by PG Forte
“So, does that mean you’re like…Italian?”
“Close enough,” he said, ignoring Armand when he muttered, “…but no cigar.”
“So, what do you like to eat on Thanksgiving then? Spaghetti, or pizza, or lasagna or something?”
Conrad grimaced as thoughts of garlic and other unpleasant spices threatened to sour his stomach. “I don’t really care for any of those.”
Cocking her head to the side, she frowned thoughtfully. “You know what’s funny? Now that I think about it, I never see you eat anything. Why is that?”
From across the room, Armand choked back a laugh. “C’est parce que vos yeux sont fermés, chérie,” he answered. That’s because your eyes are shut.
“That’s enough out of you,” Conrad growled, throwing a pillow at his head.
“What did he say?” the girl asked, her gaze shifting back and forth between them both.
Conrad shrugged. “He said it’s because I’m always on a diet.”
“What?” Her eyebrows rose. “You? But, you don’t need to diet, you’re perfect!”
Conrad pulled her close again and kissed her, flashing a smug smile over her shoulder at Armand. “Thank you, chérie. So are you.”
An avaricious little thrill pulsed through him as she clung to him, sighing happily against his mouth. Mine. He tightened his arms around her. One kiss was not enough. The taste of her mouth was an easy match for the taste of her blood—he was addicted to both and unable to get enough of either. Angling his head to the side, he plundered her mouth, loving the way her hands crept shyly up to frame his face, the eagerness with which she snuggled against him. Soon he was rolling her beneath him on the couch and stretching himself out on top of her, wanting, needing more.
In the long run, his dual obsession with both her body and her blood was a very bad thing. One that would surely lead to trouble when he lost control of either his temper or his jealousy, as had happened with the last person he’d craved in this fashion. In the short run, however, it was perfect. As he tangled his legs with hers, he allowed himself a single depraved fantasy of what it would be like if he could have them both together in his bed. Both of his dark-eyed beauties, gazing at him adoringly…
It would be…nice. Very nice. But it was never going to happen, if only because, for safety’s sake, he’d have to turn her first. And that was such a very bad idea he wasn’t even tempted by it. Much.
“So, what holidays do you celebrate?” she asked, pressing her hands into his chest in an attempt to push him away.
She’s pushing me away? He glanced down at her, surprised by her unexpected resistance. Is there a problem here? The furtive glance she cast in Armand’s direction, however, made the source of her discomfort clear.
Conrad sighed. He rolled to the side, giving her the space she so clearly desired. He’d been forgetting how very young she was. Young enough to still be self-conscious about being observed at play. Far too young for the fantasies he’d been imagining. Far too young for him. Yet another reason things would never work out between them. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about?”
“Holidays. There’s gotta be some you celebrate, right?”
“No, not really.”
She looked surprised. “Not even Christmas?”
“Not even Christmas.”
“That’s a shame.” She nodded at the big bay window, heavily swathed in velvet curtains to keep out the sun. “Because, you know, that would be a perfect place to put a tree.”
“A tree?” The grounds were full of trees—which was exactly where they belonged. “Why would I want a tree in the house?” It would have to be a very hardy specimen, something that could flourish in the dark.
“A Christmas tree, silly. You know, all done up with tinsel and pretty lights? If I had a house like this, I’d sure have one.”
He smiled at her. “So, you want a tree now? Is that what you’re saying?”
The girl sighed wistfully. “Well, who wouldn’t? But I don’t have any room at my place. I mean, I don’t really even have a place—not of my own. So, you know, there’s not much point in thinking about it, is there?”
“No, I meant here. Would you like me to get a tree for you to decorate?”
The look in her eyes gave him his answer. “Really?”
Conrad raised his head. “Armand!”
“Oui!”
“We need a tree!”
“Eh?” Armand glanced up, confused. “Comment? A…tree?”
“Yes, a tree, you heathen. For Christmas. Get one for us, will you, mon cher?”
Raising one eyebrow, Armand stared at him. “Ah, oui. Très bien. And would you be wanting the little colored lights, too?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “You could wrap them all around the house, perhaps—up on the roof and around all the doors and windows?”
Conrad looked at the girl. She nodded eagerly. He smiled. “Oui.”
“Ah, mon Dieu.” Armand rolled his eyes toward heaven. “Comment très Moulin Rouge. Il ressemblera à un bordel.” We’re going to look like a whorehouse.
“Could we maybe have a party too?” Desert Rose asked timidly.
“We have parties,” Conrad said. He sat up and frowned at her. “Practically every weekend.” They were…functional. They gave his family a nice, safe place to eat, keeping them off the streets and away from the seedier sections of town. “Isn’t that enough?” He had the uneasy feeling she was not going to say yes.
“I mean a real Christmas party.” Sitting up as well, she curled her knees beneath her and gazed at him earnestly. “Please, Conrad? With mistletoe and eggnog and presents. Oh, and maybe carolers?”
“Carolers?”
“Ah, out. Chanteurs.” Armand’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “C’est très bon idee. And, do you know what else would be good? Perhaps Conrad can dress up as Santa Claus. No?”
Conrad glared at him. “No.” He glanced at the girl’s eager face and shook his head. “I said no.” Then he turned his glare back on Armand. “Be very careful, my dear, or I might decide to dress you as an elf.”
“An elf? Ah, non. I think not.” Armand packed up his books and got to his feet. “Je serais plutôt un renne.” I’d rather be a reindeer.
“Un renne?” Conrad smiled wickedly at him over the girl’s head. “Very well. Now that you mention it, I think I would prefer you in that position.” On all fours.
Out of the girl’s line of sight, Armand showed his fangs in a teasing display of aggression he’d never dare attempt if he and Conrad were alone. Then he pivoted gracefully and left the room, but only after inviting Conrad to “Bite my Buche de Noel.”
Still laughing, Conrad turned his attention back to Desert Rose, pulling her down beneath him once again, capturing her mouth in another drugging kiss. They were alone now. The time for scruples was past. There would be no more interruptions.
It was easy to love someone like Armand, Conrad reflected as he set about stripping away the girl’s clothes with practiced efficiency. He was so reliably good natured, so dependably content, so easily satisfied. Conrad wished all his children could be like him. Ironic, considering how hard he’d fought the idea of turning Armand. After his last disaster, he’d made up his mind he was through creating vampires. He’d sworn up and down that he’d never sire anyone else—not ever again.
But the boy had been persistent. Once he’d discovered Conrad’s true nature, he’d done nothing but beg and wheedle and plead and tease until, eventually, Conrad had given in.
In retrospect, it had definitely been one of his better decisions, one he doubted he’d ever have cause to regret. Armand was cheerful and companionable, a joy to have around. Of course, the same could be said of the girl…
But, no, it would not be the same at all. The two scenarios were altogether different. It was his intemperate feelings for the girl that were the problem here, his wholly unreasonable need to possess her, to own her, to keep her all to himself. His emotions were already too strong,
the relationship between them entirely too intense. It could only get worse. It could only end in sorrow.
He knew. He’d been there.
Their clothes gone, Conrad settled himself back on top of the girl. She twined her arms around his neck and sighed in pleasure. He smiled at the sound. It was better this way. Much better. He’d love her for a while—as much as either of them could stand—and then he’d do the right thing. By everyone. Though it broke both their hearts, he would definitely let her go.
Holding her breath, Suzanne went up on her toes, her arm stretched out as far as it would reach, to hang yet another sparkling ornament on the tree. Her hand hovered over the branch tip. She released the hook and smiled as the tiny, silver bell swayed safely in place. Relaxing again, she took a deep breath. The scent of pine was so strong it nearly knocked her off the ladder.
She loved Christmas—all the shiny, bright wonder of it. Familiar carols playing on the stereo. The cool taste of peppermint tingling on her lips. The sugar and spiciness of gingerbread cookies still warm from the oven mixing with the buttery fragrance of freshly made popcorn. And, this year, she was going to have the best Christmas ever. There could be no doubt about that.
Cocking her head to the side, she admired her handiwork, or as much of it as she could see from this angle. The tree was so big it was impossible to take it all in at a glance, so big that, even standing on the top of the stepladder, she still couldn’t reach the highest branches. That meant the placing of the final star would have to be done by someone else, by Conrad, she hoped, as her mind started spinning a happy little fantasy.
They would stand on the ladder together, his arm around her shoulders, and after he’d affixed the star to the top-most branch he’d turn to her with love in his eyes and a smile on his lips. “Merry Christmas,” he’d whisper as he bent to kiss her…and outside the house, in the dark, star-filled San Francisco night, it would begin to snow…
Well, maybe someday. Or, then again, maybe not. What were the odds, really?
From inside the room—where it was almost as dark as night—came a long, low, furious rumble to distract her from her thoughts. Words she didn’t know, yet whose meaning couldn’t be more clear, spilled in a seemingly endless stream from Armand’s lips.
“You know what’s funny?” she said as she turned to face him. “Even in French, cursing still sounds like cursing.”
Eyes narrowed, he glowered at her, glancing up from where he sat on the floor surrounded by the string of lights he’d been attempting to fix. Most of the exterior decorations were already in place when this string had inexplicably gone out and the workmen, unable to discover the problem, had returned it to Armand in its present condition: a dark, tangled seaweed-looking mass. That had been almost an hour ago.
“This is all your doing,” Armand growled, sounding so much like Conrad, she had to laugh.
“I know,” she said, unable to keep from ginning. It was for her—all for her—that Conrad, that Armand, that all of them, were doing this. The tree, the tinsel, the cookies, the lights—all because she said she wanted it. And she wasn’t about to feel the least bit sorry about that, either.
Armand watched her for a moment longer, his expression softening until he was smiling too. “Well then, don’t you think the least you could do is come down here and help me straighten this mess out?”
“All right.” She jumped down from the ladder, grabbed the plate of cookies from the side table, then seated herself across from him, with the bulk of the lights—and the plate piled high with gingerbread—on the floor between them. “Now, what do you need me to do?”
“If you can get started on the knots, I’ll try and figure out which of these bulbs has gone bad,” he suggested.
She nodded and they settled to work. “I still can’t believe Conrad is really going through with this,” she said, sighing happily as her hands picked at the raveled cord. She still wanted to pinch herself every time she thought about it, just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“Oui.” Armand nodded, his voice preoccupied. “Neither can the rest of us.”
She glanced up at that. “You don’t think he’ll change his mind about the party, do you?” She really hoped he wouldn’t. She was looking forward to it more than she had anything in a very long time. She’d hate to be disappointed.
A small frown creased Armand’s brow. “He gave you his word, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you have nothing to fear.”
She nodded again, hugging the happy thought close to her heart. Conrad would never go back on his word to her. Isn’t that what Armand had just implied? Who, in her life, had she ever been able to say that about? No one. Ever. “I’ve been thinking about what I should give him for a present.”
Armand snickered. “How about more of what you’ve already been giving him? I’m sure he’d like that.”
“Stop it!” Suzanne glared at him. “Can you be serious for a minute? I know this guy—an artist—he makes the most beautiful things out of stained glass. I can’t really afford that kind of thing but—if I could—do you think that’s something Conrad would like?”
Armand sighed. “Chérie, why are you worrying about this? You know he’ll like anything you give him, if for no other reason than because it comes from you.”
“I know.” All the same, she’d like to give him something he’d like for itself, as well. She’d like to give Armand a gift he’d like for its own sake too, for that matter, something he could look at every day and think of her. There were only two big problems with that idea. The first was money—she didn’t have any. The second was that she really didn’t know either of their tastes all that well, especially not Armand’s. She bit her lip and attempted to sound casual as she asked, “So, you know what I was thinking the other day? I was thinking how strange it is that, even with all the times I’ve been here, you’ve never once shown me your room.”
The bulb Armand was testing slipped from his fingers. He glanced up at her, his eyes wary. “My room? Why would I take you there?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She smiled, still trying to sound like it was no big deal. “Maybe just ’cause I’m curious? What color is it, anyway?”
“Blue,” Armand replied, still staring at her oddly. “Mostly blue and, and white paneling. Again, why are you asking?”
Blue and white. Got it. “No reason. I just thought maybe I could see it someday. It sounds nice. Is it?”
“I…I think so. And, yes, perhaps…someday…you will see it. And then you can decide for yourself.”
“I’d like that.”
Color flooded Armand’s cheeks. He dropped his gaze to his hands and muttered, “Perhaps someday, after you and …I mean, if you…he…when…” He sighed, his voice trailing into silence. He shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What?” Suzanne prompted.
“Nothing. It’s a silly idea. It can never happen.”
“What can’t?”
“I told you. It’s nothing.”
“No, it’s not. Tell me. If I…what?”
A low, throbbing growl emerged from Armand’s throat. He lifted his head and met her gaze with eyes that seemed suddenly ready to devour her. The blood roared in her ears and if he said anything in answer to her question, she didn’t hear it.
I’d forgotten. Suzanne’s breath caught in her throat. With no clear thought in her head, she found herself leaning forward, as though drawn to Armand by some invisible force. I’d forgotten how beautiful he is. How did I forget that? She’d known it in the beginning. In those first few minutes of her very first visit here, almost two months earlier, it had been all she could think about…
Standing in the entranceway, awkward and uncertain, she gazed at her surroundings, trying hard to look like someone who might possibly belong there. Then their eyes met and her breath caught…
Just like now.
She’d wanted to turn and run when he headed toward her, his eyes never l
eaving her face, but she couldn’t move. She’d tried to look away, and found she couldn’t do that, either.
Not then, not now, not ever again, perhaps.
“Hello,” he’d said, smiling into her eyes as he took her hand, sending shivers of excitement clear down to her toes. “ Welcome. Please come in.”
And she went, just like now, with no thought in her head, no will to resist.
But, then…before she’d had time to accept more than one drink, before she’d learned much more than his name, Conrad had arrived. And she’d forgotten everything that had come before. Like all the mystery Armand’s smile seemed to hint at, that magical gleam in his eyes. Like how very attractive he was and how very attracted she was to him.
Once Conrad had come none of that mattered, none of it even existed anymore. He took her out into the garden and he kissed her and the world disappeared. And there was never any question of going back.
“This…is such…a bad…idea,” Armand half-groaned, half-whispered now. His eyes were hot on her face. His breath was a gentle breeze against her lips. Was it to himself he was speaking? Or to her? The lights and the cookies, forgotten on the floor between them, were in danger of being crushed as Suzanne continued on her unsteady, unstoppable trajectory, tilting closer and closer and closer, like a meteor trapped in a slow-motion collision course with his mouth. “We shouldn’t do this. We can’t do this.”
I know. But she was pretty sure they were going to, just the same. She was pretty sure that, in another minute, she’d be in Armand’s lap, her head thrown back, while the heat of his mouth seared her neck—which is not at all what she’d planned on doing tonight. I’m sorry. This isn’t what I want either. So then why was she doing it? Why couldn’t she stop?
“Bad idea,” Armand groaned again, still not pulling away. “Very. Bad. Idea.”
Suzanne fell another half inch closer, her lips parting like flower petals begging for the bee’s sweet sting. It is. You’re right. I’m sorry. But I just can’t help myself…
