by Evie Byrne
But it couldn't be anything too fancy. He didn't have hours to cook. With a twitch of regret he closed a window titled "Lobster Soufflé".
As if he was going to win her over with food. All feeding her did was emphasize the difference between them.
But somehow it seemed like the right track to be on. Drumming his fingers on his laptop, he wondered why he believed that. He didn't know that she had any interest in food at all. What she liked was ice cream. If he wanted to impress her he should just hijack a Good Humor truck and back it up her driveway.
Maybe this impulse had nothing to do with her. He wanted to feed from her, so he felt obligated to feed her in turn. Why? To alleviate the guilt? Why should he feel guilt at all? He never had before.
"Bloody Saint Olga." He snapped his laptop shut.
Mentally he quested out for Helena. Checking in with her was becoming a bit of a neurotic habit. He didn't sense any agitation. She might be watching TV or asleep.
Stiff from hunching over the computer too long, he decided to take a shower, then go for a walk. The hotel shower had no water pressure to speak of, but that was just as well, because even that weak trickle of water over his newborn skin was maddening. Erotic, even. Erotic if he were into being tied down and stroked a million times with an ostrich feather. Which he wasn't. But if Helena held the feather he'd reconsider. Grinning at the idea, he turned his back to the spray, letting the hot water go to work on his neck.
Eight ounces of salmon. 489 calories, 22 grams of fat, 61 grams of protein.
The thoughts came on him quietly, like his own.
Oh crap, I forgot the brown rice.
Alex braced his hands against the shower wall to keep from pitching over. He was wide awake, and Helena was in his head. Clear as a bell. Either he was more tuned into her then he thought, or her thoughts were screaming loud. But what was she thinking about—rice? How urgent could that be?
Maybe there's some back here…no…but even so, it would take too long to cook. Pasta, then, but then there's no fiber…
Banal as her thoughts were, they were invested with a high-pitched anxiety that set his teeth on edge. Like the universe might collapse if she didn't have brown rice for dinner. And what was she doing cooking dinner at one in the morning?
I've messed up again. He's going to be so disappointed.
What the fuck? He? Who the fuck was he? Alex's shut off the water and jerked the shower curtain aside. All the rings popped off the bar and the curtain ended up a wet weight in his hand. Snarling, he threw it to the ground and stalked out to his suitcase. He was going to get dressed, and then he was going to kill someone.
Hey princess, I'm home! A man's voice. Jeff's voice.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he saw a kitchen he didn't recognize. He—no, Helena—ran toward Jeff and threw herself in his arms. Jeff kissed her cheek and spun her in circle.
Alex dropped to his knees, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was in her dreams. Yesterday afternoon she'd been pulled into his dream. That made sense. He'd been near her, full of power from feeding, and very horny. But he never suspected she'd be able to invade his mind while he was awake. Or was it the other way around?
"I missed you, baby." Helena kissed her fiancé on the lips. His mouth firmed under hers. Encouraged, she slid her hand around the back of his neck, stroking the soft hair at his nape. "I missed you a whole lot," she said, pressing him for another kiss. All day long she'd been imagining making love with him. She touched her tongue to his, and ran her hands over his rear end.
He pushed her away. "Whoa there." He laughed, but he didn't look amused. Not in the eyes. "Let me catch my breath before you eat me alive."
Helena withdrew, ashamed. Of course he'd be tired from the road, and to be jumped the moment he came in the door. No matter how hard she tried, her timing was always wrong.
"Sorry, honey. We'll eat soon. I've got dinner going."
"Sounds good. What are we having?" Jeff went to the fridge and pulled out an energy drink.
"Salmon. No skin. Eight ounces for you."
"And for you?"
"Four ounces."
He smiled. "That's my girl. We're going to have you back in competition form in no time."
Helena nodded. "We're going to have steamed broccoli with it, and pasta. I'm sorry about the pasta, but I forgot to buy rice."
Jeff didn't look angry. He never looked angry. "But I see you didn't forget to buy wine."
"Just one bottle. All week."
"Helena, you're a grown up. Make your own decisions. But with your family history, I don't know why you'd ever take a drink. It's empty calories anyway."
"My dad isn't an alcoholic. He just likes gin and tonics."
He raised a brow at her. "Whatever you say. I'm going for a run."
"A run? Now?"
Suddenly he had his running clothes on and was heading out the door. She followed him.
"Wait. I'll come with you."
"I'm doing speed work. You can't keep up."
"I bet I could."
He snorted and took off. She ran after him. She was fast, no matter what he thought, and she kept pace with him easily. At first. But then her feet began to drag. She looked down and saw she'd been running in her bedroom slippers and they'd become soaked with mud. Every step she took, the heavier they got.
"Jeff! Wait up!"
He was already twenty yards ahead, running effortlessly, like the machine he was. He didn't look back.
The mud swallowed her slippers. She forged ahead barefoot, fighting the suction. How stupid. And what a mess. The hem of her bathrobe was dragging in it, weighing her down. Why hadn't she taken time to change into shorts?
"Jeff," she called again. The next step sank her up to her knees, and the pull of the mud became even stronger. "Jeff!" This time her voice was edged with panic. "Help me!"
He heard her, and turned around. In a few seconds he'd run up to the edge of the mire, and now looked down at her, mystified. "What in the hell are you doing in there?"
"I don't know." Up to her waist now, Helena raised her arms to keep them clean. "I just got caught. Give me a hand."
Jeff looked at the ring of mud surrounding her, and then pointed to his feet. "These are three-hundred-dollar shoes."
She gaped at him. Hatred, pure and strong, filled her to the brim. She'd never been so angry in her life. She loathed him. If she could grab his ankle, she'd drown him and his shoes in this muddy hole.
"You rat bastard."
Jeff drew back, surprised at her language. She never cursed around him, knowing he liked women to be ladies. "You fucker. You arrogant prick. You goddamn liar. You cheating fuckhead! I know! I know everything!"
He laughed. She was still sinking.
Alex was pacing the boundaries of her dream, trying to find a way in. She was having one of those nightmares where you're trapped, and need someone else to wake you up, but he didn't have time to get to her physically.
"Helena! It's a dream." He gathered his strength and yelled again, imagining the wall between them as glass that could be broken. "Helena!"
She heard. She looked around for him, her brow furrowed. In a small voice she said, "Alex?"
Much to Alex's satisfaction, Jeff evaporated.
"Wake up."
"Alex! Alex!" The mud came up to her armpits. Her eyes were terrified. She held out one hand to him.
He reached for her hand and crossed into her dream. Chest deep in mud, he pulled her into his arms. She wrapped herself around him like a child.
"You can make this all go away. Just wish it away, Helena."
"You'll stay?"
He stroked her hair with his mud crusted hand. "I'd never leave you."
She buried her face in his neck and vanished, leaving him kneeling on the hotel carpet.
Chapter 10
Alex arrived a half hour after dark with a bottle of wine in one hand and yet another bag of groceries in the other. He gave her a pol
ite kiss on the cheek and headed straight to the kitchen. God help her, he looked good. His skin was white again and his super short hair hugged his skull like a cap. It almost looked like it was supposed to be that way. Sure he was still a little thin and worn, but somehow that made him more appealing.
She needed some fresh air.
"Do you mind if I take a run while you cook?" She'd had a weird dream about Jeff and running the night before and had been dying to run all day to exorcise the memory. Or was that exercise?
He smiled with some secret amusement. "That's a great idea. I don't know if I can talk and cook at the same time anyway."
The house smelled incredible when she came back an hour later. Alex seemed harried but happy. The kitchen was full of steam and rattling pots. Saying he needed more time, he handed her a glass of wine and shooed her away.
The wine gave her a quick buzz, maybe because she'd been running, maybe because she'd not eaten for a while. She took a long, hot shower and tried to figure out what to wear when a vampire cooks you dinner. The obvious answer was a turtleneck. Har de har har.
Sweats? Too casual. Nice blouse and pants? Too fussy. In the end she put on the sweater dress she'd been wearing their first night together. It was a wrap style, comfortable but kind of classy, the moss green understated.
The run, the shower and the wine combined to give her a high flush. One that wasn't going to go away anytime soon. She combed out her hair but didn't bother blow-drying it. She didn't bother with jewelry or shoes or make-up either. No amount of armor was going to help her. They didn't need another confusing encounter. They needed to have an adult conversation. He needed to go back to New York.
Her pulse was beating hard. It wasn't the sort of thing she would have noticed before meeting Alex, but now she put her hand to the base of her throat and felt the thin skin jumping under her fingers. Alex would see it. She was sure of it. But she couldn't hide upstairs all night. She tiptoed down the stairs, but he must have heard her, because he popped out of the kitchen wiping his hands on her "Kiss the Cook" apron.
"Can I get you a re…" His sentence trailed off as he looked her up and down. Helena stopped walking. He studied her bare calves, her hips, her breasts as if he'd never seen such things before. Her nipples hardened while his glance raked over her chest. Ah jeez. As much as she wanted to cross her arms over her chest, she couldn't be that lame. She straightened her back instead. He took a deep breath and came forward, hand out. "A refill?"
In answer she shot her arm straight out, glass in hand. That kept them two whole arm lengths apart. And that was a good thing. He took the glass from her, his fingers brushing over hers. She jerked her hand away, but he didn't seem to notice because his attention had fastened on her throat. Her damp, flushed throat. Her beating pulse.
Better than on the tits.
His eyes darkened and went glassy.
No, worse than the tits. Much worse.
But it only lasted a second or two before he gave her his patented charming smile and returned to the kitchen to get the wine.
"We're eating in the dining room." He gestured that she should go in.
She never set foot in the dining room. When her parents were alive they had special dinners in there, otherwise the room was mostly shut up. Since she'd taken over their house she had no use for it at all.
But Alex had found the table cloth and lit the candles. He'd laid down two place settings of her mother's china and cut juniper boughs for the table.
"It's lovely," she said as he offered her a chair.
He vanished in an odd blur. She realized he was moving like Mikhail. Not pretending to be human. What surprised her about it was that it didn't bother her at all. He returned with two tiny little demitasse cups and set them in the center of their plates. Helena bent over hers and took a sniff of the clear, pale liquid inside. It smelled like chicken broth, but chicken broth by way of exotic places.
"It's an amuse bouche," he said.
"A what?"
"Something to wake up your palette."
"Not a soup course for a hamster?"
"Take a sip."
She raised the cup to her lips, and he did the same, his eyes sparkling expectantly.
This better be good, or I'm going to have to fake it and I'm bad at—holy cow! The soup, or whatever it was, washed over her tongue and exploded her senses. Savory chicken goodness, cumin, hot pepper, lemon, basil maybe, more that she couldn't identify, all harmonizing perfectly.
Alex smiled around his cup. He already knew she liked it. How could she not?
"Can I trade up to the adult-size bowl?"
The answer was no. It turned out the rest of the amuse bouche was for him. She got her good friend the fish back, poached and garnished with parsley and mandarin peels. And new potatoes roasted with garlic and swimming in butter. Garlic! Did he do that on purpose? And a salad of endive and blue cheese. All prepared as beautifully as the soup. She'd forgotten that eating could be fun.
And while she'd expected it would be weird to be shoveling down food in front of him while all he did was sip soup, it wasn't. As they ate, and drank one bottle of wine, and then another, they talked. And talked. And talked. The crackling sexual tension that had afflicted them when she first came downstairs receded, their conversation became effortless. Ridiculously comfortable, in fact. Like they'd know each other for years.
They learned they were really different—no surprise there. He'd grown up in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Boulder was the biggest city she'd ever lived in. He had brothers, she was an only child. He was raised Eastern Orthodox, and admitted to going to church at Christmas and Easter. That flipped her out. Christian vampires. She came from generations of sturdy, practical Midwesterners who avoided church like the plague. More than anything else she learned how important family was to him. Another man might have talked about his career, his toys, his accomplishments. Alex talked about his family. He made his family life sound like a wacky ethnic sitcom—one that involved occasional exsanguinations. And in turn, she ended up talking more about her parents than she had in the past year. As she did, she could almost imagine them taking their places around the table to have their say. What would they think of Alex?
They ended dinner as they had started it, together, with tiny cups. This time they were filled with dark liquid chocolate infused with mint.
"You can eat this?"
He quirked a smile. "I can have about one tablespoon of chocolate. Believe me, I've tested my limits."
"I feel bad. I'm stuffed with good food that you didn't get to eat."
He rested his chin in his hand and thought about his answer. "I enjoyed making this food so much, and watching you enjoy it. It don't think it could get any better. I don't feel like I'm missing anything."
"But you must be hungry."
"That's a different question."
"It is," she agreed, suddenly sad. "When are you going home?"
"You tell me. I can stay at the hotel for a while. My laptop is all the office I need. What I mean is, would you like to see me again? Maybe go somewhere next time?"
"You mean go on a date?"
He nodded, his eyes turning so intense she had to look away. "I made a mistake when I came here. I should have started with a date just like this one. What I'm saying is that I'd like to start over."
"Tonight was lovely."
"But."
"But you're not looking for a date. You've laid your cards on the table. You want a wife. You want to make me into a vampire. I can't do that. I can't attack people. I can't give up lying on the beach, eating popcorn at movies, pumpkin pie. A billion things."
"You don't have to convert for us to be together."
"You're saying you don't want kids?" Helena shrugged her shoulders. She knew he did. And he'd be a good dad, she bet. But with someone else. "You'd say you were content, but deep down you'd want me to change. I used to live with a man who wanted me to be something else. It was hell."
"I'm not Je
ff."
"No, but—" Helena broke off, startled. "How do you know about him?"
Alex fiddled with his cup. "I see things. Sometimes."
"You read my mind?"
"No. I just see things. Random things. Dreams. Memories."
Helena narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute. The train dream. Were you in it? Was that you? Oh my God."
"It was my dream." He kicked back in his chair and folded his arms. "You barged in. And you came all dressed-up for the occasion." He bit his lip in amusement and managed to look lascivious while he did it.
"That's not…I didn't…those weren't my clothes."
"There's no sense in denying that we desire one another. It's going to come out in our dreams."
"But you knew it was me. I mean, that we were sharing a dream. But I didn't know. I thought I was having my own private dream. Don't you see why that's creepy?"
"How am I to know what you want? You weren't acting like you wanted me to wake you up."
"You could guess. You know I have issues about this kind of thing. About you taking things without asking."
"That dream was spectacular. Best of my life. I'm not ashamed of it. I won't apologize for it."
"You're unbelievable, Alexander Faustin."
"No, you're unbelievable. How many chances do we get at love, Helena? And you're going to get all nitpicky about 'your boundaries'."
"Nitpicky?" Helena threw down her napkin, images of blood orgies in her mind, nights without dawns, weird Russian vampires that invaded her dreams at will. This was not nit-picking.
Alex leaned forward, his face bright with passion. "I hate what he's done to you. I should have found you six years ago."
"This isn't about Jeff. It's about you. It's about you being a vampire. Don't you get that?"
"This is about control. You don't trust yourself, so you're afraid to trust anyone."
"Trust is earned."
"Then let me earn it."
Helena held his gaze as long as she could. It never wavered. He didn't even blink. She gave up and leaned back in her chair, sad and tired. A long silent minute stretched between them.