But as he eased her onto the bed, reaching around to the front of her, fingers exploring the depths of her quim to make certain she was as ready for him as he seemed to be for her, she realized he was keeping her—and her gaze—facing away from.
Narcise could have been offended, or annoyed, but when he slid deep into place, her body welcomed him and she gave no more thought to anything except that delicious rhythm of pleasure.
And when she arched and shuddered, slamming back against his hips, her hands braced onto the bed, he gave a low groan in her ear and surged one last time. She felt him find release, and allowed her arms to give way so she tumbled face-first onto the mattress.
Chas followed her, disengaging, and sliding his hand along her spine and over her bottom as he sank down next to her.
Narcise lay there for a moment, and as the last vestiges of bliss eased, she thought about what had happened…on all fronts.
He’d kissed her. He’d started this whole incident by kissing her…so intimate, so long and thorough and absent of the need for control…and she’d let him. She’d let him do something only Giordan had done. Was it to banish her memories and grief over him?
But she didn’t want to think about Giordan now. He had no place in her thoughts, in her life, in this place with Chas Woodmore.
Yet…. “Are we going to London?” she asked. Hadn’t Cezar mentioned that Giordan was in London? Her heart seized up and she blanked out her mind.
“As soon as I can arrange it,” Chas replied.
She glanced at him and noted that his face seemed only a bit less tense than it had earlier—despite two bouts of coitus. “Is something wrong? Weren’t you satisfied that I didn’t enthrall you this last time?”
The chagrin—and perhaps shame—showed on his face. “I don’t fuck vampires,” he told her flatly. “Because I don’t want to be controlled.”
Narcise pulled away, fury bubbling inside her. It was a welcome emotion, replacing her other softer, confused one. “But apparently you do fuck vampires, Chas, because you just did. Twice.”
“I know,” he said, misery flashing in his face for a moment. Then his expression was cold and flat again. “It was…incredible. You’re incredible, Narcise, and, damn me to Hell, I can’t stay away from you.” He rose from the bed with sharp, short movements. “I can’t keep my hands or thoughts off you.”
As she watched, confused and angry, he yanked on his breeches with a snap of the fabric, dragged on his boots, and picked up his discarded shirt. “No matter how hard I try,” he said, his jaws tight together, “I can’t make you into the evil, manipulative demon I want you to be.”
“Why do you want to do that?” she asked, affronted and yet fascinated in spite of herself. She was beginning to realize that his anger wasn’t directed at her, but at himself.
“So I can kill you, dammit.” With fury and rage surrounding him, Chas stalked from the room, still holding his wadded up shirt.
_________
He didn’t returnuntil well after the sun went down, and this time, he didn’t reek of drink. She’d spent the day drawing scenes from the window, using the pencils and paper she’d managed to charm from unsuspecting shopkeepers—and through Philippe—during Chas’s feverish illness.
When he came into the chamber, she looked up briefly, then returned to her sketch. Much of Notre Dame’s towers were visible from her window, and despite the irony of a soul-damaged vampire drawing a holy place, Narcise had spent much effort on the sketch. Now that it was getting darker, she was working from memory.
“We’re leaving Paris tomorrow,” said Chas, sitting heavily on the bed. “I’ve made the arrangements.”
She nodded briefly but remained intent on her work, trying to ignore the spike of apprehension in her belly.
“Your brother has the entire city looking for us,” he continued. “But he isn’t certain we’re even together. So that works to our advantage. We have to go during the day, so I’ve taken precautions for you. You’ll be driving a cart with a coffin in back…which will contain me—a corpse dead from the plague. I’ll stuff the box with old meat beneath me so as to attract flies, and to make a stink, and will fill your pockets with it as well. You’ll dress as an elderly woman with a large hat and gloves to protect you from the sun and will be taking your dead husband to the country.”
Silence reigned between them for a moment, broken only by the distant shouts from the street below, and a burst of raucous laughter from the pub beneath the floor underfoot. Her pencil scratched quietly as she shaded one of the windows in the square-shaped towers.
“Do you still wish to go to London?”
At that, she rested her pencil on the paper and turned to look at him. “Only if you can suffer my manipulative, evil presence,” she said stiffly.
His face tightened. “Narcise, I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but understand, I spend my life hunting and killing the Dracule. It’s not often that I find one worth saving.”
She tossed her head and looked back down at her work, lit by a nearby lamp. To her horror, it began to blur and she furiously blinked back the tears. She hadn’t cried in decades, and now in the last week, she’d teared up three times. Was she growing soft?
“Narcise,” he said, his voice softer. He rose and came to stand behind her, his fingers sliding gently over her hair. “You saved my life. You stayed with me when you could have left. I was a fool for saying those things to you today. It’s just that…I’m beginning to have feelings for you, and it’s not what I expected.”
She turned to look up at him and read the bleakness in his eyes. “I’m sorry it’s so difficult for you,” she said, her voice emotionless.
He shrugged, a rueful smile curving his lips. “I am too. Narcise, I am sorry.” He drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ll keep you safe. I have a secret place, a small estate in Wales where you can hide…where no one will find you.”
