Page 11 of Soul of A Vampire
Oliver steps back.
“I’ve brought a nice bottle of red up from the cellar.” He steps inside the library and goes to a wheeled glass cart, where he takes a corkscrew and two glasses. “It’s past noon. You should stay for lunch, Miss Britta. I’ll fix some sandwiches.” Once the open bottle and glasses are on the coffee table, Morris grins. “Ring if you need anything in the meantime.”
Stepping to the seating area, Oliver waits for me to join him. “If you tell me why your expression dims when you speak of moving to Boston, I would be willing to tell you my story. I don’t recommend you print it, but for you, Britta, I will tell you my truth.”
What is it about Oliver Becket? He draws me in and makes me want to tell him things I haven’t told anyone. Maybe it’s because I’d only known him for a day, yet he noticed something in my expression when I mentioned college that people who have known me all my life didn’t see.
“Tell me, is Britta a nickname or a proper name?” He pours the wine, hands me a glass, and sits in the adjacent chair.
Putting the glass on the coffee table, I say, “Birgitta, but only my grandmother ever called me that. I’ve always been Britta.”
The chairs are upholstered in brown-and-gold paisley. It’s subtle and, from the door, looked brown. I trace the pattern with a finger and try to find my balance. I’ve been out of sorts since I first saw Oliver.
“Do I make you nervous, or is it the prospect of trading secrets?” He leans his elbows on his knees, holding the wineglass with both hands as if it were an egg.
“Both.” Too honest. I close my eyes and slow my breath. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone.”
His cool fingers lift my hand from the cushion. “I can promise you whatever you say, you will not be judged.”
It’s a simple touch of hands, but sends bolts through me. My inhale rasps with fear. “How can you be sure when you don’t know my secret?”
Lifting my hand, he kisses my knuckles. “I’m a man with secrets, Birgitta. This is an exercise in trust.”
“If I were you, I would toss me out of your fancy house and bar the doors.” It’s not exactly how a good reporter gets her story, but my proper name from his lips has muddled my brain. And why do his lips have to be so full and beautiful?
He squeezes my hand and releases it, then sips his wine. “I told you, I’m attracted to you. That will have to account for why you’re still here.”
“You intend to seduce me?” The idea should be appalling, but my body thinks it’s grand. I take the wine and sip. Maybe some alcohol will cool whatever is happening here.
“Perhaps you will seduce me.” Something wild flashes in his eyes. It perfectly contrasts his relaxed posture and how he holds his goblet gently.
I take a long pull of the rich wine, then put the glass down. “College was fine. I got good grades and made a few friends. I wasn’t wild, but I wasn’t a wallflower either. It was a means to an end for three years, with some fun mixed in.”
“Something changed in your final year,” he says, as if he knows more than he should.
My heart is pounding, and a familiar knot forms in my gut. The desire to run from this house and forget the stupid list is so strong, I’m sitting on my hands to keep from fidgeting. “I don’t know if I can talk about this.” A tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe it away.
When the second escapes, Oliver leans forward and catches it on his thumb. He presses it to his lips. “What happened? Who harmed you?” There’s danger lying deep inside his voice.
I should be terrified, but his rage on my behalf is comforting. “One of my professors asked me to have dinner with him to discuss a paper I’d written. It seemed innocent, but he wasn’t interested in my writing. The restaurant he took me to was popular, with music and dancing. We sat in a quieter corner, supposedly to discuss my thoughts on journalistic integrity. About halfway through dinner, his smiles and innuendos became obvious. I went to the ladies’ room to gather my wits. I had every intention of telling him where to go. I returned to the table and drank my water in one gulp. A minute later, the room started to spin.
“I heard Professor Markham telling someone I wasn’t feeling well, and we were leaving without finishing our meal.” The memory of the fog I was in is so clear. “He shoved me in his car.”
I swear the sound coming from Oliver is a growl, but when I search his calm face, the sound stops. His knuckles are white around the poor glass.
“Are you alright?” I ask.
His fingers relax. “What happened?”
“Markham rounded the car and got in. He put his hand on my knee. I pulled open the car door and vomited in the street. He screamed something horrible. I jumped out and screamed for help.”
I rub my knees as the memory of them hitting the pavement returns. Tears slide down my cheeks. “Because it’s a college town and crowds get wild, there’s a doorman. He rushed over and picked me up off the street.”
“What happened to you then?” Oliver’s voice is sharp as a razor’s edge.
“I begged the restaurant manager not to call the police. I was embarrassed. Of course, now I wonder what I had to be ashamed of. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve spent my entire life doing the right thing, and I still was drugged by a sleazeball.” I shudder at what might have happened if I hadn’t jumped out of that car. “The doorman saw me home and my roommate took care of me. I couldn’t move for several hours and woke with a terrible headache. I didn’t go back to that class and had to take it again in the summer to get my degree.”
“Why didn’t you prosecute him for drugging you, and whatever else he’d intended?” Soft and deadly, his voice slices through my memories.