Nights in Black Satin

Chapter 1

Toots was the only name I ever heard anyone call my very wise and extremely superstitious Cherokee grandmother. From the moment I was born, at her house, on her bed, until the day she passed from this life, she repeatedly told me and everyone else that I was gifted, talented, and most assuredly blessed.

Attempting to regain my focus on my current situation, I decided to stroll further down memory lane. Maybe it had simply been the power of suggestion, but I had embraced my status of being different, and many times throughout my life had reached inside myself to use those gifts. I personified them into a second person inhabiting my body; a spirit girl I relied on for guidance.

As a child, I never really fit in with the rest of the crowd, but when someone needed help finding a lost item, getting a classmate to confess a wrongdoing, or charming some member of the opposite sex into a relationship, I suddenly found myself with a new best friend. Both Toots and my inner companion would throw hissy fits at my allowing myself to be manipulated in that fashion.

"Child," Toots would warn, pointing her leathery brown finger in my face, "you must use your gifts for good cause, not to impress non-deserving leeches. If you're not careful, you could lose your blessing. Be wise in your choices."

My spirit girl would give a big, "Amen!"

My given name was Rhyleigh, a name that my mother secretly put on my birth certificate and didn't disclose until it was too late to change. My dad had been furious; Toots merely grunted and shook her head. Whenever we were alone, she called me by another name, a secret name only she and I knew about. It was a shortened form of "chameleon," one of my alleged gifts. That name, along with many of her other personal secrets, had been buried with her, but not before she had shared many of them with me. Her unshakable faith, and belief in the spirits and existence of otherworldly beings was instilled in my soul. I had no problem accepting her word that humans weren't the only ones inhabiting Mother Earth. I still hoped I would meet an angel someday.

Aside from supposedly being born with certain skills and talents, I had graduated magna cum laude in my class, getting my master's degree and doctorate in criminal psychology. I had worked hard to get where I was now, and had earned every promotion I had received. My record working with various government agencies around the world was perfect, one hundred percent successful, making me a much sought after agent, and allowing me to pick the assignments I wanted to tackle, rather than drooling after every bone tossed in my direction.

My colleagues, clients, and classmates respected my abilities and jumped at the chance to work with me. Truth be told, I preferred to dance solo, but right about now, I was glad my inner force was here keeping me company.

"You're good at what you do." My spirit girl whispered the reassurance to me, but her voice was barely there.

"Just because this guy is a total X-factor who stays off the grid and manages to keep every intelligence agency in the country on edge..." My mental argument was cut off in mid-sentence.

"He's still just a man," she stated adamantly. "And they all have a weakness. You just need to find his."

"One more?" the bartender, who wore a badge that read, 'Your secrets are safe with me,' offered, jarring me back to the here and now. "You got plenty of time to down at least another one before closing time."

It was now after midnight, and sitting here in this dimly lit bar, waiting for him - whoever he was- to arrive, had me feeling a complete lack of any supernatural attributes. Not that I hadn't done this exact same thing numerous times during my fifteen years working as a freelance profiler for the CIA, just that this time something was random, for lack of a better word. So, okay maybe my gift was lingering ghost-like in the background, but I would have preferred a much stronger presence. Something more like, say, a full on banshee.

"Sure, why not," I said, adding more warmth and friendliness to my voice than I actually felt. "This time, add a little more ice. I'm driving."

No one would ever accuse this guy of making watered down drinks – not that there was actually a way to water down a Manhattan, but I'd been watching him concoct any number of drinks during the past few hours, and he was plenty generous with the booze. I'd bet my next paycheck that he did, in fact, hear a lot more confessions than the local priest.

As my glass of amber stamina slid in front of me, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand to attention.

He had finally arrived.

"Thanks, you two," I whispered to my grandmother's spirit and my spirit girl, who was now flexing her muscles, back in full force and ready for action.

He had pulled out the barstool and was sitting down, leaving one chair vacant between us, before I realized he had done the Grasshopper-on-rice-paper across the room. He moved like a cat silently advancing on his prey, every movement calculated for precision, and though beautifully hypnotic to look at, just like his animal counterpart, he, too, was extremely lethal and savage. Of that, I was certain. The fact that he was dressed in black from neck to toe would have set the illusion in stone had it not been for his honey colored hair and my preconceived notion that, for some unknown reason, panthers had to have emerald green eyes. His were pools of liquid gold. Pools that some poor, unsuspecting sucker could easily, albeit happily, drown in.

"What's your pleasure?" The Protector of Secrets asked him cordially.

The reason I was here cocked his head to the side and unleashed his smoldering gaze on me.

"Does he make a good Manhattan?"

His voice was ear candy: The timber and resonance crystal-clear, yet soft and mellow, lower than normal masculine midrange, and actually made your ears feel as if they had just been kissed. My imagination flashed on what he would sound like after sex, or first thing after waking up in the morning. Mentally shaking myself back to the present, I let my dove grays meet his Midas eyes full force.

"He makes a perfect Manhattan," I answered, allowing my mouth only the smallest hint of a smile. "And I'm a perfectionist."

"I was hoping for that," he responded, but to which comment? I wasn't sure. Turning back to face the barkeep, he added, "One of your perfect Manhattans, then."

He settled into the barrel-shaped barstool and gave me an over-the-shoulder glance. A chill ran down my spine, causing me to sit up even straighter and get a tighter grasp on my drink. Something was definitely different about him. Nothing like any vibe I had ever felt before. No wonder the CIA was more than a little interested in finding out more about this nameless male. All my senses told me that he wasn't exactly evil, but cautioned me to be on high alert. He was decidedly dangerous. And he looked absolutely delicious.

"Would you join me in moving to a booth?" he asked, as his drink was placed in front of him. "I really don't like sitting at the bar."

"I prefer having my back to the wall, myself," I said, sliding off the barstool and gathering my purse on my arm. "Do you see one you particularly like?"

"The one in the corner suits my personality." His answer was spoken in a tone that, had it been overheard, would have made the eavesdropper believe we were co-conspirators plotting some diabolical deed rather than two strangers hooking up for an innocent let's-get-to-know-each-other-somewhere-a-little-mo re-private drink.

I felt his hand gently brush across my lower back as we walked across the room. Although his touch had been light as a feather, the jolt of pure electricity it sent through me nearly produced an audible crackle. A quick peek over my shoulder confirmed he had felt it, too. His overall facial expression hadn't registered anything out of the ordinary, but his eyes told me he hadn't expected the current that flowed from him to me and back again.

"Is this better?" I asked, as I slid into the left side of the booth.

Stopping about a third of the way around, I was forcing him to sit either right next to me on my left or at a safer distance away from me on my right.

"Much better," he replied softly, countering my position by choosing to sit on my right.

He removed the black leather bag that hung on his shoulder and set it on the seat of the booth to his left, between us; I sat my purse on my left, away from him, making a mental note that he was most likely ambidextrous, as was I. No home court advantage. Usually, I made sure my Walther PK was safely concealed within reach, in my purse, on my right, allowing me to easily slip my hand around the handle and pull the trigger. For some completely misguided reason, I was throwing caution to the wind tonight. Truth was, I had the unnerving gut feeling that my handy-dandy may as well have been a cap gun if I had to actually pull it on this guy. He was definitely more the sling-shot-and-five stones type.

"This isn't quite what I pictured a meeting with the CIA would be like," he started the conversation, not bothering with introductions of any sort.

"Meetings come in all shapes and sizes," I said, coming off a little more flippant than I'd intended. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No, not at all. This is actually quite pleasant," he responded, glancing around the room. "It's just that I expected a more formal setting."

"There's really no need to have a friendly chat at headquarters." This time I made sure my warm and friendly was in place, even if we didn't know each other's names.

"So we're just having a friendly chat, then?" He sounded amused. "I'm a little disappointed. I expected a full scale interrogation, actually."

"Interrogation?" I questioned. "That sounds ominous. A little too KGB, don't you think?"

"The CIA has a reputation of its own," he scoffed. "Couple that with the fact that they – or some government agency – have been monitoring my every move and making diligent attempts to obtain any information they can about me, I think an in depth interrogation is exactly what they'd require."

"My current employer is very interested in you. It seems you recently appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly you're everywhere. You're not in any data base of any country on earth. They're really not sure what to make of you; how you keep yourself invisible; what your agenda might be. We actually haven't ruled out extraterrestrial, either. They're just a bit nervous about the whole situation, and now that I've met you, I get it. I really do."

"I make you nervous?" He was clearly amused. "I've been racking my brain since this meeting was arranged, trying to figure out why they sent their best agent to test the waters, so to speak. What if I told you that you make me nervous?"

"I'd say you were insulting my intelligence." Deciding to toy with him, I posed, "What if I told you I'm really just a rookie? Someone that could easily be written off as collateral damage, if need be, so you have no reason whatsoever to be nervous?"

"You would then be insulting my intelligence," he responded, emphasizing the word "my."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but at this point, you and I are just having a little heart to heart and getting to know each other." I flashed what I had been told was a "bedroom smile" at him.

"I have a feeling that you are never disappointing," he whispered, one-upping me by adding a smile that could have Mother Theresa dropping her panties.

"I don't get many complaints." My response sounded confident without being boastful.

"My money says you don't get any," he teased.

For a few moments, we sat silently sipping our drinks, regrouping for round two. So far, he was in the lead, a situation I planned to rectify quickly. Before I could steer the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go, he leaned toward me and took my hand in his.

"There's something I'd really like to show you." Again his voice was music; a song rather than mere spoken words. "Are you confident enough to go somewhere with me?"

"Hell no!" Spirit Girl screamed at me. "Don't even think about it!"

"Confidence doesn't have anything to do with my leaving here and going somewhere with you," I replied tartly, then immediately switched to being flirtatious. "More like good sense, or the lack of it. Besides, you just got here, and we haven't finished our drinks."

"Very well," he agreed. "So, more polite conversation, or do we begin our friendly game of cat and mouse?"

"Cat and mouse? How about twenty questions?" I asked, going along with his very dry humor. "What's your favorite color?"

"Blue, and yours?" he responded without hesitation.

"Pink." My response was just as quick. "And what is..."

"My turn," he said, cutting me off. "You're Native American, aren't you?"

"Was it the skin tone, the high cheek bones, or the black hair that tipped you off?" I asked sarcastically, given that I had a fair complexion, blonde hair, and no prominent facial features.

Why on earth would he have asked that, I wondered, getting my defenses back in place.

"Well, you got me there," he said with a chuckle, the sound more akin to a symphony than laughter. "I'm just really good at reading people, that's all. It was a wild guess, but an accurate one, am I right?"

"Actually, yes, you are. Care to guess what tribe?" I taunted him.

"I seem to remember there were five tribes described as civilized: Chickasaw, Choctaw, Cherokee, Seminole, and Cree." He stared at my face, not blinking for several seconds before pursing his lips, rolling his eyes, and finally declaring, "Cherokee, with a trace of Choctaw on your mother's side."

This was so not funny. How could he possibly know that? Even the CIA didn't know that, and they knew everything. Again, I did a quick copy-and-paste Mona Lisa.

"Very good," I complimented him. "But, my entire Indian heritage is from my mother's side. My father is full blood….."

"Italian," he cut me off. "Sicilian, to be precise."

The game was now freaking me out but good. My inner spirit-girl was working overtime trying to solve the mystery that sat next to me. Good thing she was getting her focus, because I was unraveling thread by thread.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to come across like some charlatan from a circus," he apologized, placing my hand between both of his. "Like I said, I can usually read people pretty well. It's sort of a hobby of mine."

"Getting into people's heads is your hobby?" I repeated, my words sounding too much like an accusation. "That's different. I'm into stamp collecting, myself."

"I heartily doubt that," he said skeptically. "Much too tame for you. And I don't get into people's heads; I just sort of read them like their life is part of a book."

"So stay out of my head and make my chapter a mystery," I snapped back at him.

"I really am sorry. I've offended you, and I never meant to do that," he whispered, as he tightened his grip on my hand.

Again, the lightning bolt hit both of us, only this time I gasped involuntarily at the sensation while his face reflected his disbelief at what had just happened. He quickly pulled his hand away and placed it on his lap. He sat completely still for a few moments before he exhaled and spoke again.

"There really is something I need to show you," he began. "Now, I'm afraid I've made you even more skeptical of me and my possible agenda, as you said, but please, trust me. I promise to be on best behavior. No more games. Just please, come with me."

His eyes told me he was sincere, and for some insane reason, I did actually trust him. Stepping completely out of character, I ventured forward.

"It's quite late already and my second wind hasn't kicked in yet. I am enjoying your company, though, and if you have to go somewhere, I guess I could tag along. After all, my employer does want me to get to know you. Of course, they're expecting a full report in the morning."

I added the last bit as a warning that someone would come looking for me if I hadn't checked in by early tomorrow. And they knew who I was with.

"Fine. I promise to make sure they get their money's worth," he said with a chuckle.

"Idiot," my inner companion hissed, as I figuratively put my hand across her mouth.

He quickly slid out of the booth, reached into his satchel, and took out a handful of cash. After laying a fifty-dollar bill on the table, he nodded at the bartender, took my elbow, and guided me out the door. Once we were outside, he turned to face me.

"It would be better if you rode with me in my car. The road is dark and winding, and you could easily get lost, with or without GPS," he explained.

"Hello!" Spirit Girl called, waving her arms in front of my face.

I clutched my purse against my ribs, feeling the butt of my Walther for reassurance, and told her to mind her own business.

"I really don't like the idea of leaving my car parked here for very long," I hedged. "My leaving with you might be a neon sign to a car thief."

"It's Friday night," he reminded me. "How many singles will become couples and leave together at closing? There are sure to be a few vehicles left unattended in the parking lot. Besides, this is a respectable neighborhood, is it not? Isn't that why we met here? Because it's safe?"

I rolled my eyes in defeat and walked beside him to his car.

A Bentley.

Of course.

A minute later, we were cruising along the Southern California coast, heading north. A Fourplay CD was playing softly in the background, something about making love and satin sheets. About the time I was imagining myself doing the dirty with Mr. Mystery Man, he reached over, again taking my hand in his, this time brushing the back of it across his lips before giving it a gentle kiss. The gesture in itself was sweet and seemingly innocent, yet at the same time seductive and sexy as hell. Yes, I could easily imagine being between the sheets with this man.

The next hundred miles passed quickly and relatively quietly, with a lot of hand squeezing and very little talk. We were establishing a sort of unspoken communication: feelings and thoughts being transmitted through an electric current. As long as he held my hand, there was no need for spoken words.

Did he have the same gifts I had?

"We're both professionals," he said suddenly, as if he had just read my mind. "Both the best at what we do. Your employer may think me interesting, but I find you absolutely fascinating. I'm sensing some hidden talents. Supernatural abilities."

Willing my own hand to be steady, I reached into my purse and took a pre-rolled out of my case. Before I could ask if he minded my smoking in his car, a lighter was in front of my face, ready to ignite the business end of the steady-your-nerves I really wanted to smoke.

"You're not a regular herb smoker," his statement doubled as a question.

In all honesty, I did only smoke when I needed to get my head on straight. Like now, for example. Herbs had been an important facet of developing my gifts. According to Toots, all vegetation had been given to us by the Supreme Being; we just needed to use them properly to get the full benefit, and to take care not to misuse what He had intended for our well-being. Piute was one of the plants she swore by.

"I enjoy a good smoke every now and then, myself," he stated matter of fact, as he accepted the joint I offered him. "Good herb, a Cuban cigar, or a pipe of rich Turkish tobacco clears my head so I can get my focus back." He took a deep drag, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. "Have you ever tried smoking for that purpose?"

He was teasing me now, I was sure of it. I was also positive he was reading my book again, and my facial expression must have shown it.

"I'm sorry. I'm being a bit of a show-off," he apologized. "You're on the right track with the mind reading or getting into people's heads. My actual talent is in tracking, I guess you might call it. Like you, I can find someone no matter how hard they might try to hide, by using an ability I was given at my rebirth."

"Rebirth?" I echoed. "You mean like, born again?"

"That term typically refers to having a religious or evangelical experience, does it not?" He questioned.
"Usually, yes." I confirmed, studying his face. "Is that what you're talking about?"

I had met several people, especially tribal elders, who have had conversations with the spirits, and had been virtually turned one-eighty or given special abilities because of it. Nothing too special here, then. At least, nothing out of the sort-of-ordinary-for-a-gifted-person.

"So, you had a spiritual encounter that resulted in your having a supernatural ability?" I asked for clarification.

"No, not exactly," he said, hesitantly. "I wouldn't label it as 'spiritual' really. But, we're nearly here, and I'll be happy to explain everything to you once we arrive."

I suddenly realized I hadn't been paying any attention to the landmarks or details about the drive since shortly after we left. I had no idea how long or how far we had been driving. Wonderful.

"It's a little late to worry about that now that we're somewhere in the middle of the Blair Witch Project," Spirit Girl huffed in her I-told-you-so tone of voice, stifling a yawn.

"That current flowing between him and me kind of lulled you to sleep, as well," I mentally scolded her. "We have to get back on our game. Now!"

Watching the odometer, I noted we had driven six-point-five miles when we came to a set of massive wrought iron gates. He pushed a button on the Bentley's console causing the gates to slowly slide open. We proceeded forward down a tree-lined, brick driveway for another half-mile. One final bend in the road, and we pulled up in front of a huge mansion constructed out of rock and glass.

"Where are we?" I asked, trying desperately to keep my voice casual. "What is this place?"

We sat in silence, having a stare-down with each other for what seemed like an eternity. I had just about convinced myself that he could go on without blinking for days on end, when he decided to let me win. He slowly closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"We're at my home," he whispered, opening his eyes, now glowing in an otherworldly shade of vivid turquoise.

"Who. And. What. Are. You?" Spirit Girl and I demanded in unison.

"James," he said. "I am a vampire. And I've been waiting a millennia to meet you, Cam."