A Venetian Vampire. Michele Hauf
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no,” she said quickly. Distraught? Try “making up her mind about whether or not to pursue her illicit wonderings.” Tangled sheets and bloody bites? She didn’t need to consider it long. Yes, please!
Tilting back another swallow of prosecco, she clutched her backpack strap, assessing the weight of its contents. Quite heavy for the silver and gemstones that made up the object. “I, uh...didn’t expect...”
“It’s a nice surprise when it happens,” he offered casually.
“Yes, it is. I’ve just never met another...” She cast a glance aside. The bar’s patrons were all chatting in Italian. “Another...you know, in such a casual manner. You startled me.” She leaned forward and her thigh nudged his knee, but she kept herself from touching his leg with her hand. “But it was a good startle.”
“Excellent. We understand one another from the get-go. No masks to wear. And don’t worry—I’m not after anything. Though I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I followed you since right about there.” He pointed down the street. “At the corner by the flower shop. I couldn’t stop myself from following you. You’re gorgeous, Kyler. And your demeanor is so attractive. You walk as if on air.”
A shiver of her previous excitement returned, and Kyler wiggly gaily on the bar stool. “Like I said, good day. Probably one of the best I’ve had in a while. What about you?”
“My best good day? Hmm, that was probably...”
She leaned forward in anticipation of his explanation. Abandoning her caution, she wanted the banter, some good conversation and another glass of prosecco. She indicated to the bartender to refill.
“My best day must have been when I met Pablo Picasso and got to shake his hand.”
“That’s awesome. Early twentieth century?”
“It was 1972, actually. He died a year later. I’ve been around a while.” He shrugged in a manner that drew her eyes to his well-fitted suit. Tailored perfectly for his lean shape and broad shoulders. “But the years don’t show on my face.”
“You’ve a handsome face.”
He bowed his head as he grinned, then tipped his glass to her refilled goblet. “Salut!”
“Salut!” And she tilted back the entire goblet. Then felt compelled to say, “This is exciting for me. Talking to another of my kind.”
“Is that so? You don’t associate with others of our species?” He leaned toward her, and she scented not cologne but something primal and innate. His essence, perhaps. A warm, leathery scent.
“No, I haven’t had opportunity. I just transformed six months ago.”
“I see. New blood. Well, don’t worry. I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.” He winked. “That’s a tired joke, but I couldn’t resist.”
She smirked, which turned into a genuine chuckle. “You never know—I might like a bite.”
She could seriously entertain the idea of wrapping her legs about his hips and sinking her fangs into his neck—
“What have you come to Venice for, Kyler?”
Tugged out of the fabulous fantasy of lapping at the man’s neck, she gave him a blank look. What had he said?
“Vacation or work?” he asked.
“Oh, uh...a search and find actually. For a friend.”
“And did you find what you were searching for?”
“Oh, yes. It was actually a piece of art. Pretty.”
“Something famous?”
She shrugged. “Could be. I’m not much of an art enthusiast. I wouldn’t recognize Picasso if he sat down before me with one of his works in hand. I prefer music.”
“I do, as well. All sorts, but I am partial to jazz. Do you like to dance?” he asked.
“I do, but I don’t know how. I’ve always wanted to learn something like the tango.” She hooked her fingers on the backpack strap. The hardy weave and weight reminded her not to lose all caution. “I was on my way back to the hotel when I stopped for a quick drink. Not really dressed for dancing or partying. I’ll take a rain check, though.”
“Rain checks often go untended. How about another prosecco?”
“You’ll get me drunk.”
“Do you get drunk?”
“Not usually.” Vamps could consume a lot of alcohol with little affect on their sobriety. “But whiskey, straight from the vein, does make me sick. I learned that one the hard way.” She touched her chest. Never had she confessed such a personal detail about herself. It was too easy to be open in his presence. Relaxing into the conversation felt like stepping into his arms and settling in for a nice long snuggle.
“Vodka is my bête noire,” he offered. “I can’t stand a drunk bite. I prefer them healthy.”
“Me, too,” she agreed. “But I’m still learning, you know.”
She straightened and slid her hands down her ribs and to her waist, a weird habit she’d developed after putting on thirty pounds following her mother’s death. She still hadn’t lost the weight, but she had learned to embrace her curves. And use them to her best advantage.
A glance at Dante confirmed he was studying her with those mesmerizing eyes. Interested? If only she’d worn something more revealing than the pedestrian black turtleneck shirt and black leggings. Wow. Did she totally look like a cat burglar? What had she been thinking? Should have brought along a bright red scarf to tie around her neck after the deed had been done.
“So, tell me more about you, Dante. You are Italian, but I think the words you just used were French?”
“I am both. Italian on my mother’s side and my father was French. But I don’t mind speaking English. It is an interesting language.”
And her only option. “Where are you living?”
“I own a palazzo a short walk away, in the San Marco. It’s a vacation home. I spend most of my time in Paris. Though at the moment I am homeless in the City of Light. Sold my barge and waiting for my property agent to send me some new and interesting finds.”
“You lived on a barge? That sounds...actually, kind of smelly and wobbly.”
“You get used to shifting with the waves. And the Seine doesn’t smell that bad. It’s the tourists peeking in the windows all the time that made me decide to sell. This time of year they are like patrons peering in at the lone captive animal.”
Kyler laughed and leaned an elbow on the bar. Her body nudged closer to his. Their thighs hugged now. There was something electric about him, and it wasn’t the shimmer she’d felt with their handshake. The man oozed confidence and élan. Physically, he wasn’t her type. While muscular and seemingly strong, he was too pretty, too perfect. He could model for a top magazine, and women the world over would swoon.
She much preferred a man who looked average, acted average and wasn’t concerned about what others thought of him. An average Joe. Probably because that was all she’d ever dated. She’d never thought a man as handsome as Dante would give her a second glance. Yet she’d never ruled out flirting with any and all men. It made her feel sensual and alive.
“How long did you live in Paris?” she asked.
“Are you fishing about for how old I am? You can simply ask.”
She shrugged. “Okay. How old are you?”
“I was born in Paris in 1860. Well before Picasso.”
She quickly did the math quickly—over 150 years old. “I find it fascinating that immortality ages a person so slowly. It’s an amazing gift, isn’t it?”
“It