by Michele Hauf
Enchanting his vampire had been a necessity he would never regret.
Pacing the imported carpeting stretched before a high-tech titanium fireplace in the grand room, Rhys pushed fingers through his short hair. Tense and jittery, his muscles couldn’t relax. It was as if he’d downed a gallon of java, and he hated coffee.
He hadn’t taken time to think since learning the urban legend; he’d simply reacted. Now he tried to convince himself this trip to Paris was nothing more than a ruse. And if he were going to tilt at windmills it must be done swiftly, and return him to life before the emotional damage could set in and prod at the heartache he’d thought long and deeply buried.
Because he didn’t believe she could still be alive. She had been reduced to ash.
The fact this legend resembled a piece of Rhys’s life was due to mathematical probability. You doctor a story often enough, it’ll eventually match that of someone’s recollection.
But how many men had loved a vampiress and then lost her? In the eighteenth century. Paris. A man who was maybe a werewolf or maybe a vampire?
Could she still live?
He supposed a warlock could perform such a spell as to keep a person alive yet frozen, but there couldn’t have been a coffin—let alone, one of glass—so long ago that would have been airtight, and would not break over the centuries.
So why had he rushed to Paris?
Couldn’t be because hope simmered within him. Some part of him wanted to believe in miracles. He’d walked through the centuries relatively mindful of lacking miracles. There was always a man behind the curtain to erase the wonder.
He’d put her from his memory decades earlier. Hell, a century ago. For decades following her death he’d wallowed in misery and heartbreak. Her sweet kiss lived upon his lips. Those devastating blue eyes, he saw them everywhere. Upon her death, his heart had been shattered beyond repair.
Eventually he’d glued the cracks in his heart—though some pieces could never be replaced—and had finally gotten on with his life sometime after Napoleon’s reign. That was when he’d begun to form Hawkes Associates. The work distracted his memory.
Once or twice love had flirted with him, but he’d never again ransomed what little remained of his heart. No, that ghost of her smile would not allow him to consider commitment. Nor the memory of that sweet little curve on the right side of her mouth.
Rhys hadn’t looked twice at a female vampire since.
He stared out the living room window. From his estate he could see the Sacré-Coeur basilica, the massive travertine dome lit up as if a beacon to heaven. No heaven for him, he suspected.
Behind him, Simon entered and set up his laptop on the marble-topped writing desk.
“You never did say how you fell in love,” his assistant prompted.
During the drive from the airport, he’d been telling Simon about his first meeting with Viviane at the Salon Noir, and the days that followed.
“For the first time I looked at a woman and did not think about the love I had lost, but the companionship I could gain.”
“Companionship?” Simon did not pause typing.
“I wanted to make her my lover. But also I wanted to know her. To know things about her. What did she think of when she was alone? When making love? Did she read the philosophers? Rousseau? Did a violin make her sigh?”
“You thought a lot back then.”
“Romance has not changed so much, Simon.”
“I know. Now we wonder what she is texting while we wait for the dessert course to arrive. Or why did she dye a pink streak into her blond hair?”
“I thought you liked Stephanie’s hair?”
Simon shrugged. “We broke up. It was just as well. She texted everyone but me. I thought you’d decided you were pursuing Viviane to piss off Constantine? Was it for revenge or love?”
“At that moment I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t paying attention to the mission the Council had sent me on.”
“Probably why you’re not on the Council today, eh?”
Rhys shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He and the Council had an understanding. Besides, Severo, a lone wolf in Minneapolis, currently represented the werewolves on the Council.
“Arrange to meet the tunnel man this afternoon if possible,” Rhys said. “Someplace expensive, so he’ll understand I have the means to pay for whatever I wish.”
“I don’t know about that. I think we’d be wiser to meet on his turf. Probably doesn’t frequent the high-class joints, if you get me. Then we could sum him up, get a feel for how he operates.”
Rhys nodded. Simon had more experience with the whole cyber world. If he could hook this guy he’d leave it to him.
“Who put her in there?” Simon suddenly asked. “You know, in the coffin?”
Rhys turned a hard gaze on the man.
CHAPTER TEN
Paris, 1785
VIVIANE GATHERED A HEAVY velvet cloak about her shoulders and strode through the kitchen. Hunger called more frequently, of late, which should disturb her, but she set the nagging feeling aside in favor of sustenance.
Before leaving, she eyed a small paring knife lying on the butcher block. Portia used it for the pears she dined on each morning. The pearl handle fit into her palm. She turned the knife, wielding it as if to stab. That would save her from going upstairs to sort about for her fan.
She left out the servants’ entrance because it opened aside the back courtyard and walked along the path between the house and the stable.
Just around the stable, a froth of white chrysanthemums plunged out from nowhere to stop her in her tracks.
Viviane stopped a shriek before it shot higher than her throat.
“I knew patience would win me an audience,” Rhys said. He turned the corner, his shoulder hugging the building.
Darkness muted his features yet the moon highlighted the gray streak in his hair. It matched the gray wool jacket he wore. Jackboots and no waistcoat this evening. So…pedestrian. However, Viviane decided any fabric more elaborate would distract from the man’s unique appeal.
A clever smile curved his mouth. He held out the flowers. Roots twisted from the stems. Dirt had been carelessly shaken off.
“You are trespassing, monsieur.”
“Accept the flowers and I will leave.”
“I’ve no desire to accept anything construed as a gift from you.” Unless it came with another kiss.
“Then consider them a prize for enduring my purple prose.”
About to protest, the mirth Viviane had gained from reading his prose surfaced. She looked aside to hide a small smile. “It was rather lush. You are certainly no gentleman.”
He leaned in and his sensual aura cloaked about her. It was a dangerous shadow of male strength and bold defiance. Dangerous to Viviane’s desires, which had grown ever-present since meeting the man. “You don’t want a gentleman, do you? Unless Constantine is your idea of gentilhomme.”
She defiantly met his dark eyes and noticed they were gold around the edges, gilded, the only part of him touching embellishment. “You’ve no idea what I want or do not want. And I have no intention of enlightening you. Now, I am in a hurry so you must leave.”
“I will leave if you accept this token of my affection.” He turned the flower bouquet between them.
“You promise?”
He nodded. Something in his gaze tickled Viviane at the back of her neck and hummed in her belly. Would he grant her such regard in her candlelit boudoir while leaning over her naked body?
“Very well.” She snatched the bouquet from his grasp, and tossed it over her shoulder. A spray of dirt dusted her sleeve, which she shook off with a huff. Hunger called, defeating desire.
“Ouch.” Monsieur Hawkes displayed his thumb to reveal a spot of blood. “Must have been thorns on the stems.”
“Chrysanthemums don’t have—” Yet indeed, he did bleed. How could that have possibly happened?
Viviane held her chin firmly, not about to
show him her interest. Or her intense hunger. “Why should I worry for drawing first blood?”
“First? This is the second time you’ve brought my blood to air, my lady. A man might believe you enjoy the scent of it.” He studied his thumb then pointed it toward her. “Hungry?”
Normally only mortal blood roused her hunger. Henri’s blood had served to sustain her, but never to ignite desire, though certainly she had swooned when in his arms.
Usually she could go an entire fortnight without slaking her thirst. Why did the blood hunger prod at her so?
“I accepted your gift,” she said lightly, yet her fingers clutched the paring knife tightly. “Leave now.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve not yet admired your beauty. The shadows make it tricky. Would you let down your hood?”
She looked aside, giving him the hooded side of her face.
“What has changed since the night I stole you away from the rats? You were more open to me then. I thought—”
“You thought incorrectly.”
“I was there, LaMourette. You kissed me. You wanted me.”
“It was not want.” Oh yes, it had been.
“Liar.”
Viviane lunged at him, fangs bared and paring knife aimed, but she paused abruptly.
The man displayed his naked wrist, baring the bold blue veins to her. “Go ahead, mademoiselle, slash away. Once you’ve the taste of Rhys Hawkes on your tongue, I wager you will crave me far more than you do even now.”
She relented, tucking the knife behind her back. “I do not crave you.”
Crave was too strong a word for the frustrating desire she felt. Though she had seen the vein pulse. She smelled his desire, too. It startled her because it felt familiar, liquid on her skin. Like a gossamer garment she wished to pull over her breasts.
“I would never drink blood from a fellow vampire.”
“Why is that?”
“It is a bond I do not desire.”
“What of a patron?”
“Are you applying?”
That man’s smile bordered on lascivious. “Do you wish me to apply?”
“No.”
“Just as well. I’ve no interest.”
She realized her fangs were down but did not will them to rise. It would be viewed as a retreat. “You know we do not drink from one another unless we wish to form an intimate bond.”
“The patron and kin bond can be different. It need not be sexual.”
Well. That knowledge put him leagues ahead of Constantine. Truly, he was a libertine.
He tutted, glancing skyward where the moon soon promised fullness. “What has happened to you, LaMourette, to put you off your kind?”
“I simply will not risk allowing any male to believe he can patron me, thus owning me.”
“I’ve said I’ve no interest.”
“I trust you little.”
“But if you did trust me you’d consider me as, say…lover material?”
Would she? He offended her, and he attracted her. Such a combination did appeal to Viviane’s desire for the unique. A man set apart from the myriad who would look upon her as a means to blood and enslave.
Of course, she would take this virile, boisterous man as a lover. But to bond? Never.
“LaMourette—?”
“Possibly,” she blurted out. “But your professed infatuation is merely a ploy that has something to do with your investigation into the murders.”
“I had no idea, until the other night, you were in any way related to the murdered vampire.”
“Henri’s wife was murdered, as well.”
“Yes, and it baffles me.” He leaned against the stable wall, relaxed when she was so tense. “Who would have reason to be rid of Henri Chevalier? Perhaps someone after you?”
The idea had not occurred to her. “Why do you suggest such a thing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? You are gorgeous.”
“Beauty is no reason for such a heinous crime.”
“Many have murdered for lesser raison d’être. The prize of beauty can be a great motivation.”
“Does it motivate you?”
“In fact, it does. But not to such heinous acts. What I have in mind is a bit more—” he toed the hem of her gown “—intimate. It would be a pity to spoil such a beautiful evening. And still, I wait for you to make the next move.”
He tilted his wrist, teasing. The blood on his finger yet trickled, and it smelled too good to disregard.
The man went beyond preposterous. He bared bold nerve to play with her when she had repeatedly shown him her displeasure. Whether or not she deemed him worthy of her regard would be for her to state, and not him.
Could he not step away and allow her to fulfill her needs? The nerve of him to cause her such trouble!
Time to show him exactly who Viviane LaMourette was.
“You are no gentleman, and so I will not treat you as one.” She slashed the paring knife before her, cutting through his palm.
Rhys swore, and shoved her away.
Viviane staggered against the stable wall. Emboldened, she hissed at him, showing her fangs.
Dark eyes flashed betrayal at her. He clasped the wound and growled. Growled!
The air reeked of blood. Too tempting. Not at all distasteful.
But that growl. So animal!
Turning, Viviane ran to the house. Once inside, she locked the door and pressed her back to it, arms spread and breaths heaving. Blood covered her fingers.
Beyond the gold embellishment, she had seen something horrible in his eyes. Angry. Wild.
Shaking, she clasped her arms across her stomach. Oh, why had she hurt him? He had wanted to give her flowers. The man had been nothing but kind to her.
He’d pushed her to it. He should not have challenged her so.
Portia wandered around the corner with a pile of laundered linens nestled across her arms. “What is it? Sacre bleu, you are bleeding!”
Viviane turned her head. Bloody fingerprints smeared the whitewashed door. She reeled from the gorgeous aroma of it. “It is not my blood.”
A knock at the door upset Portia to a chirp. She clasped her throat. “Monsieur Hawkes?”
Viviane nodded.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, Portia.” Viviane drew up straight yet her voice faltered. “I hurt him.”
Rich and thick, the blood staining the door invaded her pores. Was this nature’s cruel manner of luring her to a new patron? She did not like to be forced to surrender!
Rhys beat on the door.
“Go away!” Portia yelled.
Viviane tugged her maid away from the door and shoved her toward the stairs. “Go to your chambers.”
“You cannot allow him in. He’s upset you. He may attack you!”
“I am not afraid. Go!”
Portia blinked, affronted, then went off, leaving the linens where she’d dropped them. Viviane suspected she lingered in the hallway.
“I can handle this,” she said firmly and heard Portia move away.
Pressing her hand to the door, she felt the tremors as Rhys pounded again.
“Viviane,” he intoned teasingly. Not angry, but determined to make her face her cruelties.
The blood scent was too strong. Rich and mixed with meat, wine and bread, and all the things Viviane had sacrificed because she was vampire. She often savored a donor’s blood, reeking of mortal pleasures; it was the only way she could enjoy them.
Why did Rhys Hawkes’s blood carry such flavors?
She traced a forefinger over the smear on the door. Slick. Red. As if an aperitif spilled from a crystal goblet.
Why had she done something so foolish? He could have easily overpowered her and…well, she wasn’t sure what he might have done. Bite her? Take the knife away and cut her? Force himself upon her?
Please, yes.
Grasping her throat, Viviane swallowed. Was that it? Was she playing with him as he played with her? She did not stand dow
n from any threat, unless it was rats.
Might his prowess in bed be so bold and intense?
Yes, she suspected, and secretly hoped it was so.
Viviane flung open the door. Rhys charged the threshold but stopped abruptly, his flat palms pressing the air between them.
Long hair fell forward over his shoulders, loosened from the confining ribbon, and he’d pulled open his frockcoat. Disheveled and dangerously attractive, his earthy scent drowned Viviane’s resolve.
“Invite me in,” he demanded.
All vampires required permission to cross the threshold of private residences. Viviane reveled in the power it granted her. “Never.”
Fitting herself to the wall, she was determined not to broach their distance. To not rush forward and lick the blood from his wound. She would not deny this play intrigued, but she would allow no man the upper hand.
“I accepted your gift,” she said coolly. “What more do you want from me?”
Rhys smacked his wounded hand against the invisible barrier. Blood sparkled in the low light from the candle sitting in a wax puddle on the nearby butcher block.
“You are a vicious one,” he said. Brushing the hair from his face put it to disarray. He did not care he presented so wild a demeanor. “No apology is necessary.” A roguish grin surfaced. “I do favor a woman who is not afraid to act from her heart. Delicate women are so breakable.”
“You break many women?”
He shrugged, and pressed his palms to the door frame. “A few.”
A breath caught in Viviane’s throat. What must occur to become broken? Kisses, touches, skin upon skin….
Yes, please, break me.
A drop of blood hit the hardwood threshold. She would not look at the crimson spatter.
All the Dark Ones knew what the smell of blood did to a vampire’s hunger. He exercised cruelty against her with unfeeling flair. Yet so long as she did not invite him in he was restrained, as if a dog on a leash.
Fangs pricked her lip. Viviane pressed fingers over her mouth.
Rhys revealed a wicked smirk, jeweled with clean white teeth—but no fangs.
“Come, taste me,” he said lowly, not quite a whisper, but the tones shivered through her pores, fixing inside her. A lover’s entreaty to devour passion and drown in pleasure. “And then I will leave.”
