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       Praise for Michele Hauf

      “Hauf delivers excitement, danger and romance

      in a way only she can.”

      —Sherrilyn Kenyon

      “Dark, delicious and sexy.”

      —New York Times bestselling author Susan Sizemore on Her Vampire Husband

      “Cleverly engrossing dialogue, overwhelming desire and

      intriguing paranormal situations are skillfully combined

      to make this an irresistible read.”

      —Cataromance.com on Moon Kissed

      “A novel twist on a vampire tale … Hauf mixes well-

      developed characters and sparkling dialogue with a

      paranormal tale and comes out with a winner.”

      —RT Book Reviews on Kiss Me Deadly

      “With dangerous encounters, a myriad of paranormal

      beings and even some subtle humor, The Highwayman is an enchanting love story packed with riveting adventures.” —Cataromance.com

      “In this action-packed delight, Hauf’s humorous writing

      and well-developed characters combine for a realistic

      story—in spite of its supernatural basis.”

      —RT Book Reviews on The Devil To Pay

      About the Author

      A Minnesota native, MICHELE HAUF lives in a Minneapolis suburb with her family. She enjoys being a stay-at-home mom with a son and a daughter. Michele writes the kind of stories she loves to read, filled with romance, fantasy and adventure. Always a storyteller, she began to write in the early nineties and hasn’t stopped since. Playing guitar, hunting backyard butterflies and coloring (yes, coloring) keep her creativity honed. Research for her novels has yet to see her stealing jewels or racing cars on a high-speed chase, but … she can pick a lock or bake a mean chocolate cheesecake (with a file inside) if duty calls. You can contact Michele at: PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

      And if you love Michele Hauf don’t forget to check out the sizzlingly sexy, paranormal Valentine’s treat Be My Valentine, Vampire. Available from Mills & Boon^® now!

      Seducing

      the

      Vampire

      Michele Hauf

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      To Michelle Grajkowski, for believing in me.

       Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

       Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

       Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

      —William Shakespeare [Sonnet 116]

       PROLOGUE

       Paris, 1785

      NEVER HAD TERROR LOOKED LOVELIER.

      Blood oozed from the punctures in her neck. The choker’s honed iron points penetrated pale, powdered flesh, piercing muscle and even bone.

      Thick crimson blood purled down the curve of clavicle, detoured across alabaster shoulder, and then plunged toward the voluptuous breasts imprisoned behind silk damask and lace.

      Kohl drawn around blue eyes emphasized her horror. Yet the plump lips—carmine rouge caressing the pouting lowest lip—did not gape in pain.

      The witch’s spell had frozen her for time unending.

      He stepped away from her and unhooked the bone crown from around his wrist. Tapping the circlet of rat skulls against his palm, he took it all in.

      Imposed in stillness, she yet possessed the incredible and annihilating ability to seduce. Always she had bewitched, ever aware that her carefully crafted appearance, her practiced movements, her well-thought words could render all men gibbering fools.

      He lifted a hand to stroke the enticing curve of her bosom, but cautioned that connection.

      It had come to this. Even as her blood scent filled the air and curled beneath his nostrils, he could not force himself to lean forward. To smell her wine-lush skin. To breathe in her life. To overdose on her terror.

      He needn’t, for the heady mixture of her essence surrounded him in an exquisite caress. For the first time, he suspected, she feared. And he had been the master of that rare condition.

      If only he could have mastered her in body and blood.

      Holding the crown before him, high enough so that her fixed stare could sight the object, he rattled it. Dozens of rat skulls strung about a leather cord. New white bone, stripped of flesh, fur and muscle, still reeked of rodent blood and the sewers beneath the city.

      The sewers? Ah yes, a most clever notion.

      Placing the crown upon her black hair, always scented with summer wine, he pressed until it sat firmly and would not slip off.

      “I crown you—” the wicked edge in his voice cut his tongue—or maybe it was his fangs “—Queen of the Rats.”

      She did not scream. Rather, she likely could and was at this moment. Silently. Ragingly. The spell had immobilized her entire body.

      Cursed to become a living Pandora doll, frozen on the outside, alive and stunningly aware on the inside, she could now but accept punishment for her wicked, devious ways.

      “You had your chance,” he whispered, allowing admiration to soften his tone. “And now I condemn you to eternity.”

       CHAPTER ONE

       North of Paris, 1785

      SLAMMED AGAINST THE CARRIAGE wall, Viviane LaMourette braced her forearms against the padded interior. The impact forced her to bite her lower lip. She swore sharply as the carriage tilted. Her body was wedged against the wall, one hand slapping the glass window. The fragile glass cracked and sharp edges lacerated her palm. The scent of blood imbued with wine and dust tainted the small compartment.

      She could tell from the coachman’s agitated yelp that he had fallen from his box. It was the middle of March, yet the weather had been unseasonable. Snow as high as a man’s knee blanketed the countryside. The country roads were barely traversable, save for a few major routes directly to Paris.

      The brass foot warmer beneath her seat had slid against the wall and now spilled out white coals. The wool blanket draped over her lap had become tangled in her arms and the lace engageantes at her elbows.

      “Insufferable.”

      Struggling against the meddlesome twist of fabric, Viviane tried with futile effort to keep blood from smearing onto her damask gown. The fabric was the color of deep forest moss, and she had only brought along one additional gown for this visit.

      She

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