Getting What You Want (17 page)

He wished he hadn’t wondered what she was thinking.

“Umm, no. I don’t get them much anymore. I just—order out a lot now.”

“Well, you can order out apple pie.”

He nodded. “True, but it’s not the same.”

“Did your mother make it for you? Moms always make things just the way we like them,” she said with a rather dreamy look, then she set down her fork. “Or at least that’s what I’ve always heard.”

“Heard? Didn’t your mother cook for you?”

She nudged the fork with her finger, then shook her head.

“Not that I can remember—I’m sure she did, but she died when I was three.”

“I’m sorry.”

Erika shook her head, then straightened, as if reciting and trying to believe what she was about to say. “That’s okay. I got used to it. After all, I don’t even remember much about her. Except she had dark hair like mine, and bright blue eyes. I always wished I’d gotten that color. But I got my dad’s.”

“I love the color of your eyes. They remind me of thunderclouds and summer rain.”

Erika smiled and her cheeks tinged pink. “I like that.”

He smiled back, then poked at his food with his fork.

“So you were raised by your dad?” he asked.

She nodded, taking another bite of rice and beans. “Yes. I grew up in Cleveland. In the house my dad inherited from his parents. He likes to tell me I’m like my mom. She was more of a free spirit, artistic too. Dad is pretty cut and dry. He doesn’t believe in much that isn’t tangible. Just a working joe, really.”

Vittorio heard the exasperation in her voice, which he couldn’t quite understand. He’d love to have a parent who was solid and there for him. But then it had to be hard to know you were more like the parent you’d never meet.

“Are you close to your dad?” he asked.

Erika shrugged. “I love him, but we’ve never quite seen eye to eye. He doesn’t understand my art and how important it is to me. He finds my interest in the occult strange. We just have a hard time communicating at times.”

“He must be proud of your artwork now that it’s taking off.”

She shrugged again. “I guess. I don’t really know, honestly.” But then her eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh! I forgot. I got a call today from a woman who is interested in commissioning me to do a sculpture for her.”

“Really?” He grinned, finding himself loving her excited expression, so different from the worried one of earlier.

“Yes, she wants to meet me tomorrow evening.”

Evening?
For some reason that one word roused his suspicion. It couldn’t be his mother, could it? Would she contact Erika that way? Would she be that brazen?

Yes. Definitely.

“What time?” he asked.

“At six,” Erika said, her enthusiasm not dampened by his wary tone.

She got up and gathered the nearly emptied containers. She placed them on the counter near the sink, then went to the cupboard to get dessert plates. As she placed them on the counter to open the dessert container, she noticed her cell phone, plugged into the wall outlet.

Vittorio watched as she flipped it open and read the caller ID.

“Speak of the devil, it looks like she called again.”

He actually rose and came over to look at the phone. He didn’t recognize the number, but he hadn’t expected to.

Erika pressed the keypad to call her voice mail. The temptation to lean in to try and hear the voice on the other end pulled at him, but he resisted. He could hardly explain what he was doing, hovering over her like a jealous lover. Or a concerned lover. She’d want to know why, and he wasn’t ready to explain his worries. Couldn’t explain them, and he hoped he’d never have to.

She listened to the call, then flipped the phone shut.

“It was her again. She just wanted to know if we could meet in the afternoon instead—she said only to call if it was an issue.” Erika smiled broadly, her face breathtaking.

He felt his own body relax. It couldn’t be his mother. She was just like him, constrained to slumber while the sun was up.

He leaned in and kissed her, unable to resist touching her when she looked so happy and lovely.

“I’m really pleased for you,” he murmured against her lips. And now he could mean it. She’d be safe during the day.

O
rabella looked down at Maksim as he snored softly from the rumpled covers of her bed. She supposed she should take some pride in the fact that she could screw a demon into utter exhaustion, but frankly, she was too consumed with her own thoughts to care.

So Vittorio was doing it again. Insisting on a relationship with a mortal.
Why?
She wanted to yell it out to the room.
Why?

But instead she eased out of bed. She wandered to the window, looking out at the street below. Even from this vantage point, New Orleans looked shabby and soiled. She disliked any signs of age, even in cities.

No, that wasn’t totally the case. She liked cities that had been maintained, their architecture restored and revitalized. Much like herself. She wouldn’t age—nor would her lovely son. So why—why did he insist on being with creatures who would wrinkle and sag and stoop with the passage of time?

After all, she knew he’d never make anyone into an lampir like himself. He resented the gift she’d given him. Acted like she’d harmed him, when in fact, she’d given him everything.

She looked up at the sky. There was still plenty of night left, which would normally be a comfort. But tonight, she was anxious to have the sun rise. Creeping over the tops of the buildings and lighting the sky in a fiery, golden glow.

She looked back at Maksim, debating how she would get rid of him now that she had what she wanted. And she’d put in a lot of time getting this right. But she’d done it, and tomorrow she’d get to test her hard work.

She had to admit, she was a little nervous. If she hadn’t done the ritual correctly she could be badly hurt. Or worse than that, scarred. Scars were not something she could survive.

But she didn’t think she had done anything wrong or out of order. So tomorrow she would walk in the sun for the first time in over two hundred years.

Maksim roused behind her, but didn’t call for her. He was exhausted. Several rounds of wild sex would do that to you even if you were a very powerful demon. And she was counting on him being powerful. Only a demon from the fifth circle or below would do.

She wandered back to the bed, admiring her lover. Or rather her ex-lover. While Maksim was good at pleasuring a woman, she didn’t need any more from him. She was done. While she did enjoy good sex, he’d fulfilled his usefulness. Tomorrow she would inform him that they were through.

He wouldn’t like it. She suspected that he wasn’t the one who got dumped, but then she wasn’t the one that got dumped either. So it was going to be an awkward ending any way it went down.

She couldn’t really concern herself with that. She had other things to focus on. Like getting rid of her son’s lust interest.

And this time making it very, very clear that she wasn’t going to tolerate his abominable taste. She’d obviously been too subtle in the past, trying to get rid of them without upsetting her dear boy. But it was becoming painfully obvious that subtlety wasn’t working. Nor would Vittorio stop returning to the trough for these odious women.

Oh, he’d learn this time. And eventually, he’d even understand. After all, mother knew best.

Erika had to admit, after eating she did feel much better. Although she suspected it was Vittorio’s calm, steady presence that helped, more than the evening out of her blood-sugar levels.

That and their game of “What’s Your Favorite?” So far she’d learned his favorite movie was
Brazil,
his favorite number was thirty-three (for no reason he could think of), and he didn’t have a favorite animal—although if he did, Boris wasn’t in the running. The cat did seem to glare at him a lot.

And he’d asked her favorites, like who her favorite sculptor was—a tie between Michelangelo (who could beat
David,
after all?) and a modern sculptor, Kira Rogan, who did large pieces with metal and wood and stone.

He’d asked what her favorite fruit was, which was also a tie, between kiwi and watermelon. And what her favorite adjective was, which had made her laugh. Adjective? She’d gone with silky—because she’d been admiring his hair at that moment.

“What’s your favorite song?” she asked him from where she sat on her sofa. He’d insisted on cleaning the kitchen for her, although she couldn’t help smiling as she watched him. He held a plate in his hand and eyed the dishwasher like he was facing a fully scrambled Rubik’s Cube, and if he didn’t solve it right the appliance would self-destruct.

Finally, he decided on the proper placement, then turned to her. “That one is easy,” he said. “‘Verità Della Vita.’”

She shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s a lesser-known piece by a composer named Renaldo D’Antoni, from the 1800s.”

“Really? I’d love to hear it.”

He smiled, a small, enigmatic twist of his lips. “I could probably arrange that.”

For a moment, she wondered what the little grin meant. But then she got distracted by how beautiful he looked. She loved when he smiled, an action that was still rare enough that she noted each one.

“What’s your favorite song?” he asked, then looked back at the dishwasher as he tackled the daunting puzzle again.

“Hmm, let me think about that one. I have to admit I’m a big fan of eighties music.”

He placed another dish, then nodded at her. “I like a lot of eighties music too. The eighties really weren’t as bad as everyone made out. Well, maybe the pastel linen suits were.”

Erika laughed. “They were.” Then she thought about it. “But how much of the eighties do you really remember?”

He set in the last plate, closed the dishwasher, then turned to her, his arms across his chest.

“Are we back to the age thing again?”

Erika shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile, even as the idea did niggle her a little, especially the idea that he had a woman closer to his age still in his life. “I guess it shouldn’t bother me, if it doesn’t bother you.”

“Exactly.” He walked over to her. “And you’d be surprised how much of the eighties I do remember.”

She gave him a dubious look, but let the subject drop. Mainly because he was taking a spot on the sofa very close to her. And she really liked that.

He turned slightly so he was facing her, his knees brushing against hers. Her blood pressure rose at the brief touch. God, she was so attracted to this man.

“So,” he said, his voice low. He reached out and touched her hair, pushing a strand back behind her ear. “What song have you always wanted to make love to?”

She couldn’t stop her eyes from widening and a big grin from curving her lips. She hadn’t expected that question. Not from the man she still expected to be reserved. Even after all the amazing lovemaking.

“Umm…” The hand that had tucked her hair, moved to touch her cheek. He leaned closer.

She watched, her lips seeming to pulse with the expectation of his kiss. But instead, he just looked at her, waiting.

“Umm, ‘Love Song’ by The Cure.”

“Very eighties,” he said, his lips just fractions of an inch from hers, then his eyes glanced off to the side briefly as if he was committing that information to memory. His hand left her face, moving to capture her hand.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

He started humming the tune of the song she just named. He sang a few of the lyrics, the ones about being alone with her making him feel young again. She nearly laughed at that, thinking making him feel young again couldn’t be too hard. But she pushed that thought aside. He wanted her and she wasn’t going to look for trouble.

Vittorio was now singing the lyrics about being alone with her making him feel whole again. He had a lovely, deep singing voice and she liked the idea that she was making him whole. She had a feeling he needed someone to help him with that.

He stopped singing and cast a look back over his shoulder. “Does that get you in the mood?”

His question was so unexpected, she couldn’t suppress her laughter. God, he could surprise her! His expression was so hopeful, the question so funny; he just wowed her.

“I don’t know. Sing a little more.”

He did, with humorous fervor.

She nodded. “Oh yeah. I’m so in the mood.”

Vittorio looked pleased, but he didn’t stop singing as he led her down the hallway.

Vittorio couldn’t quite believe his own behavior. He was the serious one, the uptight one, the stick-in-the-mud. Except being with Erika made him feel light and alive…and definitely aroused.

He’d never been one who acted impulsively, yet with her, he couldn’t stop himself. As if to punctuate that point, he turned as he reached her room and pulled her into his arms.

She came willingly, her face lifted, prepared for his kiss, and he didn’t disappoint. He pressed his mouth to hers, tasting her thoroughly.

She smiled against his lips as the pressure lessened. “I love how you kiss.”

He grinned. “Well, your technique isn’t too shabby either.”

But instead of smiling like he expected, her face grew serious. She cupped his cheek, her thumb running along the curve of his bottom lip.

“You have the most beautiful smile.” She leaned in to place her lips where her thumb had been. Then she pulled back. “You should smile a lot more.”

He remained still for a moment, unsure what to say. But realizing it was true. He didn’t smile a lot. But since meeting Erika he’d found more reasons to smile than he had in years. Decades.

“Come here,” he said, pulling her to the bed. Then he picked her up, placing her among the covers. He knelt beside her, and carefully, reverently, he began to undress her.

She watched him with those big gray-blue eyes. Trust so clear in them.

He pulled away each article of clothing, revealing inch by inch her pale, luminous skin. And he kissed each bit, loving the velvet warmth of her under his mouth.

Her fingers sank into his hair, knotting in the length, arching her body up to press against him. He moved downward, tasting her breasts, swirling his tongue around one hardened nipple, then turning his attention to the other. Then he moved down, down, savoring the soft, heated skin of her belly, her hips, her outer thigh.

She whimpered as he pressed a kiss to her inner thigh just above her knee.

“You are teasing me,” she breathed, wriggling as he kissed her knee. “And that tickles.”

Vittorio sat back, giving her a crooked smile. “I’m not teasing. I’m kissing you all over. Which happens to be the song I always wanted to make love to.”

He sang some of “Kiss You All Over,” focusing solely on the chorus and the objective at hand. He continued to kiss her between lyrics, loving her movements, the taste of her creamy skin.

She laughed, wiggling under his lips.

Then the singing waned as his attention became more focused. On her belly, her hips, her upper thighs. She gasped, and writhed under him. His need jumped with each kiss, with each reaction from her.

“This is lovely,” she said, arcing as he nipped, then sucked the flesh of her inner thigh, “but I want all of you.”

Then she added with a disgruntled pout, “And you are still totally dressed.”

“Hmm, is that a problem?”

Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Of course it is!”

He chuckled, the sound a little foreign to him. He actually felt lighthearted with this woman, which had to be the height of selfish stupidity. If anything he should feel worried and scared for her safety. But that was hard to remember when she was naked in front of him, her expression adorably petulant.

“Should I undress then?”

Again her eyes widened, this time implying he was truly dense. “Yes.”

He felt another chuckle building in his chest. But the laugh faded into a shuddering breath as she sat up and tugged at his shirt, working it up and over his head.

“You can be a pushy little thing,” he informed her, as her fingers found his nipples, flicking them with her thumb. His penis pulsed at her touch. He had no idea his nipples were so sensitive. But then, he’d never been this attracted to any woman. Never. Erika drove him wild. And she made him behave dangerously. But he would keep her safe. He would protect this mortal. He would.

She stilled, her hands pressing to his chest. “You have gotten awfully serious.”

He shook his head, giving her another smile. “No. Just concentrating on what you are doing.”

She grinned back at that, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “Hmm, what else can I do to get you concentrating?”

Her hands slid down his chest, over his stomach to his waistband. She easily undid the button and zipper, and he moved to help work the jeans down. They disappeared off the bed, joining her clothes on the floor.

She started to press kisses along his collarbone, then lower and lower, mimicking his earlier attentions. But as wonderful as her mouth felt, he couldn’t let her continue.

“God,” he groaned as her mouth moved down to his inner thighs, “that feels so good.”

Her lips curled in a smile at his roughly muttered words. But the smile was quickly transformed into a squeal as he caught her around the waist.

“But I’m acting out my favorite song.” He pinned her down, kissing her neck, then nipping her ear.

She gasped. “No fair.” The words were halfhearted at best.

“I know. I’m awful to make you suffer like this.” He kissed her stomach, dipping his tongue into her belly button.

She wiggled, a breathy laugh escaping her. “You really are.”

He moved lower, kissing just above the small triangle of dark hair covering her sex. “And I’m about to get worse.”

She made a noise of feigned despair. “If you must.”

“Oh, I must.”

Then he brushed his lips over her. Not parting her, just teasing her with a fleeting brush of his mouth, a breath. Nothing more.

Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging. Urging his mouth to her. But instead he kissed her hip. She wriggled impatiently.

“Kissing you all over is going to take a long time.” He kissed her calf. She made a frustrated and purely sexual noise, and for a second he wondered who he was really torturing with this game.