Chapter Seven

A few hours later, Mac sat in her own hotel room in Seattle. She had decided to work on her article a little before she met Jon in his room for dinner. Typing away on her laptop, she was trying hard not to daydream about the sexy man in the room next door. Mac had been quite surprised when they arrived at the hotel and Jon had discreetly requested adjoining suites for the two of them. Not that she was going to complain. The suite she was in was very nice, with a bedroom and separate sitting room, and the bathroom was just spectacular. Her mind drifted to the sexy man in question. Was he in his suite?


Somehow, she found herself staring at the door that connected their suites. Was he serious about seeing if they could have a relationship? Why would someone like him want to have a relationship with her? She laid one hand on the door and immediately images began to flash across her brain, quickly gaining speed from a jerky slow motion to a full speed movie. A woman dressed like a maid smiling at Jon, him smiling back, the maid walking over to him like some sort of zombie, Jon kissing on her neck, all flashed across her mind’s eye. The only thing in common with the previous vision was the feeling of absolute ecstasy. Jon kissing another woman, after just proclaiming to her that he wants to try a relationship? Or, was he nibbling on the woman’s neck like he had teased her about earlier?


She stumbled to a nearby chair and almost fell into it. Her visions always left her weak and dizzy for a few minutes. It had always bothered Mac that there was never any sound with these visions, and she didn’t know if what she was seeing was past, present or future. She always had to just muddle through and just try to figure out what they meant.


So, she began to try to muddle through. Were these just women from Jon’s past? It would have to be the recent past, judging from his appearance in the vision. What did it all mean? She didn’t want to keep seeing him with other women, but then she never saw what she wanted to see in these visions. Hell, she would prefer not to see them at all.



***********************


Jon walked away from the broom closet feeding feeling guilty, feeling like he had betrayed Mac in some way. Why? He had to feed, and if Mac were a converted vampire he would have to in turn feed her. Hunting and feeding were facts of life for him. So, why then, did it feel like a betrayal of his life-mate?


Shaking his head at the confusion, he walked back into his suite. He had left Richie there a few minutes ago to go feed, and predictably, Richie was waiting on his return.


"So," Richie grinned at him, his guitar still in his lap, "how’d it go?"


"Same as usual."


"Except, you didn’t have sex with her. You weren’t gone long enough," Richie commented.



"Unless of course...naaaa....that would just be sad."


"Knock it off, Rich, I haven’t had sex with another woman since I met Mac."


"Whoa. Really?" Richie was surprised. "That’s telling, isn’t it?"


"Even more telling, though, is that I felt guilty after feeding," Jon said, shaking his head at his own foolishness. "Explain that one... old, wise, jackass."


"But Jon, you have to feed."


"That’s exactly my point." Jon walked over to the chair he had vacated earlier, picked up his guitar and sat down. He was waiting on Richie to give him some sort of pearl of wisdom. Richie was, remarkably enough, able to come up with one from time to time. With his guitar in his lap, he looked at his friend with expectation etched on his face.


"What?" Richie asked him, smiling.


"I’m waiting on that occasional flash of brilliance to happen and you to say something genius-like," Jon explained.


"Genius-like? You think I’m a genius when it comes to women?"


"No, you’re more like an idiot savant, but you do occasionally get it right."


"You do realize, of course, that isn’t the politically correct term, right? They’re called autistic savants now," Richie patiently explained.


"See, " Jon said, pointing at Richie triumphantly, "genius-like. But, unfortunately, that flash of brilliance had nothing to do with women or the current problem."


"Hey," Richie laughed, "it’s not like I have control over’em."


Jon’s laughter was interrupted by a knock on the door between his suite and Mac’s. "Come on in, Mac," he called out. Richie raised a questioning eyebrow, but Jon ignored him. Instead his eyes were on the beautiful woman who stuck her head into the room.


Mac hesitantly stepped into the room. "I can come back."


"No, it’s okay. We were just working on something," Jon told her.


"But we were really just talking," Richie smiled at her. "Come on, have a seat." He waved his hand at a vacant chair across from Jon.


Her eyes flew immediately to the sexy blond man. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn in her vision. A blue T-shirt with the sleeves cut out of it was showing off the muscles in his arms, and a part of tight faded jeans were doing the same for his muscular thighs. Black sneakers covered his feet. She sat in the chair across from him, but was still staring at him with a puzzled expression.


Jon was wondering what she was thinking, and somehow, all of a sudden, he was in her head. Why was she concerned about what he was wearing? And, more importantly, why was he suddenly able to read her when he couldn’t before? Perhaps, it was the fact that they had made love, or perhaps it was that she was his life-mate, but either way this was very interesting. Carefully, he withdrew from her mind.


Mac had felt the sensation of butterfly wings brushing her brain again, and the weird feeling that she wasn’t alone in her own head, but just as quickly as it had happened it was gone again. What the hell was wrong with her? She realized Jon was looking at her, smirking, almost like he knew what she was thinking.


"So, when’s dinner, Bon Jovi?" she asked, trying to distract him.


"I guess that’s my cue to leave," Richie laughed, standing with his guitar still in his hands.


"No, you don’t have to go," Mac told him quickly, realizing how rude she was being.


Richie glanced at Jon, then back at Mac. "Yeah, I do. Catch up with you later, Kidd," he said as he headed for the door.


When the door closed behind Richie, Jon laid his guitar gently on the floor. Rising from his chair slowly, he said softly, "I thought he’d never leave," even as he crossed the space between them like a predator stalking prey. Leaning over her with one hand resting on each chair arm, he kissed her softly, nibbling on her bottom lip, before his tongue dove into her mouth to claim hers. He almost smiled against her lips when her arms snaked around his neck and her fingers threaded into the hair at his nape. Lowering himself to his knees between her spread feet, he leaned into her without breaking the kiss.


Her hands glided across his shoulders then down his bare arms, while her tongue tangled with his. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing a path across her cheek to her luscious neck. Licking at her jugular, he felt his fangs lengthen.


"I thought this was supposed to be desert," she said huskily, "and you haven’t even fed me dinner yet."


There was a knock at the door. "Saved by the room service waiter, my dear, but we’ll finish this later," he assured her before he rose to his feet and went to answer the door.


***********************




A few minutes later, Jon was enjoying the view across the table from him. She was beautiful anyway, but by candlelight Mac was almost angelic. The candlelight provided an almost halo effect that helped the illusion. All she was missing was the wings. Briefly, he wondered what she was thinking, but didn’t try to enter her head. He hadn’t missed the slight widening of her eyes when he walked into her head earlier. Somehow, she had known he was there, maybe not him specifically but someone. He found that small fact very interesting. What else was she capable of with that very strong mind of hers? Jon wondered if he entered her head while she was sleeping if she’d notice he was there or just think she was dreaming. As interesting as all of these ideas were, he wanted to learn more about her, things she might actually tell him.


"Is Mac your real first name?" he asked her, before taking a sip of wine.


"Nope." He had really hoped she would elaborate some more.


"You don’t wanna tell me what is, do you?"


"Nope," she answered, as she popped a bite of buttered roll in her mouth.


"Oh come on, Mac," Jon coaxed, grinning, "how’re we going to get to know each other if you won’t answer a simple question?"


"Can’t you start with something else?"


"I could’ve asked his name," he answered, shrugging.


"MacKenzie," she answered, quickly.


"Nice name, but unusual. Especially for a woman," he commented, grinning over her obvious reluctance to share the guy’s name. He took a bite of his dinner, not even paying attention to what was on his plate.


"It was my mother’s maiden name, besides it’s not as unusual as my middle name," she told him. Then winced when she realized what the next question would be.


Jon waited a few seconds before saying, "Okay, I’ll bite, what is your middle name?"


"My parents were Fleetwood Mac fans, can we just leave it at that?"


"Uh," he smiled, then shrugged, "no."


"Rhiannon, okay. Damn it, you’re like a dog with a bone."


"Ah, the Scottish witch of the wind," he commented, nodding.


"You’re the first person who actually realized the meaning behind the name," she said, surprised. Her mother had ‘the sight’ too, as did all the women in her family before her, she had been sure that her daughter would have the same abilities and had wanted to give her a name worthy of her gift. So, she’d been named after a witch. Her father, being proud of his Scottish heritage, had insisted it be a Scottish witch she was named after. It was just her terrible luck that had made Fleetwood Mac come out with that damn song right before she was born.


"Well, you’re certainly bewitching, but are you a witch?"


Mac almost choked on the bite of food she had just put in her mouth. "Of course not," she answered, quickly.


Jon raised one eyebrow. Interesting. She might not be a witch, but something about that question had hit too close to the mark. He laid his fork carefully in his plate, then laced his fingers together, his hands resting on the table in front of him. Jon leaned back in the chair, while he contemplated the woman in front of him. What wasn’t she telling him? He wanted to slip in her head and find out, but he didn’t want to tip his hand too soon.


"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asked, deciding not to push her on the other topic.


"No," she replied, "but I always wanted a sister. Sandy, my best friend, pretty much fits the bill now though."


"Well, you’ve met my best friend. What’s your’s like?"


"A lot like your’s actually," she laughed. "And she’s a huge fan of you guys, actually."


"Really? What does she do?"


"She’s a writer for the magazine too. She wanted this assignment in a bad way, but Joseph, our editor, said no. He didn’t want a fan’s account of the tour. He wanted a fresh angle, from a non-fan. But, Sandy knows all about all of you. I think she even knows all of your birthdays. I know she celebrates Richie’s every year. Makes him a cake and everything. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve made fun of her for that."


He acted offended. "Hey, don’t make fun of our fans. They’re very loyal, and we love them all. Even the kooks."


"Oh, I’d say she’s more than a kook, where you guys are concerned. She definitely drank the kool-aide," she laughed. "So, what made you wanna be a musician?"


"Is this the interviewer asking, or the woman?"


"The woman."


Jon thought about his answer for a minute. Did he want to give her the same joke of an answer he had always given to other reporters, or should he try to give her the real reason? He’d never been able to put it into words before without it just sounding stupid. That’s why he always told reporters, ‘I got into it for the women’,‘ For the chicks man, I got into music for the chicks,’ or his favorite, ‘The only guys who got the girls were jocks and musicians, and I knew I was too short to play football.’ How did you put into words the need to create something meaningful, the need to share it with others? The longing to tell a story, and to somehow touch someone’s life with it?


"Would it help if I asked as the interviewer?" she asked him, smiling.


"No," he laughed, "because then I would just give you the same answer I give every other reporter that asks."


"And what answer is that?"


"The women," he laughed.


"Why do I find that too easy to believe?" she grinned.


"Because it fits the image I’ve put out there for everyone to see," he answered, almost regretting the honesty in that remark, but he wanted to be honest and open with her. Eventually, he’d have to tell her everything, and it would be easier if he started out with the truth. He leaned forward. "Mac, I’ve always been an expert at public relations. I know just what causes to be involved in, just what to say, and which way to look for the cameras to get my good side. I know how to get my name and consequently, the band’s name out there. But, I gotta be honest. There’s the image, and then there’s the real deal, and some days they’re really close like two sides of the same coin. And some days, they’re miles apart." That was as close as he could get right now to telling her that the image he had made for himself, the family man and All-American boy, wasn’t the complete truth. That his wife and family were all hired actors, and he was a 444 year old vampire.


"Of course you would have to be good at the PR stuff. Look at how big ya’ll are," she commented, waving one hand in the air.


She didn’t know the half of it, and right now he just couldn’t tell her. So, he changed the subject to something that was sure to distract her and put her on the defensive. "Wanna tell me his name now?"


"Not really," she shook her head. She pushed her chair back and stood abruptly. "But, I guess I might as well get this over with."


Jon didn’t say a word. He just waited patiently and watched as she began to pace the floor. Eventually she would get it out, he knew, but she needed to do it in her own time.


"His name is Daniel," she finally said. "He was my fiancé. Daniel always said I was too short, and my freckles made me look like a little girl, among other things." She couldn’t bring herself to voice the other hateful things Daniel had said out loud. Mac stopped pacing and turned to look at Jon. Leaning back in the chair, he looked comfortable. And patient. Like he had all night to listen to her.


"What ‘other things’?" he asked softly.


"Jon," she said, her voice cracking, "don’t make me say them out loud."


"What was so bad that you can’t say it?"


"It’s not that I can’t say it," she told him tearfully, then in a whisper added, "I couldn’t bear it if you agreed with him."


Jon stood up so fast, he knocked the chair over. Quickly, he strode across the room and pulled her roughly into his arms. "There’s no way I would ever agree with him! He is a fucking liar. Everything he told you was a lie!" He raised her chin with the knuckle of his first finger, so he could look into her eyes. "Listen to me," he paused, "better yet, let me show you."


He released her and stepped back. Taking one of her hands in each of his own he led her toward his bedroom. Somehow, he would show her what he saw. Somehow, he would make her see the beautiful woman that he saw. Even if it took him all night, or even the rest of his life.

Jon led her to the mirror in his room. Turning her toward the mirror, he stepped up close to her back. He wasn’t touching her anymore, but he was standing so close, she could feel the heat of his body.


He leaned down to whisper in her ear, "Watch the mirror, mia moglie. Don’t take your eyes off us." His hot breath tickled her ear, making her shiver.


Briefly, she wondered what he had called her. It sounded like Italian, perhaps an endearment. But, she didn’t wonder long, her mind was suddenly awash with sensation as his tongue swirled around the delicate shell of her ear. She leaned back against his strong chest, closing her eyes against the sensual pleasures his tongue was causing.


"No," he whispered, his voice husky, "don’t close your eyes, Mac. I want you to see what I see."

Opening her eyes, she met his blue gaze in the mirror, even as his hands circled her waist, pulling her tighter against him. She felt the hardening bulge in his jeans swelling against her bottom. There was no way she could doubt his desire for her, not with the proof of it pressed so tightly against her.


One of his hands slid under the band of her sweatshirt, pulling her shirt up as it went. He stopped that hand and left it splayed across her abdomen, the palm of his hand resting on the waistband of her jeans, his thumb and forefinger caressing the satin skin of her stomach. The other hand moved further up under her sweatshirt to boldly stroke her breast through the satin and lace of her bra. His blue eyes never left hers in the mirror, he held her gaze as strongly as he held her.


With his mouth still at her ear, he whispered, "I see a woman made for a man’s hands. Made to be loved." His lips teased at the side of her neck, but Jon resisted the urge to bite her. This was all about her; he wanted to take all her self-conscious doubts away once and for all.

The hand at her waist moved up her body, caressing as it went, until his fingers were playing at her lips. "I see lips that were made for kissing. Ripe and luscious, begging to be nibbled. The bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top, so it looks like you’re always pouting. Needing a man’s love, a man’s touch."


She groaned. His touch was lighting a fire inside her, but his words were burning her up. "Jon," she gasped, softly.


"Moving on," he said huskily, before moving to pull the sweatshirt off over her head and tossing it carelessly in the floor. One hand continued to play at her breasts, while the other smoothed the skin of her shoulder. "Your skin is like satin, warm satin. It pleads with me to stroke it. Can you hear it?" He didn’t wait for an answer. The hand at her breasts skillfully released the front clasp of her bra. With both hands, he slid the straps off her shoulders and let the scrap of satin and lace fall at her feet


She reached up above her head with one hand, intending to circle his neck, but he grasped her hand and moved it back to her side. "No, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. Look at you... at us." His hands moved back to her breasts, caressing, his fingers tugging tenderly at her nipples. His lips were once again at her ear. "I see breasts more beautiful than words. They beg me to take them in my mouth to suckle and nibble on them." His husky words matched with his movements were sending Mac way over the edge, her eyes closed in ecstasy. "No, no, mia moglie," he whispered hotly against her ear, "open your eyes. See what I see." There was that endearment again. What did it mean?


She opened her eyes as he asked, once again meeting his blue eyes in the mirror. His gaze was as hot as his hands on her body, touching, tormenting.


He pushed her hair aside with his nose, to kiss her nape as his hands slid to her waist and began to undo the front of her jeans. As his hands pushed her jeans and panties over her hips, he bent to push them to her feet, his lips nibbling down her back as he went. "You taste so good, il mia tesora. The taste of your skin is sweeter than any fruit."


She was sure now that it was Italian, but what was he saying? All too soon, she didn’t care again as his hands began their sensual onslaught once more. One hand tenderly caressed one of her breasts before moving to give the other the same attention. His other hand slid down her abdomen to the light brown curls at the apex of her thighs. At that point, she couldn’t take her eyes off his in the mirror. His gaze held hers like a magnet does steel, even as his thumb began to dance lightly on the button of her desire hidden in those curls. He bent his blond head to lightly graze her shoulder with his fangs, but his eyes never left hers in the mirror.


Whispering against her shoulder, he told her hotly, "You are molto bella, very beautiful. You take my breath away with the look of desire in your amazing green eyes."


His thumb continued it’s dance, and she pushed urgently against his hand. "Jon," she gasped, "please."


"Please, what, mia moglie?" he asked against her neck. "See, you even beg beautifully."


"Please make love to me," she urged, her eyes holding his in the mirror, "I need to feel you in me. Now." She surprised herself with her boldness, but how could she not be bold with the words he was whispering in her ear and the magical caresses of his hands.


Quickly, Jon pulled back from her to swiftly remove his clothes. He pulled her back against him once more, then his hands slid down her arms. Taking her hands, he gently laid them on the dresser in front of her. "Don’t look away, please il mia tesora, watch us."


His lips tasted the velvety skin of her neck, as his hands once again caressed her breasts, and he spread her feet apart with one of his own. Then his hands moved to her hips. He pulled her toward him as he slid inside her warmth. He watched her eyes widen slightly in the mirror when he entered her. "Dunque bella," he whispered against her neck, as he began to move inside her.
She didn’t speak Italian, but even she knew that bella meant beautiful. She pushed back against him to meet his thrusts, still meeting the fire of his blue gaze in the mirror. This was the most purely sensual thing that had ever happened to her.


He left one hand on her hip, but the other roamed back up to her breasts. Caressing, tugging playfully at her nipples, making the fire burn brighter, more out of control. He sucked at her earlobe, briefly, before he whispered, "Come for me, il mia tesora." Then the hand left her hip and once again his thumb danced on the nubbin of flesh hidden in her curls.


The fire burned hotter, and the flames danced higher, threatening to consume her. She gasped his name as the heat engulfed her and she gave in to the explosion.


Jon found his own release as she gasped his name, letting it wash over him as he continued to thrust into her. "Oh God, Mac," he cried out, huskily, pulling her tightly against him.


He disengaged from her, then bent to pick her up. Jon strode quickly to the bed, and laid her gently down on the pillows. Quickly, he laid down beside her. Laying on his side, he propped up on his elbow to look down at her. He smoothed her hair back off her forehead as he smiled down into her eyes. "Don’t ever let me hear you say you aren’t beautiful again," he told her.


She smiled up at him. "Will you give me another lesson like that one, if I do?"


"Perhaps," he gave her a devilish grin, "or I might give you a spanking."


Mac reached up to stroke his cheek with her palm, noticing that he turned his face into her caress. "Thank you," she whispered softly.


"No, thank you, for coming into my life," he said urgently, before his lips touched hers. He kissed her deeply, before pulling her into his arms.