“But you have friends here. She mentioned ‘the boys.’ ”

Suddenly, Lance’s expression mirrors more concern than curiosity. We’ve been talking out loud, but now, he answers with a quiet, Not friends exactly. The man who sired me also has a place here. He and his entourage, others he’s turned, travel together. I don’t enjoy seeing him. But it’s the price I pay for my freedom.

It’s the first time Lance has mentioned the circumstances of his becoming. Something in his tone triggers an alarm. I know what it’s like to be under the control of a powerful vampire. My anger burns through. Does he threaten you?

He smiles at the tone of my response. He reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. No. We’ve made our peace. I am allowed to live my own life. But I am expected to pay my respects when we’re in town together. This party tonight. We’ll go, he’ll show me off as his famous protégé, we’ll leave. It’s not important. The rest of the weekend will be ours.

His tone betrays more than his casual words, however. A little nervousness, a bit of agitation. It’s there though he’s trying to hide it. My protective instincts spring to the fore. I want to know more—the story of how he became vampire. But I don’t press. Not now.

I smooth the concern from my thoughts. What about your human family? Is there anyone you’re still close to?

A shrug. My parents are dead. I have two brothers who manage the business. For obvious reasons, I don’t see them. They live a world away. I’m not interested in the business, never was. We communicate through lawyers, mostly, though I’ve divested myself of most of my family’s holdings. This house and a trust fund is all that’s left. When I move on, the house and trust fund will go to Adele.

A smile. So you see, like you, I have to work for a living. I’ll have to buy those expensive birthday presents just like anybody else.

The old Lance, the one I’ve come to know and depend on, is back. The fact that he had a past he didn’t share has no bearing on the man he is now, the man who has been nothing but good to me. I put the beer bottle on the coffee table in front of me. His smile warms me, ignites a familiar hunger. “How long before Adele and her couturier blow in?”

He places his bottle on the table beside mine. “She won’t disturb us until we’re ready. What did you have in mind?”

My roaming hands discover that he knows exactly what I have in mind. It’s obviously on his mind, too.

“Where’s the shower?”

I’ve always known that when it comes to sex, my attitude is, well, different. I’ve never had any illusions about sex and love being either interchangeable or interdependent. I had my first sexual encounter at sixteen. I chose the guy carefully—he was older (a friend of my brother’s) and rumor had it he’d been involved with a married woman (a teacher, no less). I figured that meant he was (a) adventurous and (b) skilled. I hadn’t read Penthouse Forum and Krafft-Ebing for nothing.

Turned out he was neither, much to my chagrin. But he was eager to please. We spent a few wonderful weeks educating each other. Would have gone on longer if my brother hadn’t found out. Still, I figure that guy owes me any future success he had with women.

My point is, I have loved sex—the act, the smells, the pure joy of it—since that time, since that boy. As a human, I thought sex enjoyable. As a vampire, it is liberating, sublime.

The pleasure of sex is the only part of being a vampire that comes close to justifying the existence.

A cosmic joke. Vampires cannot procreate—not like humans. Perhaps as consolation, they’re given bodies that respond to sex in an extraordinary way. Bodies that are aroused with a look, a thought. Bodies that warm, become vibrant, alive during the act. Sex overwhelms the senses, wipes the mind clean of all worry, concerns, fears. Sex without consequence. Sex that reminds us of how it felt to be human.

Lance is not human. I am not human. But for a few minutes, we make love as if we were. No biting. No blood. Nothing but the feel of his body, on top of me, inside me. We move together, slowly, locked in the most intimate embrace, wanting to prolong the moment until we can hold back no longer. When he comes, it’s to the pulse of my own orgasm, and when it’s over, he whispers in my ear.

I bury my face in his shoulder, afraid to acknowledge that I heard what he said.

Afraid that I might be feeling the same way.

Afraid of what it means if I do.

Adele’s discreet knock on the door comes minutes after Lance calls to let her know we’re ready to rejoin the world of the living. He doesn’t use those words, of course, but there’s a reason the French call the orgasm “la petite mort.”

We’re in the bedroom—another huge room with huge furniture. Lance said his parents decorated the place seventy years ago. It’s obvious that their taste ran to Old World castles and provincial country chateaux. Lance never cared enough to invest either time or money to change it, and Adele doesn’t seem to mind.

I’ve showered and traded dusty jeans for a clean pair of shorts, tugged and smoothed my T-shirt, run fingers through wet hair. I can only imagine what it looks like. Times like these, not having a reflection is a blessing.

Lance hasn’t mentioned what he whispered in my ear.

I won’t.

We sit side by side on the edge of the bed, comfortable with each other again despite the few moments before when I know Lance was disappointed. He expected a response. He probably deserved one. I can’t verbalize why I’m not ready to echo his sentiment. I just know that I’m not.

Lance has changed into board shorts and a T-shirt. He’s running a brush through his own wet hair when Adele swoops in, her arms loaded with garment bags. She hangs them in a closet and comes to stand in front us, her face wreathed in a bright smile.

“Will you need help?” she asks. But her expression says she already knows the answer. She seems pleased that I’m here with Lance, like an indulgent sister who is happy her brother found someone.

Lance puts his arm around my waist and gives the reply we both know she is expecting: “I’ll help.”

“Thank you, but I’ve been dressing myself for quite a while. I think I can manage on my own.”

Adele excuses herself, pausing at the door to look back at us. “Stephen and I are having coffee downstairs. He has shoes with him so when you’ve decided on the clothes, come down and pick what you’d like.”

She pulls the door closed behind her.

I get up and move toward the closet. “So, who is Stephen?”

Lance joins me. “He manages the Armani shop in town.”

“And he comes when you call? Must be nice to be a DeFontaine.” I look into the closet. “There are a dozen outfits here. How long does Adele think I’m going to stay?”

Lance joins me, reaching past my shoulder to retrieve one of the bags. “Let’s see what we have.”

He unzips the bag and withdraws a long gown of black silk. “I like this. Try it on.”

I pull my T-shirt over my head and shimmy out of my shorts to stand naked while Lance slips the dress over my head. It settles over my body like a warm breeze. It has a V-neck and scoop back and a skirt of soft pleats. I twirl in front of him and the skirt billows around me with a whisper of silk.

“How do I look?”

The glint in his eye and a familiar quirk to the eyebrow makes me take a step away. “Whoa. If we have sex after every wardrobe change, Stephen will be here through dinner.”

“And the problem is?”

I laugh. “Let’s just see what else he’s brought.”

We shuffle through a dozen outfits—all beautiful, all exquisitely detailed. Not my usual attire, for sure. But there is something magical about well-made couturier clothes. I choose the Cady gown I first tried on, a sleeveless jersey dress and micro pinstripe trousers with a black V-neck sweater gilded front and back with rhinestone insets.