Tempting Fate (63 page)

“No.”

“Why? You never know: it might work.” He folded his arms as if to brace himself against her.

“Because I can’t,” she burst out, dropping her hands.

“Oh, come on, Madelaine,” he sneered, but even as he said the words, he recalled all the times he had been with her. Never once had she shed tears. He scowled down at her. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

She shook her head, and after taking a long, shuddering breath, she said, “That was one of the things I had to talk to him about.”

“About not crying?” He had a perplexed look in his eyes.

“Indirectly.” She got up from the bed and walked toward the windows. “I’ve never had to face a situation like this before.”

“None of your other lovers has ever been jealous?” This was intended to cut and sting.

“It has never mattered,” she murmured, unaware of his shock, for she looked out across Lac Leman toward the westward mountains that were taking on a bluish tinge as the afternoon advanced.

“Then he’s not the only one, this Saint-Germain?” he demanded of her.

She turned abruptly at the name. “How did you know?” There was a fierceness in her that he had seen in rare flashes.

“I found his card. That was the man, wasn’t it? In the Isotta-Fraschini.” His manner was brazen to mask the complex emotions that rose in him. Madelaine had thrown him off-guard with her acceptance of his anger, and now her attitude unnerved him.

“Yes,” she said as she mastered herself. “That was Saint-Germain.”

He had never seen such an expression on her face before, and it told him more than any words could how profound her feelings for the man were. “Then he
is
your lover.” This was a statement without heat as he verged again on despondency.

“He
was
my lover,” she corrected him quietly. “He was my first lover.”

“And you’ve never got over him.” He was defeated, he knew it. That elegant stranger he had glimpsed just once, whose face he would not know, who might be tall or short, and for all he knew, famous, distinguished, or notorious.

She made a dejected and valiant attempt at smiling. “No, I never have.”

For James the ground seemed to open under his feet. All the time he had made love with Madelaine, she had been longing for the unknown Saint-Germain. “Are you going back to him?”

“I can’t,” she said, shrugging. “It isn’t possible.”

“He’s married?” he asked eagerly.

“No.”

It was inconceivable to James that this could happen, but he suggested it anyway. “Has he ceased to love you?”

“Oh, no.” Her answer was quick and confident. “It is not a question of loving each other. But we are of the same blood now, you see.”

That “now” nagged at him, but he ignored its promptings. “He’s not your father, is he?” He recalled that Madelaine had told him her father was dead. “Or your uncle or brother?”

“No, none of those things,” she said with care.

“But surely being in-laws does not stand in the way.” He was increasingly baffled, and although each question brought its own pang, he could not avoid asking them.

“Neither of us is married,” she reminded him. “That is not what I meant. It was what I had to discuss with him. This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

“Because I’m mad at you?” he said uncertainly.

“No. Saint-Germain warned me…” Her eyes were tragic when she looked at him, and pleading.

“Warned you? Of what?” He came toward her, wishing now to solve the mystery and to save her from whatever torment she was suffering.

“You must understand that when he finally told me, I knew. I had known from the first, and even then, it was not easy for him. I’ve never told anyone before; I never wanted to, or had to.” This oblique explanation was given with great care. She spoke deliberately, without excitement. She would not look at him.

The breeze off the lake, now that the western slope cast a long shadow across it, was suddenly chill. The curtains billowed and the draperies swung heavily.

“But you have to tell me.” He took her by, the shoulders as he came up to her. “What is it? What?”

She broke away from him, raising her hands and then dropping them, as she had before. “This is futile,” she said in an undervoice.

But James heard her. “Futile, is it?” He pursued her across the room, determined now to discover what it was that so distressed her. “Then tell me what it is. Have you got a disease or—”

“Not exactly,” she answered.

He paled. “You’re ill? Is that why you don’t eat with me?” He caught her arm and pulled her around toward him. “Whatever it is, however long you’ve got, it doesn’t matter. I’ll stay with you. I don’t care what happens to my job, if you need me.” He was silent as she began to laugh without any humor. “Tell me, Madelaine.”

“All right,” she said heavily, and then, without preamble, announced, “I’m a vampire.”

James froze, the start of an incredulous smile fading as he looked at her. “You’re joking.” He waited. “It’s got to be a joke. Right?”

“No.”

“Aw, hell, Madelaine, you don’t expect me to believe…” he protested, the words trailing off. “There aren’t any vampires. There are legends, and the Stoker book—you know the one.”

“Dracula,”
she supplied.

“That’s it. And the Murnau moving picture, but none of it’s
real.
” He tried for a chuckle and almost made it. “If you’re a vampire, where’s your fangs? I thought all vampires had big, long teeth.”

“Oh, James,” she moaned, “don’t. It’s hard enough without you treating me as if I were fooling you, or slightly mad.” As she spoke, she went to close the window and shut out the cool wind.

He followed her. “What is it, really? Why can’t you tell me?” All the things he had imagined were nothing compared to this revelation—if revelation it was—she had given him. A vampire? In 1925? “Why do you want to scare me away?”

“I
don’t
want to scare you away,” she insisted. She was leaning back against the frame of the French windows. “That is what I want least to do. But I had to tell you. It’s necessary.”

“Necessary? What nonsense are you handing me?” His derision was obvious, but he assumed an air of exaggerated patience as he listened to her.

“It isn’t nonsense. Truly, James, it isn’t.” She crossed her arms, hands tight on her elbows, the knuckles showing white. “You’re probably going to laugh at me and walk out of here, but that can’t be helped. I must
tell
you, even if you give me no credence whatever. Later…” She gave him a long, piercing stare. “James, let me speak, and don’t interrupt me a moment, for your own sake.”

He nodded and stood back from her. “Go on.”

“James,” she said in a low, calm voice, “when you first met me, and we slept together, you told me that you never knew French lovemaking was so different and exciting. It isn’t. What happened that night, and every other night we have made love, comes not from my being French, but my being a vampire. No, don’t distract me. There’s more.” She walked away from the window. “You know I never eat, or that you have never seen me eat. You must take my word for it that I don’t. Since … since my death I have got my nourishment from things other than food.”

“You’re not serious,” he muttered, all the while thinking of the many times he had urged her to dine with him, and the graceful, inconclusive excuses she had given him. At first he had been worried about it, but then, when she continued to be healthy and wholly desirable, he had ceased to be troubled, deciding that like some modern women, she preferred to eat alone so that she would not be tempted to indulge her appetite.

“Completely. That’s part of the change—”

“Wait a minute here. You said since your death—your
death?
” He knew, rationally, that he should not ask her anything, for it would tend to make her think he believed her. “That’s a delusion, Madelaine.”

She gave him a quick, measuring look, “How old would you say I am, James?”

“Wh … what?” This sudden switch in subject nonplussed him.

“Answer my question. How old do you think I am?” Her hands had moved to her hips, and she faced him almost belligerently.

James cleared his throat. “Christ, Madelaine, I don’t talk age with women.” He rubbed his jaw. “All right, all right. Just looking at you, I’d figure you were around twenty, twenty-one, maybe. I know you’ve got to be older. You’ve said so yourself. But if I didn’t know better, yeah, twenty, maybe twenty-three at the most.”

“And how old did I look when you first met me? That was some time ago, remember.” She waited for him to answer, a fixed, unhappy smile on her face.

“About the same,” he conceded quietly, then asserted himself again. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Some women have those kinds of faces.”

“Good bones, you mean? That’s not it.” She walked slowly toward the dresser. “There is a mirror in the second drawer. Will you get it out for me?”

“Why?” He started to do as she requested, then drew back. “You mean that old saw about vampires not reflecting? Everybody has a reflection.”

“Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t get the mirror out, is there?” She waited for him to go to the dresser and take out the mirror, but refused it when he held it out to her. “No. If I take it, you’ll think it’s sleight-of-hand. Bring the mirror here, and stand beside me, with the mirror in front of us.” She stood very still while James took his place beside and slightly behind her. “Now, hold up the mirror.”

James did as he was told, amazement dawning on his face as he stared into the glass. His face was clearly reflected, and his shirt with the collar slightly askew, his tie chain at just the right place on his chest. That was what most drew his attention, because there was no way he should have been able to see it. Madelaine was standing where the chain was: he could feel the pressure of her back against it. As he gazed into the mirror, she leaned her head back on his shoulder, turning her face toward his neck. He brought his free hand up and tangled it in her hair, holding her more tightly against him.

“What do you see?” she asked. After one look at the mirror, she had not bothered to check again. Empty mirrors still bothered her, and she had taken Saint-Germain’s warning to heart and kept very few of them in the places where she lived. Yet mirrors were not as bad as running water when she was unprotected by her native earth, and once in a while she liked to sit and gaze at the place her reflection should be, and tell herself that there was a hint of her presence.

“I see … myself.” He was barely audible.

“Yes.” She sounded so resigned that James glanced at her in alarm.

“How did you do this?” He held the mirror closer, almost touching her, as if that might reveal the illusion.

“I’m not
doing
anything. It’s the way I am. None of us have reflections.” She turned slowly and put her arms around his waist. More than a century ago, Saint-Germain had told her of his fear of being loathed, and for the first time she knew in her soul what he meant. “James?”

“You’re not here,” he told her in the oddest tone. “I can’t see you at all. I can see my hand in your hair, but it looks like it’s dangling in the air. I can see the wrinkles in my shirt where you’re close against me, but nothing of you.”

Her arms tightened. “Do you begin to believe me?”

“I don’t know.” His response was distant, and he reached out for the dresser to put the mirror down. “I don’t understand it.”

Softly, diffidently, she said, “Can you still love me?”

“This is crazy,” he protested, but his arms went around her and he kissed her hungrily. “I don’t know how you do it, or why you’re going to such lengths to convince me of such an absurd thing, but it doesn’t matter.” Again he sought her mouth with his, enjoying the recklessness that came over him. “You aren’t going to get rid of me with a cock-and-bull story like this one.”

“I don’t want to get rid of you, James. That’s the problem.” She held off from him when he attempted to kiss her again. “I should have told you this two years ago, when you would still have had a choice, but I could not bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to see you turn away from me with hatred.” Her body trembled and she held him more closely.

The familiar, intoxicating desire for Madelaine was starting to claim all of James’ senses, but he could not resist asking, “Why should you have told me, when you knew I wouldn’t believe you?”

She gave a long sigh. “Two years ago there was still a chance that you had not been with me enough to be changed, but that’s no longer the case. When you die, my dearest, dearest James, you will not remain in your grave: you will be as I am, as Saint-Germain is. Too much has passed between us.” It was as much of an apology as she would ever make to him.

“I’ll worry about that then,” he told her roughly as his need for her became more intense. No woman he had ever had evoked passion in him as she did. She was a drug, a frenzy, an elation within him, a tempest that rocked him to the limits of his soul. The urgency of his body’s hunger was enhanced by a greater fervor that permeated every aspect of his life with inextinguishable joy. Whatever was wrong with her—and for the moment he was prepared to withhold judgment—it made no difference to him, or his ineffable longing for her.

Madelaine answered his desire with her own, sinking into his embrace with evanescent rapture. She had learned to fire the senses in others, but never since Saint-Germain had her own been so overwhelming. They tumbled together onto the bed, legs tangled, arms enfolding each other. Their clothes were discarded in hasty, untidy heaps and the covers kicked back. It was delicious to feel the force of his love, to exult in their prolonged and shared fulfillment, to be carried on the flood of his rapture so completely that she hardly needed to put her lips to his throat to be entirely gratified.

The room was almost dark when they were able to speak again. Madelaine lay close against James’ side, her hand on his chest, her head pillowed on his shoulder. As his mouth brushed her forehead, she smiled.

“Madelaine,” he murmured to her hair, “nothing about you matters to me but what we have together. That’s why I was jealous this afternoon.”