Temptation Calls Read online

  Temptation Calls

  By Caridad Piñeiro

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  Spanish Harlem, 2004

  A s lives went, both of hers had sucked. Still, life went on and on and on, and everyday things had to be dealt with.

  Samantha Turner bore the weight of the heavy grocery bags without complaint. They were for her shelter, The Artemis Shelter, a halfway house where women and their children could heal and find a way out of the abusive relationships in their lives. With her help, many families had already broken the cycle of violence that had cursed Samantha’s long existence. She was finally doing something positive with this life.

  A clerk from the local Gristedes supermarket would have delivered the groceries, but after being trapped indoors all day, Samantha wanted to breathe the night air. To savor the activity of the city that never slept. To revel in the city’s humanity so she could prepare for another day of battling its cruelty.

  She rounded the corner onto her street and noticed a few youths from the neighborhood and two younger children lingering on the stoop next to the shelter. It was nearly midnight. Too late for them and their hip-hop music blaring from the boom box on the railing.

  Despite the distance and the dark, Samantha identified Juan Williams, his little brother and sister, plus an assortment of kids from Juan’s self-made posse. Mrs. Williams worked the late shift at a nearby hospital and Juan was supposed to take care of things when she was gone.

  He did anything but.

  Samantha quickened her pace. She could get the younger Williams children inside and in bed where their mother expected them to be. It was the kind of thing they all did in the neighborhood, watching out for each other.

  In the years since Samantha had brought the Artemis Shelter to this part of New York, life had gotten better for this block and that sense of community had slowly spread to the adjacent streets. Funny that her little point of light came from something darker than most could begin to imagine.

  Samantha was halfway down the street when a car came sharply around the corner. Tires squealed as the car swerved, but the noise was not enough to hide the sound of a weapon being locked and loaded. Voices urged on the shooter as he stuck himself out the open window.

  So many in harm’s way. Too many.

  Knowing even as she did so that it would raise questions she didn’t want to answer, Samantha dropped the bags and accelerated beyond human speed. She grabbed the two youngest children and carried them down the stairs to the shelter’s lower floor. She shoved them into a far corner before returning to street level to help the others.

  The loud pop-pop-pop of gunfire erupted in the night. Bullets flew, striking sparks where they hit brick and stone, splattering blood and more where they connected with flesh and bone. The teenagers scurried to get away, their bodies jerking and thrashing as they failed to avoid the line of fire.

  As Samantha grabbed one youth, a bullet tore into her upper back and another hit lower, in her side. She kept moving, carrying the teenager to the stairwell while the shooter continued to fire.

  Then as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The car peeled away with another angry squeal of its tires and loud rejoicing from its occupants. Anger rose up sharply within her. The animal she’d been for too long wanted vengeance. But the human side of her knew that instead of going for their throats she should memorize the faces of those responsible and note the car’s license plate number.

  Besides, Samantha couldn’t chase the car. Others needed her. Even this far down the block, the smell of gunsmoke and blood was strong. Too strong. Samantha battled the urge threatening to overwhelm her.

  She took a deep breath. In the distance, a siren was fast approaching. It grated on her sensitive hearing and she reached up to cover her ears.

  A familiar hand touched her shoulder.

  “The children can’t see you like that,” he said, motioning with his free hand to her face. “And you’re hurt.”

  “I’ll be okay, Ricardo, but…Is there anything you can do for the others?” Samantha gestured to the bodies littering the stoop and sidewalk.

  Ricardo slipped off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, revealing his naked chest and a low-slung pair of pajama bottoms. He’d clearly run out of his small botanica on the corner of her block without bothering to change.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Someone has to see to them and you’re right. I can’t go back now,” Samantha said. She couldn’t afford to have her secret revealed to anyone else. It was bad enough that Ricardo had discovered the truth about what she was so soon after she’d moved to the neighborhood. Right now, there were too many things tempting the animal to emerge—her anger, the smell of the blood and the pain from her injuries.

  Ricardo handed her the keys to his place. “Go and rest. I’ll do what I can.”

  After quickly giving Ricardo a description of the occupants and the car, she fled to the safety of the botanica. Once inside, the smells of herbs, flowers and candles calmed her heightened senses. She moved slowly toward the back of the shop and to Ricardo’s living area.

  She’d been there often. Many in the neighborhood suspected them of being lovers. None could have guessed the true nature of their relationship.

  Samantha slipped off his jacket and draped it over a small sofa then she walked to his bathroom to wash the blood off her hands. How many had been killed? She should’ve saved more of them. Guilt flooded her.

  But gazing up at the mirror, she saw nothing. No guilt. No anguish. No image. She hadn’t seen her reflection in the one hundred and forty-one years since she’d become a vampire.

  She ran her hand over the burning spot high on her shoulder. There was but a half-closed hole beneath her fingers as her body slowly expelled the bullet that had ripped into her flesh.

  Farther down, along her side, at the ragged exit wound where the bullet had passed completely through her, the bleeding had stopped. The wound was already beginning to knit.

  It would take a little longer, but not much. The
healing would leave her weak, but even as a human she’d been accustomed to pain. No matter how much she despised the truth, neither of her lives had been free from violence.

  Samantha headed for Ricardo’s rocker. It reminded her of her mother and how she’d swayed Samantha to sleep as a child. She curled up on the rocker’s worn wooden seat. “Maman, will it never end?”

  New Orleans, 1860

  Please let it end. Let it end soon, Samantha thought as she huddled protectively around her swollen belly, trying to shield her baby.

  But the blows didn’t stop. Not for a long time.

  He used his fists against her face. He kicked at her, the sharp toe of his polished black boot like a knifepoint as it connected with her arms and back and even with her belly when he found an opening around the defenses she erected in vain.

  Samantha didn’t scream. The screams would only make the beating worse. Maybe even hurt others.

  Last time she’d screamed, one of the field hands had rushed in to help her. Her husband had beat the man to within an inch of his life and the field hand hadn’t lifted a hand to protect himself. A black man wouldn’t dare harm his white master.

  Nor could a Creole woman like Samantha. Many would consider her lucky to have landed a husband like Elias Turner, a handsome and charming sharecropper.

  Samantha herself had thought so when Elias had wooed her at the tavern where she worked. It had once been owned by Samantha’s parents, before her father’s weakness for drink had ruined the business and her mother had worked herself to death. As an orphaned servant girl of mixed blood in a city where blood still mattered, Samantha couldn’t have done better than the attractive and prosperous Elias Turner.

  What she hadn’t realized was that his captivating smile and charisma hid hands that too easily became fists. Or that Elias would much rather win some quick cash at cards than labor out in his fields. And worse yet, that Elias hated that she was the descendent of slaves, a mixed-blood.

  Samantha had tried to make a good home for Elias, hoping that he would change. She prayed her actions would mellow the violence he too often unleashed against her and his slaves. With her careful attentions, their small home gleamed and she always had an appetizing meal waiting for him. In bed there was nothing she wouldn’t do or allow done to keep Elias’s mood good, even though at times what he asked made her feel lower than the cheapest whore in the French Quarter.

  When she’d caught him looking at her swollen belly just a few weeks ago, she thought she’d finally seen something there—the start of the change she’d been working so hard to achieve.

  She’d been wrong. Oh so wrong.

  Elias hated that the child she bore wouldn’t be pure. As he beat her, he spat out his disgust for her and the baby she carried. Accused her of tricking him with her beauty and making him forget she wasn’t much better than his ebony-skinned slaves. When he was finally done venting his anger, he stormed from their home without even a glance back.

  Even though he had left, Samantha continued to huddle tightly on the floor, bloodied and in pain. She prayed and fought not to scream as one spasm and then another tore through her. She didn’t want Elias to come back and hit her again because of the noise. She didn’t want anyone else to come in and risk a beating.

  With each spasm of pain, Samantha bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting coppery blood and the salt of her tears. Something warm trickled down the side of her face from her brow. Between her legs, she was damp with whatever was escaping her body. It pooled beneath her, wet and sticky.

  Samantha beseeched the God who so far hadn’t heard the cries of the women in her line. She pleaded and begged that the child within her would not know this same despair.

  Morning fled and afternoon came. She lay there, unable to move. The puddle beneath her was cold now, as was she. She was weak and almost delirious from the agony racking her body.

  It was dark when one of the field hands finally found her. As his gentle hands cradled her close, she finally let herself rest.

  Cool bathed her forehead. It coursed down her face and along her neck, rousing her. She remembered only vague bits and pieces of the last few hours.

  Slowly she opened her eyes and gazed into an undeniably masculine face. His eyes were dark, nearly black, and intense, but somehow comforting. She recognized the face, but it took her a moment to remember—Dr. Ryder Latimer from the plantation down the road.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, his tone filled with concern.

  Samantha tried to sit up, but pain lanced through her side and lower. She gasped and reached to rub a comforting hand over her belly, only…

  “My baby. Is it…?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said and abruptly rose from beside her bed.

  He strode over to the small cradle at one side of the room and tenderly picked up a tiny quiet bundle. Dr. Latimer gently placed his burden in her hands. “I thought…” He paused, battling with his own emotions before continuing. “I thought you’d want to see her before…This is your daughter.”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks, stinging against the cuts and scrapes left by her husband’s hands. She let the tears come. Her daughter.

  With hands that trembled, she cradled the child to her and lifted away the bit of blanket that covered her baby’s face. So small. So perfect, Samantha thought. She had the shape of her grandmother’s face and maybe her brow. A small thatch of jet-black hair like Samantha’s own. Pale white skin, nearly colorless in death.

  In death.

  “Why?” Samantha asked, although she knew why. Her daughter was dead because Samantha was too weak to protect her.

  “I can call the sheriff. He can—”

  “Arrest my husband for beating me?” They both knew nothing would be done.

  Dr. Latimer sat down on the edge of the bed. His gaze was somber, but full of anger. “You don’t have to stay here. I have plenty of work at my place.”

  “He’d just follow me. Cause problems for you. Even worse, he’d hurt the people here. Better that he hurt only me.” But it hadn’t been only her. She cradled her daughter’s immobile body tight to her breasts. They tingled and, in response, milk began to flow. There would be no mouth to suckle them.

  The doctor stood, looking down at her, hesitant. Clearly uneasy. There was more he had to say. Samantha knew it wasn’t good news.

  “Tell me. Whatever it is, just tell me now.”

  “The birth and the beating. It tore you up badly inside. I’m not sure you can carry another child.”

  Samantha closed her eyes at his words. Her daughter dead and any hope for another gone with her. “Maybe that’s for the best. It’ll keep another child from knowing pain.”

  He said nothing, just walked to the door of her bedroom. “When you’re ready, there’s a pretty spot over at my place. Beneath a cherry tree and overlooking the river. You’re welcome to it for the child.”

  She was touched by his kindness and all that he’d done. “Thank you, Dr. Latimer. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”

  He hesitated at the door, clearly considering her words. Finally he said, “You can live, Mrs. Turner. Just live.”

  And then he walked out, leaving her alone to grieve.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, as cold as her memories.

  So much killing. So much pain. More than her rightful share in her long and seemingly interminable lifetimes.

  Swaying back and forth in the rock
er, battered both mentally and physically, Samantha withdrew into herself. Arms wrapped tight around her chest, teeth worrying her lower lip.

  Samantha didn’t know how much time had passed when she finally sensed Ricardo’s presence in the room. “You were somewhere else, amiga. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  She stopped her rocking and gave him a tired smile. “Thank you. Are they gone yet?”

  He shook his head. “It’ll be a few more hours before the police go, but they’ll be back in the morning to ask more questions.”

  That was the last thing she needed—questions that might reveal her secret.

  “The groceries are in the kitchen. I put the milk and other things in the refrigerator. I told the lead detective that I was just returning from shopping, but given my current state,” he motioned to his attire, “I’m certain he didn’t buy my story.”

  The story wouldn’t hold up anyway, Samantha thought. A visit to the local market would reveal who had made the purchases. “Thanks for trying.” She laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. Beneath her fingers she sensed his blood, pulsing with life, and she shivered in response to her preternatural desire.

  “Are you cold?” Noticing her deep chill, he said, “You need to feed.”

  Samantha confirmed his observation and Ricardo left the room, returning moments later with a blood bag for her. “Sara just brought this today. I figured the freshest would be best.”

  She thanked him before bringing the bag to her mouth.

  Already partially in her vamp state because of her actions when saving the children and the wounds she’d suffered, the prospect of a fresh feeding completely transformed her. Her fangs erupted, elongating. Saliva dampened her mouth in anticipation. She placed pressure on the skin of the bag until her fangs punctured the thick plastic. Greedily she sucked down the blood. Energy coursed through her veins, bringing with it warmth and renewed strength. Some blood spilled onto her lips, spicing her mouth with its unique flavor.