“I am,” he confirmed.
“Hmph. You are—” nostrils flaring, she winced “—not right.”
The man pressed a palm to his chest and bowed his head. Offended? What had she said? And then she did not care; not if he was here on pretense.
“How did you get in?” she asked tersely. “The Salon Noir is invitation only, and I know Salignac would not dream of admitting an unfamiliar.”
He stepped closer. Yet as annoyed as he made her, Viviane’s feelings vacillated from cool dislike to lunatic desire.
Could she press her tongue through his smirking lips? Might the man answer her longings, fulfill her desires and entertain her passions?
Possibly, but there was no reward in succumbing too easily.
“I suppose those glances across the ballroom meant nothing?” he said.
“You must be mistaken, monsieur, if you believe I was looking at you. I dare not waste a moment on one so—”
“Not right?”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve told you, I am an admirer.” He performed a curt half bow, and came up, gliding his face close to hers. He smelled earthy, like a forest. So different. “There lives a daring challenge in the curve of your smile, mademoiselle.”
A flicker of her lashes could not be stopped. Yet until she learned exactly what he was, she daren’t appear interested. If he really were vampire avoidance was key.
Viviane took a step to the side.
He matched her with a quick side step.
“Remove yourself from my path, monsieur, or I will scream.”
“You won’t do that. It’s hardly fitting of your character. And I’ll press my mouth to yours to capture that scream before you can vocalize it.”
The tip of her tongue dashed out to trace her lower lip. Yes, please?
“You are correct,” she offered calmly. “A scream is vulgar.”
In a sinuous move, she snapped her fan out from where it had been tucked up her sleeve, and slashed it before him. Blood purled from cut skin and sweetened the air.
The man touched his cheek and turned his forefinger toward her. “Does not my blood attract you?”
Her nostrils flared as she scented him. Wrong move, Viviane. You are always hungry of late.
“It repulses me,” she forced out. “You are not vampire.”
“I … am.” Why the reluctance in his tone? “But I do not intend to wear out my voice convincing you of what should be obvious.”
He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Before she could close her eyes and dip her head into the delicious connection, Viviane flinched away. “The shimmer,” she said on a gasp.
She did not speak of faery dust, but the innate sensation two vampires felt when touching. So he was vampire. Yet why did she still wonder at what made him so different?
Rhys stepped aside, offering her ease of escape. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. My passion knows little in the way of boundaries.”
“Passion? We’ve only just met, Monsieur Hawkes. You do not even know my name.”
She wanted to tell it, but again, that would be too forward. If he discovered it on his own that would prove his interest.
“Indeed. And I also sense my desire offends you.”
“Desire never offends me. Speaking with a man who is not what he claims to be does.”
Rhys nodded. “I release you from this uncomfortable tête-à-tête with hopes you will spend fitful moments anguishing over the loss of my presence.”
He bowed, spun sharply, and marched away, shoes clacking loudly.
A roll of her eyes could not be prevented. Anguishing over the loss of his presence? Why did they always attempt to win through words and platitudes?
Viviane desired action, a bold approach and a forceful insinuation of passion. Or rather, it was a fantasy she thought of often, but had never the pleasure of experiencing. Rare did she meet a man to match her bold mien.
Pausing at the doorway, the man touched the cut on his cheek. She had marked him.
“But have you the daring to mark me?”
“THIS WAS A DELICIOUS IDEA,” Orlando muttered as he joined Rhys.
Orlando tugged at the frockcoat the tailor had insisted be taken in at the arms. The green velvet transformed the pup into one of those Greek forest deities with powerful muscles and the face of an angel, or so the effeminate tailor had commented, much to Orlando’s discomfort.
“My ideas are never delicious,” Rhys grumbled. “Reckless perhaps, but never bordering delicious.”
“Most certainly not wearing such plain attire.”
Orlando had taken on airs since stepping inside the Hôtel de Salignac. Rhys would allow the boy his vanity.
He had brought along Orlando, who was much like a son to him, because the two of them named a common friend in William Montfalcon, a werewolf who lived tucked on the left bank’s boulevard Saint Germain. It was where they were currently staying, despite Montfalcon’s strange absence.
Rhys smoothed a palm down his new coat, brushing at the clinging faery dust. Plain? The brown embroidered silk suited him. The tailor had insisted he call the color by its proper name la chocolat, after the queen’s favorite drink. Though the ivory buttons were extravagant and over the top, the enthusiastic tailor had insisted they would draw attention in the wake of Rhys’s regrettable decision to forego lace engageantes on his sleeves. The sky-blue waistcoat lent to what little vanity Rhys could muster.
And while he was a boot man always, the hose and buckled shoes did not feel uncomfortable, only not quite masculine. Heaven forbid, he engage in swordplay on rain-slippery cobblestones.
At least he’d the principle to forego a powdered bag-wig.
Rhys decided he would make no advances worrying about his attire. It was his carriage and attitude that would win him entrance into the secrets hoarded within the salon.
He leaned close to Orlando and said, “The rumor is that a werewolf murdered the vampires. Have you heard any interesting discussion?”
“Not yet, but I did spy Salignac. Over there.”
Following Orlando’s nod, Rhys scanned the crowd of wigs dribbled with candle wax and bird droppings and saw, splayed across a red velvet chaise longue, the vampire lord and leader of tribe Nava, Constantine de Salignac.
