liked them. And he liked an English armchair. It was bigger
and sturdier than its French counterparts. It seemed to
invite lolling. All the French chairs downstairs in the
salons–they seemed to say, We’re here to look
pretty. All right, fine, have your moment of rest. Now get
up and go do something.
The curtains, however, and the drapes around the bed, and
the slipcovers–all French, silk moiré and
damask. On the windows, behind the curtains, were
Henri’s special shades for filtering sunlight. With
those pulled, David could walk around his room during the
day and even go to the window to look out, without getting
even the slightest bit burnt.
He took his cognac and wandered over to the window,
thinking of Jo. Jo in that blue silk dress. Jo in her
riding clothes. Jo looking disappointed in him for not
caring about Drogo or the other horses. For not going out
riding with her.
Which, more than anything, he would have loved to do. But
there’s nothing to be done about it, he thought. Near
the top of the list of things he hated was a woman looking
at him like that, with that disappointed expression. He
wanted appreciation, adoration, unending attention….
What?! What is that tearing across the lawn?
David saw his brother, at least he thought it was his
brother–every single bit of skin was covered in a
rather strange outfit–as he ran in a straight line,
crossing the gravel path and the lawn, straight to the
garage.
What in the world is he up to now? thought David. He
polished off his cognac and slid back into bed. Whatever it
was, surely it could keep until nightfall.
Tristan Durant was a happy man. A superbly, surpassingly
happy man. He had not so much as been on a date in at least
a year. His last girlfriend had been the depressed Sylvie,
at least three years back. He had, he realized now, been
too caught up in work and vampires, and let the other parts
of his life slide. But now, in the delicious present
moment, he was with Jessica Winston in her hotel room, and
unless he was very much mistaken, he was not there only to
talk business.
Jessica was talking business, so far. She was talking about
some bit of vampire history that Tristan was sure he could
find online or in a book somewhere, so he was not paying
very close attention. He was not even trying to look like
he was paying attention. Instead he was paying attention to
this lovely, sexy woman, this American, this Jessica, who
teased him and looked seriously at him, and by this point,
anything she did felt erotic to him.
She walked over to the hotel desk and picked up a pad of
paper. Tristan felt blood rushing through his body. She
adjusted the curtains, to keep the afternoon sun out of
their eyes. He had to stop himself from moaning.
He took a few steps towards her, wanting to get close
enough to catch her scent.
Jessica opened the window and leaned back against the sill,
her hips pushed towards him, relaxed, a hint of a smile on
her face.
“That lunch,” she said, “was without
question the best lunch I ever ate in my whole entire
life,” she said. “And I grew up going to some
pretty excellent restaurants. Including the kebab place
down a block from my parents’ building,” she
said.
Tristan just looked at her with his warm brown eyes.
“I don’t know why I am talking about
kebabs,” she said. She moved away from the window,
restless.
Tristan got a pang of uncertainty. Did she want him in her
hotel room after all? Did she want to do more than talk or
had he totally misinterpreted? He had thought, when she
invited him up, so warmly, so–
effervescent
was the word Tristan thought of–that she was inviting
him to get to know him better, sure, but also to kiss. And
let his hand go up her short skirt. And furthermore.
Now Tristan went to the window, pushed the curtain back,
and looked out. He could see the Eiffel Tower
and sturdier than its French counterparts. It seemed to
invite lolling. All the French chairs downstairs in the
salons–they seemed to say, We’re here to look
pretty. All right, fine, have your moment of rest. Now get
up and go do something.
The curtains, however, and the drapes around the bed, and
the slipcovers–all French, silk moiré and
damask. On the windows, behind the curtains, were
Henri’s special shades for filtering sunlight. With
those pulled, David could walk around his room during the
day and even go to the window to look out, without getting
even the slightest bit burnt.
He took his cognac and wandered over to the window,
thinking of Jo. Jo in that blue silk dress. Jo in her
riding clothes. Jo looking disappointed in him for not
caring about Drogo or the other horses. For not going out
riding with her.
Which, more than anything, he would have loved to do. But
there’s nothing to be done about it, he thought. Near
the top of the list of things he hated was a woman looking
at him like that, with that disappointed expression. He
wanted appreciation, adoration, unending attention….
What?! What is that tearing across the lawn?
David saw his brother, at least he thought it was his
brother–every single bit of skin was covered in a
rather strange outfit–as he ran in a straight line,
crossing the gravel path and the lawn, straight to the
garage.
What in the world is he up to now? thought David. He
polished off his cognac and slid back into bed. Whatever it
was, surely it could keep until nightfall.
Tristan Durant was a happy man. A superbly, surpassingly
happy man. He had not so much as been on a date in at least
a year. His last girlfriend had been the depressed Sylvie,
at least three years back. He had, he realized now, been
too caught up in work and vampires, and let the other parts
of his life slide. But now, in the delicious present
moment, he was with Jessica Winston in her hotel room, and
unless he was very much mistaken, he was not there only to
talk business.
Jessica was talking business, so far. She was talking about
some bit of vampire history that Tristan was sure he could
find online or in a book somewhere, so he was not paying
very close attention. He was not even trying to look like
he was paying attention. Instead he was paying attention to
this lovely, sexy woman, this American, this Jessica, who
teased him and looked seriously at him, and by this point,
anything she did felt erotic to him.
She walked over to the hotel desk and picked up a pad of
paper. Tristan felt blood rushing through his body. She
adjusted the curtains, to keep the afternoon sun out of
their eyes. He had to stop himself from moaning.
He took a few steps towards her, wanting to get close
enough to catch her scent.
Jessica opened the window and leaned back against the sill,
her hips pushed towards him, relaxed, a hint of a smile on
her face.
“That lunch,” she said, “was without
question the best lunch I ever ate in my whole entire
life,” she said. “And I grew up going to some
pretty excellent restaurants. Including the kebab place
down a block from my parents’ building,” she
said.
Tristan just looked at her with his warm brown eyes.
“I don’t know why I am talking about
kebabs,” she said. She moved away from the window,
restless.
Tristan got a pang of uncertainty. Did she want him in her
hotel room after all? Did she want to do more than talk or
had he totally misinterpreted? He had thought, when she
invited him up, so warmly, so–
effervescent
was the word Tristan thought of–that she was inviting
him to get to know him better, sure, but also to kiss. And
let his hand go up her short skirt. And furthermore.
Now Tristan went to the window, pushed the curtain back,
and looked out. He could see the Eiffel Tower
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