at the heart of her unsteady hands.
Like the night before, his intelligent, youthful face showed nothing of what he was thinking. As she came close to the sitting area, he gestured to the armchair opposite his. âPlease, have a seat.â
If nothing else, both he and Raoul had beautiful manners, much better than hers. She complied with his invitation and sat.
Once she had taken her place, Xavier sat as well, crossed his legs, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his fingers together. He looked utterly relaxed and at ease, and his poise made her even more uncomfortable and envious. While they sat mere feet away from each other, the distance between them was immeasurable.
âI trust that Raoul has seen to your needs.â His quiet voice caressed the silence in the room. âIs your room adequate?â
She nodded. âYes, thanks. Itâs great.â
âVery good.â He met her gaze, and his was steady and shrewd. âNow tell me, Tess. Why are you here?â
She bit her lip. âLike I told you, I needed the job.â
âI remember very well everything you said to me last night.â He tapped his lips with his forefingers. âBut I do find it curious that someone with your marketable qualifications would be so desperate for employment.â
She lifted her shoulders in a jerky shrug. âThings happen. Accidents, unemployment, sickness. We arenât always in control of what occurs in our lives.â
âTrue, but surely you could have found employment again, quickly enough. Just now when you walked into the room, I could taste your fear in the air. It isâdisquieting. Why are you so afraid?â
Somehow saying, âBecause you could tear my head off my shoulders before I could draw in enough breath to screamâ didnât seem the most politic of replies. She shifted in her seat, listening to the leather cushion creak underneath her weight.
âAre you afraid of all Vampyres, or is it me?â He didnât look as if he would be terribly bothered by her answer, either way.
Oh, to hell with it. It wasnât like she could truly hide how she felt anyway. He was reading her as easily as he had read his book.
âIâm intensely uncomfortable around all Vampyres, but even more so around you.â She forced a deep breath into her constricted lungs. âIs what they say about you true?â
He lifted one sleek eyebrow. âTo what are you referring?â
She met his gaze. âThat you were a priest when you were human. The Inquisition killed your family, and that was when you became a Vampyreâand you went after all of the officers of the Inquisition until everybody who had been involved was dead.â
Something glittered deep in his eyes, a fierce, hot spark of reaction, until his eyelids lowered again to cover the expression, and he looked as cool and collected as he had before. âYes.â
It was the smallest betrayal of feeling, that spark, but she had seen it, and her perception of him altered again.
What kind of rage and pain drove a young man to end life as he knew it, so that he could bring justice to those who had killed his family?
For some reason, she glanced down at the book where he had laid it on the table. The name of the author and title were clearly stamped in black on the old leather cover: René Descartes,
Meditations on First Philosophy
.
The book was worn and had clearly been read often. So, not only did he have excellent taste, and evidently sincere feelings for at least one of his attendants, but he enjoyed philosophy too. The business of compartmentalizing him into a box labeled âmonsterâ was quickly getting more complicated than she had expected.
Clearing her throat, she fumbled for something appropriate to say. âI know it happened a long time ago, but Iâm sorry for your loss.â
âThank you,â he said. âAnd Iâm sorry that circumstances have
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