by Michele Hauf
A finger to his temples, eyes closed tight, and Gabriel announced, “No, that’s not it. Well, yes, I do wish to make love with you. But as well…” He grasped the air before him in an attempt to capture the elusive something that haunted his desires. “I’ve but a few days before my life will be drastically tipped on end. I have had the sudden notion that until that moment I should be living life fully. Do you not agree?”
“I thought you did live to the fullest. Wenching, wine and gambling? Or was that Leo?”
“A bit of us both, actually. That was not living life, that was merely wallowing in one’s place. A comfortable position.”
“I hadn’t thought to hear you admit such.”
“Believe me, I’ve reduced wallowing to a fine art. And if it is bedecked in lace, all the better.”
“I thought that was Leo’s act?”
“So did I. Don’t you see? I want to dredge myself up from the depths of selfishness and really experience. No longer must I worry that I will be left standing alone. I am alone. I always have been; I must get on with life.”
“What had you in mind?”
He shrugged and shifted on the chair. The movement parted his robe to reveal a tuft of dark hairs centered on his chest. Roxane fixed to the sight, until his laughter startled her.
“Perhaps the same thing you have in mind.” He slid from the chair and walked on his knees to kneel by the tub. Dropping an arm into the water, he again granted her that wicked smile that belonged to a misfit child who had spilled the whitewash over a new rug. “Can vampires make love to women?”
She stiffened as his hand slipped over her ankle and slapped a palm over the wet cloth, hoping to conceal her chest. “I don’t know. Take your hand from my bath. Please?”
“No.” He propped his chin upon the edge of the copper tub, which, at the moment, was feeling very small to Roxane. “Don’t worry, I don’t intend to ravish you. But I do wish to make you uncomfortable.”
“You succeeded the moment you walked through that door uninvited. Why do you want to torment me?”
“So you will react.” He lifted the hand he had submerged. “I want to see what you do when challenged, Roxane. You’ve a fire in your eyes.”
“I thought they were pale green? Now they’ve a flame in them?”
“A brilliant fluorescence of fire,” he murmured as if tasting the words before speaking them. “I could make love to you right now. Be damned propriety.” He looked to her for reply, but again she couldn’t summon a response to save her virtue. “I would have expected a vampire slayer to invite the adventure.”
“Oh, I do, it is just—”
“What did your brother mean when he spoke of floating?”
Relieved at the sudden conversation switch, she said, “It’s something we’ve said to one another in the past.”
“Which means?”
“Floating, skimming the surface of life. Trying to keep one’s head above water. It is what Damian and I have done since father’s disappearance and mother’s death.”
“I see.”
She knew Gabriel floated as well. Why or how, she was not yet sure. But float he did. “Please, don’t look at me.” He had fixed his gaze to what seemed her neck, caught in a stare. “I have never…had a man look upon me, er…my naked body.”
Gabriel turned and leaning against the tub, gifting her with the back of his head. “Sorry. I thought you—I’ve no desire to deflower a virgin.”
“You assumed I was not a virgin?”
“Yes.” He slapped his forehead with a wet palm. “No. Well, I didn’t consider it. The women I frequent are the furthest step from virtuous. Of course you must be an innocent, all fresh and new from the family parish, eh?”
“What is wrong with virgins?”
He shook his head of lustrous dark hair, still glistening with moisture. Roxane tensed her arm to keep the towel from slipping.
“Not a damned thing. Except that I have no time for one. They require utmost skill, a tenderness I’ve never possessed.”
“You speak as if I am glass that will shatter under your touch.”
“It is simply that I’ve not the time to teach you the ways required to please me.”
“Ah. So when Gabriel Renan makes love it is for his own gratification, not the woman’s?”
“Of course not.” He turned and leaned his elbow on the copper edge, fitting his chin on his arm. “I am a master at bringing a woman to her pleasure. In fact I insist on the woman being first satisfied before seeking my own pleasure.”
“Such a generous man.”
“I should think so.”
“But virgins scare the hell out of you?”
“Yes. No! Hell, I don’t know.” He dandled his forefinger upon the surface of the water. She sensed his frustration; it was brought on by a hell of a lot more than her virginity. “To be honest, I’ve never had one. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with one.”
“Perhaps it isn’t that you must do something with them, but rather that you must take your time with them. I will have you know I am always up for a new experience.”
“Sex?”
“I—right now?”
He smirked. “You weren’t listening to me, fair Roxane.”
“I heard you—no virgins. What if—in the spirit of making your final days an adventure—I expressed an interest in making love with you?”
“You would?”
She found herself shrugging and nodding at the same time. Losh, but the man’s honeyed eyes danced a double-step into her heart. For the first time in her life Roxane knew the feeling of beguilement. `Twas a floating freeness, not unlike flying.
“I’ve already said I’ve no time to teach a virgin.”
“I’m a fast learner,” her mouth said without direction from her better judgment. Be damned judgment. Flight was not to be ignored. It was better than sinking to the depths.
“You do tempt me, Roxane. Oh, but you do.” He smirked and shook his head. “This water is getting cold. Don’t you want to get out?”
“Not with you in here.”
“Not up for the challenge?”
“It is not I who seeks adventure, vicomte.”
Oh yes, it is, her conscious cheered.
“Indeed.” He sighed and turned again to slump against the tub. “You simply want to watch over me. Or rather, you think to use me as bait to lure the vampire into your grasp.”
“Where did you get that idea?”
“A guess.” He tilted a look toward her. Candlelight shadowed his face, gifting it a subtle, devilish allure. “How else will you find the man who delivered your brother to madness?”
“I am protecting you.”
“With your vial of blood? How do you know it is from a witch?” He spied the pile of her clothes by the tub and leaned over to snatch the silver chain and vial from the top. “Do you even know it is blood? Where did you get this?”
She gasped. “Don’t toy with that, Renan.”
“Why?” He fingered the cork stopper. “Do you fear I’ll drink it and change into a blood-sucking beast? What then would you do? You’d be at my mercy. Do you think I could spare you my thirst?”
He winced, scenting the liquid inside the vial.
Roxane snatched the vial and replaced the cork stopper. “The hunger is speaking, Gabriel. Don’t you see that?”
He pressed his fingers to his forehead and rubbed. “Perhaps you are right. Forgive me.” He pushed up and strode to the door. “I should not be such an imposition on you. I’ll leave you in peace for the evening.”
“What of your irresistible urge to do something? To live life?”
He sighed. “I imagine it will remain for the days I have left.”
She didn’t want to lose him. Not yet. Such sadness coated his being. He wanted to be out and about. She needed to concentrate on the mission at hand. There was a way to satisfy them both.
“It is rather early…” she stated.
“Not e
ven ten.”
“It would be a pity for Leo to turn in so early when all of society is about. Are you not expected somewhere, some salon?”
“Leo generally attends the theatre on Sunday. Would you…care to accompany me?”
“I would enjoy that.”
He smiled warmly.
“Do you think we’ll gain admittance so late?”
“Mademoiselle, Leo has a box.”
THIRTEEN
La Femme was playing at the Comédie Française on the rue de Richelieu. Gabriel estimated he and Roxane slipped into his box halfway through the second act. The contralto, pranked out in red damask and gilded eyelashes, bellowed about her infatuation for the burly tenor. He, in turn, offered all his worldly goods to impress and win her. She was not having it. The tenor threatened death if he could not have love.
Gabriel handed a tortoiseshell lorgnette he’d retrieved from a locked box beside the seat to Roxane, who eagerly looked over the crowd of attendees. He’d seen it all before, marveled at the fine fabrics and jewels and the indiscretions that took place for all eyes to witness. Developing désintéressé for this crowd had been less a challenge than a relief. Mingled scents of dusty hair powder, citrus oil, mud cleaved to shoes, perspiration and hen droppings (for the owner allowed his pet hens the run of the theatre during the off hours) briefly infused Gabriel’s senses. All of it, the singing, whispering and violin trills, segued to background.
Tonight, he found the most interesting view sat beside him.
During a quick stop by her apartment, Roxane had changed into a red velvet gown that bared her alabaster shoulders and accentuated high, exquisite breasts displayed as if delicious sweets upon a buffet. How the woman dressed without a maid perplexed him. No wig graced strawberry curls. She fit well with the current rage. Yet amongst the dyed masses Roxane sparkled like a jewel.
But not to touch, no, mustn’t mess with the lovely arrangement. He enjoyed the sweet torture of restraint. Though he did ache to pull away the soft white scarf rimming her décolletage. Had he imagined a red mark upon her breasts earlier? He’d not gotten a look behind the towel she’d clutched.
Propriety demanded he exercise restraint. Besides, the niggling reminder that a virgin sat next to him discomfited. Yet the thrill of debauchery skittered through his system. Dare he mar the easy friendship they had developed? Was it worth the pain he was sure to bring to both himself and Roxane after madness arrived?
Rosemary poked tendrils into his thoughts. A fragrance that put in mind that of the common, the passé. But on Roxane the perfume blossomed into a heady trap of unfurling, sticky pink petals. He closed his eyes and the scent overwhelmed.
Even with the chaffering below he could hear her. Every pretty little bit of her. Beyond the soft rustle of the red velvet that elegantly folded and creased with each turn of her head to peer over the crowd, and beyond the crinkle of lace that etched over her breasts, protecting and beckoning at the same time, he heard the gush, the soft runnels, the busy pace of her being. It purled lusciously, swimming, swirling, sparkling with life.
Curiosity inspired, he modestly leaned to the side until his damask cuff brushed red velvet. Schush, the gentle contact. He quieted his breaths. The song of violins and jarring contralto segued into the garish scenery. Bustle of skirts, shoes and whispering lips hushed. The air vibrated about him, focusing his senses to Roxane.
Her pulse fluttered inside his head like a winged insect. Parting his lips and drawing in a breath coated his tongue with an empyrean treat. Indeed, heaven had alighted aside him.
He reached out, and eyes still closed—but instinctively seeing—touched Roxane’s wrist. He drew a curve across her flesh, a slight rise. Back again. She did not resist as he lifted her hand and pressed his nose there, upon her pulse. A rush of luscious red liquid flowing and feeding as a stream draws from the river. A kiss placed right there—yes, catch the flutter of a pulse beat—summoned the minute rise, the movement of blood against his mouth.
Roxane’s sigh chimed in his brain, shushing softly against his skull. Tracing his lip with the tip of his tongue, he tasted salt and the sharp edge of Valenciennes lace. Rosemary filled his senses until he felt sure to drown from the fragrance did he not do something immediately.
And so he did.
He stretched his mouth across the fragile wrist in his hand. Carefully. Slowly. Drawing out the pleasure of the moment.
The tip of his tongue dallied with the rush of life enclosed within the plump vein. He felt her tug, but a feminine sigh replaced resistance. Yes, like a sigh, this moment of delicious exploration, to be carried out, lingering, until it wisped to but a pleasant memory.
You can have this. Take the blood!
He pressed his teeth to flesh. His tongue teased at the backs of his teeth, languorously wetting Roxane’s flesh as if anointing the sacrifice.
A female cry alerted him, ripping him from his sensory reverie. A bass violin spat out a bellicose note. The sweltering essence of sensuality lifted.
Gabriel looked up into wide celadon eyes. A finger was pressed to parted red lips stuck in an ‘O’ of shock. And below, using his peripheral vision, the entire pit had turned to seek the origin of the shriek.
Morbleu. Such indiscretion was not Leo’s forte.
He managed a cocky grin at the staring eyes, the tilted wigs spotted with semi-hardened wax fallen from the crystal chandeliers, and the curious lorgnettes that sought out scandal. Whispers rose like a swarm.
A shrug and a roguish wink answered their burning questions. One by one they turned back to the play.
Still clutching Roxane’s wrist, he moved to adjust the lace that rimmed her sleeve below the elbow. Absent of vulgarity he discreetly re-entered the civilized.
“Sorry.” He released hold of her wrist. “Wasn’t thinking.”
She nodded silently, smoothing her fingers where he had held her. He noticed red marks where his teeth had been and a glisten of his saliva.
Had he bitten her? It was not possible. He would not— But he could see the faint marks, thin angry lines from his front teeth impressed upon her flesh. Morbleu.
“Perhaps we should leave,” she managed in a shaky tone.
He nodded and led her out into the hallway, a cove of plush sapphire velvet and fathomless cream marble. He walked her a short way down the hall, angling his steps until Roxane could not walk further without colliding against the wall. Insinuating himself before her, Gabriel encircled her waist with an arm. Red velvet cushed beneath his ultra-sensitive fingertips. He felt her resistance, but as well, he sensed she wanted to remain. Tight and stiff in his arms—trapped—as unsure of freedom as a day-old starling, her celadon gaze yielded.
“The temptation will only increase if we return to my home where we will be alone,” he whispered, leaning in to sketch the curve of her ear with the tip of his nose. Strands of her hair traced his mouth. The shiver of contact shimmied through his extremities. Resistance was unthinkable. “I want you, Roxane.”
Her heavy exhale hushed across his chin. The heat of her being touched him, coating him with a tantalizing invitation.
“You want my blood, Renan, not me. Remember, I am but a stumbling virgin.”
“I may have been hasty in my declaration to forego virgins.”
“Is that Leo or Gabriel speaking?”
“Damn Leo. Perhaps there is a thing or two the vicomte Renan could teach you before my time is up.”
“You speak as if death was a given.”
“Either that or a cell next to His Liege, your brother.” She winced, and he regretted the remark. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. It was—”
“The blood hunger speaking. I know.”
Again that damned excuse. It was as if he were not of his mind, a slave to the blood hunger. Why was it so easy for her to forgive him? Where was the kernel of fear, the good sense to beware? He needed that resistance!
She trusted him far more than he trusted himself.
Elab
orate plaster moulding circled the base of the massive oculus window that mastered the dome cresting Gabriel’s bedroom. Convex, the bowl could house a team of blood-horses surely. A border of red and yellow roses surrounded the design that swirled into a forest of vivid blossoms, vines and starbursts. So many colors. Surely there were not names for every piece of colored glass. The rose window in Nôtre Dame would be envious.
“Are you lost yet?” Gabriel inquired softly.
Smiling at his whispered appeal, Roxane nodded. “I like the color in the center of that flower. Such a brilliant golden yellow. What is your favorite?”
“All of them.” He tilted his head and closed his eyes.
Having torn Leo’s gray bagwig from his head the moment he set foot inside, his natural dark locks tumbled across the high lace jabot. Green vines and pink and orange flowers painted across his forehead, nose and cheeks. His lips curled to a satisfied smile. “I suppose celadon is my current favorite.”
Bowing her head, Roxane searched the white marble floor, following the wash of colors. Though unaccustomed to such attention from a man, she liked it. She did not fear his playful entreaty to sex. Nor did she balk from his kisses. But something about him still kept her on alert. It was not because he was a swish. There was nothing frightening about lace and powder.
Gabriel Renan was not the man he appeared to be. That was what frightened her about him. An accidental fop, he. Or rather, a creation. His insides did not conform to his outer shell. At the same time, it was that very complication of the man’s veneer that compelled her to remain beside him, to look up through the colored glass and divine the inner workings of a soul he hid from the world.
