Samson's Lovely Mortal
Page 76
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Which, unfortunately, shared a wall with the master bedroom.
His sensitive hearing picked up more than he wanted to know or be part of, so he fashioned some makeshift earplugs out of cotton balls he found in the bathroom. It helped somewhat. At least he couldn’t hear their voices anymore. It was another matter for the barrage of their emotions that hit him. They made it virtually impossible for Amaury to switch off. It appeared make-up sex was going well.
In all his years as a vampire he’d never met a woman who had stirred him the way Delilah affected Samson. Amaury was quite a bit older than his friend, by almost two hundred years, and he’d tried them all. How he had survived that long, he really wasn’t quite sure, especially since he’d made enough enemies amongst humans and vampires alike.
He’d lived through difficult times in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds in his native France, before he’d felt it was time to get a fresh start on a new continent where his reputation as a scoundrel and philanderer didn’t precede him. Plus, he’d gone through every woman aged from fifteen to fifty, and he was slowly but surely running out of willing bedmates. He was more prolific than Don Juan or Casanova, even though his name didn’t quite make it into the history books. Just as well – he didn’t need any publicity.
The guest room was comfortable enough, but his own personal nightmares woke him too early, an hour before sunset. The nightmares were familiar and hadn’t changed much in the last few hundred years. Despite working with Dr. Drake on the guilt that plagued him, he couldn’t rid himself of the images which tormented his sleep every night.
There was no need to stay in bed if he couldn’t get back to sleep. A quick shower was refreshing, and so was the blood he found in the fridge in the pantry, the combination of which was no secret to him. He’d stayed at Samson’s often enough to be familiar with all supply cabinets, and for now he didn’t have enough time to go out hunting for a fresh meal. How Samson could live off the packaged stuff was beyond him.
Amaury preferred the warm and tasty red liquid pouring straight out of a breathing human. Preferably a female with whom he could satisfy two desires at once—two birds with one stone. And frankly, his carnal desires would need some major soothing soon. He rarely went a night without it.
Amaury wasn’t in a relationship with any particular female. Instead he took whatever he could get from whichever willing female was available. Thanks to his good looks, there were always sufficient females interested in a roll in the hay with him. Well, these days, it wasn’t in the hay anymore, since he actually preferred a soft mattress with high-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Mainstreaming did have its luxuries.
He poured over the newspaper Oliver had brought in earlier in the day. There was no sign of him in the house now; instead, Carl would be reporting to duty soon after sunset.
Minutes after delving into the paper, he heard steps on the stairs. It wasn’t Samson’s heavy footsteps, but Delilah’s much lighter ones which approached. She appeared in the kitchen seconds later, a warm glow about her.
“Morning,” she greeted him with a smile.
“Evening, Delilah. Samson up yet?”
“No. I let him sleep. He seemed exhausted.”
He grinned. “No surprise.”
The house had practically shaken like an earthquake, with the epicenter right in the master bedroom. Or maybe it was just Amaury’s sensitivity to emotions, his special gift—and painful as hell—which had made him feel like San Francisco was in for another big one.
Delilah’s resulting blush would shame a ripe tomato. She would get used to it. If he had read their emotions correctly last night, she would become a permanent fixture in this household.
“I’m starving. Shall I make you a sandwich while I’m at it?” Delilah opened the fridge and started taking out some bread, cold cuts, and salad items.
“No, thanks; solid foods after I’ve just gotten up don’t quite agree with me.” It wasn’t a lie. Solid foods didn’t agree with him, but not just for breakfast. Not that he wouldn’t have liked eating a juicy steak if he could. As a Frenchman the loss of good food after he’d turned into a vampire had hit him the hardest.
Delilah went about washing some tomatoes. “You know, I’ve found something in the transactions last night.”
“Go on.” Amaury had a more than basic understanding of accounting and was a good partner to bounce ideas off.
“So, imagine you want to get past the internal controls to move valuable assets out of the company—what would you do?”
His sensitive hearing picked up more than he wanted to know or be part of, so he fashioned some makeshift earplugs out of cotton balls he found in the bathroom. It helped somewhat. At least he couldn’t hear their voices anymore. It was another matter for the barrage of their emotions that hit him. They made it virtually impossible for Amaury to switch off. It appeared make-up sex was going well.
In all his years as a vampire he’d never met a woman who had stirred him the way Delilah affected Samson. Amaury was quite a bit older than his friend, by almost two hundred years, and he’d tried them all. How he had survived that long, he really wasn’t quite sure, especially since he’d made enough enemies amongst humans and vampires alike.
He’d lived through difficult times in the fifteen and sixteen hundreds in his native France, before he’d felt it was time to get a fresh start on a new continent where his reputation as a scoundrel and philanderer didn’t precede him. Plus, he’d gone through every woman aged from fifteen to fifty, and he was slowly but surely running out of willing bedmates. He was more prolific than Don Juan or Casanova, even though his name didn’t quite make it into the history books. Just as well – he didn’t need any publicity.
The guest room was comfortable enough, but his own personal nightmares woke him too early, an hour before sunset. The nightmares were familiar and hadn’t changed much in the last few hundred years. Despite working with Dr. Drake on the guilt that plagued him, he couldn’t rid himself of the images which tormented his sleep every night.
There was no need to stay in bed if he couldn’t get back to sleep. A quick shower was refreshing, and so was the blood he found in the fridge in the pantry, the combination of which was no secret to him. He’d stayed at Samson’s often enough to be familiar with all supply cabinets, and for now he didn’t have enough time to go out hunting for a fresh meal. How Samson could live off the packaged stuff was beyond him.
Amaury preferred the warm and tasty red liquid pouring straight out of a breathing human. Preferably a female with whom he could satisfy two desires at once—two birds with one stone. And frankly, his carnal desires would need some major soothing soon. He rarely went a night without it.
Amaury wasn’t in a relationship with any particular female. Instead he took whatever he could get from whichever willing female was available. Thanks to his good looks, there were always sufficient females interested in a roll in the hay with him. Well, these days, it wasn’t in the hay anymore, since he actually preferred a soft mattress with high-thread-count Egyptian cotton. Mainstreaming did have its luxuries.
He poured over the newspaper Oliver had brought in earlier in the day. There was no sign of him in the house now; instead, Carl would be reporting to duty soon after sunset.
Minutes after delving into the paper, he heard steps on the stairs. It wasn’t Samson’s heavy footsteps, but Delilah’s much lighter ones which approached. She appeared in the kitchen seconds later, a warm glow about her.
“Morning,” she greeted him with a smile.
“Evening, Delilah. Samson up yet?”
“No. I let him sleep. He seemed exhausted.”
He grinned. “No surprise.”
The house had practically shaken like an earthquake, with the epicenter right in the master bedroom. Or maybe it was just Amaury’s sensitivity to emotions, his special gift—and painful as hell—which had made him feel like San Francisco was in for another big one.
Delilah’s resulting blush would shame a ripe tomato. She would get used to it. If he had read their emotions correctly last night, she would become a permanent fixture in this household.
“I’m starving. Shall I make you a sandwich while I’m at it?” Delilah opened the fridge and started taking out some bread, cold cuts, and salad items.
“No, thanks; solid foods after I’ve just gotten up don’t quite agree with me.” It wasn’t a lie. Solid foods didn’t agree with him, but not just for breakfast. Not that he wouldn’t have liked eating a juicy steak if he could. As a Frenchman the loss of good food after he’d turned into a vampire had hit him the hardest.
Delilah went about washing some tomatoes. “You know, I’ve found something in the transactions last night.”
“Go on.” Amaury had a more than basic understanding of accounting and was a good partner to bounce ideas off.
“So, imagine you want to get past the internal controls to move valuable assets out of the company—what would you do?”
