investigation could wait.
VIVIANE STRODE THE MARBLE floor in one of many galleries of paintings. She’d needed a moment away from the stuffy ballroom and leering gazes. It seemed all the male vampires were hungry for her. Not because she was attractive or interesting, but because she was bloodborn.
“Bother.”
Drawing in the air, she thought of Henri. He had never made her feel like an object.
The clatter of approaching shoes tugged her from the wistful moment.
A man strolled toward her. His swaggering stride made him move like a prowling feline, yet his broad shoulders and stocky build put into Viviane’s mind that of a provincial worker, one who lived off the land.
Certainly not an aristocrat, and most definitely not vampire. That put her to ease.
His eyes fell upon her high breasts, tethered behind the cinched bodice. Very well, so he was like the other men.
Licking his lips, he smiled, revealing the whitest teeth and an easy charm that Viviane could not disregard. Hair dark as her own had been tamed into a queue at the back of his neck and tied with a plain black ribbon. But there, on the left side of his head, a gray streak amidst the black gleamed under the candlelight.
Desire stirred. Momentarily, Viviane imagined his hair sweeping across her breasts, gasps huffing from his lips, and she clinging to those wide shoulders. No other at the Salon Noir had been capable of summoning such a visceral reaction, and this man had not yet spoken a word.
She angled so her path would pass him on the left.
He adjusted his trajectory to a direct line before her.
Presumptuous of him. She shuffled sideways. The man matched her feint.
“Pardon me,” she said, and her skirts swished across his buckled shoes.
At the last moment, he stepped aside to grant her berth, but not too far, and her skirts crushed against his thighs.
“You are hardly deserving of a pardon, mademoiselle. Such beauty should never be forgiven, but rather indulged.”
Viviane stopped walking and swung a look over her shoulder. Romantic blather never impressed her, even when issued in a deep, sure tone. His delving eyes were brown, as was his frockcoat. So common.
Strangely, though, her heart beat faster, anticipating more than she expected he could give her. Men always disappointed.
One of her dark brows curved sharply. “Who are you?”
“Rhys Hawkes.” He strolled around behind her. “An admirer.”
Viviane drew a careful study from his hands, along the snug cut of his sleeves and down the front of his frockcoat. Minimal decorative embroidery on his coat, and only a bit on his blue waistcoat. A sorry lack of lace, which further alluded to his provincial origins. Yet she could not know what he was without touching him, or tasting his blood.
Mortal or other?
“Are you like me?” she asked abruptly.
“A vampire?”
“You cannot be.” He could not be vampire for his ill fashion sense and less than discreet approach. At the very least, he was not a Nava tribe member.
“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.
