He ruthlessly hardened his thoughts and lifted his chin so he could look down at her from an even higher level. If she’d stayed home like any reasonable woman, instead of bartering her way into the most private apartments of an exclusive gentlemen’s club, she’d be sleeping restfully by now.
And dreaming.
Dimitri yanked his thoughts away fromthatavenue and drilled his attention steadfastly onto Chas Woodmore, who was trying to explain to his sister why he worked for Dimitri when he was bound to kill those of his race.
It really wasn’t all that complicated, when one thought about it logically. Just as there were good and moral men, there were also members of the Dracule who were less inclined to live uneventfully alongside their mortal counterparts. People likeMoldavi, who fed from children and left them to die. Or, when they wanted something, they’d burn a house down and watch people perish.
Or they’d feed on injured soldiers on a field, prolonging their agony just for pleasure.
Just as there were mortals who hunted game, killed it neatly and quickly and used it for nourishment, and there were others who tortured the animals just to watch them twist and cry and squeal…there were also Dracule, who fed expediently and took just what they needed from mortals, and quite often from willing ones, and there were Dracule who fed until the mortal was bled nearly dry. And left for dead.
As there were mortal men who hungered for power until it became all-consuming, there were Dracule who did the same.
There were Dracule who merely lived lavish lives, filled with luxuries and pleasure, but who were content to simply enjoy the sensuality of it, without desiring to control everyone around them.
And then there was Dimitri, who no longer did any of those things. Whose Mark blazed with constant pain for precisely that reason: because he denied the pleasure, the very covenant Lucifer had given him.
And searched for a way to renounce it.
Thus, instead, he lived in solitude and darkness, seeking an escape from an eternity of hell.
“At any rate,” Chas was saying, “I’m going to Paris with Voss and we’ll bring back Angelica. That’s all you need to know at this time, Maia.”
Voss interrupted, shaking his head sharply. “If you want to jeopardize my chances, then you may come. Otherwise…follow if you will, but some days behind me. There can be no hint to Moldavi that we’re working together.”
Dimitri snorted in agreement. “Even if he saw the two of you shaking hands, he wouldn’t believe it.”
Voss shot him a look of pure dislike. “Precisely.”
8
OF FEROCIOUS DOGS, HISSING KITTENS, AND PROPER SYNTAX
Maia had so many questions she could hardly quiet her mind to select one for consideration.
But when she climbed into Corvindale’s landau—for he’d absolutely forbidden her to hire a hack to take her home from White’s, and she was simply too tired to argue about propriety—and settled into her seat across from him, suddenly her wild musings and whirling thoughts scattered, leaving her mind blank and focused on one thing:him.
The door closed, and as had happened little more than a week ago, they were alone in the vehicle. Corvindale seemed to take up the entire expanse of his seat, sprawling his long legs to one side and the flaps of his sable coat open wide like a bird fluffing its feathers to make it appear larger. Settled across the top of the squabs behind him were his arms, hands dangling casually. His dark hair, always a bit out of sorts, flipped up and around his ears and temples.
He looked none too pleased with the current situation, but that was nothing new. He’d never looked pleased with anything, ever since Maia had met him. But there was also something else about him that struck her. Something different.
A sort of wariness, like a large, ferocious dog who’d been cornered by a kitten.
Maia considered herself the kitten in this situation, and even through her weariness and confusion, she decided she rather liked the metaphor. And because she was the kitten, Maia thought she’d bare her claws—as small and insignificant as they might be.
“And so you are avampir,”she said, primly arranging her skirt so not even the tops of her slippers showed. She would not think right now about what sort of mess her hem and shoes were in. Or what her hair looked like. She was hissing and spitting in her own quiet way, all the while trying not to be completely overset by the fact thather brother had put her into the wardship of avampir.
“The proper term is Dracule. Or, if you insist upon using the archaic wordvampir,I would appreciate if you would use the Anglican pronunciation—‘vampire’—rather than attempting to speak Hungarian. Your accent isn’t quite spot-on.” He sounded supremely bored, and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world other than her diction and whatever was so fascinating out the half-curtained window of the carriage.
But despite his interest out on the streets, he was watching her. Particularly when she wasn’t looking directly at him. She felt the weight of his regard as if it were a thick blanket, shuttling down over her shoulders. Warm and heavy. And not altogether unwelcome.
“Very well,” she replied, clearly enunciating her words so that there would be no mistake. “You are avampire,then, Lord Corvindale, and I have a variety of questions?—”
“Only a variety? I was expecting a plethora of them. Or perhaps a score?”
It was all Maia could do to keep back the little gust of a chuckle at this unexpected, wholly uncharacteristic show oflevity. Or perhaps he wasn’t jesting and was being quite serious. She eyed him from the corner of her eyes and noticed his ungloved hand with its exposed wrist resting on the top of his seat. It vibrated and jounced a bit with the rumbling movement of the carriage.
As it happened, the moon or a streetlamp chose that moment to shine directly on it, and Maia found her attention attracted to the shape of that wide, dark appendage. Long, sturdy fingers, the ridges of slightly flexed tendons, the curve of a broad thumb and neat fingernails. It wasn’t often she’d seen a man’s hand uncovered—certainly Chas’s, and her father’s when she was young, and of course Alexander’s—but Lord Corvindale’s hand seemed particularly wide and well shaped. Even there, settled, fingers bowed gently, a latent power seemed to emanate from it.
