Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  Louis smiled. “If I judge you correctly, I would guess revenge figures into your plan as well.”

  He didn’t answer, but instead asked, “How do I protect myself? I’ve already learned guns and sabers are useless.”

  “Have you?” Again, that cool arch of his brow. “Steel and lead have no power. Silver is what you must use. Silver and flame purify only second to the sun.”

  Marchand thought of Arabella Radouix’s gift; the silver crucifix even now resting warm against his skin. “And do these same methods hold true when dealing with one of your stature?”

  “We are speaking hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes. But, be warned. The revenants are simple, graceless beasts, easy to catch and destroy. You will not find the same is true of a vampire.”

  “Oh?” Marchand allowed a haughty lift to his own dark brow. “And why is that, m’sieur?”

  One instant Louis was calmly composed in his chair. In the next, his hand was wedged up beneath Marchand’s jaw, exerting a paralyzing pressure, as his eyes, now hot and golden, blazed up with a lethal contempt from only inches away.

  “Because, m’sieur, you will never see us coming. We will always know you are there even before you get a prickling of intuition. We have had centuries to perfect our skill and you are a novice in the hunt. If you seek to go after Bianca and Gerardo, tell my daughter goodbye, because you will never come back to her. At least, not as a man.”

  Marchand gasped because the grip was suddenly gone and Louis Radouix was back in his chair, smiling infinitesimally. His hand shook as he rubbed his throat. He could have easily been killed had that been his host’s intention. Humbled by his proven vulnerability, Marchand still did not relent.

  “How then can I get to them? How can I see justice done?”

  “By surviving once you dispose of their minions. That will be victory enough. Our vanity is monumental. We cannot bear the thought of being outsmarted by a mere . . . mortal. Take from them that which they own, make their lives uncomfortable, force them into hiding, that will hurt them. That’s the best you can hope for.”

  “Are you saying this just to protect them?”

  “I am not their guardian. It would sadden me to lose Gerardo, for he was once greatly loved by me, but I would not rush to Paris to save them from you.” Again, the faint smile. “I don’t think the trip will be necessary.”

  “You think they’ll kill me.”

  “I know they will.”

  Marchand stared at the motionless features and suddenly he was irritated by the man’s almost bored indifference. “And I’m sure that won’t sadden you in the least, now, will it?”

  Louis’s expression shifted from its minimal air to a vibrating intensity and Marchand knew he’d struck on a sensitive spot. His accented voice was low, yet it throbbed with a penetrating power. “Do you think I am without feelings? Do you believe I feel no kinship toward those who walk in light and close their eyes in a final mortal sleep? I feel for your brother and your friend. I feel for your pain of loss, but I simply cannot afford to mourn the acts of the foolish who court their own destruction. I have mourned thousands in my years upon this earth. Do not make me grieve for you, young fool.

  “You deal with killers who have ruthlessness refined to an art. They don’t care about you or how you feel. They don’t care about your brother or your friend. Your existence means nothing—nothing to them. I do not wish to console my daughter while she weeps over you.”

  Marchand said nothing. What could he say? He couldn’t give the required assurances. He couldn’t swear vengeance was not burning hot within him. And because he didn’t, Louis turned away from him with a brusque annoyance.

  “What other questions would you ask of me? Ask them quick. I must soon seek my rest. Or should I sleep with one eye open, expecting to see you above me with stake in hand?” The smile curving his generous lips was wry but his gaze was unblinking.

  Marchand moved away from the map table, making his steps light and unconcerned even as sweat began to run beneath his collar the minute his back was to the vampire. “I was taught it was impolite to impale your host without due cause.”

  Louis gave a quiet laugh, then he was silent. When he spoke, his tone was coolly level. “You may find you have due cause if you break my daughter’s heart. She believes herself in love with you, you know.”

  “I know. It was a feeling I returned.”

  “But no longer?”

  Marchand came to a spot in front of the heavy velvet draperies. His fingers plied the sumptuous fabric as he murmured, “I don’t know how I feel about her now. I’m not sure what she is.”

  “She is my child and I would do anything to protect her from harm. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. It’s not my wish to hurt her, m’sieur.”

  “It’s not your wish to care for her either, is it?”

  “She’s not—”

  “Not what? Loving? Beautiful? Sensitive? Strong? Bright? She is all of those things because she is her mother’s child, too. What’s not to love?”

  “The fact that she’s unnatural, m’sieur. She is a vampire, like you, like them. I know what she is. I saw what she is.”

  And because his voice faltered so painfully, Louis was patient. “Nicole is my child. You misunderstand one thing, my young friend. Someone good does not become evil because evil was done to them. There are as many shades to what we are as there are to what you are. I had not thought you narrow of mind but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I will not mind comforting Nicole over your loss after all.”

  And because there was a soft, subtle threat in those words, Marchand pulled the drapes open and turned to his host, his own figure framed in a halo of sunlight.

  Louis gasped and stumbled back into the shadows of the room. His head was averted, his eyes shielded by his upraised hand. Then, surprisingly, came his quiet chuckle.

  “You learn fast, íl mío amíco. Perhaps you will come back to her after all.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  HE WALKED SO far Nicole began to fear his strength would fail him. He’d been weak and unsure of step the day before, but as he hiked the narrow trails, his stride was long and steady. He didn’t seem to be out for the appreciation of the view, for he never paused to gaze upon the finer sights, but rather he was walking for the sake of movement. He was thinking. And she wondered, glumly, how she figured into that somber contemplation.

  “Marchand?”

  He came about so swiftly, he slipped upon the stones, but as she reached out to steady him, he reared back, skidding several feet off the trail, stumbling for balance. The first thing he did was cast a frantic glance around. And when he realized their isolation, his wariness increased tenfold.

  “You followed me.” It was an accusation. She tried to smile.

  “I was worried about you. And I wanted to talk.”

  Again, the nervous look around.

  “Are you afraid of me, Marchand?”

  “No. Of course not,” he answered too quickly for it to be the truth. “I was just—I would rather be alone, is all.”

  She pretended not to hear that as she walked up near where he was standing and paused to admire the scenery. “It’s so beautiful here. So peaceful after Paris. You could go for hours without ever seeing another soul.”

  She heard the rattle of stones and glanced around to see him on his way back down the trail at a hurried pace. It was no effort at all to catch up to him.

  “Going back so soon?”

  His gaze canted toward her, then quickly away. She could hear how rapidly his heart was pounding. Its rhythm had been quite calm before her approach, so she knew it wasn’t exertion.

  “Why are you running from me?”

  “I’m not,” he claimed terse
ly. “Why are you tracking me?”

  “Tracking you?” She stopped, surprised by his choice of words. Tracking, as in stalking, as in hunting. “For the sport of it, is that what you wanted to hear?”

  He gave her a longer look and it was colored with apprehension. Damn him, that was what he thought. And she was so incensed, she gave way to a bit of purposeful intimidation.

  “How clever of you to have figured that out, that I would follow you to this remote place where no one could possibly hear your cries for help as I leapt upon you like a beast and sucked out your blood.”

  Immediately, he began to run.

  “Marchand!” she called after him, then sighed in exasperation. He couldn’t have felt more than a ruffling breeze before she was standing in his path. “Marchand, stop. I was only—”

  But he’d braked so fast, he scuffled backward, falling onto his seat, skinning his palms on the loose rock. He struggled up and was vaulting carelessly over a wall of jagged stone in his haste to escape her. Where did he think he was going to go, she wondered, as her hurt and annoyance grew.

  Then she was blocking his way again and this time, he cried out and actually swung at her. She easily evaded his fist, but the thought that he would attempt to harm her made her furious.

  “Marchand, I am not a monster!”

  But he was already scrambling back down toward the trail.

  “You fool, you’re going to break your leg!”

  Then she held her breath as he tripped and sprawled face first upon the dirt. He seemed momentarily dazed then. As he began to gather himself to continue his flight, Nicole dropped down hard upon the center of his back. His oof of surprise kicked up dust, then he was immediately grappling for some loose stone, some weighty stick, anything to wield as a weapon in his own defense. Angry with his persistent fear, she gripped his wrists and pulled them up tight behind his back, forcing his face into the loamy ground, letting him feel her superior strength. He knew struggle was useless, but still he thrashed beneath her.

  “Now, you will listen to me,” she commanded, bending so her face was close to his. He tossed his head to the other side, away from hers. She gave a frustrated groan. “Marchand, I’m not going to hurt you!”

  “No, of course not!” he growled fiercely. “And I’m sure that is what your friends said to Frederic and Camille before they ripped their throats open and made them into—into those killing beasts. Or was that you? You said yourself you were with Camille on the day he . . . died. And you weren’t trying to hurt me that night when Frederic and Musette interrupted us on the floor in our flat? What was that? Is that the way your kind mates? Killing when they’re through?”

  She was so stunned, he was able to fling her off, clawing his way up to his feet, but instead of running, he whirled to confront her and squared off, panting hard, his expression dangerous. She stayed where she was, seated in the crumpled heather, staring up at him in angry anguish.

  “I didn’t kill Camille or Frederic,” she shouted up at him. “And I’ve never harmed anyone except those trying to harm you!” She rose up so fast, he never saw her move. She had his face between her hands and was kissing him so hard, his senses swam. And when she opened her eyes to find him staring glassily at her, his breathing fast and fearful, she said huskily, “That’s how I mate. And I remember that you liked it.”

  She stretched up again and this time, his eyes slid shut. With the slightest encouragement from her tongue, the seam of his mouth opened, letting her slip inside. In her restless longing for him, she rushed the moment, pressing herself up against him as her hands moved downward, her fingers stroking sensuously along the taut cords of his neck. And his body jerked rigid, his mood of compliance becoming wild resistance.

  “No!”

  He pushed her away, hard. And as she was tired of fighting with him, she shoved back. Her palms smacked into his shoulders with a force that knocked him flat on his back. She dropped down on him, slowing her descent at the last moment until she was almost floating, settling over him like a gentle breeze. And that agitated him all the more. His hands came up, ready to do battle, but she clasped his wrists and held them down against the earth on either side of his head, her grip gentle yet unbreakable. He tried to throw her off by twisting and tossing, but she made her weight quadruple in mass, pinning him quite efficiently.

  “Marchand, don’t be afraid.” But she could feel his heart pounding against her and the tense shake of his muscles. He’d quit struggling, finally accepting the fact that he couldn’t defeat her. He’d closed his eyes, rigidly resigned to his fate. Foolish man. “And what is it you think I have planned for you?” she crooned. “Something terrible, like this?” And her lips brushed over the flutter of his eyelids. “Something vile, like this?” Her tongue traced the whorl of his ear. “Or something truly frightening, like this?”

  And her mouth touched his, light as a whisper, flirting along the arcs and swells of his while he took in her breath in hurried little gasps. She wanted so badly for him to respond in the way he once had, for him to be the aggressor, the one to initiate the passionate mood. But first she’d have to convince him she meant him no harm. She would have to erase that image of her with fangs out, snarling like the demon she claimed not to be. She had to gain his trust, and to do that, she would have to prove temptation wouldn’t sway her.

  He moaned anxiously when her mouth pressed below his ear.

  “No.” His knees began to shift. “No.”

  “Shhh.” Her breath blew warm against his throat. “I won’t harm you.” And she began to chain soft kisses along that taut curve. Her lips rode his frantic swallowing.

  “No . . . please.”

  “Trust me, my love. I won’t take anything from you that’s not freely given.” Then she lifted up to whisper against his mouth, “I love you, Marchand.”

  He opened his eyes slowly.

  She released his hands so hers could smooth his hair and stroke his face. His gaze was unblinking, filling up with a gradual awakening.

  “Nicole.”

  A sudden hope shivered through her. Slow, she told herself. Slowly.

  She kissed him. Her mouth fit to his with an undeniable familiarity. Let him remember. Let him remember that they’d kissed like this and had gone on to things more pleasant still. That they’d enjoyed each other well and that she’d not harmed him when she’d had the chance. And wouldn’t harm him now.

  She felt the tentative brush of his hands upon her hair. Soon, his fingers were sinking into the glossy dark waves, tightening, anchoring her above him. And his lips parted to pursue a deeper union. It was everything passion should be and her own heart was racing wildly in response.

  “Oh, Marchand, make love with me!”

  But even as she said that, she knew it was a mistake. It was too soon to push for intimacy. He broke from her kiss, turning his face away. His hands braced against her shoulders, not actively resisting but rather bidding her to hold back.

  “I can’t do this, Nicole.”

  His rejection touched off all the repressed anguish of the past few days, fueled by her own insecurities over who and what she was.

  “No, of course you can’t,” she cried bitterly. “Not when you could take for a lover someone who’s not a monster. Someone like Musette.”

  She was up and off him without registering his look of blank surprise.

  “Nicole, what are you talking about?”

  But she was marching down the trail, walking away from him as fast as she could without losing more dignity than she already had.

  “Nicole? Nicole!”

  She could hear him scrambling up, could feel his hesitation, but she didn’t alter her brisk pace. He had to jog after her, to catch onto her arm to stop her, then she wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t bear for him to see the tears on her face.


  “Nicole, what’s this about Musette? What would make you think there’s anything between us?”

  “I—I saw you together. I know she’s sleeping with you.”

  “Oh.”

  Of course, he couldn’t deny it, but the fact that he didn’t even try made the tears fall all the faster.

  “Nicole.” He cupped his hand beneath her chin, but she fought his attempt to turn her face toward him. “Nicole, I have never and will never feel or act as anything but a brother to Musette. She would have been my sister-in-law, Frederic’s bride. I could never think of her any other way. As for our sleeping together, that’s all it was. Sleeping. Nicole?” He persisted and finally she looked up at him, her eyes melting with misery. “That’s all it was.”

  She believed him. “It doesn’t really matter, Marchand. I wish the only thing between us was Musette. But it’s not that simple, is it? And it won’t ever be as it was for us again.”

  And she walked away from him.

  Marchand followed her with his gaze, and suddenly he realized just what he might be losing if he let her continue on alone. A lifetime of logic and restraint fell away when he considered the emptiness of a future without her. He had reached out and touched upon a kindred flame. He’d found a spirit attuned to his own. She was the perfect complement and companion . . . except for the fact that she was not quite human. How could he possibly weigh those factors? As he watched her get farther and farther away, he knew he would have no choice but to find a way.

  He trotted to catch up with her, then put his arm around her shoulders. Her resistance was meager and soon she was turned against his chest, her damp face buried in his shirtfront, his arms wrapped tightly about her.

  “I love you, Nicole.”

  She made a soft, strangled sound and shook her head.

  Marchand stroked her hair back and kissed her brow. “I do. That hasn’t changed. Just please, please give me some time to take everything in. I can’t rest. I can’t make sense of my thoughts. But I know what’s in my heart. You are. You are. You’re all I have left. I don’t want to lose you. Just please give me time.”