They assumed the proper dancing posture, hands clasped. His right hand cupped the strong, graceful curve of her shoulder blade. She rested the fingertips of her left hand along the shoulder seam of his jacket.
He met her gaze as they waited for the right beat in the music. Then he nodded to her, and as they began to move, she stepped forward instead of back and trod on his foot again.
“Madre de Dios,” he said. He said a few other choice things too. He hadn’t realized that he had slipped into speaking Spanish until she started to snort and shudder. He stopped to glare at her. “What?”
“You sound like Ricky Ricardo,” she told him. Her voice quivered, and so did her beautiful lips.
When he looked at her more closely, he realized she was laughing, and trying to muffle it. “Who is this Ricardo?”
“From I Love Lucy,” she said. Then, when he still looked blank, she prompted, “The classic TV sitcom?”
“I do not watch TV,” he said. Belatedly, a vague image of a redheaded comedienne came to mind. Once, she had been famous enough that her image had dominated the media. He dismissed it.
“Not ever?”
He shrugged. “I do keep an eye on CNN, MSNBC and other news channels.”
“That’s not real TV,” she told him. She glanced down at their feet again as she muttered under her breath, “Tonight is a lot like I Love Lucy. Only with Vampyres. Naturally.”
He decided to ignore that. “This conversation has turned irrelevant. You keep trying to lead, and you can’t.”
“It’s a natural instinct to step forward, not backward,” she pointed out.
“While I understand that, I have every faith you can overcome it and stop trampling your partner’s feet.” He paused and looked at her more closely.
Dark circles had appeared in the delicate skin underneath her eyes. If she had looked tired before, now she looked exhausted and entirely out of sorts. As he studied her expression, he realized that while his “day” had begun shortly before sunset, she had been engaged in some kind of training exercise since early that morning.
Contrition hit. “Tess, I apologize. We have been working you too hard.”
Immediately her back straightened as she bristled. “I’m fine. Let’s go again.”
“I think not. Thank you for your time. We’re finished for tonight.” He inclined his head to her and turned away.
“Please.” Slender fingers caught at his sleeve. “I want to try one more time. “
He stilled and looked down at her hand. It was an imprudent gesture, of course, and when he had been a young man, it would never have been permitted. One did not lay hands upon a member of the nobility without permission.
But those early days of his youth were centuries gone. Now so many humans were brash and heedless. Strange vulgarities such as “yo mama” and “motherfucker” were actually considered legitimate interactions, along with backslapping, head rubbing, fist-bumping, hugs and other importunities.
He had learned to tolerate without flinching most minor encroachments upon his person, and if anyone else had so heedlessly laid a hand on him, he wouldn’t have given it more than a passing thought.
Except, this was Tess who had voluntarily laid a hand on him. Tess, who, when they had first met, had difficulty remaining in the same room as him. Just now she had reached out so naturally, so thoughtlessly.
A quick, bright reaction flared. Triumph, perhaps, along with pleasure. He schooled his expression to conceal it as he turned back to her, covering her hand with his. “Very well, one more time, but then we’re through. You need to rest, and I have other matters to attend to.”
Her forehead crinkled. “We were going to start meditating so I could learn some biofeedback techniques.”
Some tense, buried emotion lay underneath her words, and he studied her more closely. She was anxious, yet struggling to hide it. Frowning, he thought back over their conversation that evening. It had not exactly gone smoothly. She had tried his patience, and had evidenced her own frustration and discouragement more than once.
Then he remembered what she had said about Raoul slamming her to the ground or throwing her into the wall, and his frown deepened. If his suspicion was correct, the other man had been trying to discourage her from staying. It appeared they might have been hard on her in more ways than one.
“There’s no harm in starting the meditation tomorrow evening,” he said gently. “We’re undertaking a journey, not running a race. Overall, you’ve been working quite hard and doing a very good job. I’m pleased with the progress you’ve made.”
Her tired eyes brightened. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
He shook his head. “I’m not just saying that.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He inclined his head. “And now to try this one more time. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
They took the waltz position, which was another thing she did very well. She held her head high, shoulders back. He pulled out the stereo remote and keyed the music to start, then dropped the remote back into his jacket pocket and took her hand.
They waited, and as the first strains of music filled the ballroom, he met her gaze and mouthed, Backward.
She took a deep breath, nodded and they stepped into the waltz together.
For a full minute and a half they achieved a thing of beauty. Her slender body moved lightly and gracefully through the steps, at one with his. Her expression lit with excitement, and he smiled to see it.
Then she stepped on his foot.
He stopped immediately, and before the dismay in her eyes could dampen her expression, he said, “Well done!”
She had opened her mouth, he knew, to apologize, and his words caught her off guard. “You don’t really mean that.” Her voice wavered upward at the end, turning it into a hopeful question.
“Of course I do. I think that time you got a chance to see how the waltz really feels, which will make tomorrow’s lesson go more easily. And I never say anything I don’t mean.” He took one of her hands and bowed over it. The courtly gesture was decidedly out of date, but it felt good to indulge the impulse. “If I were you, I would take the compliment and call it a win.”
Still bent over her hand, he tilted his head to glance up at her and caught her wry smile. “If you insist.”
“I will tell Raoul that your presence will not be required until lunchtime,” he told her as he straightened. “Enjoy your morning off. You’ve earned it.”
Her smile widened into real pleasure. “Thank you.”
“De nada. Good night.”
“Good night.”
After watching her step out of the ballroom, he turned off the stereo and the lights. Whistling Strauss’s Blue Danube underneath his breath, he went to look for Raoul.
He found the other man in the gym, immersed in paperwork in his office. When he appeared in the doorway, Raoul looked up from his work. “How did it go?”
Fortuitous. Behoove.
A ripple of laughter waltzed silently through his soul. He admitted, “There were some frustrations.”
Raoul barked out a laugh. “That bad?”
“Actually, we ended the evening on a positive note.” Crossing his arms, he leaned against the doorway. “I’ve given her the morning off. We need to adjust her schedule. We can’t expect her to start at dawn while also working late into the night.”
Raoul lounged back in his seat, swiveling to face him. “Of course. I should have thought of that already. It’ll be no problem to begin a few hours later.”
Xavier paused as he regarded the other man. Raoul had been with him for a long time, and they knew each other well. “I want you to stop trying to drive her away.”
Raoul gave him a sour look. “Did she complain?”
“No, she didn’t. She ma
de a joke about it, but I could still read the subtext.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’d already decided to stop this morning after she ambushed me.” Raoul twirled a pen between his fingers. “She wants to take things to the next level, and I’m going to oblige.”
“Good. That’s good.” He nodded absently as his thoughts turned in another direction. “You’re the one who orders supplies for everyone, so you must know what size clothes she wears, yes?”
“Of course.” The other man’s expression turned guarded. “Why do you ask?”
He turned decisive. “I want you to order a ball gown for her.”
Raoul’s eyebrows took a slow, incredulous hike up his forehead. He repeated, “Order a ball gown.”
“Yes, one with a long, full skirt. Make it a dark blue one.” Tess would look good in dark blue. He remembered the quip she made about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and added, “Don’t forget to order high heels either.”
Tossing his pen onto the desk, Raoul rose to his feet and strode over to him, enunciating, “What. Are. You. Doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Xavier’s eyes narrowed at the other man’s attitude. “I’m teaching her to dance.”
“She doesn’t need a dress to learn how to dance!”
He shook his head. “Raoul, nobody waltzes in exercise pants.”
She needed to learn how to deal with the long skirts and high heels, along with everything else, should the occasion call for it. Oh, lord. He braced himself at the thought.
Raoul stuck a finger under his nose. “It was one time. In the last forty years, as far as I know, an attendant has been asked to dance with a guest one time, and yet now you’re squandering hours and hours of your time to make sure that Tess knows how to waltz.” He paused to let the sarcasm in the room marinate for a few seconds, then added, “Should the subject ever come up in her lifetime.”
Xavier focused on the opposite wall. “I don’t see that there’s an issue.”
“I know what you’re doing,” Raoul said.
“Do you? Please do enlighten me.” He was very interested to hear what the other man had to say, because he didn’t have a clue what he was doing.
“You’re beginning to invest time and trouble in her—a ball gown, Xavier. Really? Soon you’ll grow attached, and your protective instincts will kick in. Then you’ll never be able to send her out on assignment.” Raoul spread both hands wide. “Which is assuming we get that far, and frankly, right now, that’s a bit of a stretch, since she hasn’t made the most basic of commitments to you yet. And that means all of this will have been for nothing.”
Patiently, Xavier heard him out. When Raoul paused to take a breath, he said calmly, “I disagree with you on several counts.”
Raoul glared at him. “Such as?”
“You’re assuming an end goal that has never been decided upon. Yes, I saw potential in her, but I never committed to sending her out on any assignments.”
Pausing, Xavier considered again how her appearance had changed, and how memorable she had become, and the same thread of disquiet rippled over him again. He had good instincts. They had been honed by personal disaster and tragedy, and he had no intention of ignoring them now.
He continued thoughtfully, “There are any number of factors that may keep me from sending her on assignment, including the fact that she came to me very publicly through the Vampyre’s Ball.”
“Many people ask for interviews, and it never goes anywhere,” Raoul pointed out. It was not for the first time, since they had begun to discuss Tess’s potential merits and shortcomings.
“That may be so, but I don’t ask for many interviews at the Ball, and there are those who take note of every move I make,” he said. “And even if I did offer her the chance, we don’t know that she would accept. The only thing I ever offered her—and she accepted—was the chance to become an attendant. That’s all we have the right to expect, and right now she’s showing signs of becoming an excellent one.”
The other man frowned. “Fair enough.”
He met Raoul’s gaze. “I also disagree with what you said about her not having made the most basic commitment, because I think she has. She’s done everything you’ve asked, and she’s done everything I’ve asked as well, and we’ve not been easy on her. She’s taken every bruise and every fall without complaint, while you’ve worked her to the bone.”
“True, but she hasn’t made a direct blood offering, has she?”
“No, but I like the fact that she hasn’t.” Changing position as he leaned back, he faced the opposite side of the doorway. “I like that it’s difficult for her, because it will have significance when she does it. You know as well as I do that most of the humans at the Vampyre’s Ball would have given a blood offering without a second’s hesitation to any Vampyre who asked for it, while the act itself would reveal nothing about their abilities, character, or their capacity for loyalty. As a ritual, it’s become outdated and meaningless.” He murmured, almost to himself, “And it shouldn’t be.”
Raoul heaved a sigh. “I hate it when you’re right.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “That is your cross to bear, since I am right so often.”
“Yes, well . . .” Raoul turned back to his desk and sat down. “And none of that pertains to teaching her how to waltz, but fine, I’ll order a ball gown for her to practice in. A cheap one.”
He contemplated the toe of one shoe. “A blue one.”
“A cheap, blue one,” said Raoul, as he scribbled it on a Post-it note. “Along with cheap high heels.”
He heaved a sigh. “Raoul, don’t do that to her feet. You do want her to be able to run in the mornings, don’t you?”
“Fine.” Raoul crossed out the Post-it note with strong, dark lines and wrote another one. “Good high heels. Are you satisfied now?”
He smiled. “I am, thank you. Have you scheduled meetings for me this evening?”
“Yes, the first one, Marc, will be in to see you at midnight, if that’s okay? I’ve scheduled one meeting per hour, for each of the five men.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Do you know where you’ll send Marc? I think he would do well with a challenge.”
“I thought he could keep an eye on either Justine or Darius,” he said. Unlike Tess, one huge advantage of all five men was that they had been recruited in secrecy. That widened his choices considerably in choosing how to use their services. “Let me know who you would recommend to send to the other. I want an extra pair of eyes on both of them right now.”
“That assignment might be too weighty for Scott,” said Raoul, tapping his pen against his lips as he thought. “I’d like to see him get an assignment that builds on his confidence. Right now, I’d have to pick Brian.”
“Good enough.”
He left Raoul’s office and the gym, and strolled back to the main house. The night was sparkling clear, with thousands of stars sprayed along the wide, dark expanse of sky like crystals sewn on velvet.
Tess would look good in a dress made of black velvet too.
He glanced at the attendants’ house. Her room was in darkness. Detouring from the path to the main house, he walked over to the attendants’ house, listening carefully to filter out all of the sounds made by the others.
She was in her room, and her breathing had turned deep and even. He imagined how she looked. Did she wear a nightshirt, or did she sleep nude? When he had entered her bedroom before, she had worn a dark red shirt that had come to the tops of her thighs.
The bedcovers would drape around her slender form in a gentle canopy. Her hair would spill onto the pillow like black silk, and the lines of her angular face would be relaxed and peaceful.
He would like to see her look peaceful. Unguarded.
But it was none of his business how she looked
when she was alone, asleep in bed. Despite all his clever arguments, Raoul had the right of it. He was in danger of growing too attached.
Turning, he made his way back to his own silent house.
ELEVEN
Late the next morning, after everyone else had started work and Tess relished the quiet of an empty house, she made a pot of coffee and sat down to read through several newspapers.
Even though print newspapers were dead, apparently Xavier’s household hadn’t gotten the memo. Daily, twenty or more newspapers from all over the world were delivered to the estate, including all major human news outlets and several Elder Races newsletters and papers that she had never heard of before she had come to work for Xavier.
One of her duties was to keep abreast of current events, but she didn’t mind doing it. She wanted to read all the news she could get her hands on, and the papers saved her the trouble of trying to figure out how to glean information from the Internet without leaving any kind of discernible trail.
Ten minutes later, she rested her elbows on the dining table, propped her forehead in her hands and stared in horror down at the Boston Herald spread out before her.
U.S. SENATOR’S SON DIES
Eathan Jackson, twenty-one-year-old son of Massachusetts senator Paul Jackson (R.), died off the coast of Florida Saturday afternoon in what officials are calling a “freak boating accident.” A senior undergraduate at Harvard, the younger Jackson was taking a long weekend break with his girlfriend and two other friends. The four had gone sailing on an otherwise cloudless day, when a sudden squall capsized their boat.
Jackson’s girlfriend and friends were able to employ an inflatable emergency dinghy until help arrived, while Jackson disappeared from sight. His body was discovered several hours later. . . .
Pain filled Tess’s chest like a gigantic bruise. As tears pricked the back of her eyes, she rubbed her face and thought, Freak squall, my ass.
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