"And you should be in them. They'll want you. All you have to do is show them your work."
Although she knew she was good, she wasn't sure she could join those rarefied ranks. But she figured the worst thing that could happen was that the gallery owners would turn her down.
She contacted Martin St. Laurent first. He'd heard of her by reputation, and he came over the same day she called.
Five minutes into the viewing, he asked for an exclusive deal, with terms that made her eyes bug out.
She accepted—giving him ten paintings to start. In the first twenty-four hours, she sold three, at higher prices than she had ever asked in San Francisco.
St. Laurent wanted replacements, which she gladly agreed to supply.
That night, Jules was late, and she waited impatiently for him to arrive so she could tell him the great news. Then she saw the twinkle in his eye.
"You didn't by any chance buy them all?" she asked.
"No. I only bought one, love. The one I wanted so badly—your picture of the couple lying in bed looking so happy and relaxed."
"Jules, I would have given that painting to you, if you'd asked."
"And taken away the pleasure of walking into the gallery and buying it? No! I'm so proud of what you're doing. So proud that I have a small part of it."
"You have a big part. I've never been more creative."
"I'm glad."
She stepped toward him and felt suddenly dizzy. When he caught her in his arms, he looked alarmed.
"It's all right. I just felt a little light-headed."
"How long has this been going on?" he demanded, cradling her in his arms as he sat down on the couch.
"I'm not sure. About a week."
"Have you been to the doctor?" he asked, worry and perhaps guilt clearly visible on his features.
She rushed to reassure him. "I'm just run-down. I mean, I've been working all day—and staying up late with you."
"I know that," he murmured. "You need to slow down."
"It's hard to do that when I wake up every morning with ideas for paintings."
"Then maybe you need to get some sleep at night."
Alarm twisted through her. "What do you mean?"
"I've been putting off a business trip," he said slowly. "Maybe I should take it now."
She wanted to protest. But she could hardly hold him in the city if he had things to take care of elsewhere. Still, she heard herself asking, "What kind of trip?"
"To take care of things I've let go," he answered evasively.
She bent her neck, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "Are you using that as an excuse to break off with me?"
His grip tightened on her shoulders. "No! But I think I'm not good for you."
"Why?"
"Between me and your work, you're burning yourself out."
She raised her face to him. "I could stop painting."
"No," he said again. "But you need to get some sleep. I'd guess you're not eating properly. And maybe you need… to build your blood up. You could be anemic."
"I guess that's right."
"If I brought you a voodoo potion, would you drink it?"
"What kind of potion?"
"A health tonic."
"You believe in that kind of thing?"
"Yes."
She was skeptical, but the look in his eyes told her that her agreement was important.
"All right," she said softly, thinking that if it was too unpleasant, she could always pour it down the drain.
"Then let me go get you something now."
"I can come with you."
"I want you to rest." He stood, laying her gently on the sofa, then covering her with a throw that was draped over one arm.
She allowed him to fuss over her, because it was easier to let him take charge at the moment.
"I'll let myself out. And I'll be back soon."
Outside, Jules climbed into his car and drove to the French Quarter, his thoughts in an agony of despair. Selfish disregard for Taylor's health had driven him to take too much blood from her. Slowly but surely, he was killing her, and the best thing he could do was disappear from her life. He wasn't good for her in so many ways.
She had told him about her early life. Her father had been a mail carrier. Her mother had been a teacher's aide. She had gone to church and Girl Scouts. And he was thankful that she had broken out of the narrow small-town environment where she had grown up. But deep down she still had a core of conventionality.
He knew she wanted him to make a commitment to her. And he longed to offer her a stable future. Their lives were suddenly twined together so intimately. He felt more for her than he had felt for any other woman in hundreds of years. Yet he only shared with her what was safe to share. And that left a glaring hole in their relationship.
For her own good, he should disappear from her life. But when he thought of walking away from the best thing that had ever happened in his miserable life, blind selfish need made his throat clog. He couldn't give her up. Not yet.
So he drove to a little shop on a side street where the desperate could buy secret potions.
The old woman behind the counter looked at him appraisingly. He had been here fifteen years ago, and he knew that he hadn't changed in that time. Neither had she, really, except that she was a bit more stooped.
"And what brings you to me after all these years?" she asked in a quavery voice.
So she remembered. He acknowledged the comment with a slight inclination of his head. "I need to… strengthen a woman's constitution."
"As you did before?"
"Yes," he admitted.
"Is your lover sick?"
"She needs to build up her blood."
"Ah," the crone answered, giving him another long look, and he couldn't help thinking that she knew what he was.
Were there others of his kind in this city? Vampires he hadn't met? And how would they greet him, if they knew he walked among them in the night?
But he didn't ask any questions. And he was profoundly grateful when the woman told him to wait while she prepared something. She went into the back and was gone for about ten minutes. When she returned, she was carrying a small, ornate glass bottle, closed with a cork stopper.
"She should take a few drops of this in a glass of wine, twice a day."
"Thank you."
"Be careful of her."
"I want to."
"Don't make assumptions about the relationship."
"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked sharply.
But she only gave a shake of her head. "You must find out for yourself."
He left, glad to be away from the woman's probing gaze. Taking care not to break the speed limit and get stopped by a cop, he drove to a liquor store on St. Charles and bought several bottles of good wine, then hurried back to Taylor's house and let himself in.
She was dozing on the sofa, and he hated to wake her. But her eyes snapped open when he approached.
"Jules?"
He knelt beside her. "I've brought you something to drink."
"I won't drink it if it tastes nasty."
He laughed. "You take a few drops twice a day in a glass of wine. I've bought you a couple of very nice Merlots to go with it."
In the kitchen he had uncorked the bottle, added a few drops of the potion, and sipped the results. Even with his acute sense of taste, there was nothing objectionable about it.
So he brought the glass to Taylor, sitting beside her while she took a cautious sniff, then a little swallow.
He couldn't bear the idea of being separated from her. Yet he knew that he must—at least for a few days. So he gathered her close again.
"I was thinking I don't know much about you," she said as she sipped the wine.
"What do you want to know?"
"About your boyhood."
"It was rough and unpleasant. My parents weren't married. My mother tried to do the best she could raising me. But she was sick. And I scro
unged dinner from garbage cans. Or stole food from a street vendor. And I was a fairly good pickpocket, too," he added, wondering how she would react to his early history. Perhaps she'd push him away, and that would solve both their problems.
Instead, she took his hand. "That sounds… hard."
"It wasn't much fun."
"How did you meet your stepfather?"
"He sometimes came down to the bad part of town."
"Why?"
"I think he got something out of feeding the poor," Jules answered, and silently added, and it was a safe place for him to find blood. "I guess he saw something in me, because he asked if I wanted to come live with him in the country. Of course I did. And that changed my life."
"I'm glad."
"He sent me to a local prep school. And he taught me a lot at home. He knew so much about the world. About science. And sociology. And agriculture. I was damn lucky. I still miss him."
"I'm sorry. But I understand. I miss my aunt. She'd been a dancer on the Broadway stage. She understood me better than my parents ever did. She was the one who suggested I go to a big city on one of the coasts."
"She wasn't afraid you'd get into trouble?"
"Probably. But she knew I needed my independence."
He loved hearing about her life. But he wasn't going to keep her talking tonight.
As he cradled her against himself, he stroked her temples, sending her into a light trance. When she was under his spell, he gave her orders. "You need to sleep. You need to take care of yourself while I'm gone. Drink your medicine. Get to bed early. And don't work too much."
"Um."
"What did I tell you?"
Dutifully, she repeated his instructions.
"Good." He bent to brush his lips against her temple. "I'll call you as soon as I get back."
Before he could change his mind, he got up and let himself out of the house, fighting the mixture of sadness and dread that threatened to envelop him.
Chapter Eight
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Jules spent the next week in the depths of depression. Mostly he sat inside his house or in his garden, brooding. And every other night, he went out and drew sustenance from the drunks and homeless people who were easy marks for a hungry vampire.
Then he would drive to the vicinity of Taylor's house and watch her through the windows.
It heartened him to see that she drank the potion. And in a strange way, it cheered him to see her wandering around the house looking lost. Sometimes she went into her studio. And he saw that she was trying to work. But the spark had gone out of her paintings. And as often as not, she would slash her pallet knife over what she had done.
He wanted to knock on the door. He knew she would rush into his arms. And he ached to hold her close once again. But he knew that he would make love with her. And he knew that would be dangerous to her health. So he walked quietly away. Sometimes he went back to his empty house. And sometimes he visited shops in the French Quarter and bought her exquisite presents, things he would give her when they got back together again. Tokens of the love he could not express in words.
Six evenings after he had told her he was going out of town, he walked out into his garden and found a lonely figure sitting in one of the wrought-iron chairs.
Despite all his good intentions, his heart leaped inside his chest when he saw it was Taylor.
"What are you doing here?" he asked in a thick voice.
"I couldn't stay away from you. Just the way you couldn't stay away from me."
"What do you mean?"
"You were out there in the dark, watching me, weren't you?"
"How do you know?"
"I felt you. Suffering the way I was suffering." She stood and went to him. And he was helpless to do anything but clasp her in his arms and hold her tight.
Heat leaped between them. Sensuality that would not be denied clamored for release.
He knew then what he was going to do.
"Come inside."
"I was hoping you weren't going to send me away," she breathed.
He led her up the stairs—not to his bedroom, but to a guest room he had never used.
Then, as he had six nights ago, he touched her temples, putting her into a light trance. "I'll be back in just a few minutes," he murmured. "Wait for me here."
She smiled and closed her eyes. And he charged out of the house and toward the French Market, knowing he would encounter plenty of victims there.
Recklessly, he drank from one man. Then another. And another, filling himself with blood.
John had told him he could make love as a man. Not often, but once every few years if he wanted. He had never felt the need before. But he felt it now.
And when he came back to Taylor, he was engorged with the life fluid from a dozen men.
He touched her temple, waking her, and she blinked. "Where were you?"
"Just getting something for you to wear." He handed her a box, barely breathing as he waited to see her reaction.
She opened the package and lifted up a delicate silk gown.
"It's beautiful," she breathed.
"I kept picturing you in it. Would you put it on for me? Just that. Nothing else."
She nodded wordlessly, then took the box into the bathroom.
While she was gone, he hurried down the hall to his own room. He knew he was good at the ways he had learned to please women. Now he was venturing into barely remembered territory. As a man, long ago, he had made love with a few women. But he probably hadn't been very good at it. Now he could turn out to be a miserable failure.
Wanting to set the scene as perfectly as possible, he changed the sheets. Then he got out a pair of the silk pajamas he sometimes wore when he wanted to lounge around the house.
When he came out of the bathroom, he found Taylor standing by his bed, looking as lovely as he had imagined in the green silk.
"This is your room?" she asked in a voice that told him she was as nervous as he was himself.
"Yes."
"I love it. You're not afraid to admit you like elegant furnishings."
"Yes," he managed to say around the lump in his throat.
He saw her slick her palms against her sides, saw her flush and loved the effect of the rosy hue. "It may sound strange, but I feel like this could be our wedding night," she whispered.
"Yes. This is a special night for us," he answered, thinking again that he felt like an inexperienced bridegroom.
His stomach muscles clenched. He didn't even know if what he had planned was going to work.
Praying he could please her the way a normal man would, he reached for her and gathered her close. To his delight and relief, his penis instantly filled with blood.
"Oh!" he heard himself exclaim. The sensation was extraordinary. He had experienced a normal male erection so long ago that he hardly remembered the wonderfully full sensation, the centering of his arousal in that one part of his body.
He didn't know how long it would last. But he wanted to enjoy it while he could. Not just for himself, but for the generous and beautiful woman in his arms.
His hands stroked up and down her back, trailing over the silky fabric of the gown. Hungry for her taste, he angled his head, bringing his lips to hers, gratified by her instant response. She breathed his name, then opened for him, meeting his tongue with darting strokes that made him light-headed.
"I want this night to last forever," he said into her mouth, raising his hands and cupping her breasts, loving the exquisite feel of her hard nipples through the thin fabric.
"That's so good," she whispered into his mouth as her hands slid downward, pulling his hips against her body.
He was so unprepared for the sensation that the feel of his engorged cock pressed tightly to her middle made him gasp.
Then her hand slid between them, cupping around his penis through the silk pajama bottoms, and he thought he might explode in her fingers.
He must have made some kind of exclamation becaus
e she nodded against his chest. "Lord, you feel so good." She dragged in a breath and let it out. "You never let me do this, do you?" she asked in a slightly puzzled voice.
"Because it's so intense," he managed to dredge up an answer to her question, as he took her hand away from his erection, then dragged the gown over her head before laying her on the bed. Stretching out beside her, he let his gaze caress her as though this were their first time together. The tight points of her nipples seemed to beg for his attention, and he circled them delicately, then took them between his thumbs and fingers, smiling as she arched toward him.
She returned the favor, removing his pajama top, then stroking her hands over his chest, playing with the thick hair, then finding his nipples and circling them with her fingers, making them throb with sensation.
But they weren't the only part of him that throbbed. He could feel the blood beating in his penis. And as she undid the snap at the top of his pajama bottoms and pushed the front open, he looked down at himself in a kind of daze.
His penis was standing up from his body, hard and stiff, the sight fascinating and thrilling.
When she slid her hand down his chest and then his abdomen, stroking his ribs and stomach, he heard himself make a pleading sound.
He had told her that grasping his cock was too intense. But he wanted it. Wanted it badly.
And she obviously knew it. This time her touch was dainty as her fingers delicately circled the head, then stroked up and down the shaft. All his senses went dim. He could barely see. Barely hear. There was only the magnificent pleasure of her fingers teasing him, before she suddenly took him in her fist and slid her hand firmly up and down his length.
As if from far away, he heard himself moan.
"You are velvet-covered steel," she whispered.
His voice turned low and urgent. "I feel like I'm going to explode. I don't want it to happen like this. I want to be deep in you when I climax." As he spoke, he marveled that he could manage coherent sentences.
"God, yes." She lay back against the sheet and held out her arms to him.
He was still worried about his performance. But need was greater than fear of failure. With a sense of wonder, he moved over her, the tip of his penis poised at the feminine entrance he had only explored with his fingers. Slowly, savoring the sensation, he pressed into her, hardly able to believe the feel of her tight sheath closing around him.
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