What could be taking so long?
Reynaldo stopped at one of the tables in the blue salon. This table was painted white, etched with gold, and possessed a polished marbled top. Four carved legs curved beneath it, forming the distinctive style of a Louis the Fourteenth piece. It stood near the wide plastered doorway leading to the music room. If he looked in that direction he’d see all manner of instruments: harps, wind and stringed instruments, lyres, percussion implements. A large pianoforte held the center spot of the room. Massive candelabra sat atop the pianoforte, lit candles sending golden glow. His mate’s cello case had been placed beside the bench. Reynaldo ran his fingers along it every time he’d passed.
Both rooms were furnished alike, with ornately carved tables, over-stuffed chairs, and elegant settees. Most pieces were arranged along walls, leaving the rooms open. The furniture carried touches of blue and gold, echoing the color scheme of the walls, draperies, rugs, the frescos that framed each fireplace.
The ceilings were molded of white plaster and centered with enormous paintings. The blue salon had a Renaissance depiction of chubby cherubs flitting about barely-clad goddesses amidst a vista of dawn-hued clouds. The music room had a like rendition, only it was a darker, twilit scene filled with a lot of flowing drapery, weaponry, and mostly-naked muscled gods.
Each room contained a fireplace. Both were lit, sending light and warmth into the rooms. The entire effect was regal, especially the blue salon. It was the perfect setting for a collection of curios; snuffboxes, porcelain pieces, and miniatures.
Reynaldo lifted a gem-encrusted snuffbox and flipped it open as if to study the tiny spots of smelted metal where the lid attached. He snapped the piece shut. Put the box down. Moved his attention to a miniature. The woman pictured was delicately painted. Costumed in ancient regime attire. Her hairstyle was ornate, curled and powdered. A line of flawless pearls embedded in gold-work framed the piece. Reynaldo ran his thumb along the pearl bumps, but didn’t really see it.
His mate was taking forever!
He could have reached the countess suite a hundred of times by now, without even resorting to vampiric speed. He didn’t guess it, either. He knew. He’d already paced an equivalent amount of steps back and forth through these two rooms, looking at knick-knacks, viewing tapestries, and fidgeting. He should never have agreed to an hour! Every minute had the duration of a week.
No.
It was closer to a month.
The miniature in his hand shifted. Reynaldo looked down with surprise. He’d gripped without thought, warping the thing into a ball.
Accidenti.
If she saw this, she’d be angered again. And up until yesterday, he’d have had the same reaction. Over the years, Reynaldo had gathered all manner of real estate, art, jewels, and the like. Possessions were a mark of status, culture, taste.
He’d been a fool.
Now, he knew they were worthless.
Everything was.
Except love.
Reynaldo massaged the wrought metal until it was back to an acceptable oval shape. Set the miniature again on the little easel. Stepped back to view his handiwork. It didn’t look right...but it didn’t matter. Not with his mate so near!
Back muscles clenched and twitched. Aggravatingly. Irritatingly. It matched how he felt. Exactly.
He was being foolhardy. He should use this time wisely. Find his equilibrium, tamp down errant reactions, and somehow gain a measure of control over the uncontrollable. All of which sounded impossible. He’d thought besotted was an over-used word that poets used. Troubadours bandied about. Lovers whispered of. Now he knew it was an illness.
And he had it.
His already keen senses were on hyper-alert. He continually jerked without provocation. Every beat of his heart brought awareness, as he checked for any uptick that might mean Simone approached. He put the same attention to his breathing. Erratic earlier, it was now slow and regular, marking the passage of time.
As if to punctuate his thoughts, somewhere out in the halls a clock chimed the hour of eight.
And she still wasn’t here!
Reynaldo moved a few steps to one side and looked again up at a tapestry. Bordered in light blue satin, it depicted another fantasy scene, this one of nymphs cavorting in a pool. A forest backdrop surrounded them, while a centaur watched from the side. It wasn’t the lone tapestry in the suite of rooms. The walls were lined with them...probably as defense against the chill. That stopped his errant thoughts momentarily.
Was it warm enough?
He should have added some modernity to the chateau. But temperature had never been an issue. It was now. He couldn’t remember if he’d instructed a fire to be lit in the countess suite, either. He hoped it wasn’t too chilly up there for her.
His heart reacted, gaining depth and volume and speed. His breathing had the same trouble. And then he heard an unmistakable echo. Reynaldo spun just as the door closed behind her. An anvil smacked into him. And despite all his self-counseling, he raced right to her.
He arrived in a blur of movement. Thankfully, she didn’t see it. She had her gaze affixed to the floor between them, while a blush stained her cheeks. And that’s when a riot of black powder exploded in his skull.
Merda!
No amount of preparation time was enough.
Fangs reacted instantly. His body convulsed as he yanked muscles taut. And his cazzo went right back to angry insistence against his trousers. Reynaldo shook in place, looking down at her while fighting every instinct to grab. Maul. And consume.
The combination was intense and wondrous. Angered and sublime. Frightening, and yet exhilarating. All of it in equal measure. And he fought each sensation as he stood there, trying not to move.
Her hair wasn’t covered. She’d pulled it back and plaited it. A black ribbon tied off the end. Her frock was the same shade. Black. Nondescript. Tight to the waist, it flowed loosely from there; floor-length, long sleeved, and high-necked. She deliberately downplayed her features. He knew the reason. He’d attended enough recitals, operas, and exhibitions. Musicians always dressed thus. It kept the audience attention on the musician’s ability, not the musician.
Right now, it didn’t work.
That material might be thick, but it would easily shred. Reynaldo’s nails grew without conscious volition. He stabbed them into his palms with the fists he made.
“Um. Hello again...Count Moroseni.”
Her words were directed toward the floor between them. A portion of him noted that she pronounced his name correctly. All the rest of him didn’t care.
“Reynaldo.” His instant retort was harsh. Angered-sounding. But surprisingly, he actually managed to keep the groan that followed it silent.
“My...lord?”
She addressed him in a hesitant fashion. Just above a whisper. And there was a tremor attached to her voice.
Damn it.
Reynaldo yanked his gaze away, and studied the door for a few moments. He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Swallowed. Cleared his throat, and somehow managed to reply with a calm tone. “Call me Reynaldo. Please.”
“Is that...correct?”
“I insist.”
She darted a glance up toward him, gifting him with heaven, but since it was attached to hell-fire, the resultant blast burned his chest. It grabbed his heart on the way to his skull. Once there, it melted his wits. He would have staggered backward if his thighs weren’t locked. He still swayed. She looked to one side of him. Reynaldo managed to catch a ragged bit of air that she matched.
“All right then. Reynaldo.”
His name off her tongue sent shivers that just multiplied his ills. His gut took a blow. His eyes burned. His canines elongated. And his cazzo hardened to a painful status. This was insane. And nothing worked at halting it!
“I suppose we should get down to business. Is this...the music room?”
She walked from him while she spoke. Reynaldo swiveled and immediately followed. He didn’t query it. No need. He hadn’t any jurisdiction over anything. Self-control was an illusion. She stopped in the door between the rooms for a moment before continuing in. He barely kept from plowing into her.
“Oh. My cello is here.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“I’ll need to tune it.”
“Yes,” he replied again.
“Is your piano in tune?”
“Yes.”
She reached the instrument and lifted the front, revealing ivory and ebony keys. And then she stared over at him wide-eyed. His heart stuttered. His knees sagged. To remain upright, he smacked a hand to the doorframe beside him, grabbing the plaster ridge with his fingers.
“This is a pianoforte,” she told him in an awed tone.
“Yes.”
Giving one word answers should make it easy to manage his reactions. It wasn’t working. Her instant glance from him back to the keyboard and the tremor of her hands were vivid indicators of his failure.
“This...can’t be original.”
“Why?”
“It would be almost three hundred years old!”
“Yes,” he answered.
“It’s that old? Truly.”
“Yes.”
Despite his hold, the word carried too much emotion. Deep bass tones pulsed through both rooms. Candles flickered with the infusion of air. The fire behind her flared brighter before subsiding. Reynaldo sucked on his fangs. One-word answers were even getting difficult. Her lips parted slightly. She was breathing rapidly. Her breasts swelled against the black confines of her gown. Reynaldo matched her breath-for-breath. The plaster he gripped began crumbling in his palm.
“I think I’ll just...get my cello now,” she told him.
He toyed with what to answer and how to manage it, but it wasn’t necessary. Without looking in his direction, she sat, pulled her cello case to her. Unsnapped an outer pocket. She was visibly shaking now. Then, she blushed. And Reynaldo’s world got upended.
He was soaring, but his feet remained locked to the floor. His fingers gripped to plaster. His heart thumping mightily. The mating pull was so vast that containing it required every effort and a large measure of luck. His heart wasn’t pumping blood. It sent need and hunger and craving through his veins. Vampiric strength was on the verge of failure.
Was it possible...she felt this too?
Already?
She lifted a binder from the pocket. Shuffled through pages. Spoke her next words to them. “Do you, um...have a particular selection you’d like to hear?”
He grunted something unintelligible. Answering had become a lesson in futility.
“I appear to have brought...Bach’s Cello Suite #1 in G. The prelude is one of my favorites.”
She lifted a page. Reynaldo didn’t answer. She glanced at him and then back to her music. Her shaking made the paper rustle.
“I also have Brahms’ Cello Sonata #1, first movement...and...here is Tchaikovsky’s Variations on a Rococo Theme. That one showcases...uh. Melodic long notes.”
He didn’t reply. This time, she didn’t even glance at him.
“I also have...Beethoven’s Cello Sonata #1...and—ah!”
She gave a cry as her bundle of pages slipped, scattering onto the floor. She jumped to her feet. Reynaldo was instantly before her. She lifted a stricken gaze to his, blinking rapidly. He couldn’t move. He could barely think. He was already smitten with her eyes. His heart sent solid thumps of pain as he viewed the patina of tears atop them. And then she looked down at her pile of papers.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can audition...tonight.”
She worried over an audition? Who the hell said anything about—?
Nigel.
Accidenti!
Reynaldo was going to stick a sword through the kid the next time they met. No. Wait. Damning things didn’t help. Nor did anger. And this wasn’t just Nigel’s fault. The blame for this was at Reynaldo’s door, too.
His train of thought took seconds. There was an after-effect, as well. Self-disgust gave back a measure of wits and some semblance of control. Not much, but he wasn’t quibbling. Reynaldo cleared his throat to speak, but she forestalled him.
“I’m really sorry. I don’t...know what’s wrong with me. I’m not normally so nervous. It’s just...everything is so strange! I mean, we just met, and—oh, no! No. No. I did not just say that!”
She sounded horrified. And she put her hands to her face. But she didn’t look up or she’d have seen what he couldn’t hide. Fangs were impossible to conceal, not with a cheek-splitting grin. Reynaldo brushed plaster debris on his trousers before putting his hand toward her, palm up. A head shift indicated she glanced at it, but then she looked back to the pile of papers.
“I should um...go now...while I can still talk around the foot in my mouth,” she said.
Reynaldo’s smile widened. “Allow me to escort you.”
“I can probably find the front door by myself. But maybe Jacques could see my things...brought down?”
He regarded the top of her head for some moments before trying again. “Simone. Please. Take my hand.”
“I...think I should just go,” she informed the floor.
“Well, I think you just need a change of venue.”
“You’re joking. You can’t possibly have a better room than this.”
“I do,” he replied.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Your chamber.”
Her gasp was loud. Shocked. He matched it. But beyond a series of tremors he couldn’t halt, Reynaldo didn’t move. Shift. Or even breathe. He stood, silently waiting, willing her to take his hand. It took every ounce of strength at his disposal. And just when he thought he’d failed, she reached out...
And touched her fingers to his.