Page 90 of Time's Fool

Although what they thought I could do under the circumstances, I had no idea.

I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

Or so angry. I knew my rage was mostly a delayed reaction to Mircea, to his abandonment, and his casual hiring of the daughter he’d thrown away when he finally decided that she could be useful. He hadn’t even apologized for that, or for any of it, for what master vampire ever apologized? Especially to a lowly dhampir.

But Mircea wasn’t here.

His sycophant was.

I gathered up his clothes, took them to the stream and threw them in his face. “Have a nice bath!”

And then I walked out on the second vampire in a day.

Chapter Twenty-Six

I didn’t get far.

The bastard, wet and as nude as the day he was born, caught me before I’d gone twenty yards, and I had not been slow. He grabbed me and turned me around, and for once, he had dropped the sweet, solicitous, compassionate act and genuinely looked angry. It was a marked improvement.

“What is this?” he asked, holding up the bundle of wet clothes.

I smirked. “Did you think you were the only vampire to try to seduce me? It’s almost a pastime with some. I have a Venetian patrizio who regularly hires me for jobs he could have any of his minions do, only he’s already slept with all of them. I’ve made a fortune avoiding his advances; did you really think you would do better?”

“Advances?” Louis-Cesare put his hands on his hips, looking half annoyed still, and half amused. “I was taking a bath. If I was attempting a seduction, believe me, you would know the difference!”

“So would you,” I said, deliberately letting my eyes roam over the fine lines of his chest, which were what I’d expected, and the dusting of freckles on his shoulders, which were not. Masters using a glamourie would have covered those, seeing them as an imperfection. Which meant—

“You can’t really look like that,” I said before I thought, and it was his turn to smirk.

And to toss the clothes aside before stepping closer. “A glamourie doesn’t fool touch. Feel free to discover for yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. It was a challenge and an attempted seduction, all in one. And a trap, if I was right about his motivations, of the kind that I frankly hadn’t thought he had in him.

What was the idea? One touch of his manly muscles and I would swoon? And follow him around like a little puppy dog, happily agreeing to whatever he and Mircea wanted?

He was a bastard, I decided, but then, so was I.

Which was why I didn’t reach for his chest, despite the fact that he’d pushed it out slightly. Or the strong arms, which he’d unconsciously flexed. Or even the hard muscles of the stomach and torso, although I admit they were tempting.

Instead, I reached around and grabbed him where I’d stabbed him, causing him to jump slightly.

And then to grab me back, only I pushed him away. “I didn’t make the same invitation,” I pointed out.

This one was a fighter, despite the tender facade, because a definite gleam of battle lit those lovely eyes. But he stepped back and held his hands up, conceding my point. And I went back to my former occupation.

The wound had healed, of course; it had been hours. Try as I might, and I tried very hard, I could not find so much as a dimple where the blade had gone in. I found several other dimples, however, and stroked and explored them, until his breathing had sped up and he had flushed a lovely pink.

His skin really was something, not the silk of a woman’s, but soft nonetheless. Almost like very closely shaved velvet. I liked touching it, liked even more the way his pupils expanded and his lashes fluttered and his hands had to clench at his sides to keep from touching me back. But best of all was the growing fire in his eyes, half anger, half . . . something else.

They changed color as his power rose, shading from the clear blue of a summer’s day to a stormier slate, something he seemed unable to prevent. Like certain other responses. I left the lovely arse alone and grasped something else that was begging for attention, and they abruptly flipped all the way to silver.

Good look on him, I thought, like anything wasn’t. I had determined that he had been telling the truth—he wasn’t using a glamourie. Or if he was, it was merely to flush the skin a pleasing peach, which he shouldn’t have had otherwise, but the rest was as God had made him.

God had been in a very good mood that day.

My own was improving rather quickly, as I investigated the other side of the man. At least part of him likes me, I thought, and laughed at his expression as I stroked. And petted and fondled and squeezed, with just the right amount of pressure, and watched his expression tilt from aggrieved toward desperation.

I decided to help him lose a little quicker, because this was going to become torture soon enough, and where was the satisfaction in that? And because I was ready for a little satisfaction myself, although not if I had to forfeit the game for it. But I didn’t think I was going to forfeit.

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