one a little more?”
And let him find out that either the toxin was back, or she was going crazy? Yeah, no. Some of her worry must have shown on her face, because Natalie’s expression grew serious.
“Do you want me to come back, Viv?”
Only Natalie and Lucien called her Viv. Only they had the audacity to do so. She was touched by Natalie’s offer. It would mean returning to the very place she’d been held captive, and facing the man who had orchestrated it...Vivianne’s father. That Natalie was prepared to do that just made her care for her sister-in-law all the more. Not that she’d ever admit that to anyone. She sucked in a breath and shook her head.
“No, thanks so much for the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” She’d figure it out on her own, just like she always did, and she’d sort it out. One way or another. The phone chimed, and Vivianne grimaced. “Dad’s trying to get through.”
Natalie made a face. “That’s my cue to leave. I’d say give him my best, but we both know I don’t mean it.”
Vivianne was still chuckling when her sister-in-law disappeared. She fidgeted with her robe, making sure she was modestly presentable, then accepted the call from her father.
Vincent Marchetta’s face peered back at her. His expression was cool, remote, and she quickly adopted the same.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Vivianne, I need to talk with you.” Vivianne kept her features calm. There was never any greeting from her father.
“I’m about to go out—” she began, but he shook his head.
“No. I won’t do this over the phone. I’ll meet with you tomorrow night, seven o’clock, at home.”
She knew her father expected a quick acquiescence, a display of obedience, but she’d been his daughter for hundreds of years, and disappointment came with the role. “I’ll see if I’m free.” She quickly pressed a few buttons on her phone, and scanned her calendar. Sure enough, she had a meeting scheduled.
“Push it to eight and I can make it.”
His lips pressed together. “I’m fairly busy—”
“So am I, Dad,” she interrupted. It was the family business she was working at, after all. Besides, she’d learned that if you didn’t push back a little with her father, he could be a steamroller, crushing everything in his path.
He sighed noisily, clearly communicating his disappointment, before finally nodding—once. “Fine. Eight.”
“Can you give me any idea what this is about?” She could try to guess, but she’d learned she could never figure out how her father thought.
“A campaign,” her father stated shortly. “I’ll see you then.”
The phone screen went black. Vivianne’s shoulders sagged. “Good talk, Dad. Yeah, love you, too.” She stared at the blank screen for a moment. Just once, she wondered what it would be like to have a genuine conversation that didn’t revolve around business, or what he wanted her to do for him, or what he expected her to do for family.
But that kind of wondering led to wishes, and wishes were a waste of time. She was a centuries-old working woman. She wasn’t some simpering little girl with pointless dreams. She grabbed up the remote to her stereo and switched it on. Rock and roll music from the 1950’s era, before The Troubles. She shimmied her shoulders to the beat, singing out “tequila!” She never got tired of this music, and used it to unwind from the stresses of the day—like talking to her dad.
She rose from her dressing table and danced barefoot across the charcoal-colored plush carpet to the wardrobe. She had about twenty minutes before Mike was due to pick her up. She was so surprised and yes, flattered, that he’d invited her out. She’d seen that glint of desire in his eyes, the attraction...she wasn’t a novice when it came to men. It was just rare that guys acted on that attraction. She was the head of the Nightwing colony, she also ran a multimillion-dollar empire. And she knew she wasn’t the easiest woman to get to know. All that was enough to intimidate most men. But apparently not Mike Falcone. She started to do the twist, swinging her hips with her hands swaying. God, she remembered dancing to this music in the dance halls. But then, she remembered dancing the Charleston, too.
Vivianne flicked through the hangars, head bopping along as Chuck Berry told Beethoven to roll over. Her lips quirked. She’d met Ludwig, once. Weird little guy. She pulled two dresses out: one red, one black. She held the red one up to her body, turning a little. It was a figure-hugging dress with a deep V neckline. Sexy and feminine. She hung it on the hook near the mirror, and held up the black dress. This one was also slim-fitting, but with a bateau neckline. Demure and feminine.
“Go with the black—you don’t want to look desperate.”
She whirled, glancing wildly about her room. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”
The music blared across the room. Her breath hitched as she strode over to the crimson curtains that covered the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse apartment that looked out over the city of Irondell, and she twitched the fabric, checking to see if someone was hiding behind it.
Nobody was. She strode over to the dressing table, and switched the music off, listening intently. Nothing.
She dropped to her knees and peered under the king-size bed. Nobody there, either. She covered her face, rocking on her knees for a moment. “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy,” she whispered to herself, until she could calm her racing heart. She took a deep, shuddering breath. Okay. Get dressed. Go out. Pretend everything is just hunky-dory.
She rose to her feet, and padded over to the mirror where she’d dropped the dress. Black, huh? She reached for the red dress, in an open act of rebellion, and untied the silken belt around her waist. The silk robe parted, and she slipped it off her shoulders, revealing her black, lacy, unlined uplift bra and matching lacy panties.
She heard a low whistle. “Better yet, don’t wear a dress at all.”
Her wide-eyed gaze lifted to the mirror. In its reflection she saw the figure of a man behind her. He was tall—huge, really—and broad-shouldered, his muscled arms and chest revealed by a white singlet. He wore khakis that flattered the long, muscled length of his legs, and his brown hair was scruffy, matching the stubble on his face. A weird light glowed through the dark tendrils of fog or smoke gently swirling around him.
Vivianne screamed.
* * *
Zane winced at the ear-piercing shriek. God, that woman could break glass, if she put in just a little more effort.
She backed away from him, her head slowly shaking in denial, and then it hit him.
“You can see me,” he breathed.
“Get out!” she screamed again, then raced to her dressing table. “Get out, you pervert.” She picked up a container of moisturizer, turned, and hurled it to him. He ducked.
“Hey, if I could get out of here, princess, I would,” he snarled back at her.
“Get. Out. Of my. House!” She picked up another bottle, then another, and threw them in quick succession
