Sex and the Single Vampire (13 page)

“I hate it when I’m right.” I sighed as I closed the hotel room door. Christian stood before my wardrobe, poking through the clothes contained therein.

“Esme was also right. The state of your underthings is deplorable. Why do you not wear silk and satin, as other women do?”

I set Esme’s bobble down on the small desk that graced a corner, and peeled off my coat. “Look, I realize we both said some things better left unsaid. For my part, I apologize for telling you to shove your insistence …” I waved my hand toward his midsection. “You know. That was rude of me, and I’m sorry for it, but you have to understand that I just do
not
like dominating, arrogant men.”

He walked to me, wrapping his hand around my neck and tipping my chin up with his thumb. I fought the urge to strike back, and just stood there, passive, letting him examine my face.

“You did not tell me that you had been treated ill in your past. Who was the person who took your mind and will away from you?”

I thought about lying to him, but decided those all-seeing eyes of his (now a lovely reddish-gold mahogany) would know I wasn’t telling him the truth. “My husband.”

His jaw hardened.

“My ex-husband,” I qualified. “Or rather, my late almost ex-husband. I had left him and filed for divorce by the time he died, and no, if you were going to ask, I didn’t kill him, although I wanted to. He was shot by the police trying to set fire to my house. While I was asleep inside.”

Christian’s eyes were slowly darkening, deepening in shade until it seemed as if his pupils were absorbing all the color in his eyes. “This man, this husband abused you?”

“Abused, controlled, tortured, killed my brother—all that and more, yes.”

Onyx eyes bored into mine. “You said your brother was killed in the accident that injured your leg.”

“You’re hurting my neck.”

The tight sting of his fingers was gone, replaced by warmth and heat and something erotic that skittered along the surface of my skin as his lips kissed away the ache in my neck.

“My brother—” I stopped as he kissed a particularly sensitive spot near my ear. “My brother was killed in a car accident. Timothy …” Another pause as teeth gently nipping my earlobe made me shudder in delight. To keep myself from responding to him, I concentrated my thoughts on that horrible night, filling my mind with the memories
of it. The blackness spilled out of me, making my voice thick with unspoken pain.

“Timothy was driving. He was drunk—he was always drunk—but he thought it would be funny to see if he could drive through some woods that ringed one side of our yard to reach the house. Leslie died when he wrapped the car around a tree.” Christian had stopped nibbling on me and was now looking at me with dark, shuttered eyes. For a moment I felt a pang of regret that my ploy had worked, a pang that was firmly pushed aside. “My leg was injured in the crash, broken in four places, I later found out. But we had no insurance, and Timothy was driving drunk without a license, so he dragged me to the house and left Leslie dead in the car. He buried him later, after he sobered up enough to realize what he’d done.”

“You did not report him?” Christian asked, something in his face that made me want to throw myself into his arms and let him protect me from the world. I pushed that feeling down, too. I hadn’t learned to stand on my own two feet just to hand my independence over to the first man who showed me a bit of sympathy.

“I couldn’t. Timothy splinted my leg and kept me mindless for a long time on drugs, painkillers mostly, a small mercy. By the time I started hiding the pills he gave me, and realized that he was lying about Leslie having gone away, it was too late. I had no proof, and I was crippled, unable to walk for six months. I don’t know if you’ve ever found yourself at the mercy of someone who doesn’t know the meaning of that word, but years of experience had pounded into me the fact that I had no hope of escaping him.”

His fingers returned, this time to touch my cheek and brush away the tears I hadn’t realized were there. “But you did escape this monster.”

I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment at the warmth his touch brought me. “He tried to kill me a year later. I ran away from him, and kept running. I ended up in a women’s shelter. One of the women who volunteered there was a witch, and she saw the power in me that I’d long since learned to hide. She helped me understand what Timothy had done to me, and how to break the cycle. She taught me that I did not ever have to give control over myself to another human being. She taught me how to be strong, how to fight back rather than to be a victim. She made me realize that men are not happy unless they are in a dominant position of control, and that the way they deal with someone who challenges their authority is to overpower and bully them.” I raised my chin and let my determination fill my eyes. “I will never let another man do that to me.”

To my surprise, he nodded. “I am glad you have survived your ordeal, and have been tempered by your tragic experiences. A woman should not be helpless, should not be a victim.” His fingers tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. “I never thought you were anything but strong, Allegra. I would not want you to be anyone but yourself. Your past has shown you only one side of power, however—abuse. It does not follow that all men are made in such a fashion.”

I stepped back. “I notice you don’t deny the fact that men aren’t happy unless they are dominant and controlling.”

He shrugged that elegant shrug of his. “It is a part of what makes a man a man. Males are naturally dominant, females are—”

“Subservient? Subjugated? Passive little doormats whom men trample over?”

He smiled, his white teeth flashing. “I was going to say
nurturers. A woman may become dominant, but only in order to care for those she loves. It is not a natural state.”

I snorted (again—it was becoming a bad habit around Christian). “Do me and every other twenty-first-century woman a favor and get over yourself. Women can be just as dominant as men, only we do it without trampling over everyone.”

His smile turned into a frown. “Women only use dominance to prove to themselves they are equal to men in all things.”

I squinted my eyes at him. “Oh, you do
not
want to go there. In fact, this whole conversation is pointless. You’re one of the caveman throwbacks who thinks he has the right to push everyone around for their own good. You’re not in the least bit reasonable or open to a sensible debate, so I’m just going to stop talking to you.” I strode over to the wardrobe and grabbed a handful of clothing. “Esme, you can come out now. Feel free to entertain Nosferatu here with tales of how a lady acts. I’m going to take a shower. Alone,” I added with emphasis.

“The conversation is far from over, Allegra,” Christian said mildly.

“Allie, I must lodge a complaint about the manner in which you insist on transporting Mr. Woogums and myself.” Esme shook out her bathrobe while the cat sat at her feet licking his shoulder. “I really must insist that you carry us somewhere other than your coat pocket. I felt positively smothered in there. Good evening again, Christian; it is always a pleasure to see a man with such gentlemanly manners.”

I rolled my eyes and stomped off to the bathroom, working off a smidgen of my frustration—and I’m sad to admit, a goodly chunk of it was sexual in nature—by slamming the door behind me.

Esme came in to the bathroom a few minutes later, but
I ignored her and concentrated on washing my hair. Twenty minutes later I emerged from the steamy bathroom. “I meant to ask you earlier, but you were being pompous—how did you get through my spell?”

Christian had his martyr face on—a face I admit I secretly enjoyed—but he answered my question civilly enough. “I went out another door.”

I smiled, pleased that my spell had held up against him. I felt compelled to be honest, however. “The spell probably wouldn’t have lasted too long. I’m not very good at spell casting. Summoners don’t need to use them often, and it’s too easy to screw them up, so I try to get by without them. Still, it’s nice to know I can hold a fully grown Dark One if I need to.”

Christian’s face took on a new level of martyrdom.

“Okay, I’m ready to go to dinner. Esme, you stay here and behave if a maid comes into the room.”

“Dear, you wouldn’t think about taking us—”

“I think you’ve had enough jaunting about for a day,” I said gently but firmly. I turned to Christian. “Where are you taking me to dinner?”

Both his eyebrows rose at that. “Me? You expect me to act in a domineering, arrogant male manner and presume to pay for the dinner of an independent woman who detests being treated in such a patronizing way?”

I pulled my coat on. “Seeing as you probably have oodles of money lying around gathering dust, and as I am here on my own dime, quickly running through all my savings, I will this once allow you to pay for my dinner.” I paused as I opened the door and looked back at him. “If you ask me nicely, that is.”

“Do you know,” he replied with a thoughtful look on his face as he followed me out the door, “we almost had a civil conversation going. There might be hope for you yet.”

I smacked him on the arm and, after hesitating a
moment, took the hand he offered me, twining my fingers through his and smiling secretly to myself. Hope? Not for me, but maybe for …
Hmmm.
What an interesting thought.

Our unspoken truce lasted through dinner, during which I watched with fascination while Christian did
not
eat his food.

“How do you do that?” I asked when I looked up to find yet another bit of his prawns gone.

He smiled. “The hand is quicker than the eye.”

“Oh. You’ve never been able to eat?”

“Food? No.”

I thought about that for a minute while I ate some lemon-roasted chicken. “How exactly did you end up”—I looked around us—”as you are? Were you born that way or did someone turn you?”

His long fingers toyed with the rim of his wineglass. “There are two types of Dark Ones: those who were born to it, and those who were created. I am in the former group.”

“Really? So your parents were vamps, too?”

He nodded. “All males born of an unredeemed Dark One are the same as their father.”

Something didn’t sit right. “Wait a minute, you said that when you guys find your Beloveds, they save you and redeem your soul, right? So how can an
unredeemed
Dark One have children?”

“The same way any other man does,” he said with more than a hint of a grin. “There are many of my kind who never find their Beloveds, but that does not mean they do not take solace where they can in relationships with mortal women.”

“Oh.” Which, of course, made me want to ask, “So do you do that too? Take solace, I mean?”

His eyelids dropped until he was giving me a look so steamy it could have cooked carrots. “Are you inquiring for general knowledge, or is there a purpose to your question?”

I made an attempt to stifle the parts of my body that were responding (with much enthusiasm) to the effect of that smooth, beautiful voice, not to mention his bedroom eyes. It wasn’t easy, but finally I could look back up to him and speak without grabbing his head and kissing the dickens out of him. “Let’s just say it’s general curiosity.”

His eyes darkened to a deep walnut. “Why do you do that?”

I blinked and tried to summon my innocent face. “Do what?”

“Struggle against the attraction you feel for me. I feel the same and yet I do not struggle; it would be pointless. It is not something one can control—it either is, or it isn’t. Yet you deny the passion that beats so strongly within you, I can sense its presence even when I am not near you. Are you so threatened by me that you cannot stand the thought of physical intimacy?”

“I’m not threatened by you,” I said in a low whisper, not wanting our conversation to reach the ears of others. “And I’m not passionate.”

He laughed a smooth, seductive sort of laugh that felt like velvet touching my skin.
“Mal
ý
váleèník
, you are.”

“I am not. I’ve been told often enough that I lack any sort of connubial warmth to disbelieve you. In fact, the words
cold fish
were used at one point. And what did you call me?”

He ignored my question. “Was it your ex-husband who told you this?”

I shifted in my seat and wondered how he could know
I was struggling with myself not to respond to him. I had a very tight control over my mind; not even Christian’s probes had been able to penetrate my guards. “Well … yes, but I know for a fact it’s true. I’m neither a virgin nor a prude, Christian. I’m thirty-one years old. I have been with men. I know I’m lacking the passion other women have because I’ve never particularly enjoyed sexual acts, and from the dissatisfied looks on my partners’ faces, the feeling was obviously mutual. So you needn’t bother trying to seduce me in order to gain a little solace. You won’t find it in my arms.”

“No? Let us test that theory, shall we?” He held out his hand for me. “Come here.”

I stared at his hand like it was made up of boiled spiders. “What?”

“Come here. Sit next to me.”

I looked around us. Although we were in a rather secluded spot in the restaurant, our table was clearly visible to at least a half dozen people. “No! People will see us!”

One sable eyebrow rose. “Does that thought arouse you?”

I frowned down my nose at him. “Not in the least.”

He sighed. “I can see I will have much to teach you. Come here, Allegra. Sit next to me. Prove to me that you are a cold fish.”

“I am not going to fall for such a weak example of reverse psychology,” I told him with an annoyed roll of my eyes.

“Ah, so you are too afraid of me to prove what you say?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I answered. “I don’t have to prove anything.”

He made an elegant gesture that spoke volumes—volumes about him proving his point, and me being too chicken to correct him.

“All right,” I snarled, standing up as I threw down my
napkin. I walked over to his side of the table and plopped myself down in his lap, ignoring at least five pairs of eyes that I could feel on my back. “You want me to prove that I’m passionless, I’ll prove to you that I’m passionless. Be prepared to be bored to tears.”