Resurrection_Part One of the Macauley Vampire Trilogy Page 2
“Yeah Paul, I get lonely, and not just at night. It’s a lonely world we live in. I hope someday that changes.” Then, to lighten the mood, I added, “Maybe I’ll find me a nice, handsome Irishman such as yourself and cart him back to America with me.”
He barked out a laugh. “That’d be good, dearie. You get yourself a sweet, young Irish lad on this trip.”
He smiled back at me in the mirror and I knew he was going to let the conversation drop. Shrewdly, he’d picked up on the way I’d tried to change the tone of the conversation and seemed more than happy to go back to haggling over the things men should be doing for women.
“Then you can save money hiring fix-it men to take care of your broken electrics and appliances.” He scratched his chin. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this because it’s a bit of a secret, you know, but you need to let yer man do those things for you. Otherwise, how’s he to know he’s the man in the relationship?”
“I imagine he’d know from his plumbing,” I deadpanned.
A heartbeat later, Paul threw his head back and bellowed a great, big seal’s bark of a laugh, his eyes crinkling up into the many folds of his face, as he slapped his leg like he’d just heard the best joke of his entire life.
“‘His plumbing,’ she says. Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to share that with my Mary. She’s a real firecracker, always wanting to put the lads in their place. I can see you’re a real firecracker too.”
“Better than being a wallflower.”
“Oh, indeed. Men like their women spirited,” he answered on a chuckle as he deftly maneuvered the car through rush hour traffic.
When we finally pulled up in front of the hotel, I didn’t wait for Paul to come around and open the door for me. Stepping out onto the wet pavement, he laid his weathered hand on my arm.
“I know you’re a tough one alright and you can take care of yourself, but if you ever need anything, just call the service and they’ll tell you how to get in touch with me. All alone here in the city, and as pretty as you are, I feel a bit responsible for you.”
I turned to grab the handle of one of my smaller bags so he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Thanks Paul,” I answered on a wave as I followed the bellhop into the historic building.
Chapter Two
Olivia
I jumped in the shower, the scalding hot water sluicing down my tired body to ease the tension in my neck, shoulders, and back. By the time I emerged, I almost felt like a new woman—or at the very least, an upgraded model. I was too knackered to go exploring, so I threw on the long cashmere robe I always traveled with and ordered room service before pulling out my laptop to check email and jot down some narrative ideas I’d had while rinsing conditioner out of my hair. There was nothing worse than to striking inspirational pay dirt only to lose the idea because I’d been unable to record it.
As I wrapped up my notes, my thoughts drifted back to Macauley Castle. I knew so much about my characters—what they looked like, how they felt about the world around them, the way they spoke—but without having a clear picture of where the story would take place, I felt like my momentum was halted. Looking over the pictures I’d printed out of each of the potential locales, my eyes kept returning to the tower house near the shore of Lough Lorain. Realistically speaking, any of the four estates would make a fine central location for the book as they each conveyed an atmosphere, historic atmosphere, but something about Macauley Castle spoke to me in a way the others simply didn’t.
I’d first stumbled on pictures of the castle in an article that recounted its long and laborious restoration process, and I’d found myself more intrigued than I normally would have been. The undertaking had been a painstaking one, costing millions of euros over the course of many long years. While the article’s photos presented a picture-perfect location for my book’s narrator to discover her mysterious family legacy, I was equally compelled by photographs of the owner, a man every bit as appealing as the room he was pictured standing in.
The four story tower house, which sat on nearly 50 acres in County Kilkenny, was erected sometime in the 1400s to house and protect local families in the case of raiders from neighboring, and oftentimes warring, clans. The castle’s front entrance overlooked a grassy slope that descended to a lake stocked with the area’s most prized fish. It was secluded, and yet it wasn’t.
Neighbors spoke rather informally about the current owner, a lord whose family could be traced back over five hundred years. They called him William, or Lord William, and they spoke openly with the magazine that if it weren’t for him pumping so much money into the village, drawing artisan workers from around the country, first for the restoration, and now prize anglers to fish the lake, they didn’t know what would have become of the village. It seemed Lord William had singlehandedly turned the village into a tourist attraction all while keeping the castle closed to the public.
While the castle’s exterior was formidable and off-putting, the interior was as warm and welcoming as any luxury boutique hotel, retaining its medieval charm but focusing on the conveniences of the modern era. It wasn’t a grand place like Ashford or Dromoland but the photos presented an historic authenticity that was perfectly balanced against a relaxed, lived-in feel. Crystal chandeliers lighted rooms carpeted with pristine antique rugs that sat beneath distressed, oversized chesterfield sofas. In one photo, the couch acted as a lounging spot for two large Irish wolfhounds. The fireplace in the main hall was purely medieval, and I guessed three adults my height or similar could stand shoulder to shoulder in its massive open firebox. The one bathroom the article touched on was a modern masterpiece outfitted with an oversized egg-shaped soaking tub and a separate steam shower set off by gleaming white tile that practically shimmered in the photograph. At the opposite end of the master bedroom stood another formidable stone fireplace, seemingly out of place in the modern sanctuary. The four-poster bed was piled high with down pillows and, at least according to the article, always dressed in Fretté sheets. At the end of the bed, contrasting nicely with the luxurious linens, sat a threadbare plaid throw that was said to have been in the family for centuries.
The room, with touches of leather and wood, screamed masculinity, but I knew a woman would be comfortable there as well. Especially if that woman was me, I thought, before I had the good sense not to.
I spent the rest of my night researching William Macauley, trying to find something I could use to gain access to either him or the castle he owned. During my obsessive research, I’d learned the castle had uninhabited until the new millennium when William began restoring and refurbishing it for his private residence.
Just before midnight I’d pieced together enough information to paint a portrait of who the mysterious Lord William was. Based on a combination of society gossip and business and technology press, I’d learned he was independently wealthy, his family’s money going back centuries, but he’d also made a small fortune of his own by investing in technology companies, clean energy innovations, and real estate. The guy was an honest-to-goodness billionaire playboy and depending on what outlet you read, was either the most charming man alive or the most elusive, cut-throat mogul you’d ever come across.
Lending additional secrecy to his persona, he’d lived in his castle alone for the last five years and had never been married. He’d had one woman in his life, a striking Eastern European model named Nadia, but she’d disappeared not long ago. Everything else I found about his romantic entanglements was either rumor, innuendo, or conjecture, including some saying he was gay. Despite the fact that no one seemed to agree who William Macauley was, they all concluded what he was: filthy stinking rich and one of Western Europe’s most eligible bachelors. Having turned 40 with no bride in sight and a vast estate at his disposal, William was society gossip target number two, right below Prince Harry.
I snorted in disgust. A man in his early forties who dated a bevy of beautiful women was lauded for his exquisite taste. A wo
man in the same position would have been derided and called a host of unflattering names. The double standard between the sexes never ceased to amaze me. Unfortunately, I knew a little something about this from my own experience with San Francisco’s gossipmongers. My parents weren’t the Gettys or the Hales but they’d run in the same circles for a few generations. My great-great-grandfather made his fortune in the years following the 1906 earthquake in land speculation and construction so we were the furthest thing from blue bloods you could think of, but our money bought the same things as theirs so they’d accepted The Donnellys into the fold. Me being a red-haired amazon—not a fashionably petite, blue-eyed ice blonde—was a subtle reminder to them of our working class roots, and my mom’s “friends” liked to tweak her nose about it.
Unmarried at the ripe old age of 27, I’d fielded my fair share of questions about my romantic entanglements from people I didn’t know. As I’d told Paul the day before, I’d dated doctors (a notable heart surgeon), actors (currently wearing a superhero uniform in cinemas near you), and musicians (one a thrice-nominated Grammy nominee) and with each new relationship speculation ran rampant about which one I’d eventually convince to meet me at the altar. I’d begged my mom to put a stop to their very public, very snide conjecture, but she could no more control her friends than I could. I’d finally cut off all ties with that world when after my parents had died when an email chain between four of my mother’s friends speculating about the dying out of our family name was “accidentally” forwarded to me.
Absently, I wondered how William handled the gossip. No one was worried yet that he wouldn’t knock up some beautiful young thing with a baby boy to carry on the exalted family name, but whenever he was seen with a new woman, they did speculate whether or not she’d be the one to finally earn his name. I knew I shouldn’t spend too much time thinking about it, but I couldn’t lie. I was intrigued by him. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted to know more about the man.
Just before I was ready to call it a night. I stumbled across a photo taken just before William entered one of the Georgian buildings lining the green space outside my hotel. On his arm was a ravishing, wisp-thin, raven-haired beauty. Each of their faces turned down in a scowl, it looked like neither enjoyed having their photo taken. The caption said it was a rare sight for William to make a public appearance accompanied by the same woman three events in a row. The dinner, hosted by Ireland’s Taoiseach—which Google indicated was equivalent to prime minister—meant William was connected in the highest level of government and politics.
The man was rich, sexy, and powerful, a combination that was like catnip to women, myself included. There was no use denying that I found William Macauley a very attractive man. His shiny black hair fell effortlessly over his forehead while a firm, chiseled jaw perpetually showed just a hint of five o’clock shadow. In the photos, his piercing blue eyes locked on the photographer in front of him in unabashed challenge which should have made him look foreboding, but his lips, the bottom one a plump invitation, softened his overall demeanor. He also, I realized, looked much younger than his 40 years. Having spent the last fifteen years of that time building his fortune, I would have thought he’d have a smattering of gray hair around his temples or some frown lines around his eyes. While his face and body looked even younger than forty, his age could be found in his eyes: they were wary and tired.
Staring at his photo a moment longer, I had the vague notion that I’d seen him somewhere before but wracking my brain produced no specific ideas. It was inconceivable that I’d forgotten meeting someone as striking as William Macauley, and yet his face held a certain familiarity I couldn’t shake. Maybe he looked like someone I’d known at some other point in my life? Perhaps his features were just common? I looked at the photo again. No, they most certainly were not. His face was utterly unique. Scratching my head before wrapping my wayward curls into top knot, I figured the most likely explanation was that during the course of my research I’d seen so many other pictures of him he’d become familiar to me. Regardless, I thought, pushing the sleeves of my robe up my arm, I might not know him know but I was going to meet him.
My jet lag always worse the second night, I finally succumbed to exhaustion and climbed into bed for the night. Mentally going over my packed itinerary for the next day, I tried to push thoughts of William Macauley aside but now that he was in my head, he refused to budge.
As I began to drift off to sleep, my thoughts turned from business to pleasure, and I let myself fantasize about him, about seducing him. As I lay in bed naked, the thought of meeting and bedding William turned me on more than I would have expected. I wanted him powerfully, and the idea of being able to bend him that strong, virile man to my will was incredibly erotic. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.
I’d be sitting at a table in the village pub drinking a pint of Guinness when he’d walk in. I’d watch him from across the room as he sat down for dinner and his own pint. He’d look up every now and again, aware someone watched him, but not seeing me in the corner of the dimly lit room. Eventually, I’d step outside for some air, making sure to walk past his table and I’d brush against his arm as I exited. He’d look up, meet my eyes, and know it had been me who hadn’t taken her eyes off him all night. Wordlessly, he’d follow me outside, stepping close before reaching out to tuck an unruly red curl behind my ear. Silently, not having spoken a single word to each other, he’d put his hands on my face and kiss me, deep and hungry and with a longing that echoed my own.
I could feel my body respond to the imagined scene—my breathing deepened, my pulse quickened, and I felt a desperate aching between my thighs that reminded me just how alone I’d been and for how long. As I continued to let my imagination run wild, I invited my hands to do the same. Trailing my fingers lightly over my left breast, lazily tracing circles around my nipple, I pictured William gently kneading and stroking the same area, my chest rising and falling with my increasingly rapid breathing. Goose bumps broke out on my arms and torso while in my mind, William removed my sweater and began suckling my raised nipples through the lace of my bra. I twisted the erect peak between my fingers, sending jolts of electric fire coursing down my body. And then the William of my imagination had me naked, pushed up against the brick wall of the pub, his dark and brooding good looks a stark contrast to my creamy alabaster skin and fiery red hair.
In my mind, William moved his hand down to caress my stomach and I did the same, parting the folds of my wet, swollen self as he entered me on a determined, his throbbing cock burning a hole to my core. I could feel my desire about to reach its crescendo and as I brought myself to orgasm, I imagined it wasn’t my fingers doing the work but was instead William’s steely rod plundering me, urging me to completion. As the final waves of an earth-shattering orgasm washed over me, I moaned his name.
Chapter Three
Olivia
I slept for nearly nine hours straight and couldn’t remember dreaming, a welcome relief from the nightmares that normally invaded my slumber. Clearly epic orgasms were the key to a good night’s sleep I thought as a wry smile broke out on my face as I recalled the images I’d conjured the night before. All too soon, I was awash with guilt as I realized I’d fantasized about a man I had only ever read about in magazines. As fast as the guilt had come, I pushed it away, laughing to myself. Men the world over had been doing the same thing with Playboy and the like for decades. Somehow though, this experience felt different, more personal. I didn’t want to examine that thought too closely for what it might reveal.
As I showered and got ready for the day, I told myself, repeatedly, that I wouldn’t think about William Macauley for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, my mind had a mind of its own and I thought about him at least every 20 minutes, maybe even closer to every ten minutes. Clearly I needed to get out of my room and away from the fantasy I shamelessly and wantonly obsessed over.
I stared in the mirror for a long time before leaving, comparing myself to the
types of women William favored. With my unruly red curls, pale skin, and smattering of freckles, I would never be called an All-American beauty or grace the cover of magazines, but enough men had pursued me over the years to know that my looks inspired a specific kind of devotion. The tattoo that ran down my right arm from shoulder to elbow was a favorite adornment with a certain type of man, usually those who wanted to view me as a carefree spirit they could tame. Having tired of the overbearing alpha types who saw me as a challenge, I now gravitated toward musicians and artists. It wasn’t lost on me that William was the epitome of an Armani-clad alpha and that rather than being repulsed by it, I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
When I did cover up my tattoos—as I did now with a long, cream turtleneck sweater over jeans tucked into brown leather riding boots—and pulled my wayward curls into a low bun, I transformed from the supposed banshee into something much more respectable. Something, I smiled with realization, more closely resembling what Americans thought of as a typical Irish lass. My wide Celtic mouth hitched up in a smile, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose, and deep, heavily lashed green eyes completed the picture.
With one final look of approval, I grabbed my camera and made my way outside. For the next several hours I took in all the sites, my first stop Trinity College to visit the massive library that housed the Book of Kells, an otherworldly illustrated manuscript of the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, with some of John’s story included as well. As an atheist, the words meant little to me, but as an artist I was captivated by the craftsmanship and intricacy of patterns repeated across the thin vellum pages.
From Trinity, I wandered Dublin’s narrow cobbled streets, going in and out of shops selling Irish pottery, crystal, and hand-knitted sweaters, which I quickly purchased three of. They’d be too warm in San Francisco, but as I bundled myself up against the gale-force winds, I realized the sweaters I’d brought with me were no match for an Irish winter. My stomach growling, I grabbed a bite to eat at Queen of Tarts and then stopped in to a nearby pub to drink my first Guinness of the trip. Sure enough, it did taste better on draught in Dublin.