If Tristan Chance believed in curses...
He never would have denied his brother's claims that the Chance men are cursed to watch their soul mates perish, powerless to stop destiny from claiming them.
And he wouldn't have questioned the truth of his body's response to Lara Montgomery, a woman who calls to every aspect of his dark, sensual nature. After all, he's been alive for three hundred years, and in all that time he's never felt such an irresistible pull toward anyone. Yet each time he sees Lara, he wants nothing more than to rip those prim and proper accountant clothes off her body and reveal the sultry vixen he knows hides beneath...
And he definitely wouldn't have acted on his tempestuous arousal if he had known the family curse would put Lara's life in danger.
But even alpha vampires can be wrong. Tristan might be stubborn, but he's not reckless. One bite, one taste, and he knows he can't let her go. Tristan will do everything in his power to keep Lara by his side, even if it means taking on fate itself.
Excerpt
The dim, private atmosphere of the place was inviting
enough, in a tacky, oversexed kind of way. Blue neon lights glittered from
golden sconces set in mosaic patterns against black-painted walls. Only the
ceiling boasted bright color. A fresco portraying a luminous blue sky and
nude women frolicking among the clouds stood out in stark contrast to the
dark walls, the mahogany tables, the black leather seats.
Twenty-four tables, each seating six, had been arranged
around the room. Unlike in Richard's office, only one woman lay on each
table, her body strategically covered with artfully arranged food. None
moved as men grabbed for the most tempting morsels-those covering their
breasts and pelvic areas.
Against one wall, a mirrored bar held hundreds of
bottles and upturned crystal glasses. In the center of the room was a
raised stage and a dance floor, but both stood empty. Tristan doubted the
dance floor received much use. Unless they worked here, women didn't come
to Bitter Sweet and Tristan supposed the lounge's clientele had a
reputation to uphold and wouldn't be caught dead dancing with one another,
no matter how many of those bottles lining the bar they'd indulged in.
Although the odors tickling his nose were milder here
than they'd been in Richard's small office, he still easily distinguished
the unmistakable scents of arousal, body heat, tobacco and too much
alcohol.
He walked through the crowd, trying to avoid brushing
against anyone as he passed. As much as the smells revolted him though, the
sounds human bodies made intrigued and enticed him. In particular, the soft
vibration of blood rushing through thick veins made his mouth water.
Gritting his teeth, Tristan glanced at his watch. The
first light of dawn would make an appearance in a couple of hours. He'd
indulged in a fleeting taste of nourishing blood before the meeting but
he'd need a full meal before sunrise.
A waiter dressed in black slacks and a turtleneck bore a
metal tray on which a dozen martini glasses balanced precariously. Swirling
liquid gleamed a navy blue in each of them. The man stopped beside Tristan
and tilted his head in invitation. "On the house."
"No need. I'm leaving."
The waiter chuckled. "No one leaves this place before
closing time. You'd have to be a fool to leave before all the food is
gone."
"I don't like what's on the menu."
"Hey, suit yourself, man. There are plenty of gay bars
down the street."
Tristan didn't bother explaining. It didn't matter what
the waiter thought and besides, feeding was feeding. Women were much easier
to feed upon but a gay man would easily do in a pinch.
Elbowing his way past a middle-aged man wearing a
Hawaiian shirt, Tristan had almost reached the door when he spotted the
woman lying on a table situated in the darkest corner of the room.
His mouth went dry. He stopped in mid-stride, instantly
alert.
It wasn't just that she was stunning, though she
certainly was that. A riot of midnight-black curls fell in tight waves
around her creamy shoulders, drawing his attention to the faint blue vein
pulsing at the side of her slender throat.
No, what really made the breath catch in his throat was
the knowledge that he'd seen her twice before, just that evening. As he'd
climbed into his limo, he'd noticed her crossing the street against the
light. A couple of hours later he'd bumped into her again as he pushed past
the waiting crowd to enter Bitter Sweet.
That's how it starts. The curse knows, Tristan. It
gets you when you least expect it, with nothing more menacing than random
sightings and coincidental run-ins.
Annoyed at himself for letting his younger brother's
insistent ramblings intrude upon his thoughts, Tristan neared the table.
When he'd seen her outside, he'd been attracted to the
way her long legs peeked out from under a knee-length jacket, flashing the
barest hint of a metallic miniskirt. Now the only items camouflaging the
perfection of her supple, lean body were the assembled bits of food and an
abundance of gold jewelry. Rings, a long triple-strand necklace, bracelets,
anklets and two toe rings shone against her pale skin.
As he drew closer, the air around her shifted. The men
feasting upon her didn't notice but Tristan did. Energy sheltered her-an
undulating tide of pure bright light that flowed and pulsed with the
rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. He blinked hard, trying to dispel the
vision, but it didn't fade. Instead, the light intensified as he stopped
inches away from her.
That's when he noticed she had her eyes closed. The
other women had all focused intently upon the ceiling, but her lashes
didn't as much as flutter. On impulse, Tristan reached out and stroked the
tender skin at the hollow dip of her collarbone.
"No touching," she said. Her throaty, confident voice
sent a jolt of heat to his groin. She sounded like a woman used to being
admired, a woman utterly unashamed in her nudity and comfortable in her own
skin. These days, that was practically a miracle. "You may grab the food,"
she continued, "and if your hand brushes against me once, fine. But
fondling is entirely out of the question."
"Is that the establishment's rule or yours?"
She lifted a slender shoulder in a delicate half shrug,
but she didn't smile. At last she opened her eyelids a fraction. When she
spotted him, panic flashed in her hazel eyes.
"Oh God," she whispered in a voice so low he was certain
only he could hear. "It's really you, isn't it?"
A sigh hitched in Tristan's throat. How did she know
him? He was sure he didn't know her.
"Leave us," he said to the men gathered around the
table. Until that moment, they'd hardly given him a second glance, content
to elbow each other and snicker in delight as they uncovered inch after
flawless inch of the woman's satiny skin.
"Hey, man, this is our table. Do you have any idea how
much we paid to get in here tonight?"
"That's really none of my concern." Tristan eyed the man
closest to him, a kid barely out of college. A chain extended from his nose
to his ear, hooked through two identical rings. Briefly Tristan pictured
himself yanking that chain, tossing the man toward the door and taking his
spot.
"Well, it sure as hell is mine," a man built like a pro
football player said from across the table. He pushed his chair back and
rose to his full height, a head taller than Tristan's six feet. His upper
lip curling in a snarl, the man crossed his brawny arms across his chest.
The scowl etched on his features made Tristan think of a pit bull in heat.
"Gentlemen, we can do this the easy way or we can do it
the hard way. The choice is yours."
Pit Bull laughed and the harsh sound carried above the
loud, gregarious chatter permeating the lounge. "I never do anything the
easy way."
Tristan sighed and glanced down at the woman. She hadn't
moved but her eyes remained open and she watched the events unfolding
around her with obvious interest.
"Don't ask me," she said. "I get paid no matter which
one of you sits here."
Fighting Chance (Book 1 in "Chance Encounters" Series)