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“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.
VIVIANE 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.
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