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He looked away. “The dress suits you.”

“You have good taste,” I said acerbically. In some things.

I picked up the delicate black satin strappy things pretending to be shoes. Trust a man, I thought darkly. They had to be six inches, with heels so high and so thin, they looked like they would snap at the slightest pressure. I slipped them on and then just stared. Whoever designed them had to be a sadist. They were a broken ankle waiting to happen.

“You did this on purpose,” I accused.

“I can have something else sent, if you prefer,” he told me, challenge sparkling in those blue eyes.

My own narrowed. “These will be fine.”

I slowly stood up, feeling like I was wearing a pair of stilts. It had been years—decades, really—since I’d owned a pair of stilettos, and I suddenly recalled why. My left ankle buckled, and I corrected myself, glaring down at it. If I could run along the edge of a rooftop and never miss a step, I could walk in these damn shoes.

And I did. For about two steps. Then I wobbled, stumbled and ended up on my butt on the bed.

One of the shoes had gone flying. Louis-Cesare retrieved it and knelt in front of me, his eyes amused. “There is an art to it.”

“How would you know?”

“I used to wear them.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“At the French court. They were all the rage—among both sexes—for a time.”

I tried to imagine Louis-Cesare, all six foot plus of hard muscle, in a pair of high heels. And, despite everything, I laughed. “Care to show me how it’s done?”

“I do not think those are my size,” he said, grasping my calf in one large hand. I went a little dry-mouthed.

His fingers were warm on my arch for a moment, as he slid the shoe back in place. He looked up, his eyes suddenly serious. “I suppose it is useless for me to request that you remain here while I attend to this.”

I just looked at him.

“It will be difficult for me to protect you without breaking the truce.”

It was moments like these when I wondered if he truly understood what a dhampir was. “I don’t need protection.”

“Against some of those who will be there tonight?” His jaw tightened. “Yes, you do.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promised, with a straight face.

He smiled slightly. “Why am I not reassured?”

He pulled me to my feet and drew my hand through his arm in one smooth, natural movement, with no signs of flinching. I didn’t know a single other vampire, including family, who didn’t tense up slightly when I came within arm’s reach. Yet, from day one, he’d never minded getting close, had in fact used every possible excuse to do so.

Strange behavior for someone pining away for his mistress.

But then, maybe I’d just been available, an easy conquest, a creature he didn’t have to worry about offending because our natural relationship was antagonistic anyway. I really didn’t know what he felt, if anything. I just knew what I did.

“Then maybe we should take out a little insurance,” I said, and sank to my knees.

He looked confused, until my fingers went to the button of his trousers. I saw it register, felt when he stilled completely, not even breathing. And then he caught my hands.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Why?” It was in a low, urgent tone I’d never heard him use.

“Because it helps to take the edge off.” He looked like he didn’t understand my answer. “I’m dhampir,” I reminded him. “We have these fits, remember? Rage-induced blackouts where we kill everything in sight?”

“That is all it takes to control your fits?” He looked incredulous.

“I didn’t say it controlled them. I said it took the edge off, much the way good-quality weed does. If someone provokes me enough, I’ll still go under. But not as easily. Now let go, or are you the only one who gets to touch?”

Apparently so, because he pulled me back to my feet, keeping my hands trapped between us. His were strong, with the warmth of familiar calluses. I felt my breath speed up as I remembered what those hands could do.

Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he flushed slightly. “I was told that you had found a cure.”

“It’s genetic. There is no cure.”

“Lord Mircea said—”

“You asked him about me?”

“He mentioned it in passing.”

I narrowed my eyes but let it go. “I’ve found something that cuts down on the frequency of the attacks, and controls some of the symptoms. But there are problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

I sighed. For a Frenchman, he was the hardest damn man to seduce I’d ever seen. “It brings out dormant magical abilities in humans.”

It was Louis-Cesare’s turn to narrow his eyes. “You are speaking of fey wine? Do not tell me you are still taking that concoction.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“It is dangerous!”

“So am I, without it!”

“And that is worth risking your life? You do not know—”

“I haven’t had a full-on attack in weeks. And the last time I did, I was conscious.” His expression said he still didn’t get it. “I was conscious, Louis-Cesare!” I repeated, struggling to find words to explain just what that meant.

But there weren’t any. He’d never had to worry about blacking out for days, only to wake up in some unknown location, covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. He would never understand the constant nagging fear that next time it wouldn’t be an enemy I killed. That next time I would wake up to find my hands buried in the throat of a friend.

Something must have shown on my face, because his gaze softened. “I thought your friend was looking for a cure.”

“She was. She is. But so far, no luck.”

“There are other physicians. Have you sought out their help?”

“I don’t need them. I have something that works.”

“Thus far. You have no idea what the long-term effects might be.”

“Whatever they are, it’s a damn good trade!”

He set his jaw, that old stubborn look coming over his face. “There must be an alternative.”

“There is.” I deliberately slid my hands up his chest.

“Dorina—”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything.” I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to drive him as crazy as he had me, wanted to see him lose control, wanted him to feel something when I damn well left.

I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. His body was a tight wall of muscle, as yielding as rock. But his lips were warm and soft as they met mine, asking nothing, forbidding nothing, surrendering to my need as I had known, deep down, that he would.

He tasted like smoky whiskey and Louis-Cesare, an elusive sweetness that had haunted me in odd moments for weeks. I pulled him even closer, and my leg wrapped around him, hunger mounting as I deepened the kiss. I felt a surge of pure satisfaction as his arms went around me, one hand settling on my nape, the other cupping my jaw, the thumb stroking with a terrible gentleness.

It was so easy to lose myself in this, in the searching caress of his tongue, in the silken press of his lips. Running my hands over the broad planes of his back, I traced light fingertips over the knobs of his spine, felt the smooth roll and flex of hard muscle under the soft material of his shirt. So warm…

And so dangerous. A dhampir inside his defenses, at his neck, close enough to kiss or to kill. He had to feel it. I felt it, the usual tingling sensation of a vampire’s presence screaming a warning along my nerves.

Yet his only movement was to draw me nearer, his hands sliding down my sides to grasp my hips. It left us close, so close, as I never was with any of them, never could be, because being this near meant violence, meant fear, meant death for one of us. It always had and it always would, and there was no goddamned other way it could be. And yet he was still there, hard and hot and so close….

So close, the scent of her, wild and comforting at once, enveloped him. He needed to stop this; he needed to leave. If he immersed himself in that scent, grew to depend on it, need it, it would starve him when it was gone.