The Raven (The Florentine 1)

“No human lover, no assignations at Teatro, and no consort. Of course you’re angry and in need of release. Man cannot live by blood alone.”

“If you’re so concerned about my sexual needs, then you’d best do something about them.” He spoke sharply. “I’m going to put something in your mouth to silence you if you don’t stop talking.”

“I’m trying to help. We are friends, are we not? After so many years?” She smiled prettily, sliding over so there was room beside her.

He stood naked and proud, his erection straining toward her. His hands clasped into fists at his sides and the tendons in his arms rippled.

“Friends? No. But you’ve certainly been a welcome ally.” His gaze traveled the length of her body and up again, resting on her breasts.

She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I suppose that’s the most I can hope for from an Englishman. It’s a good thing I gave up killing your countrymen in the nineteenth century.”

“Enough.” He moved quickly, stretching his body over hers.

“Finally,” she whispered, pressing her red lips to his neck.

His hands moved up and down her sides, digging into her perfect skin.

She purred like a cat at his touch and lifted her right breast to his open and eager mouth.

He licked it, encircling the nipple several times before drawing it between his teeth. She arched off the bed at the sensation, lifting her other breast for his attention.

He repeated the movement before closing his mouth and sucking.

Aoibhe moaned, thrashing her head from side to side. He raised her thigh, pulling her leg around his hip before entering her. She groaned heavily as he began to move.

Their coupling was active and frenetic, as was typical of their kind. The Prince’s strength was such that he could hold himself over her with one arm, while he drove into her again and again.

Aoibhe lifted her hips to meet his thrusts before rolling him and climbing on top. With a triumphal cry, she rode him vigorously, head thrown back.

His hands explored her bouncing breasts before he sat up and replaced his hands with his mouth.

Aoibhe groaned her pleasure, trying to capture his mouth in a kiss, but he lifted her bodily and sprang out of bed, pressing her back against the wall.

She tried to kiss him again, but again he spurned her, whispering his lips up and down the column of her throat.

He felt her begin to orgasm and thrust into her more deeply. As was the case with their kind, her orgasm lasted several minutes.

When she had finished, she dragged him back to the bed and climbed atop him again, moving so quickly her body shimmered in the air.

With a cry, he thrust up his hips, emptying himself in her.

Aoibhe growled and bared her teeth, bending to sink them into his neck.

In an instant, he pushed her to her back, pinning her arms over her head. His body continued to shudder with his orgasm, his breathing almost labored.

“No,” he snarled, his gray eyes flashing with anger.

She had no choice but to nod as he continued moving within her. They were almost matched in height and in size, but he was older and far more powerful. He could end her handily and take her body out of the city to burn it beyond recognition. No one would ever be the wiser.

She stared up with wide, panicked eyes, holding her breath.

When he was spent, he hung his head, a few locks of his hair skimming her breasts.

“Let me be your consort,” she whispered, as her womb fluttered from the aftershocks, the pleasure continuing to flow through her. “We’ll rule Florence together. Drink from me and I’ll drink from you.”

She exposed her neck and what lay below the surface of her skin.

The Prince opened his eyes slowly, like a gray-eyed dragon, and growled.

“Please,” she begged.

He dislodged himself from her and walked naked toward the wardrobe.

She sat up, fanning a shaking hand over her throat.

“What are you afraid of, my love? The connection that comes from the exchange of blood?”

He glared. “Don’t use appellations you don’t mean. Your honesty is one of the few things I’ve always admired about you.”

She pressed her lips together, but said nothing.

The Prince retrieved a clean set of black clothes from the wardrobe and approached the bed. “The palace is at your disposal until sundown. I’ll instruct the servants. See to it you leave me with the full complement.”

She studied him, her hair a riot of red curls around her lovely oval face.

“I thought we’d progressed a little over the past centuries. I was mistaken.”

He clenched his jaw. “Don’t lie to me. Everything you do is calculated.”

“I don’t deny it, but in this case I’m doing you a favor. We won the war with the Venetians, but how long will the peace last? And what about the attempt on your life? We still haven’t discovered who helped the Venetians breach our borders. You must take a consort, if only to strengthen and protect your position. I’m one of your oldest friends. I’m the obvious choice.”

He regarded her, studying her face and expression with restrained hostility.

She threw back the bedclothes and stood before him.

“You have to be thinking of the future. How old are you? Who knows how long you have before the—”

“Enough,” he interrupted. “Our coupling has not been frequent, as you mentioned, but it has been fair. Until today.”

He took a moment to admire her body, the creamy cast of her skin, her gentle curves and long legs. He shook his head.

“Your performance was unnecessary. I would have given you the same answer had you approached me in the street. We’re allies, Aoibhe, not lovers. And from now on, that is all we shall be. Don’t come here again.”

And with that, he swept from the room.

Chapter Four

When Raven approached the Uffizi Gallery, she was stunned to find it cordoned off.

Several officers from the local police stood watch at the barricades, while carabinieri in their signature dark blue uniforms roamed the U-shaped courtyard.

A number of men in dark suits stood in a small group, talking to one another near the entrance to the gallery. Journalists from around the world gathered around the perimeter, shouting questions to the carabinieri in English and Italian. Their questions were ignored, but not by Raven.

Something terrible had happened.

The famed Botticelli illustrations—copies of Botticelli’s drawings of Dante’s Divine Comedy—were missing.

Raven covered her mouth, a sick feeling ascending from her stomach to her throat.

“Permesso.” A masculine voice sounded in Raven’s ear as someone tried to squeeze past her.

She turned and recognized Patrick Wong, one of her friends from the gallery.

“Patrick.” She touched his arm.

His dark, almond-shaped eyes examined her face. “Do I know you?”

She switched to English. “It’s me.”

He looked at her in puzzlement and she remembered that her appearance was greatly altered.

“It’s Raven.”

Patrick shook his arm from her grasp and glared. “What do you know about Raven?”

“It’s me, I swear.” She retrieved her Uffizi identification card from her knapsack and held it out to him.

He snatched it from her hand, bringing his face next to hers.

“How did you get this?” he hissed. “Where is she?”

“Patrick, it’s me. We work together, remember? I’m part of Professor Urbano’s restoration team.”

He curled his fingers around her identification card. “Everyone knows Professor Urbano’s team. That doesn’t mean anything.”