Seducing the Vampire. Michele Hauf
Like that first drop of blood. The vampire within him stirred. Tucked within the center buds of those roses were tiny … skulls? Curious.
Rhys followed the woman’s gliding procession across the ballroom. Her hair was unfettered by powder or wig. Dressed in bold red, she was attired to captivate.
“Regarde moi,” he whispered. Look at me.
She turned. Rhys straightened, lifting his chin. His persuasion never worked on paranormals. She couldn’t have heard him. Blue eyes sought his. Unnaturally blue, but not Sidhe, for faery eyes held a violet tint.
The corner of her mouth turned up, a morsel of tease. What sensual delights did that tiny curve of flesh promise? Did her mouth curl so preciously when she cried out in ecstasy?
Sweet mercy, Rhys had not felt his body react so instinctively to a woman in years. His heart pounded and blood rushed to his groin. His werewolf growled lowly, pining for an illicit coupling.
Fortunately, he was vampire now. It was easier to contain the werewolf’s lusty desires when in this form. And much safer.
The rose-embellished beauty swept behind a couple who nuzzled nose against neck. The man’s gray powdered wig tilted askew as his fangs grazed alabaster skin. The bite. A wicked tease between two vampires that could be construed as a promise to one another, but only if mutually consented.
When had he last taken blood for sustenance? Rhys couldn’t recall. Weeks surely. And that was the aggravation of it. When in vampire form, he had to remember to take blood; it was not instinctual. Though he assumed vampire form most often, his werewolf mind ruled when in this shape—and the werewolf did not desire blood.
He’d ask about the murders, and find a pretty thing to bring home tonight. Or at the least, find one to wander through the Tuileries with him, the taste of her trickling down his throat after he abandoned her in a swoon beside a lush crop of roses.
Perhaps the rosy beauty with the bright eyes?
Following the pull of desire, Rhys shuffled through the crush of powder-dusted shoulders and silk-stockinged legs. Passing a faery, he accidentally brushed her forearm with his fingers, and whispered an apology. The result of contact sparkled on his flesh. He rubbed his fingers on his coat to wipe it off.
Again she appeared in view. Closer. She received a kiss on both cheeks from another woman Rhys knew was vampire for the fangs her smile revealed. But the blue-eyed beauty, while pale, was vibrant, too much life sparkled in her eyes to be vampire.
He favored mortals. Much less drama. And easier to abandon after the bite with a touch of persuasion. Perhaps that was why she’d turned to him—she was mortal.
Again her gaze fixed to his. Her eyes widened with promise, a touch without tactile sensation, yet it sped Rhys’s pulse and warmed his neck.
He nodded and offered a smile, remembering Orlando’s coaching: When at court one must never smile to show their teeth, but the smile mustn’t be so weak as to be construed false. So many rules and ridiculous pandering. It was enough to make a man’s head spin.
It took a lot to spin Rhys’s head. And this exquisite beauty did so.
The woman touched her bottom lip with a fingertip, her flirtatious eyes holding his. Just below her left eye a black heart patch beckoned.
Rhys offered her his most charming smile.
She let out a peal of laughter and spun away, an elusive wraith becrowned in skulls and roses.
“What the hell?” Rhys muttered to himself. Had his sensual prowess fallen amiss? He could not let her slip away without a few words.
The investigation could wait.
VIVIANE STRODE THE MARBLE floor in one of many galleries of paintings. She’d needed a moment away from the stuffy ballroom and leering gazes. It seemed all the male vampires were hungry for her. Not because she was attractive or interesting, but because she was bloodborn.
“Bother.”
Drawing in the air, she thought of Henri. He had never made her feel like an object.
The clatter of approaching shoes tugged her from the wistful moment.
A man strolled toward her. His swaggering stride made him move like a prowling feline, yet his broad shoulders and stocky build put into Viviane’s mind that of a provincial worker, one who lived off the land.
Certainly not an aristocrat, and most definitely not vampire. That put her to ease.
His eyes fell upon her high breasts, tethered behind the cinched bodice. Very well, so he was like the other men.
Licking his lips, he smiled, revealing the whitest teeth and an easy charm that Viviane could not disregard. Hair dark as her own had been tamed into a queue at the back of his neck and tied with a plain black ribbon. But there, on the left side of his head, a gray streak amidst the black gleamed under the candlelight.
Desire stirred. Momentarily, Viviane imagined his hair sweeping across her breasts, gasps huffing from his lips, and she clinging to those wide shoulders. No other at the Salon Noir had been capable of summoning such a visceral reaction, and this man had not yet spoken a word.
She angled so her path would pass him on the left.
He adjusted his trajectory to a direct line before her.
Presumptuous of him. She shuffled sideways. The man matched her feint.
“Pardon me,” she said, and her skirts swished across his buckled shoes.
At the last moment, he stepped aside to grant her berth, but not too far, and her skirts crushed against his thighs.
“You are hardly deserving of a pardon, mademoiselle. Such beauty should never be forgiven, but rather indulged.”
Viviane stopped walking and swung a look over her shoulder. Romantic blather never impressed her, even when issued in a deep, sure tone. His delving eyes were brown, as was his frockcoat. So common.
Strangely, though, her heart beat faster, anticipating more than she expected he could give her. Men always disappointed.
One of her dark brows curved sharply. “Who are you?”
“Rhys Hawkes.” He strolled around behind her. “An admirer.”
Viviane drew a careful study from his hands, along the snug cut of his sleeves and down the front of his frockcoat. Minimal decorative embroidery on his coat, and only a bit on his blue waistcoat. A sorry lack of lace, which further alluded to his provincial origins. Yet she could not know what he was without touching him, or tasting his blood.
Mortal or other?
“Are you like me?” she asked abruptly.
“A vampire?”
“You cannot be.” He could not be vampire for his ill fashion sense and less than discreet approach. At the very least, he was not a Nava tribe member.
“I am,” he confirmed.
“Hmph. You are—” nostrils flaring, she winced “—not right.”
The man pressed a palm to his chest and bowed his head. Offended? What had she said? And then she did not care; not if he was here on pretense.
“How did you get in?” she asked tersely. “The Salon Noir is invitation only, and I know Salignac would not dream of admitting an unfamiliar.”
He stepped closer. Yet as annoyed as he made her, Viviane’s feelings vacillated from cool dislike to lunatic desire.
Could she press her tongue through his smirking lips? Might the man answer her longings, fulfill her desires and entertain her passions?
Possibly, but there was no reward in succumbing too easily.
“I suppose those glances across the ballroom meant nothing?” he said.
“You