Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (31 page)

You’re falling in love with him?
God help me if that was true.

I moved to the new car, a brown Mercedes. As I sank into the leather seat, I felt weighted down by Sabine’s words. Each one churned in my stomach, as if I’d been force-fed my least favorite foods: sushi, liver, anchovies. I didn’t want to admit it, but I saw the point of that indigestible meal.

Maybe I was a little too guarded, but I wasn’t sure I could change. After Vivi was born, my focus had been her safety. As a result, my life and Jude’s had narrowed to pinpoints—Vivi’s world was even smaller. If I could make the clocks spin backward, if I could return to the moment she was born, I would make the same choices. And I always
would. Just thinking about this made my throat constrict, and I could barely pull in a breath. How I loved her.

The Mercedes headed back across the Seine and threaded its way through the twisting, medieval streets to Saint-Honoré. I looked out the window. The storefronts were filled with dazzling colors. Pedestrians walked by Christian Lacroix, Hermes, and Dolce & Gabbana. Tourists were laughing and taking pictures.

As we got closer to Place des Victoires, the driver and the guard discussed the best strategy to escort me from the vehicle to the house. The guard was a beefy man, and his knit shirt could barely contain his muscles. He looked strong enough to yank the Prada store out of the cement. All of Raphael’s security men looked the same—no distinguishing marks, no jewelry, no unusual features. They dressed casually, no bright colors or designer labels. Indistinguishability was part of the strategy.

The guard handed me a red wig, sunglasses, and a full-length white shawl. I put them on. How long could I keep running? At which point do you crash and burn? How much was this plan costing Raphael?

Stop it, Caro. You’re not his financial planner. Do not question his tactics.

The Mercedes stopped in front of the blue-paneled doors, and I was swept into the sunny courtyard. The majordomo met me at the front door. Monsieur La Rochenoire’s narrow face was dominated by dark, wooly brows, and as he looked at me, they moved violently, like caterpillars doing pushups. A long chef’s apron covered the front of his white dress shirt and dark trousers.

“Monsieur Della Rocca is in the third-floor lounge,”
he said in a thick French accent. “He would like to see you.”

“Now?” I was surprised. Raphael spent the daylight hours alone. That was when he infused himself with blood.

“Yes,
madame
,” La Rochenoire said.

I gave him the wig, and he held it aloft, as if it were a biohazard, then dropped it in a closet. Before he’d signed on with Raphael, La Rochenoire had managed the households of diplomats and, more recently, the president of France. He was also a skilled chef. As he led me up the marble staircase, his apron gave off the aromas of thyme and fresh-baked bread.

Smells that never failed to make me ravenous. But as I followed him to the third floor, my appetite dimmed, as if Sabine’s indigestible words were still roiling inside me. At the end of the arched hall, I heard clicking dog tags, and a second later, Arrapato stood in a doorway, his tongue caught between his teeth. I lifted him into my arms, and he greeted me with a cold, slobbery kiss.

“I’m in here,” Raphael called.

I carried Arrapato into the shadowy room, and La Rochenoire closed the door behind me with a soft click. All six balcony doors were covered with arched wooden panels, and each one was painted with a trompe l’oeil sky. I stopped by a table and turned on a lamp.

Raphael was sitting on a black leather sofa. His white, blousy shirt was open at the neck, the cuffs unbuttoned. He wore tattered jeans, and his bare feet were propped on an ottoman. He put down a leather book.

“I’ve been worried about you,” he said. His gaze swept
over the sparrow dress, not in a lascivious way. He seemed relieved to see me. I didn’t see a trace of the man who’d reduced me to a quivering nub in Zermatt. He was making it easy for me, and I liked that. I liked it a lot.

I sat down beside him. “Thanks for the dress. It’s lovely.”

“Sei bella.”
He patted Arrapato’s head and didn’t ask where I’d been. That was another thing I adored about him—he never pried. Of course, maybe he’d already read my mind, but I didn’t think so. He’d had centuries to figure out the feminine brain.

“I went to Sabine’s,” I said.

He glanced up from the dog, regarding me with an amused expression. In the faint light, his eyes were the color of dark brown sugar. “I hope the cat went, too, because I can’t find her,” he said. “And Arrapato looks guilty.”

The dog’s tail beat against the cushion. “Marie-Therese is fine. But Sabine is leaving Paris—with my child. She wouldn’t tell me where she’s going. Neither would Vivi.”

“Paris attracts telepathic vampires. That makes it a telepathic city. Sabine doesn’t want to put you or Vivi at risk.”

“I can shield my thoughts.”

“Of course you can.” He put his arm around me, and I leaned against his billowy shirt. A hug was just what I needed. I breathed in his reassuring smell, pomegranates and patchouli and rain-drenched earth. I got lost for a minute in the softness of his shirt and the firm skin beneath it.

He moved a little closer, and his hair swung down. I fought the urge to tuck the lock behind his ear.

There was a rap at the door. Raphael and I moved apart. “Yes?” he called.

“
Alimentation pour madame, monsieur
,” La Rochenoire called.

“
Oui, entrez, s’il vous plait
,” Raphael said.

The door creaked open, and the majordomo stepped into the room, carrying a glass of lemonade on a silver tray. His apron was gone, and he’d put on the tailored black jacket that he always wore. As he lowered the tray, lavender sprigs bobbed against the rim of the glass. I thanked him and lifted the glass.

“I haven’t had lavender lemonade since I was a child,” I said.

La Rochenoire looked pleased, then turned to Raphael. “Rain is on the way, sir. Scattered showers tomorrow evening, followed by a few overcast days. Shall I arrange for more security?”

Raphael nodded, looking vaguely troubled.

Vampire weather
, I thought.

La Rochenoire left the room. I lifted the glass. It was packed with shaved ice, and each sip tasted sugary and tart. Raphael was smiling.

As I lowered my glass, Sabine’s words came back to me again, and I was afraid Raphael would read my thoughts. “How did you meet Sabine?”

“At a soiree. She’d crashed the party to see Monsieur d’Orsay. She pleaded with him to accept her as his daughter. He threw a cup of blood in her face. The edge of the cup hit her forehead.”

I thought of the white scar that curved under her bangs.

“Everyone in his crowd laughed,” Raphael said. “She walked out onto the rooftop terrace, blood dripping down her face. It was windy that night, and cold. Sabine was crying so hard, her nose was running. She straddled the rail, and I was afraid she’d jump. I told her that I knew where to find her biological father. She climbed off the rail.”

“Who was he?”

“A Canadian physician. But he’d moved to Paris. Dr. Hoffman was barely five feet tall. Stocky, dark eyes, auburn hair. A male version of Sabine. He was an internist at the American Hospital. But the Occitaine Cabal made sure he was dismissed. For a while, he worked as a gardener in Neuilly-sur-Seine. He encouraged Sabine to become a physician. But he could not afford to send her to school.”

So that was why Raphael had financed her education. I lifted the glass and took a sip, breathing in the lavender smell. “Is he still alive?”

“Oh, yes. Sabine and I helped him set up a practice in Zürich.”

I was starting to understand why Sabine was so fond of Raphael and why she’d cleared her schedule to work with Vivi. I traced my finger around the rim of the glass, then moved the lavender stem up and down in the glass. It was an unconscious gesture—at least I think it was. But then I saw Raphael’s gaze follow my hand. It was shameful how much that excited me.

I crossed my legs. But the friction only caused more stimulation.

“You seem restless,” he said.

“Do I? Maybe I should go jogging.”

“Swimming is more private.”

His pool was in the cellar. The last time I’d seen it, spiders were running up the walls, and the water smelled like brimstone. “You want me to swim in the birthplace of evil?”

“You’re thinking of the old pool,” he said. “I renovated the cellar last fall.”

“A renovation wouldn’t help,” I said, trying not to smile. “But an A-bomb might.”

“Go ahead and laugh. It’s going to be in
Architectural Digest
this fall.”

“A demonic cellar? That’ll be a first. Who was the designer? The one who messed up your drawing room?”

“No, a brilliant architect. Come on, I’ll show you.”

And just like that, I was having fun again and feeling guilty about it. I put down my glass, and we walked into the hall, past a hand-painted mural that depicted scenes from a vineyard.

“I have a new elevator, too,” he said.

He clicked the center panel and a door swung open. We stepped into a tiny car. Raphael looked around for Arrapato. The dog sat in the hall, glaring at us, his head resting on his paws.

“See?” I said. “The dog knows we’re going to a bad place.”

“Just wait,” Raphael said as the elevator whirred downward. “You’ll take back all of your cruel words.”

The door opened, and a fresh smell washed into the car. Music drifted from speakers in the ceiling, and Cary Brothers began to sing “Take Your Time.” The cellar of
the damned had been banished. Clay pots bursted with ferns and vines. Three teak chaise longues were lined up in front of an angular pool, which shimmered with a pristine radiance.

At the far end of the cellar, another mural showed an Italian garden. A tiled bar held stemware and liquor bottles. On the counter was a huge brandy snifter filled with matchbooks from nightclubs. Next to the bar was a thick walnut door that stood open, showing a narrow stairwell.

“Where does that lead?” I asked.

“The courtyard.”

“And you just leave it open?”

“There’s a door at the top of the stairs. It stays bolted. Hold on, let me check.” He dashed up the stairs. I moved to the bar and lifted a matchbook from the snifter. Le Truskel on Rue Fey Deau, an after-midnight club. I dropped it.

He returned. “It’s locked.”

His hand closed around mine, and he guided me around the pool to the mural. “During the renovation, my architect found an old smuggler’s tunnel. It was used by the French Resistance.”

I glanced around, looking for a door. “Where is it?”

“Hidden.” He gestured at the mural. It covered the entire back wall—cypress and linden trees, benches, pergolas, rose beds, and fountains. I studied each image, looking for the outline of a door, anything with straight lines.

My gaze returned to the cypress trees. I ran the flat of my hand over the wall, feeling the rough paint. Then my fingers bumped over a rigid edge. I pushed against it. A
door swung away from the mural. Standing behind it was a metal door with an electronic keypad.

Raphael punched in the code, 2276. The door grated open, swinging on its hinges, and cool, sour-smelling air drifted out. Rough limestone steps plunged into darkness. Way off in the distance, I heard dripping water. I opened the door wider, and light from the cellar shone on the old stone-and-mortar walls.

“Where does it lead?” I asked.

“To a bigger door,” he said. “Much thicker than this one.”

“What’s beyond that?”

“The sewer.” He gazed off into the darkness.

“You haven’t gone exploring yet?”

“No.”

“Let’s go sometime.”

“Really? You’d tramp through a smelly labyrinth?”

“Why not?”

“It’s a date,” he said.

A
Les Misérables
date, I reminded myself. We’d need hard hats, flashlights, nose plugs, and tall rubber boots.

While Raphael put the mural back together, I walked around the pool. The water lapped against the smooth turquoise tiles that lined the perimeter. I tucked my hair behind my ears, but it wouldn’t stay. The humidity was causing curls to spring free all over my head. I glanced over my shoulder.

Raphael was smiling. “You walk with a dancer’s awareness,” he said. “Alert and poised. Shoulders back. Head up. Floaty steps.”

“Funny you should say that. When I was six years old,
I got kicked out of ballet class. The instructor said I had flat feet.”

“They’re not flat now.” He walked toward me, glancing from my ankles to my face. A dazzle moved through me. I had a couple of options. I could get in the elevator or I could do something reckless. I mean, why not? So what if we make love? I didn’t need to turn it into something it wasn’t. A dweeb could be cool, right?

I kicked off my shoes and dipped my right foot into the warm, silky water. This was about as wild as I could get. If only I were bold enough to strip down to my bra and panties, but Raphael had always seen me fully clothed, except for that one tiny moment in Norway, and the bedroom had been dark. I hadn’t seen much of him, either.

He edged in beside me. His pupils dilated, obscuring the dark irises. A pulse leaped in his neck. “Are you going in?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“Coward.”

If I didn’t do something, and soon, he was going to kiss me and I wouldn’t stop him. The music changed, and I recognized the melancholy opening notes to “Be Here Now,” a poignant ballad about lovers and their unstable inner walls.

I thought of the sparrow dress that Raphael had given me. Now his stereo—which he was controlling with his mind—was playing symbolic music. What was he trying to tell me?

His hand grazed mine. His skin felt cool and slightly rough. Water pattered to the stones as I lifted my foot
from the water. Steam drifted from the surface, glided under the hem of my dress, and brushed across my thighs.

“Don’t think too much,
mia cara
.”

Who could think? I couldn’t catch my breath. All I had to do was put on my shoes, and he’d smile and make a joke, putting us both at ease. He was so good at changing a debauched situation into a pleasing one.