found her place and nestled beside him, chest to chest, kissing his cheek.
“I’ve missed you,” she admitted. It had been five or six months. “Have you gained another line near your eyes? You are such a handsome man, Henri. So kind to me. I can never thank you for the freedom you have given me.”
“Then do not speak,” he said. “Take what you need.”
Candle glow licked teasingly upon Henri’s neck. Viviane tongued his flesh, then pierced skin and the thick, pulsing vein to slake the thirst she could only satisfy with Henri, her patron, a friend and mentor, but never her lover.
He was, quite literally, her lifeline. Without him she would be lost.
Two weeks later …
VIVIANE LANGUISHED IN THE SPA. Henri called the room a tepidarium after the Roman baths he’d once enjoyed in Greece. The stone floor was always warm due to an underground pipe system. Istrian tiles lined the walls and glossy crimson squares glinted amongst the pearly white squares. A constellation of crystals set in a white iron candelabrum reigned over the round pool, which was as wide as Viviane’s length should she float across it.
She visited Henri twice yearly, and did like to spoil herself amidst the luxuries of his home.
A map room appealed to her desire for knowledge, though she could not read the words, only trace the snaking rivers and marvel over the shapes of so many countries. The spa and music room strummed her sensual ribbons. Viviane devoured all things sensory and erotic. She was a woman, after all, and would not be kept wanting. Men overwhelmingly agreed, and when she desired pleasure, she took it.
Seven bedchambers, a ballroom and a twelve-stall stable told the world Henri Chevalier could afford anything he desired. Yet he would never be so conceited as to state it himself. Flaunting one’s riches was considered lewd.
Blanche generously shared her wardrobe, and kept an entire room devoted to shoes. By delicious coincidence, Viviane wore the same gown and shoe size as her patron’s wife.
Viviane’s home in Venice was as richly decorated, but it was old. Most furnishings had been acquired in the sixteenth century, and were in desperate need of reconditioning. The plaster walls were cracked and water seeped in the north entry hugging the canal.
Alas, those repairs would never be made. Viviane kept her current financial condition close to heart. It was not dire, but could become so if she did not invest properly, and soon. Pity, the last notaire who had invested well for her had died of sudden blood loss.
Sometimes she simply could not control her hunger, especially when sated by a handsome young man.
Ah, but she had survived alone two centuries; she would beg no man for help now.
And no Casanova vampire lord would entice her to change those principles of independence with the suggestion of marriage. It mattered little that Henri had last evening suggested his approval for the union, if and when Lord de Salignac put forth the offer.
Viviane had attended the Salon Noir twice since arriving in Paris. The Salon Noir mirrored Marie Antoinette’s court with lavish clothing, jewels, courtly titles and decadence, save the attendees were vampires, werewolves, demons and other Dark Ones. Faeries from the Sidhe nation, and a familiar or two, attended in fewer numbers. The Light—the witches—kept away due mainly to their differences with the vampires. The vampires did not mind at all since witch’s blood was poisonous to them.
If you were dressed well, and not human, it was a given you’d been invited to the Salon Noir.
During her second visit to the salon, Constantine had been preoccupied with his patroned kin until she had sashayed past him. She had heard the thud of a woman’s backside hit the marble floor as Constantine pushed her from his lap and sauntered after Viviane.
When Constantine de Salignac walked through a room, all eyes followed his regal lift of chin, those steely gray eyes that saw things before everyone else, that compressed mouth, which could utter a biting jest, or indeed, bite.
Being a tribe leader, Lord de Salignac was expected to populate his tribe with bloodborn vampires. That was possible when a child was born to two vampires. So he blooded mortal women recently transformed to vampire in hopes they would be able to carry his child. It was a long process that could take years before the new kin could even conceive.
Viviane did not care to be another woman feathering his elaborate damask-and-gold nest.
As well, vampire lovers were risky. Most insisted on sharing the bite, which was a means of bonding to one another through the blood. Taking another vampire’s blood was something she had reserved, as most did, for one exquisite relationship that would bond them both in body and blood. It was not to be considered lightly.
Dragging her fingertips over the opalescent bathwater, Viviane sighed and dismissed the dread thoughts. The bath was two parts water, one part milk. Wine and mulled spices had been stirred into the exotic witch’s brew.
Portia, Blanche’s maid, popped her head inside the circular tepidarium. “What is your opinion, mademoiselle? Is the scent not divine?”
“Devastatingly indulgent,” Viviane drawled. “You were quite right regarding my pleasures, Portia. How is it you know so much about what will please a woman when you’ve led a subservient life?”
“Fantasies, my lady.” Portia winked, and dismissed herself.
Viviane wondered if Blanche would allow her to abscond with Portia when finally she returned to Venice. The attentive maid was a prize to hoard.
Viviane had skipped the Versailles soiree Blanche had pleaded she attend. Seeking the king’s eye, and Queen Marie Antoinette’s favor, interested her little. The gossip Blanche would report upon their return would suffice.
Stretching her arms about the curved marble pool, she closed her eyes. Tilting her hips, she let her legs float to the surface. Her toes popped up in the milky sheen, a string of pebble islands.
An acrid taste suddenly stung her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest and coughed.
That was odd. She wasn’t ill. Vampires rarely contracted a human malady. Must be the intense scent of the spices.
A convulsion in her gut forced up a hacking cough. A bead of crimson expanded on the white surface before her.
“What …?”
She touched her lip. Blood painted her fingers. Now she tasted it in her mouth, metallic and hot.
A spike of feverous heat clenched her heart. Sucking in a breath, she slapped her palms on the water. More blood eddied up her throat. She tried to call for Portia but, wrenched forward by the sudden sharp pain in her chest, her head plunged under the milky surface.
Viviane swallowed the odious blend. Surfacing, she choked up another throat-burning spasm. Blood swirled into the white.
She felt a stabbing pain at her breast.
“Portia!”
Thrusting her naked body aside, she landed on the ceramic-tiled floor. Heaving blood, she cried out as the pain ceased.
Three leagues west of Paris,
