Page 5 of Immortal Pirates

“One can look at it that way,” she replied. “Or one can look at the fact that I explored the situation, and then chose to end it, and here we are—back to the discussion of payment. And the mission at hand. Instead of…” She flapped her hand toward the curtained area of the chamber, where, surely, he’d been intent on getting her.

The fact that St. Albans had kissed her—and remarkably well; her body was still thrumming hot—instead of immediately trying to feed on her was the main reason she’d allowed him that close.

And because he was someone she wanted to kiss.

Who wouldn’t? He was handsome—but then most all the Dracule were handsome. She supposed that might be part of the bargain they made with Lucifer—along with the immortality and extra strength that came along with it. However that worked.

But St. Albans…he was extraordinarily handsome, with his dark mahogany hair and sleepy blue eyes. His skin was sprinkled with an ocean of freckles, giving him a bronzed appearance. He was tall—too tall for her taste—but she appreciated his broad shoulders and the shape of his hands. And his mouth…well, it was dangerous and perfect at the same time.

“Thus,” she forced herself to continue, “we need to speak plainly on terms. I’ll take you to find theDevil’s Target, and you’ll pay my fee. Which will be: the entirety of the spoils on the ship, except for the one item you wish to retrieve. Is that agreeable?”

“It is.”

“Very well. We have a deal.” She’d started for the bellpull, which would ring for Bladsoe, her first mate, when she noticed St. Albans’ expression. “What is it?”

“I do believe the agreement of a deal requires some form of…consummation between the two parties.” His eyes were so verydark and blue, and though they held none of the Draculian glow, they seemed to burn.

“In lieu of a written contract, a handshake is customary,” she replied, furious by the way her belly had dropped at his words, and the way her pulse spiked. How dare he have this effect on her?

“A handshake will suffice.” He stepped forward, and Arial, with some misgiving, did the same.

She extended her hand, and he took it in a firm handshake…but just as she was about to pull it away, he tightened his grip and lifted it to his mouth, turning her hand to expose the inside of her arm.

“St. Albans,” she warned, expecting his fangs to shoot forth and slide into the sensitive skin of her wrist.

But instead, he merely pressed his mouth to the translucent white skin, where her blue veins pulsed erratically beneath. His lips were soft and moist, and the touch sent warm and delicious prickles in a swarm all over her arm and torso.

She felt the slide of his fangs against—but not into—her skin, felt the heat of his breath, suddenly more harsh against her. His lips and tongue traced the length of her wrist, up toward her elbow, over her tattoo…slowly, sensually, sleekly.

At any moment, she expected him to plunge his fangs into her flesh, to release the hot surge of blood that pounded recklessly inside her. She shivered, aware that her knees were weak and she wanted him to touch her and kiss her everywhere.

With that realization, her eyes bolted wide from where they’d become drugged by arousal, and she tugged her hand away.

To her surprise, he allowed her to do so, and she curled her arm—unmarked but for the moisture left by his lips and tongue—against her belly.

“I’d say that will suffice to seal our deal,” she said, then added briskly, “The longer we delay pulling anchor here in Barbados, the longer it will take to find them.”

He seemed to take a moment to collect himself. As well, he was taking no pains to hide his thrusting fangs—as if to demonstrate that he hadn’t used them. She refused to allow him the satisfaction of looking lower to see whether other parts of him were full and extended.

“I cannot argue with that. As far as I’m concerned, you can pull anchor now,” he said, glancing toward the glass windows where the crew was moving about, doing their tasks in preparation for leaving port. They were as ready to get away as she was. “Are they trustworthy?”

Arial crossed her arms over her middle. “As a priest. Which, I realize isn’t saying much, but you get the idea.” She’d handpicked every man on this ship, save two newer mates, and they were not only loyal to her, but would give their lives for her. Each one of them, without hesitation. As she’d do for them as well.

He was still looking out through the windows, his brow furrowing so there was a vertical line above his nose. “You don’t ever…er…worry that one of them might…well, youarea woman, and of rather small stature?—”

“Do I worry one of them might attempt to assault or rape me?” Arial gave a short bark of laughter. “Not at all. I’m not their…sort. If you understand my meaning.”

Which was, partly, the reason for her predicament here with St. Albans: that she’d fallen for his smooth voice, godlike good looks, and the fact that she hadn’t taken a lover in far too long.

“Ah.” He seemed far too pleased with that information. Before she could respond, he continued, “Do you know where theDevil’s Targetis?”

“Not precisely, but I will soon,” she replied.

When he looked at her curiously, she wondered if perhaps she’d said too much. Even her crew didn’t know—except for Bladsoe. But though St. Albans appeared ready to press for further information, she shook her head and reached for the bellpull, yanking hard twice. “I’ve got work to do.”

Then an unpleasant and yet titillating thought struck her. “I suppose you’ll have to stay in here, at least while the sun is up. Unless you want to bunk with the crew belowdeck.” She couldn’t hold back a sudden grin. “They’d love to have you, I’m certain.”

To her surprise, he smiled back. “How kind of you to officially invite me to share your quarters, Captain Bonny. I accept.”