A Vampire for Christmas

chapter THREE





DAMIEN DIDN’T KNOW WHAT woke him, only that there was an undeniable presence in the room. Something powerful and otherwordly that beat against his preternatural senses. He came instantly alert and reached for Angelina protectively, but she was no longer beside him.



He had cared for her during the past few hours, feeding her sips of nourishing broth made from the few limp vegetables and a small chunk of dried beef he’d found in the larder. Only blood provided him true sustenance, but on occasion he would have a guest, usually one of the hungry, traveling laborers. They were trying to find work and something to fill their bellies during the economic depression gripping the country.



The broth had seemed to offer her strength, and he had tended to her wounds, surprised by how quickly she appeared to be healing. Not less than an hour ago the skin on her back had begun knitting over the ugly gashes.



But now she was gone, he thought, sitting up quickly only to find Angelina standing at the window, staring out at the night. She was bathed in the platinum light of the full moon. The beams caressed her and streamed beyond the outline of her body, making her look ethereal. Angelic, he thought fancifully, until she turned, revealing the beauty of her naked body. Then, the only thoughts he had were purely sinful.



“Come to bed, my love,” he said, the purr of the vampire tingeing his voice as need slammed into him. His erection tented the light sheet as he became painfully hard. His desire for her had grown exponentially in the year they had been apart.



“I cannot,” she replied with outstretched hands, her palms raised to the heavens, almost in supplication. To his surprise, tiny pinpricks of light gathered there and slowly grew in size, illuminating the room with an intense golden glow. When the shimmering light spread along the perimeter of the space, the room changed before his eyes, almost as if he were watching a Saturday matinee movie play on the walls.



The window behind Angelina vanished and the white of the nearby wall became the rough-hewn stucco and dark wood of a familiar sight—the sailor’s saloon where he had first met Angelina just over a century earlier.



What’s going on? How is this happening?”



Twice before I was sent to you, Damien,” she answered, her voice filled with strength and an underlying drone that sounded like voices murmuring in prayer. Or maybe a choir singing glorious praise. He couldn’t be sure, although he was certain that the origin of the sound was not of this mortal realm.



Before his eyes, the light from her palms spread even farther, overtaking the confines of his bedroom and turning it into that Cuban den of iniquity, replete with sailors from the many ships docked in the port and the women who hoped to ply their wares to them.



Damien recalled the scene vividly, even after so long a time. He had just made a run down from Philadelphia to pick up a load of tobacco and rum. Such wares normally fetched a nice price back in the States, although not as good a price as slave running. The talk against slavery had been growing. It would be only a matter of time before that issue caused bloodshed, Damien had worried during that long-ago visit.



Despite his desire for money and success, Damien had never desired to trade in such misery. He had been a slave of poverty for too long and would not visit such a fate on another human.



But vices such as tobacco and rum had been a different matter, Damien recalled.



He watched the scene unfold before his eyes as people came and went in the vision. Only seconds passed before he heard a familiar voice—Angelina’s sweet tones—and then his own gruff and slightly slurred reply. “A pint of rum will do.”



Damien was drawn to the sight of the two of them. They were tucked into a far corner of the saloon. He had met Angelina just a few short days into his trip and had been instantly drawn to her.



That attraction had led to many a pleasurable night in her bed. Although Angelina had asked for no coin in return, he had left it nevertheless. He had money to spare and was certain she had need of it. Unlike his miserly father, who had provided nothing for him and his mother, Damien would not do the same to another woman.



“This was our first Christmas Eve, Damien. Remember it well. Remember how it ended,” the Angelina of the present said to him as she slowly faded from sight and the vision overwhelmed him, filling every corner of his bedroom with the sights, scents and noises from 1830 Havana.



When Angelina completely disappeared from sight, something powerful slammed into Damien, so intensely that he fell back against the edge of the bed, weakened. Then that force yanked him roughly from where he stood. He felt as if he were flying through the air, his arms and legs flailing for purchase. Then he landed with a jolt on a rough-hewn bench in that Cuban tavern.



“You all right, Captain? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” his first mate said from beside him.



His own ghost if any, Damien thought as he collected himself and peered around the room, trying to understand what had occurred. How was it possible that he had returned to 1830 and Havana?



Angelina approached not seconds later, carrying a large tray loaded with beverages and food for those at his table. She looked different from the apparition that had graced his bed just moments before. Sexily voluptuous, but more tired around the eyes.



He hadn’t noticed that fatigue during their first encounter over a century ago. All he had seen was a beautiful woman he wanted to be his. A diversion from his loneliness.



Her emerald gaze locked with his as she bent to pass out pints of alcohol and plates filled with fragrant chicken and rice. When she laid his drink before him, her position and the décolletage of her plain white blouse allowed him to see the tidily mended chemise beneath that barely contained the generous globes of her breasts.



A peek of a nipple popping free had him instantly hard as he imagined tasting her. Savoring the sweetness of her body.



She must have noticed where his attention had drifted since she brushed her breast along his arm as she laid the dish of food before him. The smell of her, that familiar aroma of warm sunshine and wildflowers, wafted into his senses, obliterating the foul odors of unwashed bodies, cheap liquor and the untold detritus littering the floor of the sleazy tavern.



When she would have moved away, he tenderly laid a hand on her arm. Skin smooth as fresh-picked peaches was warm beneath his palm. “We need to talk,” he said.



Confusion clouded her eyes before she playfully teased, “Talk, is it? That wasn’t what you wanted last night, mi amor.”



Damien realized then that this Angelina had no idea about their future or their past. She was a part of the vision, not that it mattered. All that was important was that he be with her. That he show her how much he cared and protect her from harm.



He knew she could not leave her station without making enough money to satisfy the barkeep, who was also the demanding owner of the saloon. Reaching for the bag of coins on his belt, he pulled it off and eased it into her free hand. “Will that be enough for you to go with me right now for a talk?”



She hefted the weight of it in her hands and narrowed her eyes. Shot a quick glance over her shoulder at the barkeep, who watched them intently. “In a rush? Afraid the Devil’s got your number?”



Damien had tempted Fate and probably the Devil more than once in his life. With his father denying his existence and abandoning his mother, Damien had been forced to survive in any way he could. Legal or illegal didn’t matter. It was too tough to worry about rules when hunger was gnawing a hole in your belly.



Much like desire for Angelina was burning through his gut just now.



“I’m an impatient man,” he admitted and a moment of déjà vu flitted over him. It occurred to him then that he was being forced to relive his earliest encounter with Angelina, almost word for word, although why he did not know. Was it some kind of penance for his past actions?



It’s a chance for you to prove that you are not the man you once were, said a voice in his head, a message from the Angelina who was bringing him this view into a Christmas Eve Past.



“Damien? Are you okay?” asked the Angelina of his vision, her eyes narrowed as she considered him.



He shook his head to drive away the conflicting thoughts. Eager to be alone with her, he said, “I’m okay, love. Can we go?”



“Well, I’ve got another half an hour before break. You’ll have to cool your heels until then to talk,” she said with a wink and a sly glance down to his lap, where his erection already strained the fabric of his pants.



She rushed away, but not before allowing her generous breasts to slip along his body once again, causing his body to jump in anticipation.



He grabbed his pint of rum and took a long swallow. The cheap alcohol burned his throat while he watched her attend to the other customers. Mindlessly, he shoveled the chicken and rice into his mouth, his hunger elsewhere.



Every now and again she would glance his way and smile knowingly. If she came close to him, she made a point of making contact. Another teasing brush of her breasts or of a womanly hip. The caress of her hand along the nape of his neck. So soft despite her labors.



And her scent. That intoxicating irresistible scent of home, it finally occurred to him. Her perfume brought back memories of the small cottage just outside of Philadelphia where he had lived with his mother before her untimely death.



That recollection quenched his desire somewhat, but as he took another long pull on his drink and Angelina swept by once more, those rounded hips swaying as if she was already riding him, the heat of passion rekindled in his gut and drove away all other thoughts.



When she laid down her tray and approached him, he rushed to her side, impatient desire in control.



She held out her hand and he took it, following her to the small hallway leading to the rooms for hire. But they had gone no farther than a few feet down that hallway when he hauled her to him, needing the feel of all those feminine curves against him. Wanting to bury himself in her then and there.



He backed her into the wall and her eyes widened, dilated with passion. He reached beneath her skirt and trailed his hand up the satiny skin of her leg until he was at her center.



She wore no underwear, he discovered, although he refused to think about how many other men also knew that fact.



He skimmed his hand across the silken curls at her core. Felt the heat and wet of her beneath his fingers as he slipped them along her cleft. When she rocked her hips against his hand and urged him on with a husky moan, he nearly came undone.



“Upstairs, love. Not like this,” he said, something he had not said during that long-ago encounter. He didn’t want to take her like he would a cheap slut. She meant more to him than that.



No sooner had the thought come to his consciousness when an immense pull erupted in his center, like someone yanking at his soul. He murmured a protest, wanting to remain with Angelina, but to no avail.



Damien once again experienced the rush of flying through the air and falling, endlessly it seemed, before he landed roughly on hard wood again. This time the floor of his bedroom.



He sat naked on the cold floorboards, and in front of his eyes the scene from the saloon continued to play out, showing him what had really happened. Showing him, painfully, the man he had been back then.



Damien hadn’t taken Angelina up to a room. He hadn’t treated her with care or love.



Something inside of him felt sick as he watched himself thrust into her and heard her anguished cry. Saw the tears slip down her face while he pumped his hips into her without a care to her pleasure or embarrassment. Rutting with her in the hallway, just feet from public view. Treating her like a common whore.



I didn’t know,” he offered in explanation, glancing up at the Angelina of the present as she materialized before his eyes and came to stand beside him.



You didn’t care,” she replied, sadness stealing the joy from her voice and dulling the life in her verdant gaze.



The scene continued while he sat there, the wooden boards frosty beneath him. The logs in the fireplace had burned to low embers, increasing the chill in the room. The storm raged outside while another tempest swirled within him as he observed the vision of their first Christmas Eve together.



A Christmas Eve Past he’d just as soon forget.



After the past-Damien had finished satisfying himself, he awkwardly stumbled from Angelina and returned to his crew.



Damien finally remembered that he had actually been quite drunk that night as he had been on so many others. Alcohol had helped dull the pain of his loneliness and the anger at his father’s disapproval and rejection.



He knew what would come next, and he didn’t want to watch as the door crashed open.