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.

Chapter Seven

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. "Malý 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."

I clamped my hands onto his shoulders, mashing my mouth up against his, purposely grinding my lips hard against his teeth. He tolerated that for a moment, then gently cupped either side of my jaw and tipped my head back at a different angle. "We will try this again, but without the show of brute strength, yes?"

I looked into his eyes and knew I was in trouble, serious, deep, fathomless trouble. His eyes were dark wells of desire—a desire for me, something I'd never seen in a man's eyes. I felt myself falling into them as his lips teased mine, feathering soft little kisses along the length of my mouth, tantalizing me until I could no longer deny the truth.

I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to taste him again, to have him taste me. I fought a desperate fight to maintain control over my desire, but the first stroke of his tongue against my lips tolled a death knell for my good intentions. My lips softened on his. I allowed him to surge into my mouth, and with that intimate touch the last of my barriers were destroyed. I moaned into his mouth as his tongue become more aggressive, stroking mine, demanding, not asking for response. I slid my hands into his hair, pulling the leather thong that bound it free so that his hair hung loose to his shoulders. The satiny length of it poured over my fingers like cool water, making me shiver in response.

I felt his touch in my mind, felt the whispers around the edges of my guards, and was overwhelmed with a curiosity to know what he was thinking. It was the sheerest folly to allow myself to receive his thoughts, for I knew he would be able to receive mine as well, but the fire that flamed within me at his touch was too strong to be quenched. He deepened the kiss as I opened my mind to his, allowing the sensations he was feeling to join with mine. His thoughts were wordless, formless images of pleasure, of need and desire and a desperate hope that were bound together until it was impossible to separate them. I responded to the need, knowing I shouldn't, knowing it would lead to disaster, but unable to keep from taking his darkness within myself and returning it with all the light I had.