I've always known that when it comes to sex, my attitude is, well, different. I've never had any illusions about sex and love being either interchangeable or interdependent. I had my first sexual encounter at sixteen. I chose the guy carefully-he was older (a friend of my brother's) and rumor had it he'd been involved with a married woman (a teacher, no less). I figured that meant he was (a) adventurous and (b) skilled. I hadn't read Penthouse Forum and Krafft-Ebing for nothing.
Turned out he was neither, much to my chagrin. But he was eager to please. We spent a few wonderful weeks educating each other. Would have gone on longer if my brother hadn't found out. Still, I figure that guy owes me any future success he had with women.
My point is, I have loved sex-the act, the smells, the pure joy of it-since that time, since that boy. As a human, I thought sex enjoyable. As a vampire, it is liberating, sublime.
The pleasure of sex is the only part of being a vampire that comes close to justifying the existence.
A cosmic joke. Vampires cannot procreate-not like humans. Perhaps as consolation, they're given bodies that respond to sex in an extraordinary way. Bodies that are aroused with a look, a thought. Bodies that warm, become vibrant, alive during the act. Sex overwhelms the senses, wipes the mind clean of all worry, concerns, fears. Sex without consequence. Sex that reminds us of how it felt to be human.
Lance is not human. I am not human. But for a few minutes, we make love as if we were. No biting. No blood. Nothing but the feel of his body, on top of me, inside me. We move together, slowly, locked in the most intimate embrace, wanting to prolong the moment until we can hold back no longer. When he comes, it's to the pulse of my own orgasm, and when it's over, he whispers in my ear.
I bury my face in his shoulder, afraid to acknowledge that I heard what he said.
Afraid that I might be feeling the same way.
Afraid of what it means if I do.
Adele's discreet knock on the door comes minutes after Lance calls to let her know we're ready to rejoin the world of the living. He doesn't use those words, of course, but there's a reason the French call the orgasm "la petite mort."
We're in the bedroom-another huge room with huge furniture. Lance said his parents decorated the place seventy years ago. It's obvious that their taste ran to Old World castles and provincial country chateaux. Lance never cared enough to invest either time or money to change it, and Adele doesn't seem to mind.
I've showered and traded dusty jeans for a clean pair of shorts, tugged and smoothed my T-shirt, run fingers through wet hair. I can only imagine what it looks like. Times like these, not having a reflection is a blessing.
Lance hasn't mentioned what he whispered in my ear.
I won't.
We sit side by side on the edge of the bed, comfortable with each other again despite the few moments before when I know Lance was disappointed. He expected a response. He probably deserved one. I can't verbalize why I'm not ready to echo his sentiment. I just know that I'm not.
Lance has changed into board shorts and a T-shirt. He's running a brush through his own wet hair when Adele swoops in, her arms loaded with garment bags. She hangs them in a closet and comes to stand in front us, her face wreathed in a bright smile.
"Will you need help?" she asks. But her expression says she already knows the answer. She seems pleased that I'm here with Lance, like an indulgent sister who is happy her brother found someone.
Lance puts his arm around my waist and gives the reply we both know she is expecting: "I'll help."
"Thank you, but I've been dressing myself for quite a while. I think I can manage on my own."
Adele excuses herself, pausing at the door to look back at us. "Stephen and I are having coffee downstairs. He has shoes with him so when you've decided on the clothes, come down and pick what you'd like."
She pulls the door closed behind her.
I get up and move toward the closet. "So, who is Stephen?"
Lance joins me. "He manages the Armani shop in town."
"And he comes when you call? Must be nice to be a DeFontaine." I look into the closet. "There are a dozen outfits here. How long does Adele think I'm going to stay?"
Lance joins me, reaching past my shoulder to retrieve one of the bags. "Let's see what we have."
He unzips the bag and withdraws a long gown of black silk. "I like this. Try it on."
I pull my T-shirt over my head and shimmy out of my shorts to stand naked while Lance slips the dress over my head. It settles over my body like a warm breeze. It has a V-neck and scoop back and a skirt of soft pleats. I twirl in front of him and the skirt billows around me with a whisper of silk.
"How do I look?"
The glint in his eye and a familiar quirk to the eyebrow makes me take a step away. "Whoa. If we have sex after every wardrobe change, Stephen will be here through dinner."
"And the problem is?"
I laugh. "Let's just see what else he's brought."
We shuffle through a dozen outfits-all beautiful, all exquisitely detailed. Not my usual attire, for sure. But there is something magical about well-made couturier clothes. I choose the Cady gown I first tried on, a sleeveless jersey dress and micro pinstripe trousers with a black V-neck sweater gilded front and back with rhinestone insets.
I'll knock 'em dead in those slacks the next time David and I have a court date.
I sort price tags, adding up the purchases. "Good thing I brought a credit card."
Good thing I have a job.
Lance is gathering the discarded outfits and says offhandedly, "No need to worry about that. It's been taken care of."
My turn to raise an eyebrow. "What's that mean?"
"It means I own the Armani license here in Palm Springs. An investment. I've never had the opportunity to take advantage of it before. Adele prefers more earthy styles. With you, on the other hand, I can."
"Am I dreaming? You own an Armani store?"
A nod. "You can keep everything if you'd like. I wish you would."
"Okay. What's the catch? There's got to be a catch."
He's close again, nuzzling his lips against my neck. "No catch. You want to show your appreciation? Be grateful. Very grateful. I can think of a hundred ways to take advantage of grateful."
I take his face in my hands, press my body against his. "So can I. Do we have time?"
"I'm the boss, remember?" He scoops me up. "We have all the time in the world."
Thirty minutes later, we're heading downstairs, bodies glowing, skin flushed with the afterglow of sex.
Adele and Stephen rise from a couch in the living room when they see us approach. Stephen is tall, angular, with sharp cheekbones and dark, close-cropped hair. He's a walking advertisement for Armani-cotton slacks, tonal striped shirt, twill dress blazer-right down to the Metro Shield sunglasses tucked into the open neck of his shirt. Must get a great employee discount. He grins as Lance makes the introductions.
Adele is right, Stephen says. You are beautiful.
Stephen is also vampire.
It doesn't surprise me that Stephen is vampire. Why should it? We're well integrated into the human community. I take his outstretched hand. Thank you. For the compliment and for taking the time to bring the clothes.
Anything for the boss's lady.
Lance folds the garment bags over the back of a chair. "You can return these," he says. "I think Anna should take them all, but she wouldn't hear of it. She is a model of restraint."
Restraint? I think about what we were just doing in the bedroom and wink at him before turning to Stephen. "Will you be at the party tonight?"
He looks over my head to Lance as if surprised that I know about it. Surprised and-I can't quite interpret the other emotion I see in his expression. My feeling is that he's not entirely pleased with the idea.
He recovers quickly, smoothing any lack of enthusiasm from his face. "Yes." A glance at his watch. "And now I need to get back to the store. Come into the dining room. I have a selection of shoes for you to try."
We leave Adele and Lance in the living room discussing household matters. As soon as the two of us are out of earshot, I ask, So what was that look?
He feigns ignorance with a shrug. He's busy sorting shoe boxes. What look?
He pulls out a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos and holds them up for my consideration.
I nod, take them from his hand and slip them on. They'll be perfect with the gown.
But I'm not that easily distracted. The look you gave Lance when he said I would be going with him to the party. You seemed surprised that he'd ask me. Is there a reason I shouldn't go?
Stephen pauses two beats too long before answering. Of course not. It's just that Lance-Rick-has never brought a date to one of our soirees before. It's . . . interesting.
A date? It's not like I'm the local prom queen. I'm one of their own. I throw Stephen a sharp-eyed look of curiosity. Why wouldn't he bring me?
He's guarding his thoughts, not letting anything but his words through. Finally he says, Do you like the sandals?
Yes.
He slips them from my feet and replaces them with a simple open-toed Blahnik pump. I turn my ankle to the right and left, as if examining the shoe, when in reality, I'm trying to probe his mind. I don't know how long he's been a vampire, but it's obviously long enough to know how to block an intrusion.
I take the shoe off and hand it to him. "I'll take this pair, too. I think that's all I'll need for the weekend."
His features soften. With relief? He stands and begins the process of putting the extra shoe boxes into an oversized canvas tote bag.
I move to his side and hand him boxes. How long have you been vampire?
Five years. And you?
Not quite one.
He turns and looks at me, eyes wide. Really? You seem-I don't know-much older.
If I was a mortal woman, I'd be insulted by that.
He holds up a hand, smiles. No offense meant. You give off a serious old-soul vibe.
He's just about finished repacking the boxes. How do you know . . . I almost say Lance, then realize I should probably be calling him Rick. It's how he's known here. I start again. How do you know Rick?
Stephen hoists the bag to his shoulder. We have mutual friends. The vampire community in Palm Springs is small but closely knit. He throws me an ironic smile. Incestuously so.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out the meaning in that remark. You have the same sire?
You'll have all your questions answered tonight. It should be an interesting evening.
It's the second time he's used that word. This time, there's no mistaking it. The subtle inflection he puts on the word "interesting" doesn't necessarily reflect a sense of anticipation or eagerness. I'm not sure whether Stephen is looking forward to tonight or dreading it.
Before I can ask anything else, he's moved into the living room. Lance is gathering up the garment bags. He leans over and kisses the top on my head when we join them. "I'll walk out with Stephen. See you in a minute."
Stephen says his good-byes to Adele, and he and Lance move toward the door.
Adele is clearing away the coffee service when she stops suddenly and looks up at me. "Do you care about Rick?"
It's asked with fierceness I recognize and appreciate. A fierceness that hardens her mouth and tenses her shoulders.
The same fierceness I'd use if I were concerned about the well-being of one I love. It prompts an honest answer. "Yes."
Her shoulders relax, she resumes cleaning up. "Do me a favor tonight, will you?"
"All right."
"Watch out for him."
"Watch out for Lance? That's a strange thing to say."
She picks up the tray. Her eyes are bright with concern that she's trying to mask with a smile. "You're right. I shouldn't have said anything. Ignore me."
"But you did. Adele, is there something I should be on the lookout for? Someone?"
She busies herself folding napkins, rearranging cups and spoons on the tray. She's not looking at me. "It's probably nothing. And besides, you're smart. I can tell. If there's something wrong, you'll figure it out."
Lance is closing the front door. I look up to watch him approach and when I turn around, Adele has made her escape into the kitchen.