The Lure of The Night Ch. 03

Frowning, Millie turned her gaze back to the portrait. She had never thought of Mrs. Ashford that way. Meredith had always been depicted as an adulteress, a shameless pleasure-seeker, and the cause of the tragic fire that killed her and her husband. But after last night's dream, where the woman in the portrait had expressed her desire to make her own choices in life, Millie was inclined to agree.

Chelsea's eyes roved over Millie's face, examining the slip of chestnut hair that covered half of her face. "You know, you're very pretty, Millie, you shouldn't—"

A gasp of horror escaped from Chelsea before she could stop it. She had reached out to brush the lock of hair away from Millie's face—and instantly regretted it. She tried to gloss over her reaction, make her shock seem less obvious, but it was too late. Millie had seen her expression, and she turned away from Chelsea as she hastily combed her hair back to her face.

"I'm sorry, Millie," Chelsea said awkwardly, slowly moving closer to Millie. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," Millie cut her off. "Just... forget about it."

Chelsea bit her lip, opened her mouth to talk, closed it, and then tried again. "How—how did it happen?"

Millie balled her hands into fists, her eyes on the wooden floors.I don't fucking know how it happened!"I don't want to talk about it," she said, voice cold and remote.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry into your personal life," Chelsea said humbly. "And I didn't mean to react that way. I was surprised, that's all. If only you had said something, I... I—"

"Would have been more prepared?" Millie finished for her.

"Yes," Chelsea answered meekly.

And you would have pretended to be unfazed by my deformity.

Tears sprang from Millie's eyes, but she blinked them away. She took a deep breath, wincing when she noticed Chelsea hovering around her uneasily, not knowing what to do. The girl looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. No words could amend for what she'd done. Millie had read the horror on her face, and there was nothing she could say or do to undo it.

Millie relaxed her hands, toying with the idea of letting Chelsea wallow in her discomfort, forcing her to feel as bad as she felt, but she knew she couldn't do that to the poor girl. She would never be that cruel—not her. But she was glad it had happened. For the first time in years, Millie had felt normal. Then reality hit her like a sucker-punch. And she was glad of it. Deep down, she had hoped that people would accept her, that no one would be bothered by her appearance. Evidently that wasn't going to happen. Chelsea had struck at the very core of Millie's hope, a hope that she could be accepted, even liked, for who she was. It no longer mattered though. All delusions were gone now. This was how it was going to be, and Millie should either face up to it or go home.

"Millie, I feel terrible. I—"

"It's fine, Chelsea, really!" Millie gave her a reassuring smile. "I—I'd like to be alone, if you don't mind."

Chelsea nodded, smiling awkwardly, and sprinted across the threshold faster than one would think possible for a girl who looked like she hadn't excelled at sports in either high school or college.

Millie let out an air she hadn't known she'd been holding. God, it was worse than she thought. The fear of rejection. The fear of being feared. The fear of being pitied. They were all bad. None of them cushioned the blow. And the worst part was that Millie would have to face it again and again throughout her working days. How would Megan react to her scars? Would she veil her terror with kindness, like her cousin had done, or would she display her disgust for all of the world to see? Millie had the sickening feeling that Megan would do the latter. One thing was certain: she would be on her guard from now on. No one would be able to break her impassive façade again.

A sudden movement broke Millie's reverie. It came from the dark spot behind the staircase, just a few steps away from where Millie was standing. Through her haze of pain and confusion, she skimmed the area, her legs suddenly feeling weak. Frightened, she was about to head up the stairs when a shadow loomed closer. Millie's gaze fastened on that one spot, her tongue thick and dry in her mouth. She wanted to ask if someone was there, but was afraid of sounding like an airhead in a teen slasher movie.

Moments later, a dark figure emerged from the dusky shadows of the staircase. A black cloak covered his face and body, but it hadn't concealed his tall frame and broad shoulders. It was a man, it had to be. A woman would never look as big or as imposing as the apparition in black that stood just a few feet away from Millie. In his cloak, the man—or whatever it was—took a ghoulish quality, but not in a harrowing sort of way. Quite the contrary. The room felt alive, taking note of his every move, counting his every breath.

Millie was shell-shocked. She couldn't see the man behind the cloak, but she was acutely aware of her body responding to him. Heat pressed against Millie's skin from inside, as if his fingers had brushed against her body, which they hadn't. He hadn't moved a muscle—seemed almost as momentarily paralyzed as she was. Awareness swept through her, awakening areas that had only come alive whenever Millie's dark desires surfaced from the blackest recesses of her mind...

The man was still standing there, looking at her, not moving. She met his gaze steadily while her blood warmed.

Suddenly, two large pale hands reached up to unclasp the cloak, letting it fall to the ground. Gasping, Millie leaned her shoulder heavily against the banister as she feasted her eyes on the striking vision before her. Shafts of sunlight from a nearby window threw shadows into the foyer, shaping his tall frame into an almost phantom-like glow. His features were hard and unforgiving, handsome in a rough sort of way, his black hair framing skin so white it was almost ghostly. Black eyebrows arched over a pair of eyes so blue they almost seemed violet. In the portrait, his eyes had no color. They'd looked dark and brooding, not unlike now, but the blue-violet glint she saw at present was unmistakable.

Color drained from Millie's face. This man was the man in the portrait. It was Alexander Benjamin Ashford the Third, in the flesh. How was this possible? How could someone exist for one hundred years and not look old? It wasn't possible, not unless he was... What the hell was he anyway?

All thoughts left her when his gaze slipped to her breasts, lingered there for a few moments, then traveled slowly down her body, landing on the hem of her short plaid skirt.

Millie was grateful for the hair that concealed the right side of her face as she felt herself flush with heat again. She had no explanation for the instinctive sensations he awoke in her. It's not that she wasn't scared—she was—but another sensation had taken over her, and it was desire. She desired this man. That was all she knew and, right at that moment, was all she cared about. Maybe this unearthly being had put her under a spell. Perhaps he'd glamoured her, or whatever cheesy term was used in those paranormal romance novels she'd read last summer. Hell, for all she knew, this was all a dream. She'd wake up at any moment, with a startled gasp and a satiated body, just like the last time.

No one said or did anything for a long time. Then, in a movement so quick Millie almost missed it, the man—Alexander—held out a hand to her and beckoned her forward. Millie's legs set into motion as if of their own volition, her chest tight with a mixture of desire and confusion.

Up close, he was beautiful, so beautiful that Millie had to catch her breath. In spite of the paleness of his skin, he emanated good health and vitality. His dark hair was short, albeit unkempt, with long sideburns that outlined a strong jaw. Long lashes framed his blue-violet eyes, and they would have looked feminine had he been less masculine. He had what she could only describe as an "aristocratic nose," long and pointy, but it didn't detract from his beauty. A white cravat encircled his neck, outlining a strong neck. He was dressed in beige breeches, knee-high riding boots, and a white shirt underneath a black jacket with a matching waistcoat. It was a strange outfit, not because it was from another time altogether, but because it was the most remarkable ensemble she had ever seen. Men wore similar-looking clothes when horse-riding during the late Victorian era. A riding crop would have completed the look. The clothes looked authentic, nothing like the costumes her boss wore. Millie swallowed hard. This man was the genuine article. It reallywasAlexander Ashford the Third.

He was staring at her like a slave buyer at an auction. She let out a strangled breath, more disturbed by the attraction she felt for this man than by the fact that he was a century-old image on a portrait come alive. She saw his mouth—luscious and full—curve into a smile and realized that he knew the effect that he was having on her. Then his eyes moved to her lips, down her neck to her breasts. Her skin flushed as if he'd touched her there.

And then he did touch her. He moved swiftly and assertively, taking her completely by surprise, and gently cupped her elbow, pulling her closer to him. His hand felt warm on her skin. With his other hand, he ran a thumb over her lower lip and watched as a tiny tremor ran through her. Slowly, tantalizingly, he slid his fingers along her jaw and down the smooth length of her throat to where her silk blouse brushed over her chest.

"Alexander," she whispered, and her skin became hot beneath his touch.

A sharp look passed over his face. "That's 'Mr. Ashford' to you, slave," he said gravely.

Millie gasped. Hearing him speak was a surprise to her. It somehow made him seem more real. He had a beautiful voice, deep and rich, and it sent a fresh rush of pleasure through her. And had he called her a slave? Yes, he had, and this surprised Millie more than anything else. It wasn't just what he'd said, but the way he'd said it that made her stop and take notice. He'd made her feel small, inferior, like nothing more than a piece of rubbish he scraped off his shoe. And she liked it. She liked it very much. Millie swallowed hard. Could this really be happening? Were her darkest, wickedest fantasies finally coming—?

Another gasp escaped her when he leaned forward and brushed his lips to her ear. He smelled of vanilla and man—the same intoxicating scent he'd had in her dream. She felt his hot breath in her ear, and she bit her bottom lip to stifle a moan.

"Tonight," he whispered to her. "Don't forget about tonight. In the master bedchamber.Ourbedchamber."

Alarm bells rang in her head. What did he mean, their bedchamber?

"And wear that skirt," he added. "You wore it because it makes you feel like a naughty schoolgirl, am I right?"

Her jaw dropped. How had he known that?

"Answer me," he demanded.

"Ye—yes," she stammered.

A glint of amusement shimmered in his blue-violet depths. "If you're a naughty schoolgirl, then I'm your overbearing headmaster."

Millie's nipples tightened in response to his sensual remark, budding up against her blouse. She fought with every fiber of her being to keep her gaze as steady and expressionless as humanly possible.

A soft smile touched his alabaster face. He knew his words had had an effect on her. Damn. What the hell was he? And why did he have to be so friggin' sexy?

He took a few steps back, moving slowly toward the dark space behind from which he'd surfaced. Anxiety seized her, fearing that she would never see him again. A stupid, irrational thought. He had just reminded her of their date tonight, hadn't he? She knew that meeting him alone was far from wise, even downright dangerous, but she didn't care. She wanted him. No explanation was necessary. She'd had years' worth of dark fantasies and desires bottled up inside, and perhaps this enigmatic creature would be the answer to her prayers.

Another alarming thought pushed itself forward and wouldn't let go. Did this mean that the stories about Alexander Ashford's ghost were true? If so, would she wither away in misery after he abandoned her, ending her own life as a result? She doubted it. Rejection had been a part of her life since childhood, first from her foster parents and then from the people who had seen her scars. She might cower away from looks of horror, dread the prospect of being seen, but she wasn't weak. Never weak. This ghost or illusion or whatever the hell he was held more than just a hint of a challenge to her, and Millie was not about to back away from a challenge. Not this time.

Peals of laughter drew Millie's attention away from her imperious companion. The sound had come from the direction of the breakfast room. Animated chatter filtered through the hallow walls, and Millie knew that her co-workers were heading back to the foyer. Were the coffee and pastries gone already?

Alarmed, Millie swung back to Alexander in haste. "You should go! You—"

It took all of two seconds for Millie to realize that she was alone in the foyer. Hastily, she rounded the corner of the staircase, rushing to the shady area behind it. A heavy feeling of loss pierced through her.

Alexander was gone.