Seducing the Vampire (7 page)

“I believe you owe Master Rosemont an apology.”

“Oh, not necessary,” the frazzled teacher piped up. “I am fine.”

“Forgive me,” Constantine said, and Viviane was glad for his humility.

“I think perhaps I should be off.” Master Rosemont gathered his leather satchel and shoved the paper across the table. “I completed the list for you, mademoiselle. Perhaps you should send for me next Saturday? I shouldn't wish to intrude.”

“No, please, return at the usual time. I promise this embarrassing situation will not be repeated.” She delivered Constantine knives with a glance. “Will it?”

“Of course not. Can I ensure your ride home, Master Rosemont?”

“Oh no, no. I'm off.” He bowed hastily and made a leg for the front door.

Constantine picked up the list and inspected the words. “Hawk?”

Feeling as though he'd raped her most precious secret, Viviane marched out of the room, hands on her hips.

He followed close on her heels. “So you don't know how to read?”

“What of it?” she spat out.

“I am surprised. I had thought your patron would have ensured a more schooled kin.”

“So I am not smart enough for you?” A vicious clarity suddenly focused her, standing off the man who would
own
her if he had his way. “I think you should leave.”

“I admit I was in the wrong to approach Master Rosemont so violently. But please, let's put that behind us, Viviane.”

Yes, yes, keep the man appeased. “What did you come for?”

He bowed and kissed her cheek, and the other, and
finally a brush of a kiss over her mouth. The man was like marble, only because Viviane wondered how to ever soften him, find the soul beneath the hard surface.

“Is that smile for me?” he asked.

No, it was not. “But of course. Who else?” She touched her mouth. Rhys lingered there. “Ah, Portia.”

The maid brandished a silver tray sporting goblets and a wine bottle. Viviane poured half a goblet and tossed it back while Constantine observed with wonder.

“A bit parched,” she offered. She wiped her lips with a finger. “Would you care for some?”

“No, wine tends to sit ill with me. While I was waiting I couldn't help notice your music room is rather spare of furniture. And on the wall.” He pointed at the strange bright rectangle of English paper where a painting had once hung. “Are you having trouble, Viviane? Because you know you can ask anything of me.”

Pacing away from Constantine to the one remaining settee in the entire house, Viviane decided the truth was not going to harm her, and it would show she trusted him. By all means, she wanted to stay on good terms with him.

“I had no idea Henri was in debt,” she offered. “The creditors began appearing with bills three days after his death. All the servants have left, save for Portia and a stable boy, who am I most grateful for.”

“If you need money—”

“Not at all. I paid the servants with furniture and silver. The creditors took a few horses and one of two carriages Henri owned. I thought it a fair exchange. I don't wish to make a fuss of it, Constantine. So if we could put the subject aside I would appreciate it.”

“I'll not mention it again.”

He gripped her wrists and pulled her to him. Viviane
knew he would kiss her, and struggled—only a little. He bruised her mouth with an urgent connection that sparkled in her belly. She had to force herself not to grab at his coat to pull him against her.

It would be so easy to let it happen. To not clasp his fingers in an attempt to stop him from tearing asunder the bows securing her corset. To expose her breasts so he might lick them as she needed them to be touched, tasted and worshipped. But she could not.

Tearing from his embrace, she stepped once before he pulled her back and she tripped on her skirts, falling against him. Constantine's breath whispered down her neck. The prick of his teeth altered her insistent desire as if a penitent's lash to bared flesh.

She managed to slip the side of her hand across his mouth. Skin tore and her blood oozed out. “Don't you dare.”

He swept out his tongue and licked the faint crimson trail. Defiance glinted in his dark eyes. “Sweet. As suspected. And pure.”

“That is the only taste you will know of me if you do not honor my request to dismiss your kin.”

She held her breath, matching his defiant stare.
Pure
. Exactly what he required.

“You are the most exquisite taste, Viviane. To drink of you should murder me sweetly. It is a death I will wait for.”

“Constantine, please, tell me what you want from me.”

He clasped her hand and his thigh brushed hers. “I would ask you to accept my hand in marriage. To come under my patronage. To have my children.”

Hand pressed to her throat, Viviane paced to the table
where the wine decanted. She traced a fingernail along the bottle's thin neck. “Marriage.”

“It would make you mine exclusively.”

No mention of love.

“But you understand that is impossible, Constantine. I've needs. The hunger forces me to seek others.”

“Those men are but donors, vessels to feed your hunger. I don't want to direct you how to go about meeting those needs. But the others, if there are others besides me, I would like you to stop seeing them.”

Other male vampires. Lovers? How ridiculous. “You say that as if I've a harem similar to yours.”

“Mine is a necessity.”

“A patron needs only one or two kin. Henri was an example of that.”

“Henri did not lead a tribe. I must set an example by creating progeny.”

Poor luck he was having with that.

Constantine was not cruel. Why did she insist on being so cruel to him?

She returned to the settee and sat on the edge of it, offering her hands, which he took and curled before his mouth to kiss. “I will consider it.”

“I want an answer now,” he insisted. For the first time Viviane felt she'd heard the real Constantine, the powerful lord who got as he wished, and cut down his enemies with one blow. “It is only fair to me.”

“You think you can simply
select
me to become yours and I will comply?”

“Viviane, you have been granted such independence—” He stopped abruptly, checking his words.

“It bothers you, my freedom? That does not speak well for my future. As you've said, I have been granted
independence. An independence I expect to retain, at all costs.”

“That would be a steep price. Viviane, the relationship you had with Henri was unique.”

She'd been so young when Henri had taken her under his care. Too young to be pressed into a sexual relationship. And he had never pressed, bless his kind heart.

“Please, let's not speak of him. My heart still aches for his loss.”

“Of course.” He lifted the talon from around her neck and let it fall from his fingers. “Forgive me. But please consider what the two of us could create.”

Quite sure she did not favor being forced into making a decision, Viviane swung her foot and glanced to the floor beside the settee where she spied a box.

“What is in the box?”

Constantine's eyes sparkled. “Curious?”

“Of course. Anything secreted within a red satin box and tied with a bow would make a woman's heart beat.”

“But you avoid answering my request.”

“Show me what is in the box, and I shall consider your request.”

“Ah, so you shall decide our fate by how you judge the value of what I've brought you?”

Of course. If it was of value, and she could use it to pay off one of Henri's debts. “Constantine, you know I will come to you…eventually.” It was a sad truth she must soon face. “I need time.”

“What if you have not time?”

“I have gone well over six months without drinking from Henri. I am…unique. Older.”

“Perhaps it is because you are pure blood.”

“If you distract me with whatever you've brought along, perhaps…”

Perhaps she could summon a reason not to answer his question. Ever.

“Very well.” He placed the box on her lap. It was flat, narrow, and the red satin box was tied with a froth of black moire ribbon that wavered like oil under the candlelight.

“There is a craftsman in Rouen who designs astonishing pieces of jewelry. I once asked why Marie Antoinette had not summoned him, and he said she had, but he did not enjoy the fuss. Can you imagine?”

“Not everyone lives for the queen's summons, Constantine.”

She knew he craved a connection to mortality she would never understand. As well, the fame.

“I saw this piece and immediately decided you must have it. It is as if it were made for you.”

Viviane struggled with the knot, but refused to slip the ribbon from the box, as was possible. To delay the surprise was the best moment, and she always took her time when opening the few rare gifts she received.

For his part, Constantine did not rush her. She felt his eyes creep along her face and down to her breasts.

Marriage? He was a fine man. Handsome. Powerful. A tribe leader. All Dark Ones in Paris looked up to him. He could have any female vampire he desired, and she in turn should feel gratitude she'd been chosen by him.

And yet, Viviane had always avoided attachment to men for the very reason immortality meant forever. A woman promises her heart to one man and, centuries later, he may still be in her life. She wasn't ready for that. She'd never fallen desperately or head over heels in love.

And if she should, forever was too long for a commitment to a man whose eyes reflected babies. A baby tucked
to her breast was the last thing Viviane envisioned for herself.

Pushing off the box top revealed a wide network of what initially looked like chain mail. Closer inspection found the pewter links were elaborate filigrees, chased and polished to a gleam. Hematite stones were set into the filigree. They shone like polished metal.

Constantine caught her reaching hand. “Careful. The tips of each link are sharpened to fine points.”

Viviane lifted the box to eye level to see that indeed, the links were embellished with tiny points, like miniature fangs. “It's absolutely medieval. Like a torture device.”

“Do you like it?”

“I believe I do. How delightful, yet dangerous.”

“Much like you.”

“Thank you, Constantine. It pleases me.”

Setting it aside, she dipped her head before his face to accept a kiss. He answered without reluctance. This kiss was hard and demanding, much like—no, she would not think of that other kiss.

The kiss from a man who intrigued.

 

V
IVIANE LINGERED AFTER
Constantine had departed.

“You've a letter. Just delivered by a messenger.” Portia dropped it on her mistress's lap. “So busy today with the visits and correspondence.”

Pressing the crisp paper beneath her nose, Viviane scented the earthy odor and immediately guessed from whom it had come.

“Who is it from?” Portia asked.

“Monsieur Hawkes. Read it, will you?”

Sitting beside her, Portia carefully popped the red wax seal.

The seal of red wax fell away and Viviane caught it.
Interesting crest. The design featured a fleur-de-lis surrounded by pine bows. So provincial. She set it on Portia's lap.

“‘My dearest LaMourette,'” Portia began, yet commented, “He addresses you like that? Presumptuous of him.”

“I thought you favored him?”

“I do, but the propriety. Please.”

“Continue, Portia.”

“‘My dearest LaMourette. Since we parted last night I have thought of nothing but your warm lips.'” Portia delivered Viviane a gaping O of her mouth.

“Read,” Viviane persisted.

“‘I know you will take no favor in my listing the many different ways I have thought of our encounter. Nor will it appeal that you have invaded my heart and I've no intention of fighting you from the vanguard.'”

Viviane yawned and patted her mouth dramatically.

“‘But I do know how to win your heart, my dark, delicious queen of the night.'” Portia squiggled beside her. “He is so romantic. Oh.”

“What?”

“Here is the final line. He writes, ‘On my way home I encountered a rat and kicked it most soundly, sending it careening through the night, squeaking to bloody hell.'”

Viviane imagined the rodent flying through the air at the point of Hawkes's toe. How satisfying. How utterly humorous.

“‘Good morrow, my sweet LaMourette.'” Portia dropped the letter in her lap. “Why write to you about something so awful?”

Viviane burst out in laughter. She laughed so hard she had to grip her stomach for the corset compressed her ribs. It was most painful, but she was too giddy to care.

“I don't understand,” Portia said. “You don't even like rats. You find this funny? What did I miss?” She silently reread the missive. “If he's such an effect on your mood, I believe him dangerous.”

“No man is a danger to me.”

“To your person. But your heart is something else entirely.”

“Nonsense, Portia. Your head is polluted with romanticisms.”

“Better romance than dread.”

Indeed. Constantine's visit had stirred dread in Viviane's heart. Dread for a dismal future that would see her freedom abolished. Monsieur Hawkes had an awkward, misplaced sense of romance.

Romance?

Rhys Hawkes and Viviane LaMourette? The idea of it tickled Viviane's persistent desire for all things sensual.

Paris, modern day

R
HYS ASKED
S
IMON TO DROP
his things in a guest suite then return immediately to the grand room to go over their plans.

It was good to be home. He owned estates in New York, Daytona Beach and Venice, but Paris was truly home.

Brushing aside the curtain, he admired the sky, dappled with stars. The moon must be on the other side of the house. Two days until it was full. After all the decades had passed, he still took no pleasure trying to sate his vampire or in locking his werewolf away.

Sexually sating the werewolf on the day preceding the full moon and the day following was not a hardship. It was what all werewolves craved during the full moon, sex, or rather, mating. A connection with one's mate they kept for life.

It was sating the vampire that he abhorred.

The difference between Rhys and a normal werewolf was when his werewolf came out, his vampire controlled it. Blood hungry, and armed with deadly talons, there was not a mortal in this world who could stand against him without coming away mortally wounded or dead.

In his first decade following puberty and his initial blooding, he'd lived with the threat of his werewolf coming out at any time during the month. Anger, rage,
even a small slight had summoned the wolf. And when a vampire kills, even if in werewolf form, he takes the nightmares of his victims into his soul where they torment for days, even weeks. It was called the
danse macabre,
and he had suffered it over and over until he'd thought surely he would go mad. Moon mad.

Enchanting his vampire had been a necessity he would never regret.

Pacing the imported carpeting stretched before a high-tech titanium fireplace in the grand room, Rhys pushed fingers through his short hair. Tense and jittery, his muscles couldn't relax. It was as if he'd downed a gallon of java, and he hated coffee.

He hadn't taken time to think since learning the urban legend; he'd simply reacted. Now he tried to convince himself this trip to Paris was nothing more than a ruse. And if he were going to tilt at windmills it must be done swiftly, and return him to life before the emotional damage could set in and prod at the heartache he'd thought long and deeply buried.

Because he didn't believe she could still be alive. She had been reduced to
ash
.

The fact this legend resembled a piece of Rhys's life was due to mathematical probability. You doctor a story often enough, it'll eventually match that of someone's recollection.

But how many men had loved a vampiress and then lost her? In the eighteenth century. Paris. A man who was maybe a werewolf or maybe a vampire?

Could she still live?

He supposed a warlock could perform such a spell as to keep a person alive yet frozen, but there couldn't have been a coffin—let alone, one of glass—so long ago that
would have been airtight, and would not break over the centuries.

So why had he rushed to Paris?

Couldn't be because hope simmered within him. Some part of him wanted to believe in miracles. He'd walked through the centuries relatively mindful of lacking miracles. There was always a man behind the curtain to erase the wonder.

He'd put her from his memory decades earlier. Hell, a century ago. For decades following her death he'd wallowed in misery and heartbreak. Her sweet kiss lived upon his lips. Those devastating blue eyes, he saw them everywhere. Upon her death, his heart had been shattered beyond repair.

Eventually he'd glued the cracks in his heart—though some pieces could never be replaced—and had finally gotten on with his life sometime after Napoleon's reign. That was when he'd begun to form Hawkes Associates. The work distracted his memory.

Once or twice love had flirted with him, but he'd never again ransomed what little remained of his heart. No, that ghost of her smile would not allow him to consider commitment. Nor the memory of that sweet little curve on the right side of her mouth.

Rhys hadn't looked twice at a female vampire since.

He stared out the living room window. From his estate he could see the Sacré-Coeur basilica, the massive travertine dome lit up as if a beacon to heaven. No heaven for him, he suspected.

Behind him, Simon entered and set up his laptop on the marble-topped writing desk.

“You never did say how you fell in love,” his assistant prompted.

During the drive from the airport, he'd been telling
Simon about his first meeting with Viviane at the Salon Noir, and the days that followed.

“For the first time I looked at a woman and did not think about the love I had lost, but the companionship I could gain.”

“Companionship?” Simon did not pause typing.

“I wanted to make her my lover. But also I wanted to know her. To know things about her. What did she think of when she was alone? When making love? Did she read the philosophers? Rousseau? Did a violin make her sigh?”

“You thought a lot back then.”

“Romance has not changed so much, Simon.”

“I know. Now we wonder what she is texting while we wait for the dessert course to arrive. Or why did she dye a pink streak into her blond hair?”

“I thought you liked Stephanie's hair?”

Simon shrugged. “We broke up. It was just as well. She texted everyone but me. I thought you'd decided you were pursuing Viviane to piss off Constantine? Was it for revenge or love?”

“At that moment I wasn't sure. I wasn't paying attention to the mission the Council had sent me on.”

“Probably why you're not on the Council today, eh?”

Rhys shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He and the Council had an understanding. Besides, Severo, a lone wolf in Minneapolis, currently represented the werewolves on the Council.

“Arrange to meet the tunnel man this afternoon if possible,” Rhys said. “Someplace expensive, so he'll understand I have the means to pay for whatever I wish.”

“I don't know about that. I think we'd be wiser to meet on his turf. Probably doesn't frequent the high-class joints, if you get me. Then we could sum him up, get a feel for how he operates.”

Rhys nodded. Simon had more experience with the whole cyber world. If he could hook this guy he'd leave it to him.

“Who put her in there?” Simon suddenly asked. “You know, in the coffin?”

Rhys turned a hard gaze on the man.