“Even the humans?”
“Especially the humans.” He paused, trying to decipher the expression on her face. She was frowning, but he sensed more worry than anger. “No one lures them here, Beatrice, if that’s what you’re wondering. No one has to.”
“So what? They like it? They like being…bitten?”
He only raised an eyebrow and gave her a cocky look.
“Well, that is certainly interesting,” she said, still speaking in a low voice. “Can I ask why you brought me here? Warning? Field trip? Or do you just have the munchies?”
He put an arm around the back of the sofa, leaning close enough that his claim couldn’t be doubted by the rest of the room, but not so close that he would make her uncomfortable. Her heartbeat had yet to slow down.
“I brought us here for two reasons, Beatrice. One, if certain people decide to make their appearance in the city, it would be beneficial for them to think of you as ‘my human,’ and yes—” he anticipated her response, “I know how insulting that sounds to you, but that’s not the way he thinks.”
“The way who thinks? Gavin or Lorenzo?”
“Either. Both. Gavin’s a good sort, mostly, but that’s the most common way of viewing humans in our world.”
“As property? Food?”
“Neither, precisely. Or maybe a little bit of both. But in a fond sort of way.”
“Like a pet?” she whispered scornfully.
He smiled again. “I most certainly do not think of you as a pet, Beatrice.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You better not. What’s the second reason?”
He leaned to the side and reached for a small bar menu on the coffee table in front of them. “The second and most important reason is, this place has the best selection of whiskey in the city.”
Her lip curled. “I don’t like whiskey.”
“You have probably only had horrible whiskey that bars serve because it’s cheap. These whiskeys,” he held up the menu, “are not that kind.”
A server slid silently toward him, and Giovanni held up two fingers as he spoke.
“Two of the scotch tastings, please. And a small glass of water.”
“The premium board, Dr. Vecchio?”
He gave a slight nod. “Yes.”
Beatrice just looked at him in amusement.
“The name’s Vecchio. Giovanni Vecchio,” she said with a horrendously bad Scottish accent.
He chuckled. “But are you the good Bond girl, or the bad one?”
Beatrice winked at him and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He just shook his head, enjoying her audacity as she looked around the pub. It was atmospheric, to say the least, though not fussy.
Gavin Wallace had a distinct dislike for the sentimental or stuffy. The Night Hawk pub had clean, white-washed walls that showed off the old woodwork around the windows and made the large stone fireplace in the center of the room the focal point. It had little decoration and even less in the way of food.
The reason people, including most of the small immortal community of Houston, came to Gavin’s pub was because he served the finest and most extensive collection of whiskeys and bourbons in the city and probably the state.
“Do you mostly drink whiskey?” she asked. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever seen you drink.”
He shrugged. “If I don’t drink much, I’m going to drink what I like. And I like whiskey.”
“Shaken, not stirred?”
He laughed lightly and looked into her eyes, still surprised by how amusing he found her, and how easy her company continued to be.
“Neither. Good whiskey should be served neat, that is, with no accompaniment or mixers, with a slight bit of good water to open up the scent and flavor.”
“Wow, you really know how to show a girl a good time,” she said dryly. “You’re making this sound like ten tons of fun.”
He shook his head at her. “It is fun. You’ll like it.”
“How do you know? I don’t even drink that much. I have a beer now and then on the rare occasions I hang out with friends. Or watch pro-wrestling, but that’s a recent thing.”
“You know, that’s really more Car—”
“‘Get the folding chair!’” she said in an odd voice.
He frowned. “Was that supposed to be me?”
“I never said accents were a strength, Dr. Vecchio.”
Giovanni watched her laughing at him, amused that she could be both humorous and alluring at the same time. In the months they had spent together, he had expected his curiosity and interest in her to wane. He was surprised when it had not. In fact, he enjoyed her company more as they spent time together, but he was reluctant to examine the reasons too closely.
“No,” he murmured quietly. “I believe your strengths lie elsewhere, Beatrice.”
She stared at him, an unreadable expression blanketing her normally open face. “Giovanni, what—what are we…I mean—”
“Just enjoying a drink.” He tried to lighten his voice, but he couldn’t stop staring at her mouth, even as the server set two trays in front of them, five small glasses on each tray.
“Just a drink, huh?”
He nodded and his hand lifted to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. He rubbed it between his fingers for just a moment before he pulled away and moved forward on the couch to pick up a glass. He could hear Beatrice’s heart race, but he took a deep breath and tried to calm his own blood as it began to churn.
After pouring half an inch of water into two glasses of the light gold liquid, he handed one to her. She took it, and stared into the glass, looking at it against the light of the fireplace.
“The color is pretty. It’s warm.” She peered at him from the corner of her eye.
“It is. These are all single malt whiskeys, which means they haven’t been blended with other types. They’re all scotch—little nod to our host.” Giovanni nodded toward Gavin, who was glancing at them in the corner. “So it’s whisky without the ‘e.’ Generally, the lighter the color,” he held up his glass and touched the edge to hers, “the lighter the flavor. The water opens up the scent.”
“So,” she asked quietly, “I should smell it now?”
He nodded. “Go ahead, but not too deeply. I’m curious what you’ll detect.”
“Is there something I’m looking for?”
Giovanni shook his head. “Not necessarily. Everyone’s nose is different. I’m just curious.”
He watched as she bent her head to inhale the aroma of the whisky.
“Swirl it in the glass, just a little.”
“What?”
“Swirl it,” he said, covering her hand with his own as he rotated the glass in a small circle. “Just a little.” He could already smell the scent of the gold scotch rising from her hand.
“Oh,” she said quietly before lifting the tulip-shaped glass to her nose. He watched as she inhaled, and a flush rose to her skin as the aroma of the whisky rose from the glass. “It’s sweet. It smells a little bit like oranges and flowers. But…kind of earthy, too. Does that make sense?”
He nodded as she brought the glass to her lips and sipped. She immediately wrinkled her face and he smiled.
“It’s strong,” she said with a laugh.
“Taste it again. Another sip. You’re just tasting the alcohol. If you roll it in your mouth a bit, you’ll taste more.”
“Okay.”
She took another small sip of the light whisky and nodded. “I think…I like it. I don’t think I could drink much, though. It’s very intense.”
“Intense is a good word for it.”
“Which one is your favorite?”
He frowned, looking at the selection in front of him. Any one of the five would make a good drink, but as he thought about it, there was one he knew he would pick over the others. He pointed the second glass, light amber in color.
“Of these? This one.”
Beatrice smiled and reached for the small pitcher of wat
er, adding just as much as he had to the first glasses. She lifted it to her nose and smelled again.
“Sweet again, but not quite as much. And…it almost seems clearer. Do you know what I mean?”
He nodded. “The flavors in this one are very straightforward. Have a taste now.”
He sipped it and watched her reaction as she tried the second glass.
“It’s good. It’s still strong, simpler, like the way it smells. But…” she took a second taste, letting the whiskey linger a little longer in her mouth, “it kind of grows, doesn’t it? It’s more complicated than it seems at first.”
“Perceptive as always, Beatrice,” he said softly. He stared at her as she examined the glasses in front of her, finishing the drink she held in her hand. She set the glass down on the table and looked at him eagerly.
“Okay, which one next?”
“So you like it?” he asked with a smile.
Beatrice nodded. “Yeah, I do. It’s kind of cool, you know? Do they all taste so different? And, of course, scotch is a way cooler than beer.”
“Is it?”
She winked at him. “Of course it is. Don’t tell Carwyn, though.”
“I’m sure both he and Caspar would argue their drink preferences. Caspar is a huge wine snob.”
She shrugged. “So far, I’m liking the scotch, Gio.”
He leaned forward and continued to tell her bits about each one as she tasted them. She was surprisingly receptive to the complex flavors, and he found himself inordinately pleased. Finally, they reached the last glass, a heavier, gold whisky aged seventeen years. He handed it to her and felt her fingers brush his own.
“So this one—”
“No lectures this time. Just let me taste it.”
He grinned. “Fair enough, my awesome assistant. Tell me what you think.”
“Oh, I will,” she said a little loudly.
“Beatrice?”
“What?
Giovanni chuckled. “You don’t drink much, do you?”
She grinned back and leaned into his shoulder. “Nope.”
Still chuckling, he watched her as she tasted the last scotch, but the laughter died when he saw her close her eyes. She licked her lips, and he could see the flush stain her cheeks.
“This one,” she murmured. “This one’s my favorite.”
He could see the slow pulse in her neck, and he watched as her tongue darted out again to taste.
“Oh?” he asked in a low voice.
She nodded. “Sweet and smoky. It almost—it tingles in my mouth.” Her eyes opened and he realized he had leaned toward her without thinking, her hypnotic tone drawing him in.
He fought the rush of blood in his veins until he realized they were being watched from the corner and her face was tilted toward his as if she was asking her lover for a kiss.
Placing an arm around her waist, he pulled her toward him and leaned down to cover her mouth with his own. He meant for it to be simple, a light kiss to cover the deception of his claim on her, but he tasted the gold whisky on her lips as they moved under his own.
She was kissing him back.
And he couldn’t stop his hand from stroking the gentle curve of her back or his mouth from opening to hers. His tongue reached out, sampling the sweet taste that lingered on her lips as she opened her own mouth to taste his. A soft sigh left her as they kissed, and the scent of her breath mirrored the taste of the whisky.
She moved closer, and his other hand reached up to her neck, pulling her more deeply into their kiss. He could feel his thumb linger over the pulse point under her chin, stroking lightly as it raced. He lost track of time; all he could think of was the soft feel of her body as she leaned into him, the scent of her breath, and her taste as it overwhelmed his senses.
It was clear and sweet, and the faint human memory of drinking cool water on a hot day flickered in the back of his mind. He wanted more.
Much more.
He pulled her closer and felt the delicate press of her breasts against his chest. A low kind of growl began to rise from him when he felt her heart beat against him. His fangs descended and her roaming tongue found them, but instead of recoiling, a soft moan came from her throat and her hand lifted to stroke his cheek.
It was the moment when he felt the urge to lay her down on the couch, brush her long hair aside, and drink deeply from her neck that he began to back off. The sudden realization of where they were and who she was began to take hold, and he loosened his grip, trying to regain his rigid control.
Giovanni didn’t want to create suspicion, so he let his lips trail to her ear. She was still breathing rapidly, and her other arm had reached around his back.
“They’re watching,” he whispered hoarsely in her ear, letting his lips brush against the soft skin there.
Beatrice panted a little, and he could still feel the blood rushing through her veins.
“What?” she asked in confusion.
“Gavin and a few others.” He swallowed, ignoring the low burn in his throat. “They’re watching us.” He closed his eyes, continuing his deceit. “They think we’re together, remember? We should leave now, but make sure we don’t give ourselves away.”
“Don’t give—oh,” she let out a sharp breath. “Right. They think…right.” She swallowed and he tried to ignore the acid note in her voice. “Wouldn’t want to give them the wrong impression, would we?”
He hesitated before answering, “No.”
He lingered at her ear as she calmed her breathing, brushing a kiss across her flushed cheek before he drew away from her.
Giovanni avoided her eyes as he pulled out his wallet, leaving more than enough to cover the drinks on the coffee table. He stood, holding out his hand to help Beatrice up. She took it and he could feel the stiffness in her fingers. Nonetheless, he pulled her to him, tucking her under his arm as they made their way out of the building.
He felt her stiffen as he nodded toward Gavin in the corner, and he hoped that her expression didn’t give them away. He couldn’t risk a glance. She tried to pull away from him when they got out the door, but he still held her close.
“Watching,” he said. “Someone is still watching.”
Giovanni held her small body under his for as long as he could, feeling the fleeting comfort of the contact he knew would soon be denied. He opened the car door slowly, finally releasing her as she got in. He walked to the driver’s side, anticipating her sharp rebuke as soon as they were alone, but she was silent as they pulled onto the main road. After a few moments, her silence bothered him more than her anger.
“We’re not far from my grandmother’s house. Could you just drop me off there?” she asked with careful nonchalance. “I’ll drop by the house tomorrow and get my things.”
“Beatrice—”
“I’m sure my grandmother’s wondering where I am. I’m usually not out this late, even on nights I work.”
His mind raced, trying to find something to say that would break through the coldness in the air, but he couldn’t. Taking their kiss too far had been his mistake.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “I’ll let Caspar know to expect you sometime tomorrow.”
She was silent again when he glanced at her profile. Her face was impassive, and her eyes were shadowed as she stared into the night.
“The notes about the Lincoln documents are on the desk. Since I found them, I’m going to take some time off. I need to help my grandmother with some things.”
He pushed back the protest that sprang to his lips and gritted his teeth. “Of course. How many days do you need?”
She shrugged. “I’ll let Caspar know.”
As they pulled up to her grandmother’s house, he saw her gather her purse and release her seatbelt. She opened the car door and exited the Mustang as soon as it had stopped. He looked over at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Beatrice…” he began, trying to forget the feel of her lips against his.
She paused,
bending down to meet his eyes, as if daring him to protest.
He opened his mouth, but words escaped him when he met her dark stare.
“Good night, Dr. Vecchio.”
She shut the door firmly. He watched her walk to the small house and go inside then glanced down the street, looking for the surveillance vehicle that was supposed to be watching. Noting the license plate of the unobtrusive minivan parked down the block, he leaned his head back and sighed.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her lips against his and her sweet taste. Her body fit against his perfectly; he indulged himself in the memory of her small breasts pressed against his chest and the feel of her hands stroking his jaw. While he enjoyed sex with the women he usually fed from, he never pursued any sort of personal connection with them farther than a shared, fleeting pleasure.
With Beatrice, he realized the lines were beginning to blur. Reminding himself of his purpose in pursuing the girl, he shoved down the more tender feelings that threatened to surface.
Giving one last glance to the light that filled the room on the second floor, he revved the engine to a low growl and pulled away.
Chapter Twelve
Houston, Texas
February 2003
“You’re sulking.”
“Am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Her grandmother eyed her from across the kitchen table. Isadora set down her book and looked at her granddaughter with a raised eyebrow.
Beatrice looked down at her toast. “How was your date with Caspar?”
Isadora smiled. “It was wonderful. It would have been much more pleasant if we hadn’t spent half the night talking about you and Giovanni sulking in your respective corners.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. She couldn’t suppress the satisfaction she felt hearing that Caspar said Giovanni was sulking, too.
She hadn’t seen him for two weeks. Not since the night she was forced to face the hard truth that Giovanni, polite and cultured as he seemed, sucked on strange women’s necks for sustenance and probably did a lot of other things she didn’t want to think about. The night she had been informed that she was viewed as a kind of property or pet in his world, no matter how he tried to sugarcoat that fact.
A Hidden Fire Page 15
