Possessed by an Immortal
Can she melt the heartof a vampire?After witnessing the murder of her boss, Bree Meadows is on the run with her young son. But danger isn’t far behind and, to make matters worse, her son is in desperate need of medical attention.When vampire Mark Winspear senses a gorgeous female nearby, his first instinct is to attack. Luckily his urge to protect is stronger. Mark has history with the same men who are after Bree – and he’s ready for revenge. As they set off to bring her son to safety, they discover an attraction that might save them both – if they’re lucky.
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Yes, Bree was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like the painting of an angel.
Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.
And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.
The corners of Bree's mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he'd already touched.
SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk.
Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA>® Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.
This book is for those wonderful readers who have stuck with me through the years. Those e-mails, tweets, posts and visits at my signing table mean more than you know. Hugs to you all.
Contents
If you press me to say why I loved him,
I can say no more than because he was he,
and I was I.
âMichel de Montaigne,
French philosopher, 1533â1592
Chapter 1
Seawater soaked Bree up to the waist. When the rocky shore slammed into her knees, she wasnât sure if sheâd fallen or if the choppy waves had thrown her. Her arms automatically folded around the child sheltered against her chest. Jonathan whimpered, his voice achingly small in the darkness. She scrabbled forward, hauling him with her in a one-armed crawl until she reached a scruff of grass and ferns. It was hard going, half stumbling, half climbing as the shore rose sharply from the beach.
Bree tried to look behind her but from where she knelt, she couldnât see the man below. For a fat, old, whiskery fishing guide, Bob was strong. And a coward. And cruel.
Curse him! She clung there for a long moment, palms smarting from clambering over the sharp rocks. Vertigo seized her, the tug of the surf still haunting her blood and bones. Itâs okay. We made it, at least for now. She cradled Jonathan, trying to give the four-year-old a comfort she didnât feel.
Theyâd left the ocean below, but not water. Rain pounded against her back and shoulders, dripping through her hair and down her face to mix with tears and sweat. The only light came from the boat below, where Bob was turning the craft around. She was still panting, still needed to rest, but she couldnât let the moment pass. Bree stood and wheeled around, instinctively pulling her coat closer around Jonathan.
âYou promised to take me to town!â she screamed toward the bright light of the boat. It was a useless protest, but Brianna Meadows had never been the demure, silent type.
âCount yourself lucky!â Bob bellowed back. âI saw you to dry land.â
âTheyâll kill us!â
âBetter you than me. Iâm sorry for your boy, but youâre nothing but trouble.â
âButââ
He said something else, but the words shredded in the rain and wind. The motor roared as the boat picked up speed. It was a small, agile craft a shade too light for the brewing storm. Sheâd paid him well to get her to the mainland, where she could have found a bus going south. Instead, heâd dumped her ashore at the first hint of danger. Bob was used to tourists in pursuit of salmon. He wasnât cut out for dodging villains with live ammunition.
Maybe she should have warned him. Maybe she should have gone to the police back at the beginning. But then again, some of them were on the wrong side, werenât they?
Youâre nothing but trouble. The old fishing guide wasnât the first to say it.
Bree watched the light from the boat shrink to a blurry splotch on the rainy sea. Wind shushed through the massive cedar trees overhead, making her feel tiny. All of her efforts had been spent keeping Jonathan out of the freezing waves. Sheâd been hot with exertion when sheâd crawled ashore, but now the knife-edged wind on her wet clothes made her shudder with cold.
At least Bob had waited for shallow water before heâd forced them out of the boat, but then heâd done it so fast she had no time to fight back. The thought triggered Breeâs fury all over again. How could you leave me here? How could you do this to my baby? She was literally at the end of the earth. The west end, with the Pacific Ocean gnawing at the rocks below.
