She did believe Stefan. And she wanted him as her lover, vampire or not. “I’d love to paint you,” she said softly, her gaze steady on his perfectly made body. “I thought it the first time I saw you. I’d sculpt you from a perfect slab of Crème Brulee limestone or Tuscany Cream marble, if only I were competent to do you justice. Whatever, whoever you are, you’re one beautiful male. I just . . . I don’t know.”
“I’m glad you find me pleasing to look at. Come, let me show you I’m telling the whole truth, that twenty beautiful women have already died at the hands of one crazed killer vampire.”
Julie shrugged out of her robe and stepped over to the dresser. “Why?” she asked as she pulled jeans and a lightweight sweater from a drawer.
That was the missing puzzle piece—the killer’s motive for what seemed senseless acts of violence against women. Stefan pulled on his boxers then looked over at Julie.
“Why did he kill them? Revenge on all women who remind him of Alina d’Argent, queen of my clan. When Alina rejected his proposal to merge our clans, Reynard went berserk and vowed to make her regret having turned him down.” Pausing, he raked her with a heated gaze. “Alina is as beautiful as you. Could practically be you, except her eyes are a clear, true green instead of the blue of a summer sky.”
“Like yours.”
“I suppose so. I’ve been told the d’Argents all share that particular trait.” Stefan lifted his hand to Julie’s face, traced the line of her jaw with what seemed a gentle reverence. “I can almost understand Reynard’s obsession now, for it was all I could do last night to make love with you and not taste you.” As though it pained him to look on her naked body and not drag her back to bed, Stefan turned away and quickly finished dressing.
It was all I could do last night to make love with you and not taste you.
Stefan’s words rang in Julie’s ears as she dressed, and later as they made their way down Lake Shore Drive to Congress Parkway, then west to State Street and the Chicago Central Library with its carved stone lions. He was a vampire. He’d convinced her of that much. She hadn’t quite managed to persuade herself that she wasn’t crazy to be encouraging him to show her the truth of twenty gory murders. Or to believe his allegation that Louis Reynard was a vampire serial killer.
All Julie knew was that she wanted Stefan d’Argent, whoever he was. As perverse, as incredibly stupid as it sounded, she wished he’d completely unleashed his passion instead of holding back to save her from himself.
Maybe she didn’t want to be saved.
Chapter Seven
A mansion in Brussels. A Hong Kong brothel. A hovel in Melbourne, and a second-floor walk-up flat not far from Buckingham Palace. The killer must have lingered in England after that one, because the next murder had taken place in a small town in the English midlands. He’d killed a young Russian aristocrat aboard a houseboat along the Volga River outside Kazan, and a sheep shearer in a little-known town in the Australian outback.
“Here. Look at this.”
Local Beauty Slaughtered: Newcomer Suspected. Julie skimmed the front-page article in the Tri-County Journal, a tabloid weekly that apparently served three eastern Montana counties. The account, folksy in the style in which it was written, mirrored the articles she’d seen before. A grainy photo showed the victim before the tragedy, when she’d been crowned queen of the local rodeo a few months before her death.
“Alexandre caught up with Reynard here, shortly after he’d killed this dude rancher’s daughter,” Stefan whispered, passing Julie the next article. “Alex nearly got himself tried for murder by trying to enlist the help of that Montana sheriff. The trouble there held him up long enough that he and Claude arrived too late in Singapore to stop the next killing.”
He’d mentioned that earlier, Julie remembered. Her doubts faded with every new piece of evidence they found in the newspaper archives. With each account, she found it easier to believe Louis Reynard might be a serial killer.
He’d slaughtered an Argentine beauty queen in a luxury hotel room in Buenos Aires. And just last week, a woman had been found in a run-down tenement near downtown Atlanta, her throat slit like all the rest. The woman Stefan had described in vivid, stomach-curdling detail. “I arrived moments too late to save her,” Stefan said when he showed her the newspaper article about her death. “We fought, and I thought I had him. To my shame, I let him escape.”
Reaching up, Julie traced the angry laceration on his cheek. Twenty women had died in all manner of places. They’d lived in varied circumstances, come from all walks of life. They’d all been tall, slender blondes and they’d died in the same horrific manner. “Is that how you got this?”
“Yes.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips. “It’s practically healed now.”
Each newspaper report Julie saw made her grow sicker . . . more terrified. She looked at the chilling accounts of women dying, reported in English and Spanish and French and Russian, and other languages neither she nor Stefan could translate. Murder victims depicted in stark black-and-white photography needed no translation, though. Twenty women who looked eerily like her had been found naked and very, very dead, their throats slashed. Of the accounts they’d been able to read, none indicated the victims had been sexually assaulted, although from the newspaper accounts they’d put up varying degrees of resistance to their killer.
It was all too terrifying to believe, yet the pattern was too clear to dismiss as coincidence. The work of a killer vampire. Or vampires. Julie tamped down her fear. After all, how many of their numbers roamed the earth? Julie pictured that vase of white roses on the table in her town house, shuddered, then made a mental note to call the florist and learn for certain who had placed the order.
She didn’t have to do it. Not really. Stefan had convinced her Louis Reynard was the serial killer. A killer who’d singled her out to become his next victim.
Suddenly it hit her. The next gory newspaper write-up might be about her. Would almost certainly be if they didn’t do something quickly to thwart the bloodthirsty creature who almost certainly had sent her those roses.
Julie grasped Stefan’s hand, spoke softly so other library patrons wouldn’t overhear her. “What if I took copies of these articles to the police, told him you’ve been chasing this killer for months and pointed Mr. Reynard out so they could keep an eye on him? Surely they’d listen.”
Stefan shook his head. “Just how would you link these murders to Reynard? They’re not likely to accept the signature of the rose or to give credence to the latest note Reynard sent Alina. They’ve paid the warnings no attention in the past. No, Julie, as much as we might like it otherwise, our only chance to defeat Reynard is to stick together and stop him when he makes his move.”
When they walked out of the library, Julie thought Stefan looked drawn, tired. “I’m hungry. Shall we stop and get a bite to eat?”
Stefan took her hand, brought it to his lips. “You wouldn’t happen to know where there might be a vampire bar or blood bank, now would you?”
“A vampire bar?” She’d heard whispers of such places on Rush Street but shrugged them off as the fanciful imaginings of mortals who embraced the Goth lifestyle. “Not really. Well, every hospital has a blood bank, but I doubt they’d sell blood for human—or vampire—consumption. As far as vampire bars go, I never accepted until this morning that vampires existed outside books and movies. Do many humans know about . . . people like you?”
“More than you’d expect.” He cocked his arrogant brow, grinned. “Vampire bars can be found in most major cities if one knows where to look. The mortals who know about them are typically on the fringes of society, into alternative lifestyles, fetishes. They tend to be more accepting of . . . the unusual.”
“Like a tattoo and body piercing shop owner, maybe?”
“It’s possible. Do you know such a mortal?”
“I have a friend who owns that kind of shop. I do art designs for him. He’s . . . somewhat like the type of person you
described.” She recalled some of Giorgio’s tattoo designs, one in particular of a fearsome-looking vampire with blood dripping from his fangs. “What do you think? Is it worth a try?”
Stefan looked down at her, and his expression brought a flush to her cheeks. “You’re an extraordinary woman, Julie, for believing me. Trusting me. Being willing to help me sustain myself for the fight ahead. Yes, let’s give it a try.”
She nodded, tightened a hand on his, and a grip on her fear. “Let’s go then. If I get my own personal vampire bodyguard, I want him to be in top form.” She slanted him a half smile. “If not, I’ll cut your benefits.”
Stefan’s grin came slow and oh, so very sexy. “I’d like to see you try, chérie. I’d like to see you try.”
• • •
Shiny black and white and chrome accented with red Chinese symbols gave an upscale retro look to the tattoo and piercing salon. The sound of dishes clattering downstairs at the sushi bar clashed with soft classical music piped in through speakers mounted near the ceiling in all four corners of the reception room, where a receptionist had indicated they should wait.
“Giorgio is doing a piercing, Julie. He should be finished in a little while,” she said before disappearing, apparently to tell her employer he had guests.
“Thanks, Mary.” Julie squeezed Stefan’s hand. “Come over here and let me show you some of Giorgio’s work.”
Stefan let her lead him past the black-and-white photos that adorned one wall. Apparently, he deduced, they were of Giorgio’s piercings, noses and tongues and—he shuddered—genital piercings the likes of which he’d never before imagined. The opposite wall featured pen-and-ink drawings of intricate tattoo designs, including a couple that depicted fearsome-looking vampires with bloodshot eyes, their mouths curled into snarls, huge fangs dripping blood. One sported a high-collared black cloak lined in red, the epitome of Hollywood cliché. Stefan grimaced when he noticed the half-closed coffin in which the other vampire was ensconced. “Yours?” he asked.
“I drew some of them. Not the vampire ones, though.”
He shot an arch look her way. “Now I know where you got your mental image of vampires.”
“Not really. I never looked closely at these designs before.” Julie stepped closer to the wall, pointed at one. “That one looks like the actor who played Dracula in all those old horror movies they play on late-night television. The ones Christopher Lee starred in.”
Stefan recognized the actor. He and Alex had spent several pleasant evenings laughing over Lee’s portrayals of Vlad Dracul. “Movies like that give us vampires a bad name.”
He’d seen as much as he wanted to see of the tattoo artist’s renditions of his kind. His hand on Julie’s hip, he guided her further along the display wall, stopping to examine some designs that inspired awe, not horror. “I like these much better.”
“So do I. I’m afraid the ones we just looked at are meant to appeal more to people who like tattoos for shock, not for their artistic value.”
“Which ones are yours?” he asked, amazed at the fine detail evident in the designs.
Julie gestured toward an elaborate Maltese cross near the center of the display. “I created this one. One of Giorgio’s clients wanted something different from the stock designs, yet nothing too outrageous. Giorgio’s own original designs, like the ones of the vampires, were more elaborate than what the woman wanted to wear on her forearm.”
The cross, in stained-glass colors that reminded Stefan of a window in a church not too far from his home, was breathtaking in its beauty and simplicity. He imagined running his fingers over the design once it was etched onto a woman’s skin, experiencing silky living flesh beneath the muted jewel tones. “It’s beautiful. Like you.”
Julie laughed, a nervous sound. “I’m afraid I have a strong dislike of needles. Giorgio has never been able to persuade me to let him use me as a canvas for his art.”
“One of my cousins once tried to get a tattoo. Apparently they don’t work well on vampires. Though I assume we could become candidates for your friend’s other specialty.” Stefan glanced at the photos depicting jewelry on various body parts, most of which he preferred to keep private. “Not that I have an overwhelming desire to have metal stuck through my flesh.”
“Neither do I. Come on, let’s sit and relax. Giorgio takes his time when he’s doing a new piercing.”
An array of body jewelry lay in display cases built into the tops of lacquered tables someone had grouped artfully between black leather and chrome sofas and love seats. The heavy silver rings brought to mind his last meal, and the similar adornment he’d felt in his victim’s cock. “Hmmm,” he said, his attention drawn to some smaller pieces. “Those look suspiciously like cufflinks.”
“I thought that too when I first saw them, but Giorgio said they’re navel rings.”
“Ah, yes. Like the harem dancers wear.” A large round sapphire winked up at Stefan, making him wonder how it would look on Julie. “Have you ever . . .”
“No. As I said before, I’m afraid of needles. The only parts of me that I’ve had pierced are these.” She tossed back her pale curls, calling his attention not only to the inviting column of her throat but to the small diamonds that pierced the lobes of her small, beautifully shaped ears. “I thought about doing my navel, but Giorgio says it’s one of the most difficult piercings to heal. Basically, I’m a coward.”
“Yes, you are.” A little man, shorter than Julie and naked but for gym shorts and a body covered with tattoos, beamed at them when he emerged from a treatment room. His seemingly satisfied customer kept looking in every mirror, apparently admiring a fresh piercing through his lower lip. “Don’t tell me you’ve brought me a new client,” he said to Julie, giving her a big hug.
“No, Giorgio. This is my friend Stefan. Stefan, Giorgio Campione.”
Stefan found Giorgio’s handshake amazingly strong for one so small. “My pleasure,” he said. “You do some interesting work.” It was damn hard not to stare, for nearly every visible centimeter of Giorgio’s body bore intricate, interwoven designs—and chains. A lot of flashy gold chains, one connecting a nostril with an eyebrow, another dangling from a loop pierced into the top of his ear and connected to the large hoop earring in his earlobe. Stefan couldn’t help wondering. Could the chain that ran through his nipple rings and disappeared into his shorts be hooked to a ring pierced through the man’s penis, and if so didn’t that have to be painful?
“The body’s a perfect canvas, I keep telling Julie. She won’t even trust me to give her a tiny rosebud tattoo where no one but a lover would ever see it.” Giorgio sat down across from them and met Stefan’s gaze. “What can I do for you, if not a decoration for your body or the pretty lady’s? Your lady’s?”
Julie’s cheeks flushed when Giorgio winked at her with one of his too-shrewd eyes. Stefan hesitated a moment before meeting the mortal’s questioning gaze. “You can point me in the direction of the nearest vampire bar.”
“Should’ve known. You all have great skin. Would be fabulous to show off my most intricate designs, if only it had a bit more moisture . . . and elasticity. Still, I’ve had good luck with piercing vamps—you have remarkable healing abilities.” Giorgio stood, unabashedly examining the laceration on Stefan’s cheek. “Except for this. You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t leave a scar.”
“It’s a vampire bite. The venomous kind. We’re susceptible to the poison, as much as any mortal. Would you know of a place around here where I can feed?”
“Ristorante della Rubio, over on Wilding Street, just off Rush. Ask for the manager. His name is Gus. Tell him in Italian that I said he could provide special refreshments for vampires. You do speak Italian, don’t you?”
“Enough to ask a simple question.” It didn’t surprise him that this Gus took the precaution of screening his customers. Proprietors of vampire bars couldn’t be too careful about who they admitted. “I assume the Ristorante della Rubio is a suitable place to take a la
dy.”
“My vampire clients tell me they always stop in there whenever they’re in the neighborhood.” Giorgio glanced over at Julie. “You know you promised to paint me someday, so keep that in mind if you’re thinking of running off with your handsome friend here.”
Julie smiled. “It will take you months yet to finish tattooing your entire body. You told me you didn’t want to pose until then.”
“I finished. Want to see?” Giorgio slid his thumbs into the elastic waistband of his shorts.
“No, thanks,” Stefan said hastily, putting a firm hand under Julie’s elbow and propelling her to her feet. The man was naked enough already to make Stefan want to rip off his sweater and toss it over Giorgio’s exposed flesh. He didn’t need to see whether Giorgio had tattooed and pierced his genitalia to match the rest of his short, stocky body, and neither did Julie. “Thanks for the information. I owe you.” But not enough to let you show off your body art to my woman.
Yes, Julie was his and his alone, until the danger from Reynard was past and Stefan had to walk away and leave her to live her mortal life. He relished the connection as well as the warmth of her fingers when she curled them around his palm, tried not to dwell on the sorrow of their imminent parting. “Shall we check out this Ristorante della Rubio?”
• • •
A few minutes later, when they stepped inside the posh foyer of the restaurant Giorgio had named, Julie saw a place not unlike every other establishment in the neighborhood. Well-dressed diners enjoyed wine from an impressive cellar while ordering from leather-bound menus she imagined bore steep prices—if any at all. Subtly sensual music flowed around them, the sounds muted so as not to interfere with intimate conversation. When Stefan asked for Gus, a hostess scurried off to find him, apparently unsurprised at the request.
A small, dark-haired man in a tuxedo strode toward them, a broad smile on his round, pleasant face. “Gus Rubio at your service. How may I help you today, my friends?”
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