“Maybe she’ll be homesick anyway,” I said.
“It will be worse if you’re nearby.” Sabine poured cream into her coffee. “Tell me about your parents. Was your mother a vampire?”
I watched her spoon move in circles. If she was really a member of the Grimaldi clan, she already knew what had happened to my family. Why would she ask a hurtful question? Did she think I was mentally fragile? That I couldn’t talk about my family without crying?
“Mother was human. Dad was a vampire. Philippe Grimaldi. Your mother’s cousin.”
“Your parents died when you were a little girl, didn’t they?”
“Vampires murdered them. Do you know the rest of the story?”
“I want to hear it from you,” she said.
I spoke in a calm, clear voice. When I finished, I opened my hand and pointed to a half-moon scar on my palm. Some part of me could still feel the shape of the doorknob and the rush of heat.
Sabine took a long drink of coffee. “How old was Vivi when her father went missing?”
“Three.”
“Does she remember him?”
I shook my head. Then I felt a sudden urge to talk about Jude. “Vivi looks just like him. A female version.”
“He must have been handsome.”
“Yes. He was.” I could see him so clearly, the way he’d turn and smile, his chin dimpling, his T-shirt stretched over his wide shoulders.
“Your daughter might resemble her father physically. But she’s assimilated your personality traits. Both of you are guarded. Cautious. You’ve erected so many walls.”
“Caution is a survival trait.”
“It won’t allow you to enjoy that beautiful frock.” Sabine waved her hand at my dress. “Is it a Carolina Herrera? Love the sparrows. A bird in flight means that troubles are leaving. A real sparrow is brown, of course. I’m sure that Ms. Herrera didn’t intend for the color red to symbolize anything. Certainly not the blood ties between a bird and her offspring. By the way, a sparrow is an excellent mother. Just as you’ve been to Vivi.”
I sat up a little straighter. The compliment caught me by surprise. Was it a compliment? “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”
“One thing worries me,” Sabine said. “You don’t have an identity, other than being an orphan, a widow, and a mother.”
A fluttering noise filled my head, as if all those sparrows had ripped away from my dress and were soaring into the air. “I came here to return your cat,” I said. “Not to get a personality analysis.”
“Well, I’m giving you one anyway. You’ve lost your parents and your husband, but you’ve allowed those tragedies to define you. Now you’re losing your child. Never mind that it’s temporary. You feel nothing but loss. You can’t feel joy when Raphael gives you a present.”
“I did, too.”
“You’re a frugal soul, whether from necessity or choice. And his extravagance always bothers you. Perhaps it makes you feel miserly.”
Sabine had spoken barely above a whisper, but her words sliced across the table. I hadn’t been thinking about Raphael. How had she known about the dress? Had she dug into my subconscious thoughts? I had a sudden image of Sabine holding long, sharp tweezers, digging through the moldy parts of my brain.
“How do you know that he gave me this dress?”
“I read his mind last night. He’d ordered the dress from his iPhone—he e-mailed Ms. Herrera herself. Raphael knew the dress wouldn’t make you happy, but that’s all he knew to do.”
“You don’t know anything,” I said.
“I know too much. Raphael has been my friend for thirty years. He has a big heart and a vast disposable income. I wouldn’t be a physician if he hadn’t financed my education. But like any man, he has flaws. I’ve never known a time when a beautiful woman hasn’t been hanging on his arm. Never the same one, of course. Not that serial dating is wrong, unless you happen to be on the wrong side of the relationship. Taming him would be a Sisyphean task.”
She’d hit a tender place, one I didn’t like to examine too closely. Like Uncle Nigel always said, vampires and fidelity go together like tiramisu and turnips.
“You’re meddling,” I said.
“I’m offering insight.”
“I don’t want your help. If you keep going, I won’t let you help Vivi, either.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any idea why he has invested so heavily in real estate? And in this economy?”
“That’s his business.”
“In all the years I’ve known him, he’s owned two homes, one in Australia and one in Italy. Then about ten years ago, he started buying houses and resorts all over the world. Now I know why. He bought them so you and Vivi would have safe places to stay. Have you ever wondered why he went to all this trouble?”
Trouble. That word summed up my fears. I didn’t want to be an encumbrance. He’d felt obligated to help me. Maybe because he’d known my parents, and he was Vivi’s godfather.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” I drank the rest of my coffee.
“Haven’t you wondered why he keeps putting himself at risk? He could have dinner with a different Chanel model every night. But he’s chosen to escort you two all over the world. He took you to Longyearbyen—during the polar day.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that.”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse? I saw how he watched you last night. He’s in love with you.”
I set down the empty cup a little too hard, then bent over to see if I’d cracked the saucer.
“Caro, you’re falling in love with him.”
“What does this have to do with Vivi? Are you trying to distract me? To make me look inward?”
“A little introspection wouldn’t hurt. Caution has become your default reaction to everything. It’s out of control, just like Vivi’s Induction.”
“You’re as much fun as a lobotomy.”
“Prudence won’t keep anyone safe. It’s better to be emotionally flexible. Knowing when to run and when to be still. And when to take a risk.”
“I’ve lived on the edge so long, I can’t afford to be careless.”
Sabine reached across the table, lifted my hands, and spread them apart. “Your left hand represents caution. Your right signifies recklessness. Two extremes. With a huge spectrum in between.”
She paused, as if waiting for me to comment. When I didn’t, she slid my left hand an inch closer to the right. “Move a few degrees away from caution and you arrive at watchfulness. The middle of the spectrum is perspicacity.”
I exhaled. “How can I get there?”
“You’ve already started.”
“I hope you’re right.” I glanced toward the closed door. Just beyond that lay the suitcases. “Vivi’s clothes are at Raphael’s.”
“You knew you were coming here. Why didn’t you bring them?”
“I was focused on the cat.”
“No, no. You came here to make an exchange—Marie-Therese for Vivi.”
I could feel her peeking into my deepest thoughts. I blocked her. “She needs clothes, Sabine.”
“You’re still trying to take control,” she said. “This afternoon Lena is going shopping at Moschino Teen. Vivi gave her a list—she loves pink the way I love white. I’ll make sure she doesn’t wear anything that will draw attention. And don’t try to pay me.”
I lifted my cup and started to take a sip, when I realized it was empty.
“I need more coffee, too.” Sabine pushed away from the table. She went to the counter and lifted the pot. “You might want to take a cleansing breath. Vivi is awake. She will be down here any second.”
Sabine was a witch. She knew everything.
She’d just finished refilling our cups when footsteps pounded in the hallway. Vivi swung into the kitchen, one hand caught on the door frame. She wore a white cotton nightgown that I’d never seen before. Her mouth opened wide when she caught sight of me.
“Mom!”
> My heart stuttered as I looked into my daughter’s eyes. So much like Jude’s, the same deep blue, with defiant brown specks in her left iris.
“Sabine told me you’d be here today,” she said.
“I returned Marie-Therese.”
“Awesome.” Vivi swirled into the room, the gown flowing around her ankles. She gave me a peck on the cheek, then plopped down into an empty chair.
Sabine lifted the pot. “Would you like coffee or juice?”
“Juice, please,” Vivi said.
Sabine opened the refrigerator and lifted a carton. I glanced back at Vivi. She looked rested and happy.
“Everything will be fine,” Sabine said. She placed a tall glass of juice in front of Vivi. Then she left the room, Marie-Therese trotting behind her.
Vivi took a sip of juice. “Is that a new dress?”
I nodded.
“It’s pretty. And it totally shows off your boobs.”
I put my elbow on the table and leaned toward her. “Where is Sabine taking you?”
“It’s a secret. The next time you see me, I’ll be cured. You and Raphael won’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried. I have faith in you.”
“Then don’t look so freaked out. Sabine knows what she’s doing.”
“Super.”
“Oh, Mom. Nobody but dweebs and noobs say super.”
“I’ve always been dweeby.”
She sprang out of her chair and dove at me. “I’m gonna miss you.”
I pulled her close, smoothing her hair and breathing in the smells of herbal shampoo and soap, along with a deeper fragrance that was uniquely Vivi—milk and buttered rice. “I love you beyond all else, Meep.”
“Forevs,” she whispered.
On the way to the front door, she pulled me into a creamy library and stopped in front of a framed etching. “I hate to say this, Mom. But you remind me of this picture.”
“How am I like a ruined château?”
“Well, the walls are standing, but the best parts are gone.”
“That’s not so.” I pulled her into my arms. “You’re the best part of me.”
As I walked out of Sabine’s building, I noticed that the black Jaguar had been replaced with a silver Audi. I climbed into the backseat and wrapped my arms around my waist. Morning sunlight streamed into the car as it rushed down Avenue George V, toward Pont de l’Alma, then angled into a parking garage on Quai Branley. I sat there a moment, blinking in the dim light. I’d completely lost track of time. On the Jaguar’s dashboard, the digital display read: JULY 14.
Raphael had shown up in Scotland eight days ago—or was I mistaken? Maybe it was seven or nine days ago. The whole month of July was a blur. I had no idea where we would be eight days from now.
Sabine’s words floated up: He’s in love with you. But was he really?
You’re falling in love with him? God help me if that was true.
I moved to the new car, a brown Mercedes. As I sank into the leather seat, I felt weighted down by Sabine’s words. Each one churned in my stomach, as if I’d been force-fed my least favorite foods: sushi, liver, anchovies. I didn’t want to admit it, but I saw the point of that indigestible meal.
Maybe I was a little too guarded, but I wasn’t sure I could change. After Vivi was born, my focus had been her safety. As a result, my life and Jude’s had narrowed to pinpoints—Vivi’s world was even smaller. If I could make the clocks spin backward, if I could return to the moment she was born, I would make the same choices. And I always would. Just thinking about this made my throat constrict, and I could barely pull in a breath. How I loved her.
The Mercedes headed back across the Seine and threaded its way through the twisting, medieval streets to Saint-Honoré. I looked out the window. The storefronts were filled with dazzling colors. Pedestrians walked by Christian Lacroix, Hermes, and Dolce & Gabbana. Tourists were laughing and taking pictures.
As we got closer to Place des Victoires, the driver and the guard discussed the best strategy to escort me from the vehicle to the house. The guard was a beefy man, and his knit shirt could barely contain his muscles. He looked strong enough to yank the Prada store out of the cement. All of Raphael’s security men looked the same—no distinguishing marks, no jewelry, no unusual features. They dressed casually, no bright colors or designer labels. Indistinguishability was part of the strategy.
The guard handed me a red wig, sunglasses, and a full-length white shawl. I put them on. How long could I keep running? At which point do you crash and burn? How much was this plan costing Raphael?
Stop it, Caro. You’re not his financial planner. Do not question his tactics.
The Mercedes stopped in front of the blue-paneled doors, and I was swept into the sunny courtyard. The majordomo met me at the front door. Monsieur La Rochenoire’s narrow face was dominated by dark, wooly brows, and as he looked at me, they moved violently, like caterpillars doing pushups. A long chef’s apron covered the front of his white dress shirt and dark trousers.
“Monsieur Della Rocca is in the third-floor lounge,” he said in a thick French accent. “He would like to see you.”
“Now?” I was surprised. Raphael spent the daylight hours alone. That was when he infused himself with blood.
“Yes, madame,” La Rochenoire said.
I gave him the wig, and he held it aloft, as if it were a biohazard, then dropped it in a closet. Before he’d signed on with Raphael, La Rochenoire had managed the households of diplomats and, more recently, the president of France. He was also a skilled chef. As he led me up the marble staircase, his apron gave off the aromas of thyme and fresh-baked bread.
Smells that never failed to make me ravenous. But as I followed him to the third floor, my appetite dimmed, as if Sabine’s indigestible words were still roiling inside me. At the end of the arched hall, I heard clicking dog tags, and a second later, Arrapato stood in a doorway, his tongue caught between his teeth. I lifted him into my arms, and he greeted me with a cold, slobbery kiss.
“I’m in here,” Raphael called.
I carried Arrapato into the shadowy room, and La Rochenoire closed the door behind me with a soft click. All six balcony doors were covered with arched wooden panels, and each one was painted with a trompe l’oeil sky. I stopped by a table and turned on a lamp.
Raphael was sitting on a black leather sofa. His white, blousy shirt was open at the neck, the cuffs unbuttoned. He wore tattered jeans, and his bare feet were propped on an ottoman. He put down a leather book.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he said. His gaze swept over the sparrow dress, not in a lascivious way. He seemed relieved to see me. I didn’t see a trace of the man who’d reduced me to a quivering nub in Zermatt. He was making it easy for me, and I liked that. I liked it a lot.
I sat down beside him. “Thanks for the dress. It’s lovely.”
“Sei bella.” He patted Arrapato’s head and didn’t ask where I’d been. That was another thing I adored about him—he never pried. Of course, maybe he’d already read my mind, but I didn’t think so. He’d had centuries to figure out the feminine brain.
“I went to Sabine’s,” I said.
He glanced up from the dog, regarding me with an amused expression. In the faint light, his eyes were the color of dark brown sugar. “I hope the cat went, too, because I can’t find her,” he said. “And Arrapato looks guilty.”
The dog’s tail beat against the cushion. “Marie-Therese is fine. But Sabine is leaving Paris—with my child. She wouldn’t tell me where she’s going. Neither would Vivi.”
“Paris attracts telepathic vampires. That makes it a telepathic city. Sabine doesn’t want to put you or Vivi at risk.”
“I can shield my thoughts.”
“Of course you can.” He put his arm around me, and I leaned against his billowy shirt. A hug was just what I needed. I breathed in his reassuring smell, pomegranates and patchouli and rain-drenched earth. I got lost for a minute in the softness of his
shirt and the firm skin beneath it.
He moved a little closer, and his hair swung down. I fought the urge to tuck the lock behind his ear.
There was a rap at the door. Raphael and I moved apart. “Yes?” he called.
“Alimentation pour madame, monsieur,” La Rochenoire called.
“Oui, entrez, s’il vous plait,” Raphael said.
The door creaked open, and the majordomo stepped into the room, carrying a glass of lemonade on a silver tray. His apron was gone, and he’d put on the tailored black jacket that he always wore. As he lowered the tray, lavender sprigs bobbed against the rim of the glass. I thanked him and lifted the glass.
“I haven’t had lavender lemonade since I was a child,” I said.
La Rochenoire looked pleased, then turned to Raphael. “Rain is on the way, sir. Scattered showers tomorrow evening, followed by a few overcast days. Shall I arrange for more security?”
Raphael nodded, looking vaguely troubled.
Vampire weather, I thought.
La Rochenoire left the room. I lifted the glass. It was packed with shaved ice, and each sip tasted sugary and tart. Raphael was smiling.
As I lowered my glass, Sabine’s words came back to me again, and I was afraid Raphael would read my thoughts. “How did you meet Sabine?”
“At a soiree. She’d crashed the party to see Monsieur d’Orsay. She pleaded with him to accept her as his daughter. He threw a cup of blood in her face. The edge of the cup hit her forehead.”
I thought of the white scar that curved under her bangs.
“Everyone in his crowd laughed,” Raphael said. “She walked out onto the rooftop terrace, blood dripping down her face. It was windy that night, and cold. Sabine was crying so hard, her nose was running. She straddled the rail, and I was afraid she’d jump. I told her that I knew where to find her biological father. She climbed off the rail.”
“Who was he?”
“A Canadian physician. But he’d moved to Paris. Dr. Hoffman was barely five feet tall. Stocky, dark eyes, auburn hair. A male version of Sabine. He was an internist at the American Hospital. But the Occitaine Cabal made sure he was dismissed. For a while, he worked as a gardener in Neuilly-sur-Seine. He encouraged Sabine to become a physician. But he could not afford to send her to school.”
Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) Page 22
