I Want You To Want Me. Kathy Love
shoving the plate toward him. “You know, as a peace offering.”
He stared down at the plastic wrap–covered squares as if he expected them to crawl off the plate and attack, perhaps sticking in his beautiful long hair.
Her fingers held the plate, tightening with the desire to touch the silky-looking locks. Was she utterly mad? This man was not interested in her—in the least—and she was fantasizing about touching his hair.
“I—” He still regarded the cookies with consternation. “I don’t eat—sweets.”
“Oh.” She pulled the plate away from him. “Okay. Well, I did just want to say I’m sorry.”
He nodded, saying nothing.
“About last night, I mean,” she said, watching his expression.
A muscle in his jaw worked as if he was clenching his teeth. “As you’ve already said,” he stated.
Erika nodded, not sure what else to say. It certainly didn’t appear he was any more willing to forgive her tonight than he was last night.
Suddenly that uncharacteristic feeling of irritation swelled inside her again. Why did he dislike her so much? Okay, she had hit him with a cell phone, but it had been in an unusual circumstance. And she did feel truly awful about it.
But instead of just accepting that he wasn’t going to warm up to her, she heard herself saying, “I know this is going to sound weird, but I’m actually trying to figure out if you are someone that my psychic told me I’d meet.”
Vittorio straightened, and the remote look in his eyes shifted, but it wasn’t to an expression she liked any better. His eyes widened with amused disbelief.
“Your psychic?”
Erika had received this reaction before. More than once. And she immediately regretted her honesty.
“I’m sure this sounds a little strange to you.”
He tilted his head. “What did this psychic say?”
She hesitated. Was he genuinely curious, or did he intend to mock her?
“He’s been predicting that I would meet someone who at least physically fits your description.”
He nodded, his gaze leaving hers as if he was considering the idea. She still couldn’t quite decipher what he might be thinking.
“And what else did this psychic say?”
Erika again debated what to tell him. But the lopsided, not altogether kind, slant of his lips made her stop. He just thought she was nuts. And he didn’t appear to like her any better for her nuttiness.
“Forget it.” She raised a hand in a gesture of defeat. “I just wanted to be sure your head was all right.”
She started to leave, when his voice stopped her. “Thanks.”
Erika didn’t bother to turn around. She simply nodded, unsure if he could see it or not. And not really caring. He had a way of making her feel like a blathering idiot. Not a fun feeling when combined with her very irritating, and clearly irrational, attraction to the man.
She headed down the stairs, determined to let Philippe’s prediction go—and to be nothing but polite in the presence of her upstairs neighbor, who she was beginning not only to want to shag, but to hate too. Talk about a doomed relationship.
Philippe had been so wrong.
She entered her apartment, shoving the door open with more force than necessary. And shutting it with the same needless force, although the slam did give her a small measure of satisfaction.
Sinking onto the gold sofa, she tugged off the plastic wrap protecting the marshmallow treats and picked the biggest of the bunch. She bit into it, forcing herself to focus on the crunch and the sweetness rather than her anger. But the attempt didn’t last long.
“He is so…infuriating,” she muttered around the cookie.
She took another bite, chewing with frustration.
“He doesn’t know what he just sent away.”
And she was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about her cooking.
Chapter 5
Vittorio didn’t move, listening to Erika’s footfalls on the stairs. Then the jiggle of the old doorknob, then the slam of the door closing.
He’d angered her again, and he tried to find relief in that fact. But he couldn’t dredge up even the smallest hint of anything akin to relief. Instead, he felt like shit.
He even wanted to tell himself she was likely a little crazy after the random announcement that her psychic had described someone in her future who fit his description. But a vampire finding someone nuts because they believed a psychic seemed more than a little paradoxical.
And then add that she made him cookies—or something that kind of looked like cookies. She made him something—and no one had done that in a long time. Not since he was a small boy, and Cook had made his favorite biscuits sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Oh yeah, he felt like shit all right.
Lord, he hadn’t thought of his childhood in years, decades. The last two hundred years had obliterated the good memories of his past. Which brought him to why he was here. And why he had to create a barrier between himself and the sweet, beautiful woman downstairs.
He closed his door, a softer, more regretful mimic of Erika’s door-slamming. He’d been stupid to even give her the very small hint of remorse that he had. Luckily, his “thank you” had done little to repair the damage his rudeness had done. Of course, standing here shrouded in darkness when he could be surrounded by her light didn’t feel particularly lucky. Not in the least.
But he couldn’t risk Erika’s safety because he wanted her. That would be far crueler than his churlish behavior. And maybe, maybe, if he was wrong about being responsible for hurting people in his past, he could try to have some kind of relationship with her.
Even giving himself that much permission caused his body to react. His senses sharpening, his body aching.
“Damn it,” he muttered to himself, frustrated with how easily he could lose control of himself when it came to her.
He was the king of control, having spent many years now controlling his appetites, his emotions, and thus his world. Or so he’d thought. But now he wasn’t so sure. His control seemed to be sliding away—until he wondered if he ever had it at all.
He heard a noise below him. Erika. Her feet padding on the wooden floors, the clack of something, even the low, barely there sound of her voice—the words indiscernible, but the rise and fall of the tone fascinating to him. He imagined what she was doing. How she looked.
“Damn it!”
He strode to where he’d undressed the night before, his clothes a heap on the floor. He snagged his jeans, and changed from his sweats to the worn denim. Then he turned to the canvas satchel on a chair. Rooting around, he found a black T-shirt.
A bang sounded from directly underneath his feet, and he paused, the shirt halfway over his head. He listened for a moment longer, detecting the sound of Erika speaking again—the gentle, lilting tones like a caress all around him.
Longing gathered in his stomach, spreading downward. He wanted to be down there with her, hearing what she was saying—although he didn’t doubt that it wasn’t flattering to him.
Jerking his shirt on the rest of the way, he moved to look for his cell phone. Where the hell was Ren? He needed his brother here. At the very least, Ren and Maggie would provide a buffer between himself and Erika. Not to mention he really needed to talk to his brother about things that couldn’t be discussed over the phone.
He paused in his search. Okay, that was worrisome, when he needed Ren’s opinion on a problem. Even though Ren was