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1939. God's mercy.
     
     

Chapter Four
     
    Alone in her room
later that night, Katrina sat in stunned silence. Greg was still at The Rusty
Anchor and would not be home for three hours yet. After the sun set, Tristan
Black brought her home. He gave her a chaste kiss on her cheek and a promise to
call tomorrow. Then like a wisp of smoke, he disappeared into the darkness. Who
was this man? Private beaches? 175,000-dollar car? His watch was expensive and
so was the large ornate ring he wore on his pinkie. She was fascinated by the
elaborate design, a Celtic knot speared by a sword with a serpent wrapped
around the blade and an oversized black onyx for the serpent's eye.
    She lounged in the
dark in the oversized wing chair in the corner, knowing she couldn't
concentrate to read, write or watch TV. All she could think of, all she wanted
to think of was Tristan. How could she feel this way about a man she just met?
What did she feel? She reached for the leather scrunchie sitting on the end
table next to her. She piled her hair high off her face, then drew her knees up
and wrapped her arms around her legs. That kiss. Lord, she almost came in his
arms from a damned kiss. No man had ever gotten such a reaction out of her. And
when he kissed her palm, she wanted to weep from the intensity, the tenderness
and the longing.   She saw his face. He
felt the same—she was sure of it. His breathing was as rough and his moans as
loud as hers.
    Also, there was no
mistaking the erection under her rear she shamelessly ground herself on. God, he
was as hard as granite, huge and potent. He stayed hard the rest of the time
they watched the sunset. When he stood and reached for her hand to help her to
her feet, her gaze shamelessly traveled the whole, long length of him up to
that straining bulge, which caused her mouth to go dry and other parts of her
go wet.
    Would he call
tomorrow? He very easily could have seduced her right there on the beach, as
she was more than willing. Tristan was the one who backed off. Why? She shook
her head. Men. Who could understand them?
    ****
    The time was nearing
midnight, and Tristan stood on the private beach and watched his father's large
schooner gently glide toward the dock. He smiled irreverently as he made out
his father Deegan, standing with one leg up on the railing of the bow, a pose
he no doubt used for hundreds of years of pirating and smuggling. He did it
more as a hobby now than anything. His cargo usually consisted of contraband
liquor and cigarettes. His father would not smuggle drugs, though there was a huge
profit in it. The Blacks did not need money. They were already rich as Croesus
as were all in the Blackthorne Clan.
    The small crew worked
efficiently as they unloaded the crates and boxes and stored them in the
cottage. His father strode down the dock. He was a few inches shorter than
Tristan but had the same slim musculature that spoke of a sleek panther in
movement and menace. Deegan's hair was jet black and very wavy. It fell in long
layers at his jawline. They both had the same steely gray eyes, which were
potent in their gaze. Deegan also sported a closely cropped goatee and had a
small, hooped gold earring dangling from his earlobe that glittered under the
subdued dock lights. His father smiled with a wicked, swashbuckler grin. He was fucking Errol Flynn. All that was
missing was a sword on his hip.
    "Ah my son, I am
not used to having you greet me." The easy smile slid from his lips.
"What is it? What has happened?"
    Curse his father. He
could sense intense emotions since it was part of his Vampiric powers.
Thankfully he could not read minds. Tristan had learned over the century and a
half to shutter his emotions around his father, but he failed tonight. He would
tell him a half-truth.
    "I have met a
woman," he replied flatly.
    His father put an arm
around his shoulder briefly in affection and comradeship. "Ah, see? I told
you it would be a matter of time before you met the woman for