Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Antoine was waiting in the living room, a charcoal overcoat draped over one arm, effortlessly sharp in chinos and a dress shirt. Like he’d stepped out of a European fashion spread without having tried.
He turned as she entered, lips curling at the corners as he slowly took her in. “Don’t you look ravishing.”
“That’s exactly what you said to me outside Minh’s club, the night of our first ‘date.’”
“Did I? But that one had been just a cover, as fun as it turned out to be. Perhaps this one is really our first.”
Cally offered him a smile. “I’ll go along with that. Where are you taking me?”
He guided her to the front door. “I planned a few options. It depended on what you wore. A walk around the reservoir, a tour of the city’s rooftops, or something more classic.”
Cally gestured at the black cocktail dress Eve had somehow procured, now feeling like she should’ve insisted on skinny jeans and a sweater against the cold. “I can change in moments.”
“No need. We’ll go with plan C.”
A Ferrari waited outside, though the look of irritation Antoine threw the bright red car suggested it wasn’t his choice.
“Didn’t Noah bring your Audi back this afternoon?”
“He did, but Marcel confiscated it.” Antoine held the door for her. “Apparently, it was somewhat worse for wear after its stay in the impound. Marcel hired this for the evening.”
Cally sat carefully, knees together. The hem was higher than she’d have liked. I shouldn’t have let Eve have her way. But Eve had been adamant that it wasn’t about dressing up for him, more reminding him who he had almost lost. Strong, gorgeous, untouchable, and just dangerous enough—her words.
Antoine strode around to the other side, and watching him move held its own pleasure. He flung their coats on the back shelf as he entered. “Marcel doesn’t know they make cars with more than two seats.”
“Perhaps he thinks it suits your image.”
Antoine looked over as they drove off. “Is he right?”
“Italian and ostentatious red? Not really. I think the Audi is more your style.”
“I liked the Lamborghini the best, but you blew it up.”
“We both know that’s not true, and for the hundredth time, I didn’t blow it up.” But it was a familiar joke, and she was glad to hear him make it. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be as bad she’d feared.
“Do you like art galleries?”
“I can’t say I’ve spent much time in them. Is that where we’re going?”
“Well, it’s up to you. Perhaps a jaunt down Newbury Street? Do some window shopping, visit a couple of galleries, take in the Halloween atmosphere.”
“That sounds nice, but will they be open so late?”
“A few of them, yes. I had Noah arrange some private viewings. There’s a chic little gallery that specializes in African and Israeli art, and another that leans towards European impressionists.”
“Private viewings, huh?”
“A masquerade, if you will, with the privacy and closed doors our own personal masks.”
“And if I’d opted for the walk around the reservoir?”
“Then I had a table set up with a bottle of champagne and a portable heater.”
“Really?” Cally couldn’t help her laugh of delight. “Let’s do that another time.”
“It occurred to me lying in bed this afternoon that I didn’t really know what you would want to do. Besides, our last date might be a hard act to follow—I can’t guarantee we’ll be attacked by thralls.”
“If Eve hadn’t insisted on this ridiculous dress, I’d have chosen a nighttime stroll. But the galleries sound like something worth trying at least once, and in fairness, I just want to spend some time with you.”
He tried a smile, perhaps not as genuine as those from a few weeks’ prior, but at least with an effort, and they drove into Boston. It was as busy as Cally could remember, and by the time they pulled into the city, the evening had drawn on.
They reached Newbury Street, where cars and trees formed neat rows, and the sidewalks spilled over with revelers in costume, masks and sequins catching under the streetlights.
“We’re never going to park,” Cally lamented.
“We can park here,” Antoine said, as the traffic came to a stop again.
“You’re going to get another car impounded.”
But he’d already reached for their coats and got out. In the middle of the street. Leaving the door open.
She stared in disbelief as he walked around to her door, then jumped when a man got in behind the wheel. He gave her a smile. “I hope you have a lovely evening, Cally.”
Antoine opened her door and offered her an arm, then held her coat for her.
“Who was that?” Cally asked, as they moved to the sidewalk, the Ferrari driving off.
“Hmm? Oh, Charlie. Noah sent him down earlier.”
“You’re seriously using a thrall as a valet?”
Antoine watched the Ferrari pull away in the slow-moving queue. “Why? Is that wrong?”
Cally wrapped a hand around his arm. “I think the old me would say ‘yes’, but I had a chat with Noah about what it meant to be a thrall. They all love you, you know.”
“They do?”
“Noah said he’d work for you even if he wasn’t a thrall.”
“That’s nice. It’s not love.”
“Well, the word he used was ‘loyalty’. He also said he’d rather sleep with Gabe than you.”
Antoine’s arm tensed beneath her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him.” First Minh, now Gabe. Is putting my foot in my mouth to be a theme of our dates?
“The apology is mine, ma chérie. I have not yet spoken to Gabe, but I do trust what you and Noah have explained.”
They strolled through the crowd, commenting on the occasional costume or window display. When they were pushed for space, Antoine slid an arm inside her coat and around her waist, pulling her close. But no one so much as brushed against them, and the throng parted wherever they chose to go.
“How do you do that?” Cally asked, gesturing with one hand to mimic the way people seemed to move from their path.
“It’s a vampire mind thing. Nothing too heavy, just a gentle nudge.”
He’d spoken openly, but no one paid them any mind. Discussing vampires on Halloween? It carried an ironic sort of shield, which suited her just fine.
“There was something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she began with a hint of caution. Too many things, in fact. But the Order would have to wait; he’d only just returned, and he had enough on his mind. “I’m sorry, I should’ve mentioned it before, but we never really had the chance.”
“I quite understand. What is it?”
“It involves Gabe.”
The tension in his arm returned, but he made an effort to relax and said nothing, only waiting with polite interest.
“Do you remember when Minh paralyzed me in the parking lot?”
“Of course.”
“A vampire mind ability, right?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, braced herself, then plowed on. “Gabe has the ability to confer resistance to vampiric mind effects,” she said in a rush. “When I was in his apartment, he fed from me. Because I asked him to, so I could be protected from Minh.”
Antoine was quiet for several paces, and she looked at him in concern. “That explains much,” he said at last, his tone strained. “So he has fed twice from you?”
“Yes. Just twice.” Twice too many. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you could do the resistance thing, and… if I hadn’t… Minh would’ve controlled me again.” She looked up at him, voice low. “I couldn’t face that, Antoine.”
“I understand. And I could not have offered you the same. I was not aware such an ability existed.”
“Are you angry?”
“No, ma chérie. In truth, I do not much care for another vampire feeding upon you, but it is done, and I am glad that you have this resistance.”
“It won’t happen again. You’re back now. I was worried that if he didn’t feed, my power would—”
“Think nothing of it. As I said, it is done.”
His tone was carefully clipped, the words fine, but she couldn’t help sensing what it had cost him to utter them. She wished they’d never come out among all these people, but merely sat in his living room and talked. He deserved better than discussing it with frivolous costumes brushing past.
“Is there somewhere nearby? I’m ready to be alone with you.”
“Not far.”
They continued on down the street, sidestepping undergrads unable to hold their drink, and Cally had already had enough. It was a relief when Antoine stopped outside a gallery, its shutters closed, and rapped twice on the door. It opened swiftly, letting them into welcoming peace and quiet.
A woman inside introduced herself as the owner, then made herself scarce, leaving them alone to wander as they pleased.
Cally watched her go. “They’re leaving us with the art? Do they trust you so much?” But she was glad it was just the two of them.
“It may be callous to say so, but money opens a lot of doors,” Antoine said dryly. “I don’t often have an excuse to spend it. Not nearly as much as Marcel does.” He gestured toward the gallery. “After you.”
Cally wandered in, running her eyes over the art. Most of it did nothing for her—pleasing to the eye in some cases, confusing and pointless in others. She stopped before a landscape depicting a haystack in an otherwise empty field, blue skies above.
“Do you like it?” Antoine asked from close behind her.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “It’s all right, I suppose. I wouldn’t put it up in my living room.”
His lips twitched. “Your perspective is refreshing. Come, let us try the next room.”
They made a game of it, taking turns to choose the pieces that appealed the most. Antoine stopped before the sculpture of a ballerina, crouched as she adjusted her shoe.
“Does this one call to you?” Cally asked, coming up beside him.
“No,” he said, turning away. “She doesn’t care.”
It was a strange response, and Cally looked at the figure more closely. “Why? Because she’s not dancing?”
“No. Because she’s only there for pleasure.”
“Is that not reason enough to dance?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Come, we will go to the next floor. It is your turn to choose.”
“I liked the ballerina,” Cally mused as she took the stairs ahead of him. “There’s something satisfying in devoting yourself to a skill or an art form, and doing it as well as you can.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re three hundred years old,” she said playfully, reaching the next room and walking backwards as she watched him. “Have you never pursued an interest?”
“You’re my interest. I pursued you.”
“Did you now?” She smiled and turned to the room, seeking the next piece of art that caught her eye: a woman lying face down on a divan, looking to the viewer with an expectant gaze. Cally stopped, caught by the vulnerability in her expression.
“That’s not you,” Antoine murmured, standing beside her.
“Why not?”
“You prefer to fight for control.”
“Perhaps she hopes to persuade her lover.”
“It’s art, I suppose we see what we want.” He regarded it a moment longer, then gave his verdict. “She looks too submissive to me.”
“That doesn’t appeal?”
A half-shrug. “It appeals if it’s earned, not given.”
She turned to him. “Really? Go on.”
He looked away from the painting, focusing on her, a flicker of intent in his gaze. “Submission given is meaningless, because anyone could receive it. Submission taken is individual, personal. Earned.”
“Says the predator to the prey.”
“But you’re not really prey, are you? Ever the warrior.”
“Find a fierce enough hunter, and anyone becomes prey.”
His lips curved with a touch of amusement, but his eyes shifted darker, a hint of lilac coming through. “Careful, ma chérie. I do not think the gallery owner would be pleased if we made a mess in here.”
“I thought money could buy anything,” she said whimsically, turning away.
She didn’t hear him move, but his hand clamped on the back of her neck, fingers delving into her hair, and she gasped at the strength and suddenness of it. His lips brushed against her ear. “Should I press you to the wall, and take you while the sculptures watch?”
She tried to turn in his grip, but he didn’t allow it, letting her know she was held. His chest pressed into her back with just enough force that she had to steady herself.
“Is the date over?” she asked. “Has no art caught your eye?”
“I didn’t come to buy anything. I already have what I want.”
“Oh? And what’s that, Antoine?”
He growled low in his throat. “One evening—one hour—and you drive me to my limits. Lost in my box in the ocean, I had forgotten what it meant to be in your presence. Yet you call to me, push me. Every time, it is I who must fight for control.”
She went very still at his words, and his hand stayed clenched at her nape. Above her was a skylight, the ceiling high. She gestured to it. “Can you open that?”
“I can.”
“We’re done here. Fly me home, Antoine.”