"And so that is why..." Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her lips together thoughtfully.
Giordan suspected he knew what she'd been about to say. Although he hadn't been there, he was aware of the night in 1690, in Vienna, when Dimitri's house had burned. That was the night that Cezar had forced his way into the place and presented Narcise as an offering to his host-who had declined, having not the least bit of interest in her.
How Dimitri could have been indifferent to the woman in front of him, Giordan couldn't imagine, but he was grateful for that fact in many ways.
"What's in the box?" he asked, once again noticing the small metal chest that sat amid the sorts of accessories the Marquis de Sade might use.
"If you truly mean me no harm...please don't open it," she said quickly. That tension had returned to her beautiful features.
"It must be your Asthenia," he said. "And your brother allows it to be kept in here with you, when you are already at a disadvantage?" Anger chilled him. Cezar Moldavi was one Dracule who deserved to burn in hell for eternity.
Instead of responding, Narcise merely looked at him, which was as close to an admission as he expected.
"Perhaps someday you'll trust me enough to tell me," he continued.
He stood, walking over to the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself another drink. As he sipped, he turned back to look at Narcise. Overwhelming desire caused his heart to stutter and his breathing to alter, but he buried it firmly.
Not now.
Not here.
Not tonight.
He gripped his glass tighter, focusing on the scent of the alcohol and not the essence of woman that filled his consciousness. Not the enticing curve of her jaw, one that he suddenly wanted to brush his lips against, nor the ivory column of her neck, so slender and elegant.
"Why did you do this?" she asked.
"A variety of reasons, all of them-well, most of them-quite noble."
Narcise's eyes lifted, focusing on him over the rim. "Such as?"
"I'd seen you fence, and I wanted to test your skill myself. I wanted the opportunity to talk to you."
Her eyes had narrowed and she flung the rest of her whiskey down her throat. "But we did not fence, Monsieur Cale," she said, her voice even smokier, now baited with whiskey. "And you knew that I wasn't at my best-"
"Which was precisely why I chose this way to do it. I wasn't completely certain I would best you, of course, and so I thought it best to ensure that it all worked out in my favor." Giordan realized that he didn't at all mind admitting that fact. However... "I realize you don't know me very well, but I confess that I find it no little insult that you assumed I wanted to win so that I could lock you in a room with me and rape you." He sipped from the drink, his fingers so tight around the glass he feared it might shatter.
Her chin had snapped up at his blunt words, a shocked expression flickering across her face. "Why should I have thought any differently?" she asked...but the tone in her voice wasn't accusing or even defensive. It was weary.
"Because," he replied, watching her, "when you fed on me three weeks ago, I didn't so much as breathe lustfully in your direction, Narcise. Although all I wanted to do was drag my arm away from your mouth and push you up against that wall and dig my own fangs into your shoulder...and then your arm...and your breast...the inside, that very tender, most sensitive part of your thigh..." His voice grew lower, unsteady and rough. "And then I would use my tongue, long and slick and warm...all along your skin."
She gasped audibly, and the color rose higher in her face. Their eyes met, and he allowed her to see the glowing flame of desire in his. The bald need.
"I wanted to fill my hands with you, taste you. I suspect you'll be rich and warm, like a custard, sweet and yet strong. I wanted to slide my warm body against yours, feel the two textures of our skin melding. The heat generated by the friction."
He knew his words were so soft they barely reached her ears, but the rise and fall of her chest and the growing blaze in her eyes told him that she heard him.
"When you sank into me," he continued, making love to her with his words, caressing her with his tones, "I realized it was you. It would only be you. Narcise."
She moved sharply, that high color easing from her cheeks. "Lovely words, Monsieur Cale. But what a ridiculous thing to say, from a man who will live forever."
Giordan shrugged and concentrated on the way his feet were planted on the floor. Rooted, cemented there, keeping him from moving to her, and taking her face into his hands to show her how certain he was. "I've never felt that way before, Narcise. And I've lived a long time."
He felt the weight of her own gaze on him, and saw the bare hint of a glow there. His gums tightened, swelling more, and he thrust away the memory of her mouth closing around his arm, and her lips tracing the ridges of his wrist. He couldn't dismiss the memory of her tongue sliding through the heat of his blood, and the need burning in her eyes.
"I said I'm not going to touch you," he heard himself saying. "But that doesn't mean that you cannot touch me."
Chapter 5
Narcise's breath caught and a rush of heat flooded her.
That very thought, that very temptation, had been teasing her, and now it bloomed, full and hot and sudden, in her thoughts.
"You would allow that?" she said carefully.
"I would welcome it," he replied. His voice, so low and filled with desire, sent a stab of desire into her middle. "Narcise."
The thought was titillating...and freeing. To have control, here, in this very chamber that epitomized her captivity, her complete dependence. And to have such a man beneath her hands and body and fangs.
His unique scent, fresh and warm, tinged with cedar and wool, had already seemed to overtake all of the other smells of memories-dark, awful ones-in this chamber, and now sat fully in her consciousness, reminding her of how he tasted and felt.
"But then..." No. She shook her head.
Temptation thrilled her...and eased into despair. But no. How long would his resolve last, if indeed he truly had resolve and it wasn't merely a trick?
As if he read her mind, Cale said, "I won't touch you. Even if you bid me." He glanced at the manacles on the wall, then back at her. His eyes challenged her, dark and intense.
Narcise was aware of a light fluttering in her center, broadening and spreading like the delicious heat of a fire on a cold Romanian night. Those compelling eyes still fastened on her; he walked over to the smooth white wall, marred only by the chains that hung there.