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Authors: Elizabeth Brockie
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around
his hips.
A Molotov cocktail exploded within Angie as she gazed at him.
He was well endowed.
Framed into the mist, Henri was a heart-stealer. A
cavalier.
Angie climbed from the mini, her heart beating like a rabbit’s. He
excited her, but her heart was roiling. She was remembering his fiery red drops
against her lips. He was the master of stolen souls.
Nervous, watching him, wary of him, she stepped cautiously onto the
bridge.
He slowed his steps, his blue gaze falling full across her, penetrating
splinters of ice blue.
She slipped her hand into her belt pack. Warm wood met her touch.
Not much security in that. The stake felt like a toothpick in the face
of such power.
Slowly, Angie withdrew the stake, uncertain, wanting to trust, unable
to trust—
Where did he go?
He was in front of her, her stake in his hand.
She stared down at her empty fist, aghast, then at him.
“How do you think I have survived for eight hundred years, Anjanette ?” he said quietly, his Parisian voice sotto voce .
“Obviously very well,” she answered.
The stake became cinders in his hand. “Were you not headed home to ‘Dinner
with DuPre ,’ Angie?”
“And you’re concerned because …?”
His voice was gentle. “I—do not trust the evening or the night with
you. Where were you going, lovely mystic? You seem lost in the fog.”
Angie could not isolate the mystical perceptions bombarding her as his
eyes drank her in as though tasting mystic wine. This baffling, mesmerizing
creature had brought her as close to death as a human could be, yet now seemed
to have no malice toward her whatsoever.
“I was trying to find a restaurant called The French Reconnection,” she
managed.
“Ah, excellent cuisine I’ve heard,” he said, his perfect mouth forming
its usual brilliant smile. “You’re not too far actually. I could take you
there.” He held out his hand for her car keys.
She did not even try to protest. She couldn’t stake the broad side of a
barn. The world was more akin to hell and it was obvious he wasn’t going back
into the fog.
Settling comfortably into the driver’s seat, he ran a hand through his
inky hair and tossed a sly glance toward the backseat. The purloined newspapers
lay in plain view. “You’re quite the little mystic thief. Couldn’t you just
have told DuPre what you’d found?”
Angie cast a sly glance of her own toward the muscular chest rippling
with comfortable power under his barely-buttoned shirt. “I want him to read the
articles. My grandmother said my mother, Allison Wessin ,
died in a car wreck. If she lied and also really changed our names, maybe the
reason had to do with Jane Weston.”
A trace of rigidity passed through the vampyre’s muscles at her words, a taut ripple. But it left very quickly.
Henri pulled easily out onto the road, and a small restaurant soon appeared
in the fog wrapped hills. Henri parked, and pulling the raincoat he had bought
her close around her shoulders. He led her inside. She trembled under his
touch, under his closeness. Walking next to him was like walking next to
lightning.
The French Reconnection, a relaxed restaurant and club with white
tablecloths and sexy little table lamps, was patterned after its famous larger
twin.
Murals of Paris parks and streets rimmed the walls evoking the illusion
of Paris street scenes.
“Il est adorable,” Angie murmured as they
entered.
Henri slipped the hostess a fifty-dollar bill for a secluded table in a
far corner—out of earshot and eyeshot of the rest of the patrons.
Angie slid into the chair he held out for her, and concentrated on the
menu, avoiding the eyes of moist fire under the cavalier eyelashes.
He lowered her menu with his fingertips. “I promise I will not offer
you anything this evening that you do not want, Angie.”
She leaned her cheek on her hand and studied him. If he wanted to kill
her, he could have done so on the land bridge and just dumped her body in the
soupy little
his hips.
A Molotov cocktail exploded within Angie as she gazed at him.
He was well endowed.
Framed into the mist, Henri was a heart-stealer. A
cavalier.
Angie climbed from the mini, her heart beating like a rabbit’s. He
excited her, but her heart was roiling. She was remembering his fiery red drops
against her lips. He was the master of stolen souls.
Nervous, watching him, wary of him, she stepped cautiously onto the
bridge.
He slowed his steps, his blue gaze falling full across her, penetrating
splinters of ice blue.
She slipped her hand into her belt pack. Warm wood met her touch.
Not much security in that. The stake felt like a toothpick in the face
of such power.
Slowly, Angie withdrew the stake, uncertain, wanting to trust, unable
to trust—
Where did he go?
He was in front of her, her stake in his hand.
She stared down at her empty fist, aghast, then at him.
“How do you think I have survived for eight hundred years, Anjanette ?” he said quietly, his Parisian voice sotto voce .
“Obviously very well,” she answered.
The stake became cinders in his hand. “Were you not headed home to ‘Dinner
with DuPre ,’ Angie?”
“And you’re concerned because …?”
His voice was gentle. “I—do not trust the evening or the night with
you. Where were you going, lovely mystic? You seem lost in the fog.”
Angie could not isolate the mystical perceptions bombarding her as his
eyes drank her in as though tasting mystic wine. This baffling, mesmerizing
creature had brought her as close to death as a human could be, yet now seemed
to have no malice toward her whatsoever.
“I was trying to find a restaurant called The French Reconnection,” she
managed.
“Ah, excellent cuisine I’ve heard,” he said, his perfect mouth forming
its usual brilliant smile. “You’re not too far actually. I could take you
there.” He held out his hand for her car keys.
She did not even try to protest. She couldn’t stake the broad side of a
barn. The world was more akin to hell and it was obvious he wasn’t going back
into the fog.
Settling comfortably into the driver’s seat, he ran a hand through his
inky hair and tossed a sly glance toward the backseat. The purloined newspapers
lay in plain view. “You’re quite the little mystic thief. Couldn’t you just
have told DuPre what you’d found?”
Angie cast a sly glance of her own toward the muscular chest rippling
with comfortable power under his barely-buttoned shirt. “I want him to read the
articles. My grandmother said my mother, Allison Wessin ,
died in a car wreck. If she lied and also really changed our names, maybe the
reason had to do with Jane Weston.”
A trace of rigidity passed through the vampyre’s muscles at her words, a taut ripple. But it left very quickly.
Henri pulled easily out onto the road, and a small restaurant soon appeared
in the fog wrapped hills. Henri parked, and pulling the raincoat he had bought
her close around her shoulders. He led her inside. She trembled under his
touch, under his closeness. Walking next to him was like walking next to
lightning.
The French Reconnection, a relaxed restaurant and club with white
tablecloths and sexy little table lamps, was patterned after its famous larger
twin.
Murals of Paris parks and streets rimmed the walls evoking the illusion
of Paris street scenes.
“Il est adorable,” Angie murmured as they
entered.
Henri slipped the hostess a fifty-dollar bill for a secluded table in a
far corner—out of earshot and eyeshot of the rest of the patrons.
Angie slid into the chair he held out for her, and concentrated on the
menu, avoiding the eyes of moist fire under the cavalier eyelashes.
He lowered her menu with his fingertips. “I promise I will not offer
you anything this evening that you do not want, Angie.”
She leaned her cheek on her hand and studied him. If he wanted to kill
her, he could have done so on the land bridge and just dumped her body in the
soupy little
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