Nightwalker (9 page)

“Miracle of miracles. First time for everything.” She couldn't see his face in the shadows, but she could feel his smile.

Had he meant that bit about her being lethal and never drinking her blood? Like she was just a nuisance he had to fend off? She should feel glad about it, but she found herself taking exception to it. For some reason, it made her feel worse than the loser she already was when it came to men. She heard Akando saying, “You scare me.” Now she had a vampire on the run. Maybe it was her pride, but she could feel a need building in her to
seduce Striker, bring him to his knees, make him take back those words.

“This Laeyar dude,” she said, her voice cool. “We have to find his den before sunset. Is it around here somewhere?”

“I've had my agents searching for it with no luck. Every vampire knows better than to keep his den near his food source, but we had to make certain. The danger of being killed by enemies and vampire hunters is too great.”

“There are really vampire hunters?”

“Plenty. B.O.S.P. alone has bounties on over two hundred that I know of.”

“Oh.” Takala had never met a vampire hunter. They were a loner breed, evidently. But at the moment, she thought they each deserved a Medal of Honor. She hated to ask her next question. “Are there other dens like this one?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Some vampires are unscrupulous when it comes to feeding.”

Revulsion twisted inside Takala. Just the thought of humans being treated and slaughtered like cattle made her sick.

She asked, “You got any idea how we can find him?”

“The only thing we can do is come back here at dusk when he returns to feed. Let's go.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a hotel.”

All sorts of lurid unbidden things popped into Takala's head…and they all involved a bed. No, no, no. He was just dropping her there to get rid of her. He grabbed her
hand, and Takala felt dizzy as the world sped by. But it didn't stop those lurid images from coming back, and she ground her teeth.

“T
his isn't a hotel,” Takala said as he zipped the car into a parking spot.

“You need calories more than sleep.”

“How do you know?”

“Your stomach growls like a den of lions. There is a sidewalk café here that is the best in Paris. Perhaps we can silence your hunger for a while.”

“Sorry to be a nuisance.” Takala smelled the delicious scent of fresh-baked bread wafting through the heater vent and realized she was starving.

“Nuisance doesn't quite cover it.” He cast her one of those unreadable guarded glances that gave nothing away.

She made a face at his shoulder as they got out and walked down a busy block. Icy February wind whipped past her face. The smell of city exhaust mingled with
the tempting scent of French cooking. She could almost taste the pounds of butter.

This must have been Café Row, because she counted six cafes before he paused at one. It was small and quaint, Bella la Table. A yellow and blue awning waved over a circle of wrought-iron tables. Despite the cold, people huddled down in seats, drinking espresso, eating, reading papers or books, or chatting. The restaurant's inside dining area looked as busy and full as the outside. Behind the etched plate-glass windows, harried waiters cleaned tables and took orders.

“You mind the cold?” he asked in that commanding tone of his as if he knew the answer and only asked the question out of politeness.

“I certainly wouldn't come to a Paris sidewalk café and not sit outside. So, no, please let's sit here.” She motioned to the outdoor tables.

Striker nodded his approval and snapped his fingers at a waiter. He motioned them to sit anywhere. Striker chose a table beneath the awning and sat in a chair where the sun couldn't touch him.

She said, “I thought sunlight didn't bother you.”

“I can function in it, but if I have a choice, I prefer not to get a tan.”

“Ha, you
do
have a sense of humor.”

“Only since meeting you.” He grinned, and it warmed the empty depths of his eyes, charmed his irresistibly attractive face.

The warmth in his expression tugged at her chest as he pulled the chair out for her. Then he pushed her up to the table. Always the gentleman vampire. She bestowed a thankful smile on him.

A waiter dropped two menus on the table and left abruptly, saying something she couldn't catch. The menu was written in French, and she tried to pick out the few Parisian foods she knew, like crêpes, boeuf bourguignon, chateaubriand. Something called poulet à la diable sounded good: deviled chicken in fried butter. She felt Striker watching her, and she glanced up to see he hadn't picked up his menu.

She realized he didn't eat food, and he'd stopped here for her benefit only. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“You don't eat.”

“Oh, I eat.” He stared hard at her neck as if it might be a morsel on his plate.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” His brows moved a quarter of an inch as he frowned. Then he picked up the menu and glanced down at it, ennui settling over his face.

“Don't you miss the taste of food? I'd rather be dead if I couldn't enjoy eating.”

“One adapts and finds pleasure in other things.” One of his intense stares reached across the table and caressed her.

A tingle warmed her belly, and she felt herself being drawn to him. No, she wasn't feeling anything for this vampire. Was she?

Thankfully, the waiter returned at that moment and leveled an impatient look at both of them.

Striker ordered an espresso, and Takala started with a ham and cheese crêpe, poulet à la diable, a baguette with plenty of butter, an espresso, and she requested the waiter return for a dessert order.

The guy looked at her like she'd lost her mind if she thought he was ordering all that food. Then Striker said something to him in perfect French and he hurried off, completely chastened.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were my wife and pregnant.”

Takala found herself grinning. That was her favorite excuse for her appetite. She felt obliged to say “Thank you.”

Silence settled between them. Takala inhaled the scent of the baking bread and something delectable and sugary, like chocolate cream pie. She wondered what it was so she could order it. She drew in the smell and said, “I wish they could bottle this. It smells like my grandmother's kitchen. She's a great cook.”

“She bakes often?”

“Oh, yes, it's her therapy, I think. She raised me and my sisters. We were a lot to handle.” Takala grinned at the memory. “Well, I guess I was the real problem.”

“Rebellious, were you?”

“When I thought I could get away with it, but my grandmother always found me out. When you have the Guardian raising you, it's pretty tough getting away with anything. It makes you ingenious.” She grinned.

“I can see you pushing the limits. Tell me, what did you do?”

“Everything.” Takala rolled her eyes, then said, “I remember casting a magical spell once to block her extrasensory powers. I burned up my room instead. A candle got out of hand—boy, did I spend a long time in the sweat cave.” Takala grimaced at the memory.

“Sweat cave?”

“Our prayer cave and my punishment. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, fasting and praying, contemplating my bad behavior. I can see my grandmother now. All she had to do was point to the door, and I knew my fate.”

“But I can tell by your voice that you do not resent it very much.”

“No, I know now she did it for my own good. I respect my grandmother—love her. She was there for us when we needed her. She wouldn't have left us like my mother did.” Takala heard the resentment in her own voice. When she saw his steady gaze boring into her, as if he were probing her for more information, she realized she'd said more than she wanted.

Suddenly she felt self-conscious, a rare happenstance in her life. She stopped talking and observed the couple next to them. Middle-aged and bored with each other, their noses were buried in the morning paper. She envisioned herself and Akando in those very same chairs. It probably would have ended that way if she had forced him into a loveless marriage. How many affairs would he have had by the time they were fifty? Would she have been so dense she wouldn't have known he had cheated on her? Tears came to Takala's eyes, and she had to blink them back.

“What is wrong, Takala?” His brow creased slightly in concern, and he reached across the table to touch her hand.

“Nothing.” She liked when he spoke her name. It added a smooth flair to it, and right now she needed to hear her name on another man's lips. She grew aware of his touch, his wide hand covered hers, the weight of his long fingers curling around her own.

When she gazed down at their touching hands, he seemed to grow uncomfortable and pulled back.

Takala felt the loss of his touch right away, and it left an empty sensation on her skin.

A pregnant pause settled between them, and they gazed everywhere but at each other.

Then he said, “Does your grandmother know you have been searching for your mother?”

Takala studied the menu, staring blankly at it. “No, and I'm not telling her. My people disowned my mother. It is against our laws to even acknowledge she exists.”

“But you are breaking the laws?”

“I just wanted to locate her, get her side of the story.” Was he trying to make her feel guilty about wanting to meet her mother?

“Did you ever stop to think that those laws are in place to protect others from the person who has been abjured? Perhaps it is for your own safety that you follow them.”

“I don't need a lecture from you.” She gripped the menu so tightly it trembled in her hands.

“Then why have you not yet told Culler who you are?”

“How do you know that I didn't?”

“I read your mind.”

Takala snapped, “Stay out of my head. This is personal.”

“I hoped to spare you some pain.”

“Too late.” Takala stood up and slammed the menu down on the table. “Where's the restroom?” Before he could answer her, she found the universal sign pointing inside. “I see the way.”

Without another word, she strode off, boots pounding the concrete tiles. What right did he have to lecture her on how to live her life? Maybe she would never tell Lilly Smith. Takala wasn't absolutely certain that Lilly was her mother. Yes, Lilly looked like the picture and exhibited the powers of an
egtonha,
but Takala just couldn't believe the woman who shared her blood was so reprehensible. And until she was absolutely convinced Lilly was her mother, she'd keep the truth to herself. Still, even if she were certain, she might not ever tell her. But it was her decision to make, and she didn't need Striker's advice.

After following the signs to the back of the restaurant, Takala found the bathroom. She locked herself in a stall and had a good cry. Jet lag was really getting to her.

 

Striker waited and grew impatient. The waiter had brought the food, and it was getting cold in the crisp air.

Earlier, because of his sensitive hearing, he had heard her crying in the bathroom. Several times he started to go to her, but he thought better of it. Obviously, her mother was a touchy subject.

He hated hearing Takala weep. There was a slim chance he had been too harsh on Takala, but she needed to stop looking at Culler with blinders on. She had to face the truth.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd cared enough to involve himself in another person's life or to consider another's feelings. He thought he had lost the human ability to sympathize, but he couldn't deny the guilt he felt right now, or this need to comfort her.
It was dangerous, he knew, to feel anything for her. It was imperative he remain detached from all stimulus, particularly emotion. It had kept him from losing control, kept him from the bloodlust that could destroy him. He couldn't let unbidden emotions get out of hand, but there was no harm in opening her eyes to the truth, was there?

Takala's outward appearance gave off an aura of invincibility and overconfidence, but he now knew she was utterly defenseless when it came to her heart. Yet he needed her to understand that she was better off leaving Culler out of her life. And if the truth hurt her, then so be it. Better he destroy these maternal ideals of hers than Culler taking Takala's life.

He was about to go and find her when she walked through the door and back out onto the patio. Her two-colored eyes were puffy and red. Remorse stabbed him again, and he wished she were more receptive to the truth about Culler.

As she made her way across the restaurant, he noticed several male waiters stopped in their tracks and watched her. Jealousy flared. It was all he could do to stay in his seat and not teach the oglers a lesson. But he could forgive them their fascination, for Takala drew his own gaze like a moth to a flame. Her ginger hair fell around her shoulders in waves, the blond highlights glimmering in the café's lights. Her black leather pants poured over her long, shapely legs, hugging them in an alluring way. The long boots that came to her knees. Her leather coat undulated around her slim hips. And in the front he could see her flat belly exposed by her short T-shirt. That confident stride of hers wasn't feminine at all. Her hips
didn't sway with it, but her chin was high, her shoulders and back fencepost straight, which uplifted her sensual full breasts and showed them to advantage. It was the most alluring female walk he'd ever seen. Something about it made him want to cover her, dominate her, make her his.

He hadn't felt a need for a mate in hundreds of years. And he wouldn't turn Takala into a slave whom he could command only to quench his thirst for blood and sexual pleasure. He thought he had conquered all physical desires. But no, he could feel an overwhelming craving erupting inside him just looking at her, burning through his body, pushing at him, tempting him to let go. His heart raced. A tremor shook his hands, and it took all of his willpower to force his gaze down and examine the iron scrollwork on the table until he gained control again.

She sat, refusing to look at him, and began eating the ham and cheese crêpe first.

She swallowed, then spoke. “This is really good,” she said, making small talk as if nothing had happened between them.

Introduction of food seemed to have lifted her spirits more than anything he could have said or done. With some females it was roses. With Takala it was food. If he ever needed to bribe her, he'd have to exploit her weakness.

“Yes.” He sat back and watched her cut the ham crêpe into three more pieces and bring an enormous bite to her full rosebud lips.

She shoved in the mouthful, chewed and closed her eyes in delight.

He didn't think anything had fascinated him more than watching her eat. She licked the béchamel sauce from her lips, and his body drew up like a piano wire.

“Let's make a deal. We'll start over. You don't tell me how to live my life, and I won't tell you.”

He was glad she didn't seem to hold grudges or was one of those females who pouted for days. “Fair enough. Tell me about your sisters,” he said.

“They're great.” She talked in between bites. Now that she was eating, she seemed animated and demonstrative. She lowered her voice to a whisper, leaned across the table and said, “Fala, she was always good at magic. Always had shaman powers. Becoming the Guardian just made her more powerful. Nina, my baby sister, she can talk to any kind of living or dead thing. She's the quiet one, nothing like Fala and me.”

“What about you? What talents do you possess?”

“Me, just my strength. It's only brute force, nothing life-altering or meaningful.” Takala shrugged, leaned back and started consuming the poulet à la diable.

Striker, amazed at the speed with which she ate, said, “Strength is an admirable quality.” He felt his charismatic, confident mask slipping into place. Was he trying to charm her?