Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (33 page)

“The blue-obsessed designer broke into my house,” he said. “La Rochenoire found her in my bedroom. She was throwing lamps and vases. By the time I arrived, she was trashing the drawing room.” His gaze drifted toward the French door. “She opened one of the wooden panels. The sun burned me and Arrapato.”

“Oh.” I was starting to see more than I was prepared to handle. I’d never been in Raphael’s room. “Where were your security people?”

“She conned her way inside. They even helped her carry in something. I haven’t found it yet.”

“When you do, make sure it’s not ticking.”

“I broke up with her a year ago.”

I paused, thinking. “How’d she know you’re in Paris?”

“Her friend saw me at Chez Georges.”

“But you wore a disguise that night.”

“I can’t explain it.”

“Maybe you need a better wig.” I smiled. “And meaner security guards.”

He pushed his hand through his hair. “If someone recognized me, they might have noticed you and Vivi. I’ve been complacent. Maybe arrogant. I thought the disguises and cars would be sufficient.”

“You’re not arrogant, Raphael.”

“Do you want to know why I broke up with the designer?”

“No.” And I didn’t. This surprised me, because two minutes earlier, Raphael’s hyperactive love life had been very much on my mind. I couldn’t think of anything that would have brought me to this calm place—unless Sabine had Induced me to be tranquil.

But the weather was looking a little wicked. Clouds bunched over the courtyard, blotting out the stars. Arrapato sensed it, too. He wriggled away from me and trotted across toward the house. He peed on the blue draperies. I was glad.

Raphael smiled. “You’re an unusual woman.”

“A barrel of laughs.”

He put his hand on my elbow. “The picnic is just around the corner.”

A yellow paisley cloth had been laid over a bed of clipped thyme. Votive candles flickered in between pots of lemon balm and peppermint. I sat down on the cloth, stirring up a fresh, green smell. Raphael had gone to a lot of trouble, and I was touched.

He sat across from me and opened a basket. He pulled out clear plastic boxes, the lids stamped with the name of a pricey food emporium. Quiche, Camembert, baguettes, strawberries, foie gras,
tarte au citron
. A bottle of Sauvignon Chinon.

“It looks delicious.” I pulled off a piece of Camembert and slid it between my lips. He tipped the wine bottle over my glass, and I smelled violets and raspberries. As I took a sip, I couldn’t remember my senses ever having been this alive, caught up in the fruity taste of the wine,
the smell of Raphael’s cologne, the wind stirring the lavender, the fragrant herbs beneath the paisley cloth.

“You look beautiful, Caro,” he whispered, then lifted a strawberry.

I released a breath. From the moment we’d met, he’d called me
mia cara
. Rarely did he say
Caro
or
Caroline
. When I was a girl, the other kids had referred to me as
Karo syrup
and
Cairo
, but on Raphael’s tongue, each letter of my name seemed to rise into the air, elegant and curled as calligraphy.

He bit into the strawberry and rubbed the moist fleshy side over his lips. Then he pressed the berry just below my ear. I felt a droplet slide down my neck and slip beneath my sweater.

I shivered.

He ate the berry, which shocked me, then undid the top button on my sweater and blew on my neck. I began tingling all over. Why did that feel so good?

“More?” he said.

I nodded.

He progressed to the next button, and I felt a rush of cool air. He kept going, as if he were pulling a ribbon from a gift box. Then the sweater was off, and my breasts were rising and falling beneath my thin cotton dress.

He leaned into me, holding my gaze. “I want you, Caro.”

“I want you, too.”

“Are you sure?” he whispered. “Because if you aren’t, I’ll wait.”

I was sure about many things. I was sure that we were going to make love, and it might change me, change us,
change everything we thought we knew. He had been my friend and protector, but I was ready to take him into the deepest part of me.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

He grazed his teeth over my lips, and I tasted the sweetness of the berry. His head moved down the front of my dress, his breath cool and fruity, blowing against the cotton.

“You’re shaking,
mia cara
.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He fit himself on top of me, his twill shorts scratching my skin. He slid his right hand beneath the small of my back. His tongue moved past my lips, just the right balance of tension and softness. His other hand brushed under my dress, skimming between my legs, tracing the lace edge of my thong. I arched against him when his finger moved under the lace and dipped inside me. I wound my arm around his neck. He tugged at the lace garment, urging it down over one hip then the other, down my thighs and then it was gone.

“You smell like sunlight,” he said, pushing his knees between my legs, gently nudging them apart. His head moved under the dress, and his tongue found me. A delicate dance began, and each stroke made my thoughts dissolve. He pulled up my dress, bunching it around my waist. My hips rose from the blanket, and the tiny spasms became larger, each one frilled with pleasure.

A long while later, his head moved up and then his eyes were level with mine, and an immense hardness pressed against me. Over his head, the sky flickered, bleaching white for a few seconds, and then I heard thunder. He
moved his hand between my legs again, and I shuddered. A raindrop hit my shoulder; another tapped against the back of my hand. Then a light ticking rain began to fall.

The wind whipped his hair, blond strands darkening by the rain. He pressed his full weight on me, and I sank down into the thyme. Rain picked around us, plunging against the stones like rice poured into a bowl. A candle hissed. In seconds his cotton shirt was stuck to his skin like wet tissue paper.

He kissed the side of my mouth, delicate and tickly as a butterfly wing. My hand moved to his zipper, and I caught the metal tab and moved it down. I helped him take off his shorts, then opened my legs wider.

He entered me a little at a time, moving gently. I was damp and ready, and I squirmed against him, a siren, singing to him with my body, luring him into softness.

Rain swept around us, hammering into the stones.

His teeth pressed against my neck.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I’ll explain later.” I slid my foot behind his calf, then lifted my hips off the blanket. He was only halfway inside, and I moved beneath him. Keep going, I thought. Just a little deeper. A little. He embedded himself with one deep thrust.

I could feel him moving inside me. I climaxed instantly. My hands skidded over his back. He was holding me so tight, his heartbeat seemed to pass through me.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

“No, no, no.”

He kissed me again, and I tasted the rain on his mouth.
I came again. I cried out, trembling. He swelled inside me, and I tilted my hips, urging him deeper. He put my fingers in his mouth, then moved my hand between our damp stomachs and moved lower, to the exact place where we were joined. The rain seemed to be falling inside me, right there, where he was moving.

“
Ti amo, mia cara.
I have always loved you.”

My thoughts scattered as he plunged deeper and deeper.

“And I always will, Caro.” His breath hit my cheek, and his thighs tensed. I tried to slow down, but it was too late. He drove into me one more time, and his face tightened, his dark brows slanted together. An earthy wetness filled me, and I was swept into a cataclysmic place where time had come unhinged. Past, present, and future coiled around me in overlapping circles, pulling me into the hidden place where pleasure is born.

I was still trying to catch my breath when he lifted me off the damp paisley cloth, into his arms. He’d gotten dressed—when had I missed that? I felt a little dizzy as he carried me into the house, my wet hair swinging against my shoulders.

Halfway up the stairs he put me down and pressed me against the wall. His lips came down on mine, his hand cupping the back of my head, the other cradling my bottom. I ran my palm over the front of his zipper. He was already thick and hard. I gave him a teasing smile and moved my hand to his shoulder.

He put it back.

I tugged at his zipper and reached inside the gap. “You should have warned me, Raphael.”

He kissed me again.

I pulled my lips away. “Take me to your bed.”

He swept me into his arms and carried me up the stairs, to the third floor. He turned into a long, narrow room. Our lips met again as he set me down. Still holding him, I leaned back, and my gaze went straight up to a painted ceiling, clouds and fat cherubs. Then I looked down. A king-sized bed was on the right side of the room, with a poofy, bronze silk comforter folded back. Beyond, two balcony doors were covered with light-blocking shutters.

Raphael looked back at the door, where Arrapato stood, one paw raised. “Are you in or out?” he asked the dog.

Arrapato trotted across the floor, leaped into his own bed, and attacked a plastic mouse toy. As violent squeaks rose up, Raphael began peeling off my wet clothes. Music started to play, and the last part of “Exogenesis Symphony” began to pick up speed.

“Is this your room?” I asked, looking around for the angry decorator’s touch—shattered lamps and slashed chairs. But everything was tidy.

“Yes.”

My dress hit the floor with a wet slap. Then his shirt and shorts dropped. He put his arms around me. The box springs shuddered when we fell sideways onto the bed.

“We’ll go slower this time,” he said.

I awoke in tangled sheets, still flushed from all of the lovemaking. The bedroom was very dark, and I could hear rain tapping behind the shuttered window. Raphael
lay on his back, one hand flung over his head. I had never seen him asleep, and he looked vulnerable and enticing, all at once.

If I fell in love with him—and I was already halfway there—I would have to let go of my prudent nature and open myself to the unknown. I would need to trust him, and in some ways, trust is harder than love. The unknowable future makes everyone vulnerable, but if I kept protecting myself, I would never be truly alive.

Also, I had to pee. Truly.

I slid off the bed and walked to the bathroom. It had been renovated, too. The ceiling was more than twenty feet high. The fixtures were modern—raised glass sinks, nickel faucets, and dark, clean-edged cabinets. On the left side of the room, a steel staircase led to a mezzanine with an iron catwalk. Behind the catwalk, on the wall, was a huge black-and-white photograph of a woman.

A glamour portrait?
I thought and stepped closer. The woman was in her twenties, with wide eyes, shoulder-length hair, and high cheekbones.

Okay, fine. Raphael was a bachelor. He’d never hidden his girlfriends, but they’d never lasted more than a few weeks, as if expiration dates had been stamped onto their rear ends.

I walked to the sink and splashed water on my face. My hair had dried in Medusa-like curls. Charming. I stepped back and gazed up at the mezzanine. The woman’s smile seemed to say,
I’ll get you my pretty, and your little dog, too.

Who was she? The blue-loving interior designer? Someone else? My vote went to the designer. Earlier tonight
Raphael had mentioned that she’d brought something into the house. Was this it, this photograph? That would explain why she’d needed the security team to bring it inside.

Only one person could answer this question, and he was asleep.

I heard a jangling noise and looked down. Arrapato bumped his cold nose against my leg. I bent over and scratched his ear. “Oh, the stories you could tell. Right, little man?”

His tail beat against my leg.

I felt breathless as I walked back into the dark bedroom. It smelled of sex and ketones. I slipped under the covers and pressed my cheek against the pillow. Arrapato plopped down on the floor and watched me with his shiny black eyes.

Never in my life had I felt jealous, but I wanted to squirt shaving cream all over that damn photograph. I shut my eyes, trying to sort through my feelings. A woman’s photograph couldn’t change my growing feelings for Raphael. Not unless I wanted them to change.

But I couldn’t ignore the physics of a relationship. When two people sleep together, that closeness can create more closeness—or distance. Of course, it depends on the people. Maybe distance doesn’t matter if you’re cool and cosmopolitan. If you can look at sex as a pleasurable activity, and you don’t get all needy, or try to pretend you’re not needy.

But I wasn’t cool. I was out of practice. It had been a while since I had dated, and the rules had changed.

It’s worse if you’re a hybrid. We’re biologically weird,
and at some point it becomes impossible to hide that weirdness. There’s some type of biochemical, almost like a pheromone, that oozes from our pores and attracts and spurns humans—sometimes at the same time. But vampires are drawn to people like me. Unfortunately, my antigens will make them run to the nearest emergency room.