I thought about lying to him, but decided those all-seeing eyes of his (now a lovely reddish-gold mahogany) would know I wasn't telling him the truth. "My husband."
His jaw hardened.
"My ex-husband," I qualified. "Or rather, my late almost ex-husband. I had left him and filed for divorce by the time he died, and no, if you were going to ask, I didn't kill him, although I wanted to. He was shot by the police trying to set fire to my house. While I was asleep inside."
Christian's eyes were slowly darkening, deepening in shade until it seemed as if his pupils were absorbing all the color in his eyes. "This man, this husband abused you?"
"Abused, controlled, tortured, killed my brother—all that and more, yes."
Onyx eyes bored into mine. "You said your brother was killed in the accident that injured your leg."
"You're hurting my neck."
The tight sting of his fingers was gone, replaced by warmth and heat and something erotic that skittered along the surface of my skin as his lips kissed away the ache in my neck.
"My brother—" I stopped as he kissed a particularly sensitive spot near my ear. "My brother was killed in a car accident. Timothy…" Another pause as teeth gently nipping my earlobe made me shudder in delight. To keep myself from responding to him, I concentrated my thoughts on that horrible night, filling my mind with the memories of it. The blackness spilled out of me, making my voice thick with unspoken pain.
"Timothy was driving. He was drunk—he was always drunk—but he thought it would be funny to see if he could drive through some woods that ringed one side of our yard to reach the house. Leslie died when he wrapped the car around a tree." Christian had stopped nibbling on me and was now looking at me with dark, shuttered eyes. For a moment I felt a pang of regret that my ploy had worked, a pang that was firmly pushed aside. "My leg was injured in the crash, broken in four places, I later found out. But we had no insurance, and Timothy was driving drunk without a license, so he dragged me to the house and left Leslie dead in the car. He buried him later, after he sobered up enough to realize what he'd done."
"You did not report him?" Christian asked, something in his face that made me want to throw myself into his arms and let him protect me from the world. I pushed that feeling down, too. I hadn't learned to stand on my own two feet just to hand my independence over to the first man who showed me a bit of sympathy.
"I couldn't. Timothy splinted my leg and kept me mindless for a long time on drugs, painkillers mostly, a small mercy. By the time I started hiding the pills he gave me, and realized that he was lying about Leslie having gone away, it was too late. I had no proof, and I was crippled, unable to walk for six months. I don't know if you've ever found yourself at the mercy of someone who doesn't know the meaning of that word, but years of experience had pounded into me the fact that I had no hope of escaping him."
His fingers returned, this time to touch my cheek and brush away the tears I hadn't realized were there. "But you did escape this monster."
I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment at the warmth his touch brought me. "He tried to kill me a year later. I ran away from him, and kept running. I ended up in a women's shelter. One of the women who volunteered there was a witch, and she saw the power in me that I'd long since learned to hide. She helped me understand what Timothy had done to me, and how to break the cycle. She taught me that I did not ever have to give control over myself to another human being. She taught me how to be strong, how to fight back rather than to be a victim. She made me realize that men are not happy unless they are in a dominant position of control, and that the way they deal with someone who challenges their authority is to overpower and bully them." I raised my chin and let my determination fill my eyes. "I will never let another man do that to me."
To my surprise, he nodded. "I am glad you have survived your ordeal, and have been tempered by your tragic experiences. A woman should not be helpless, should not be a victim." His fingers tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. "I never thought you were anything but strong, Allegra. I would not want you to be anyone but yourself. Your past has shown you only one side of power, however—abuse. It does not follow that all men are made in such a fashion."
I stepped back. "I notice you don't deny the fact that men aren't happy unless they are dominant and controlling."
He shrugged that elegant shrug of his. "It is a part of what makes a man a man. Males are naturally dominant, females are—"
"Subservient? Subjugated? Passive little doormats whom men trample over?"
He smiled, his white teeth flashing. "I was going to say nurturers. A woman may become dominant, but only in order to care for those she loves. It is not a natural state."
I snorted (again—it was becoming a bad habit around Christian). "Do me and every other twenty-first-century woman a favor and get over yourself. Women can be just as dominant as men, only we do it without trampling over everyone."
His smile turned into a frown. "Women only use dominance to prove to themselves they are equal to men in all things."
I squinted my eyes at him. "Oh, you do not want to go there. In fact, this whole conversation is pointless. You're one of the caveman throwbacks who thinks he has the right to push everyone around for their own good. You're not in the least bit reasonable or open to a sensible debate, so I'm just going to stop talking to you." I strode over to the wardrobe and grabbed a handful of clothing. "Esme, you can come out now. Feel free to entertain Nosferatu here with tales of how a lady acts. I'm going to take a shower. Alone," I added with emphasis.
"The conversation is far from over, Allegra," Christian said mildly.
"Allie, I must lodge a complaint about the manner in which you insist on transporting Mr. Woogums and myself." Esme shook out her bathrobe while the cat sat at her feet licking his shoulder. "I really must insist that you carry us somewhere other than your coat pocket. I felt positively smothered in there. Good evening again, Christian; it is always a pleasure to see a man with such gentlemanly manners."
I rolled my eyes and stomped off to the bathroom, working off a smidgen of my frustration—and I'm sad to admit, a goodly chunk of it was sexual in nature—by slamming the door behind me.
Esme came in to the bathroom a few minutes later, but I ignored her and concentrated on washing my hair. Twenty minutes later I emerged from the steamy bathroom. "I meant to ask you earlier, but you were being pompous—how did you get through my spell?"
Christian had his martyr face on—a face I admit I secretly enjoyed—but he answered my question civilly enough. "I went out another door."
I smiled, pleased that my spell had held up against him. I felt compelled to be honest, however. "The spell probably wouldn't have lasted too long. I'm not very good at spell casting. Summoners don't need to use them often, and it's too easy to screw them up, so I try to get by without them. Still, it's nice to know I can hold a fully grown Dark One if I need to."
Christian's face took on a new level of martyrdom.
"Okay, I'm ready to go to dinner. Esme, you stay here and behave if a maid comes into the room."
"Dear, you wouldn't think about taking us—"
"I think you've had enough jaunting about for a day," I said gently but firmly. I turned to Christian. "Where are you taking me to dinner?"
Both his eyebrows rose at that. "Me? You expect me to act in a domineering, arrogant male manner and presume to pay for the dinner of an independent woman who detests being treated in such a patronizing way?"
I pulled my coat on. "Seeing as you probably have oodles of money lying around gathering dust, and as I am here on my own dime, quickly running through all my savings, I will this once allow you to pay for my dinner." I paused as I opened the door and looked back at him. "If you ask me nicely, that is."
"Do you know," he replied with a thoughtful look on his face as he followed me out the door, "we almost had a civil conversation going. There might be hope for you yet."
I smacked him on the arm and
, after hesitating a moment, took the hand he offered me, twining my fingers through his and smiling secretly to myself. Hope? Not for me, but maybe for… Hmmm. What an interesting thought.
Chapter Seven
Our unspoken truce lasted through dinner, during which I watched with fascination while Christian did not eat his food.
"How do you do that?" I asked when I looked up to find yet another bit of his prawns gone.
He smiled. "The hand is quicker than the eye."
"Oh. You've never been able to eat?"
"Food? No."
I thought about that for a minute while I ate some lemon-roasted chicken. "How exactly did you end up"—I looked around us—"as you are? Were you born that way or did someone turn you?"
His long fingers toyed with the rim of his wineglass. "There are two types of Dark Ones: those who were born to it, and those who were created. I am in the former group."
"Really? So your parents were vamps, too?"
He nodded. "All males born of an unredeemed Dark One are the same as their father."
Something didn't sit right. "Wait a minute, you said that when you guys find your Beloveds, they save you and redeem your soul, right? So how can an unredeemed Dark One have children?"
"The same way any other man does," he said with more than a hint of a grin. "There are many of my kind who never find their Beloveds, but that does not mean they do not take solace where they can in relationships with mortal women."
"Oh." Which, of course, made me want to ask, "So do you do that too? Take solace, I mean?"
His eyelids dropped until he was giving me a look so steamy it could have cooked carrots. "Are you inquiring for general knowledge, or is there a purpose to your question?"
I made an attempt to stifle the parts of my body that were responding (with much enthusiasm) to the effect of that smooth, beautiful voice, not to mention his bedroom eyes. It wasn't easy, but finally I could look back up to him and speak without grabbing his head and kissing the dickens out of him. "Let's just say it's general curiosity."
His eyes darkened to a deep walnut. "Why do you do that?"
I blinked and tried to summon my innocent face. "Do what?"
"Struggle against the attraction you feel for me. I feel the same and yet I do not struggle; it would be pointless. It is not something one can control—it either is, or it isn't. Yet you deny the passion that beats so strongly within you, I can sense its presence even when I am not near you. Are you so threatened by me that you cannot stand the thought of physical intimacy?"
"I'm not threatened by you," I said in a low whisper, not wanting our conversation to reach the ears of others. "And I'm not passionate."
He laughed a smooth, seductive sort of laugh that felt like velvet touching my skin. "Malý váleèník, you are."
"I am not. I've been told often enough that I lack any sort of connubial warmth to disbelieve you. In fact, the words cold fish were used at one point. And what did you call me?"
He ignored my question. "Was it your ex-husband who told you this?"
I shifted in my seat and wondered how he could know I was struggling with myself not to respond to him. I had a very tight control over my mind; not even Christian's probes had been able to penetrate my guards. "Well… yes, but I know for a fact it's true. I'm neither a virgin nor a prude, Christian. I'm thirty-one years old. I have been with men. I know I'm lacking the passion other women have because I've never particularly enjoyed sexual acts, and from the dissatisfied looks on my partners' faces, the feeling was obviously mutual. So you needn't bother trying to seduce me in order to gain a little solace. You won't find it in my arms."
"No? Let us test that theory, shall we?" He held out his hand for me. "Come here."
I stared at his hand like it was made up of boiled spiders. "What?"
"Come here. Sit next to me."
I looked around us. Although we were in a rather secluded spot in the restaurant, our table was clearly visible to at least a half dozen people. "No! People will see us!"
One sable eyebrow rose. "Does that thought arouse you?"
I frowned down my nose at him. "Not in the least."
He sighed. "I can see I will have much to teach you. Come here, Allegra. Sit next to me. Prove to me that you are a cold fish."
"I am not going to fall for such a weak example of reverse psychology," I told him with an annoyed roll of my eyes.
"Ah, so you are too afraid of me to prove what you say?"
"I'm not afraid of you," I answered. "I don't have to prove anything."
He made an elegant gesture that spoke volumes—volumes about him proving his point, and me being too chicken to correct him.
"All right," I snarled, standing up as I threw down my napkin. I walked over to his side of the table and plopped myself down in his lap, ignoring at least five pairs of eyes that I could feel on my back. "You want me to prove that I'm passionless, I'll prove to you that I'm passionless. Be prepared to be bored to tears."
I clamped my hands onto his shoulders, mashing my mouth up against his, purposely grinding my lips hard against his teeth. He tolerated that for a moment, then gently cupped either side of my jaw and tipped my head back at a different angle. "We will try this again, but without the show of brute strength, yes?"
I looked into his eyes and knew I was in trouble, serious, deep, fathomless trouble. His eyes were dark wells of desire—a desire for me, something I'd never seen in a man's eyes. I felt myself falling into them as his lips teased mine, feathering soft little kisses along the length of my mouth, tantalizing me until I could no longer deny the truth.
I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to taste him again, to have him taste me. I fought a desperate fight to maintain control over my desire, but the first stroke of his tongue against my lips tolled a death knell for my good intentions. My lips softened on his. I allowed him to surge into my mouth, and with that intimate touch the last of my barriers were destroyed. I moaned into his mouth as his tongue become more aggressive, stroking mine, demanding, not asking for response. I slid my hands into his hair, pulling the leather thong that bound it free so that his hair hung loose to his shoulders. The satiny length of it poured over my fingers like cool water, making me shiver in response.
I felt his touch in my mind, felt the whispers around the edges of my guards, and was overwhelmed with a curiosity to know what he was thinking. It was the sheerest folly to allow myself to receive his thoughts, for I knew he would be able to receive mine as well, but the fire that flamed within me at his touch was too strong to be quenched. He deepened the kiss as I opened my mind to his, allowing the sensations he was feeling to join with mine. His thoughts were wordless, formless images of pleasure, of need and desire and a desperate hope that were bound together until it was impossible to separate them. I responded to the need, knowing I shouldn't, knowing it would lead to disaster, but unable to keep from taking his darkness within myself and returning it with all the light I had.
His power surrounded us, permeated us, bound us together in a manner I did not understand, or even wish to examine. Rather than be stifled by it, I gloried in it, allowing his power to blend with mine just as our thoughts merged. His arousal fed mine; my desire fired his to greater heights. His tongue was everywhere in my mouth; then mine was in his, tasting him, learning him, aching for something that I couldn't quite reach.
This is not the way of a cold fish, malý váleèník, the thought echoed in my head.
I sucked his lower lip into my mouth, nibbled on it for a bit, then slowly pulled my mouth from his.
What does malý váleèník mean exactly?
I could feel the smile in his thoughts. Little warrior.
Warrior, hmm? I could live with that. What worried me was the ease with which he settled into my mind. Slowly, gently, I shut him out, replacing my mental guards. I was shaken, more shaken than I wanted to admit even to myself at just how tempting it was to throw down my guards altogether, but as
I stared down into Christian's midnight eyes, I reminded myself that even if he was immortal, he was still a man. I couldn't risk trusting him with that sort of power over me.
I pushed myself off his lap and stumbled back to my chair, reaching with a lamentably shaky hand for the water glass.
"So"—I cleared my throat to try to lower the level of huskiness his kiss had generated—"what do you know about this medium Guarda White? One of the SIP people mentioned her. I'm curious as to how you know about her."
Christian touched a finger to his lush lower lip. "You will not concede defeat?"
I picked up my fork and speared a chunk of chive-roasted potato. "I wasn't aware we were engaged in battle."
He smiled and inclined his head. "Touché. It was not a battle, merely"—his gaze dropped to my lips. Instinctively I licked them. They felt sensitive and tender, as if they were swollen—"an experiment with a most interesting outcome. I begin to think I have been overly hasty in my conclusions."
My entire body went up in flames at the longing in his eyes. I tried desperately to gather the shreds of my control around me. "Please, Christian…"
He ignored my whispered plea, taking my hand in his, his thumb stroking circles on the back of my hand. "Why do you struggle so? Why do you fight to wrap shields of indifference around yourself when I can feel within you all the ardor you stir within me? Why do you deny the passion that fills you at my touch?"
I pulled my hand from his slowly and tucked it away in my lap. Unreasonably, I felt close to tears, but didn't know if was for him I wanted to weep, or me. "I'm sorry, Christian," I told the remains of my chicken. "I just can't allow any man to have that sort of power over me."
Christian was silent for a time, a long enough time that I finally had to look up at him. His eyes, always an indicator of what he was feeling, glistened brightly in the glow of the candle on the table. His voice was low, pitched only for my ears, and skimmed along me like a pair of lover's hands. "It will be my distinct pleasure to show you that not all men use power to inflict punishment." I said nothing. There was just nothing to say.
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