other
vampires–he didn’t just want to possess the
woman, sexually and arterially. He wanted her to
want
him to do it.
He wanted her to cry out with pleasure
when he bit her, to moan, to beg. He wanted, as he
satisfied himself, to be the object of surpassing desire.
Not like that village idiot Pierre, who just wanted to get
his wick wet and snack on whomever he could scare into a
lonely alleyway.
So, here he was, on a calm October night, his desire
growing by the minute as he stood on his front steps
looking at the stars.
That American woman, he thought. It’s her fault
I’m so hungry tonight. Just having a woman–any
woman–living nearby, whom he would be seeing every
day, triggered his need for attention. He wanted her
desperately, but not because Jo was Jo, but because
she…existed. He wanted her to look for him, to wait
for him, to get hot whenever he was in the same room with
her. He wanted to smell her excitement, to see her
breathless expression when finally, he came to pay her a
visit.
This was how David felt whenever a human woman was near.
The women believed that his attention meant he really cared
for them, and they reveled in being the object of his
intense desire–they had no idea just how long the
line was that they had just joined. A line that stretched
back for centuries, and was almost always at least two or
three deep at any given moment.
He allowed himself to fantasize for just an instant about
biting Jo and sucking on her neck. There was something
about her energy, her excitement, that had gotten to him.
He wondered whether she liked sex and was any good at it.
Henri would kill me, thought David with a sigh. And I need
her to ride my horses.
What about that single woman staying in the cottage? he
wondered. She’s a little old for my taste, but God, I
have
to drink. Now.
And with that thought, he trotted off towards the row of
stone cottages some distance from the Château, each
filled with paying guests, or, depending on your point of
view, filled with appetizers, main course, and dessert.
6
When Jo woke up, it took several moments for her to piece
together where she was and what that meant. She saw the
bright sunshine streaming in the long windows and falling
across the bed and the puffy down comforter. She stretched
and smiled at the feeling on her legs of crisp, expensive
sheets. Jo had not grown up with luxury, to put it mildly,
and even though she had worked for a lot of rich people,
she had not lived with them, and this was the first time
she had ever woken up in a bed dressed as this one was: a
fringed brocade canopy overhead; pillows in several shapes
and sizes, some embroidered, some with lace around the
edges; a comforter that billowed and felt like air on her
body; and God in heaven above, the sheets.
These sheets, she thought–a person could
understandably commit crimes to have these sheets. She
grinned and flopped over and tried to drift back to sleep,
but it was too sunny and she was too curious about what the
day would hold.
She quickly dressed in riding clothes, slid on her boots,
and made her way downstairs, looking for Angélique
or someone who could give her a cup of coffee.
As she descended the final set of stairs, she saw a man
dressed in livery–was that Albert?
“
Bonjour?
” she said, tentatively.
The man turned to her and said, "Good morning,
Mademoiselle
. Did you have a good sleep? Jet lag
not too much of a bother?
“Not at all,” said Jo, not for the first time
sending a thought of gratitude to her harshest, most
demanding French teacher, and feeling so pleased that she
could understand and speak well enough to manage. But she
was also wondering…had he been watching her in the
bath last night? Or had she just imagined it?
“What I’d really like,” she said,
“is a cup of coffee.”
“Just through there,” he said.