Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (42 page)

Dorotea clasped her hands, waiting for Caro to continue.

“I can't accept something this valuable. Even if I could, it's way too small.”

Dorotea appraised Caro's figure. “It will be perfect.”

“For a Chihuahua.”

Dorotea giggled. “Let me put it on a hanger. We can't have this pretty frock getting wrinkled. Shall I draw you a bath?”

Caro glanced at double doors that led to a hallway. She glimpsed black marble walls, beveled mirrors, statues set into niches. A toile chaise longue was angled in front of a crackling fireplace. Beyond that, she saw a sunken tub surrounded by mirrors.

“I do not wish to rush you, signorina, but a hairdresser is on the way. She is bringing an assistant for your makeup. We want you to be beautiful tonight.”

“For a casual dinner?”

“Nothing is casual at Villa Primaverina.” Dorotea smiled.

Forty-five minutes later, Caro sat on the chaise longue, surrounded by beauty specialists. A hairdresser stood behind her with a curling iron, clicking her tongue about
capelli del bastone—
stick-straight hair.
If only you knew
, Caro thought.

A manicurist spread dark red polish on Caro's nails. On her other side, a makeup artist opened an enormous case filled with rouge pots and blush. She lifted an eyeliner pencil, and Caro shrank back. “I don't ever use that,” she said.

“Do not worry.” The artist smiled. “It will be subtle.”

Another lady doused Caro's pulse points with perfume that smelled of jasmine and mandarin.

“Mmmm, delicious,” Caro said, inhaling.

“Isn't it?” The lady smiled. “It's Clive Christian Number One. All of the Signore's women wear it.”

“I'm
not
his woman,” Caro said.

“No? Then I am sad for you, signorina.”

“Why?” Caro asked.

The women looked at each other and giggled.

“What's so funny?” Caro said.

“He is like the wind,” the perfume lady said. “A woman is like a kite.”

“You know from personal experience?” Caro lifted an eyebrow.

“No.” The lady smiled. “But I wish.”

The women led her to a three-way mirror. Caro spun around, the gown's hem swishing around her ankles. Not only did the dress hug her curves, it had an alluring slit up the side. The neckline plunged discreetly, showing the top curve of each breast, Jude's pendant floating above them, a slash of red against her creamy skin.

She ignored the beaded evening clutch that Dorotea had set on the bed and grabbed her duffel bag. Those pages from
Historia Immortalis
weren't safe in a vampire's guest room. The dress whispered around her shoes as she stepped into the hall. From hidden speakers along the high ceiling, Death Cab for Cutie was singing “I Will Possess Your Heart.”

She started down the staircase, tracing her fingertips down the iron banister, trying to ignore the duffel bag as it thumped against her thigh. The stairs ended in an art gallery. Unlike the brutal images she'd seen in the foyer, these paintings were serene. Sheep grazing at sunset; the ocean at dawn; vineyards spilling down a hillside, the vines forming ragged Xs. The paintings were not united by color, but the theme was consistent: daylight.

“So I won't forget,” Raphael said.

She turned. He stood beside the staircase, one arm casually resting on the banister. His hair was drawn back into a gleaming ponytail, and it fell down the back of his tuxedo. His eyes went to her duffel bag. She waited for him to speak, but he just stood there.

“Do you miss the light?” she asked Raphael.

“More than I ever dreamed.” His finger skimmed along the rail, an oddly sensual gesture. “I miss the red sheen of the lagoon at sunset. The heat of an August morning. The light melted and poured, clean as glass. These things are lost.”

She'd always taken sunlight for granted; she couldn't imagine losing it. Her heart drummed. His head tilted, as if he'd heard, and he stepped closer. “Immortality has its advantages. Samuel Johnson said it best. ‘He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.'”

“Do vampires feel emotional pain?”

“It depends on the vampire.” His teeth flashed, white and radiant. “Did you know the sun has a lingering scent? Olive trees and grass. Lemon verbena and evergreens. It smells like you,
mia cara
.”

The music changed. As Muse sang “Unintended,” he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. A current traveled from her lips to her breasts. His hands molded to her back. She felt the coolness of his palms and fingers, yet her skin was burning. She wanted the kiss to go on and on. Only he wasn't kissing her, he was possessing her.

She had an image of an obelisk, and the vision changed to teeth and male hardness. Italian words flew in her mind like pebbles. Her hands knotted in his shirt. The music dropped away, and her pulse crashed in her ears.

You could love me,
mia cara
.

Yes, she could. She wanted to follow him into the dark. But she mustn't. She shouldn't. Then she was climaxing, and she knew he knew. She had no will to stop him until his mouth slid down to her neck. What if he bit her? She balled her hands into fists and pushed away from his chest.

“You shouldn't have kissed me,” she whispered.

“Please forgive me. I've smudged your lipstick.”

You did more than that
, she thought, touching the edge of her lips with a trembling hand. “Please don't ever do that again.”

“I never make promises I can't keep.”

He led her to a gilt mirror and pressed a handkerchief into her hands. She wiped her lips. Raphael snapped his fingers, and Beppe glided out of the dark hallway.

“Fetch the makeup artist, please,” Raphael said.

She stared at his reflection. One more myth debunked. Vampires
do
have reflections.

You are in love with him,
mia cara
.

“What if I am?” She turned around. “And stop listening to my thoughts.”

“You should be more careful to whom you give your heart.”

“You don't know everything,” she said, her voice glacial.

He shrugged. “I know enough.”

“Have you read Jude's thoughts?”

“I sense great ambivalence. When he's away from you, he's strong and analytical. But when you are near, his passion takes over. The allure of the forbidden. Science is no match for that. He is drawn to you,
mia cara
, but sees no future.”

“Because I'm half vampire?”

“His prejudice is more powerful than his love. And you cannot break through it.”

“If I can't be with him, I won't be with anyone.”

“You feel that way now. But you
will
change. You may even fall for me. And if you do, I promise one thing: It will be the best sex you've ever had.” His eyes met hers.
“Attenderò. Ho tempo.”

“It will be so good,
mia cara
.”

“You may know how to entice women, but what do you know about love?” She crossed her arms defiantly, ignoring her throbbing breasts. Love was meant to be felt, not explained. Just thinking about Jude sent a deep, red flush spiraling inside her chest. She wanted to wake up in his bed every morning. She wanted to meet Lady Patricia and wander around Dalgliesh Castle. She wanted children with blue eyes, a smidgen of brown in each iris. She wanted a house filled with laughter and cheerful voices, each one stamped with a charming Yorkshire accent.

“These are your wants,
mia cara
. Not his.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall, then Beppe and the makeup artist stepped around the corner. The woman opened her box, selected a thin brush, and repaired Caro's smudged lipstick.

Raphael extended his arm in a courtly fashion. Caro hesitated, then placed her hand on his sleeve. He led her down the gallery, through the black-and-white living room, past a tall black vase that held dozens of red amaryllises.

“You are worried about the monk?” Raphael asked.

“Yes.” She looked up. What else had he picked from her thoughts?

“Worry will change nothing,” he said.

“I promised I'd call. And I have his icon.”

Raphael pulled an iPhone from his jacket pocket. She willed her thoughts to be quiet as she called the Hotel San Gallo. The operator informed her that Father Aeneas had checked out that morning.

Caro slipped Raphael's phone into his hand. “I suppose he's gone back to Meteora. If only I'd called sooner.”

“You are too quick to assume blame,
mia cara
. Do not worry. Monks are resourceful.”

They walked in silence to the terrace. A hurricane globe flickered on a long glass table, casting shadows on platters of bruschetta, smoked salmon, cheese, and olives. Caro felt too anxious to eat, so she leaned against the railing and stared at the water. A dark blue flush spread across the sky. Beneath it, the lights of Murano and Venice glimmered.

Beppe glided onto the terrace holding a round tray. He handed her a glass of red wine, then turned to Raphael. As the vampire lifted his glass, Arrapato stood on his hind legs and twirled.

Beppe smiled at the dog and set a bowl on the ground, the dark liquid swaying. Arrapato ran over to the bowl and started lapping.

The wind picked up, and Caro smelled the tang of blood. She raised her glass and took a sip—yes, it was wine. She slid her free hand down her dress, trying to keep it from flying up.

“It is the Inverna,” Raphael said. “The south wind. It will blow until midnight.”

“You pay close attention to elements of the night,” Caro said, and took another sip of wine.

He lifted one finger and drew it through the air. “The dark cannot be touched. Yet it is all around us.”

Arrapato barked, and Caro turned. Jude walked onto the terrace, the wind snapping the edges of his white shirt. He held a red amaryllis.

“For you, lass.” He gave her the flower. “A bit more fragrant than my first gift.”

Caro smiled. She still had the garlic pod in her bag, and she planned to keep the amaryllis, too. She pressed her nose to the petals and breathed the spicy, scarlet scent. Red, symbolic of love and sacrifice. The color of lips and hearts and blood.

Jude's lips parted, releasing a tiny puff of air. What was he trying to say?
We'll always have Venice?
Caro felt as if she'd strayed into
Casablanca
, dogged by fiends, bad timing, and a hero who was hell-bent on doing the right thing.

“You look beautiful,” Jude said, his Yorkshire accent drifting lazily between them.

“More than beautiful,” Raphael said. “She is a goddess.” The wind rose up, presumably the Inverna, and lifted Caro's hair. Jude moved closer to the terrace railing and squeezed in next to her. She took a deep breath. Both men smelled poignantly of Acqua di Parma.

Raphael signaled Beppe, then led Caro and Jude to the table. They sat down and Beppe placed a large wooden box in front of them.

“I keep my icon in a temperature-controlled room,” Raphael said. His coat sleeves moved over his wrist as he lifted the relic. Before the sleeve slipped back, Caro saw part of a tattoo: an elongated, curved black circle.

He set his icon on the table and waited while she set down the amaryllis and eased her panel and Father Aeneas's from the duffel bag. She laid them beside his.

“A perfect fit,” he said. “Just like some people, no?” It did indeed fit neatly against hers, forming the right side of the triptych. A starry sky and jagged mountains curved across all three icons, but Raphael's images were even more confusing: a stone fortress with turrets and a drawbridge; crusaders sprawled on the ground, their blood spilling into a vineyard; a woman in the foreground and a baby crawling toward the dead. The vineyard invaded Caro's icon, then stopped abruptly before it reached the female saint and the bleeding man.

Jude leaned forward and his leg pressed against hers. “Is the castle symbolic or a real place?”

“Both,” Raphael said.

“Where is it?” Caro asked.

“Southern France,” Raphael said. “The Languedoc region.”

“It looks like Carcassonne,” Caro said.

“The resemblance is striking,” Raphael said, his gaze sweeping over his icon. “But this castle is in Limoux.”

“Why are the mountains and castle so distinct?” Caro asked. “I thought Orthodox icons were sketchier.”

“They are,” Raphael said. “I was the theological advisor to this project. But I took a light-handed approach.”