whispered invitation. Hopefully he was managing not to show his fangs, but he wasn't certain.

He felt need in the air-his own for her, but more. For scant seconds she met his gaze, and behind the facade of sensual abandon he sensed her desperation, her need not only for s.e.x but for help. A need he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd let another of the ogling customers fulfill.

Once again Marisa eyed the dark, gorgeous, prosperous-looking customer who stared at her from a front table as she writhed against the pole at center stage. He was a tourist for sure, probably a European or South American like most of the strangers who came to Miami Beach for sun and fun. But this one looked muy macho. Even tougher than the mob goons the patron had sicced on Raul and Raul had pa.s.sed along to hara.s.s her instead. The customer's white teeth gleamed when he smiled, his very prominent incisors giving him a menacing look.

Menacing but oh-so s.e.xy. This man would be able to take care of himself with the likes of the patron's enforcers. Si, this man was the sort she'd want to have as her protector from those thugs-the sort of man she'd want to f.u.c.k for free if she didn't need the money so much.

She peeled off her G-string and tossed it his way. Totally naked now, she wiggled her a.s.s so the little bell on her c.l.i.t ring swayed invitingly, in concert with the ones dangling from her nipples and colliding with the gold nipple s.h.i.+elds she always wore beneath the ta.s.seled pasties she'd discarded.

If he would take her bait, she'd give more than the lap dance he undoubtedly expected. Much more. Her c.u.n.t clenched when she imagined the dark, delicious things the stranger would do once she'd enticed him to take her not to one of the VIP rooms in back but to his hotel room. Though she'd never laid eyes on him before, she sensed a connection-a pull that had as much to do with raw s.e.xual attraction as with her dire financial situation. She also perceived an aura of power surrounding him, as though he could take on any mere mortal...and win.