This Man and Woman (3 page)

“Finished?” he asked with a nonchalant air.

Not yet, obviously. Jean-Pierre caught a dagger next, and then four little spikes, one in each finger of his right glove, pricking the soft, supple leather. He clicked his tongue at the damage as he pulled them out.

“Ah,
Cherie
. Must we always be at odds? Without so much as a greeting?”

“Give me the
katana
!”

“Give me one good reason why.”

Merde!
He hadn’t disarmed her completely, and the slice of a blade across his inner thigh not only stung momentarily before it started closing, but would probably stain his new silk knee breeches. Jean-Pierre sighed heavily and crossed his arms. Not only did that show her how little her attack mattered, but it was bound to show off his upper arms and chest to advantage. And if it didn’t, he’d take it up with his tailor later.

“Are you ready to discourse in a civilized fashion?”

She ground out a tight-lipped scream.
Ah
…he was finally getting to her.

Jean-Pierre sighed hugely, hoping it showed off his manly size and frame even more, while thoroughly enjoying the way she sucked in air through her clenched teeth.

 “Is that a yes
?
” he asked.

“I want the sword.”

“I feel I’ve already given my answer to that,
Cherie
. So, I’ll attempt to steer the conversation in the direction I wish it to go. Such is the art of repartee.”

“You want to talk?”

“
Oui.
”

“Give me the sword first.”

Jean-Pierre tipped his head as if considering her demand. “Perhaps if you asked nicely…or if you had a reason for such a demand?”

“It was stolen!”

He uncrossed his arms and lifted his right hand, index finger up. He’d worked especially hard to achieve an elegant carriage and that extended to his hands. Even with damaged gloves. He hoped she’d see well enough in the dark to notice.

“Untrue. This sword was purchased at auction three weeks ago. For the princely sum of 4.8 million Euros. I have the receipt.”

“It was stolen…and I want it back.”

“What if I say ‘nay’?”

He got a cut-off cry of sound, while she flexed something, drawing his eye. The woman had a fantastic figure. Petite. Shapely. Jean-Pierre had it imprinted on his senses with a long glance all along her. She stiffened before he finished. He licked his lips. She shouldn’t run around in a skin-tight catsuit if she didn’t want him to notice.

“It appears we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Allow me to introduce myself. Comte Jean-Pierre de Margolis. At your service.” He pulled the large chapeau from his head and held it to his chest - feather outward - before bowing. If she knew anything of court protocol, she’d be impressed.

She didn’t and she wasn’t.

“I don’t want your name. I want the sword.”

“What would you do to gain it?”

She sucked in breath. It would have been visually stunning, if she wore an open bodice dress. As it was, it was still impressive. And if a voice could castigate, hers did.

“You insult me?”

“I offer a bargain.”

“Never.”

“You might hear it out before answering.”

“Very well, here is my answer. No.”

“I was merely suggesting—”

“No. Not with you. Never.”

“And…just why not,
s’il vous plait
?”

Jean-Pierre smirked. She obviously had the wrong impression. It was going to be vastly entertaining once she realized her mistake. He moved a step backward and nudged the case with a foot without looking.

“When I bed a man, I want a real man. Not some painted-up freak in a circus suit.”

Even if he’d aimed for such an effect, it still stung. Strangely enough. Jean-Pierre could feel the wave of flush rising from his chest, pulling fluid from other parts of his body for the effort. And worse. He could feel a tremor overtaking him, sending red-hot fury to lick at his extremities, clench at his gut, and sear his eyes into slits. He bent and smacked the wooden case. It splintered, offering up the matched set of razor-sharp epees with intricate wrought handles fashioned of gold smelted with silver. He’d seen to their manufacture himself. He flicked one her direction, and didn’t particularly care if she caught it.

“I was offering a duel. Not affronts.”

“You want to…duel?”

“My expertise against yours. Right here. Right now.”

“To the death?”

“
Non.
First blood.”

“For the sword?”

“What else?” Jean-Pierre carefully unfastened the scabbard containing his Samurai sword and set it reverently atop the remains of the wood. He kept his voice perfectly modulated. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t dare. Not until he had this reaction glossed over and tamped.

“And if I lose?”

Jean-Pierre stood and slashed the air with his epee a few times before finding her again. She’d moved when he wasn’t looking, thinking he couldn’t follow. She also had the other sword and was testing the weight and balance.
Good…

“You do not wish to know what I will require,” he informed her.

Her immediate response was a gasp, and then she did a split maneuver, curving the blade in an arch over her head as she did so, demonstrating flexibility and strength, and everything womanly he’d been denied for so long. It was too intense an experience! Everything in him ratcheted into awareness.

“Very well. I accept.”

Jean-Pierre closed his eyes and bowed his head on the ecstasy of images flooding his mind. If he didn’t get this reaction conquered, he was afraid of what he might do. Any slip of the sword might damage that perfect feminine body, and that would be beyond contemptible and detestable. Against everything he held most sacred. Words flailed him, hampering his recovery. This new sensation needed an outlet. Pen. Parchment! Ink! Not combat.

He was afraid of hurting one hair on her head. He wanted to scribe words of worship…heap adoration at her feet; revere her very essence. Such an awakening as this needed release! Not calculated swordplay. He would just have to parry, not attack. Anything else would damn him worse.

He lifted his head at the exact moment she slam-kicked his chest, sending him right out into the lake.

CHAPTER THREE

Murky water completely filled his clothing, and that, combined with the weight of her weaponry, dragged him down, making it take some time before he could give chase. And if she hadn’t just ruined his entire appearance, he’d have been on her heels like a burr. No. If she hadn’t called him a painted-up freak, or referred to his attire as a circus suit; or…if he could wipe this gooey mess of wet powder from his eyes, get this wig off, and toss the false facial hair. Then, he’d be pursuing.

Damn.

Jean-Pierre flew straight up out of the water, hovering several yards above it as he honed his senses, looking for her. Gone. The woman and his sword. Vanished.

The cheat! Regardless of her gentle, fragile gender and the fact she was his mate, she deserved his ire and punishment. And she was going to get both. Jean-Pierre reached shore, pulled the sodden wig, mustache, and goatee off, and then the coat, slapping them to the ground in disgust. Then he ripped at his shirt, making strips of the broadcloth in order to wipe at his face. His ego smarted. And there was only one thing to do about it.

o0o

The countryside surrounding their rebuilt Tirgoviste Castle looked deserted. It wasn’t. Nothing about the Vampire Assassin League’s headquarters was as it appeared. That’s how they kept it hidden. Jean-Pierre strode right through the forest fringe, jumped the three hundred meter abyss to an access point into the mountain, and then tripped on the circuit of steps down to the base, ending up swooping down in a mess of tattered shirt and water-damp velveteen coat. He suffered soul-sapping exhaustion, the kind that took his strength and left him vulnerable. He’d barely made daybreak, and he’d spent a good portion of the night getting here. There was only one taxi that would pick him up in Central Park at that time of night, and he didn’t blame them. He hadn’t even reacted when the cabbie called him a drag queen knock-off.

Humanity. Scourge of the earth. About the only good thing about them was the taste of their blood.

Jean-Pierre straightened his back and tapped on the comlink button to the inner office, expecting a voice. What he got was the stout forms of both Icelandic twins, Athlerod and Ethelstone. Their appearance was enough to make a surly vampire bare his teeth. For a humbled Comte de Margolis, it was just another affront in a world of new ones. And it would just have to be borne. He hadn’t fared well the last time he’d challenged them.

He cleared his throat. Both men pumped up their chests.

“I need to see Akron.”

“Expecting a conference call. He cannot be disturbed at present.”

“Tell him it’s important.”

“Coming from you, it’s always important.”

“It’s a matter of life or death!”

“Your turn, Ethelstone.” One of them nudged the other.

“Again. Coming from you, it’s always a matter of life or death, too.”

“Come on, gentlemen. Please?” Jean-Pierre asked next.

“He said ‘please’. Did you catch that, Athel?”

“With both ears. I just have difficulty comprehending it. He’s asking us
nicely
?”

Jean-Pierre sighed and a buzzer sounded through the wall behind them. It was followed by the speaker.

“Enough. Let him in, gentlemen.”

Both men grinned, showing pearly white teeth against scraggly beards, and then nodded. “Well. You heard the man. Entrée.”

They both pivoted inward, allowing Jean-Pierre room to pass between them. Even at six foot three, and 210, he felt and looked small. It added to his sense of deflation. Depression. Lethargy. His entire existence reeked of low self-worth at the moment. The sound of slick, ill-used satin with each step, the feel of torn stockings, and the clank of metal was all adding to it.

The Crusader knight, Invaris, was in his small office. He gave Jean-Pierre a glance and then studiously looked back down at his television desk. For some reason, that was worse than staring. And then the large doors of Akron’s study loomed. Jean-Pierre took a steadying breath and shoved through one side.

“Well. What is it? I’ve got a conference call coming in, and—Margolis. You look like a drowned rat.”

“I came for assistance, not affronts. I have enough problems.”

“Fair enough. What can I do for you?”

The man was in the shadow of his alcove. Jean-Pierre didn’t bother looking into the gloom. He slumped into a wing chair that faced the fireplace and slanted his head into one of the encroaching sides.

“Try not to damage that chair. I just had it reupholstered.”

“Very funny. I’m quite dry.”

“Where did you take a dunk? The sewage treatment plant?”

“I am depressed and I need assistance.”

“I’m not helping you kill yourself. We covered that last time.”

Jean-Pierre put a hand to his forehead in a dramatic fashion. “I am in love!” he announced.

“You’re always in love. What else is new?”

“This time is different! I swear.”

“Right. Go on. And remember, I have a conference call coming in. A very large offer I cannot possibly refuse.”

“I found her, Akron.”

“Who?”

“My mate.”

There was a heavy sigh, loud enough to echo, as though the man used a microphone. “Again?”

“
Non.
You do not understand! This time it’s different!”

“And so, you decide to ruin what looks like an expensive, albeit archaic, ensemble by swimming in sewage?”

“
Non.
This is her fault.”

“She likes to go swimming?”

Jean-Pierre shook his head.

“You want to toss me a line with this bait?” Akron asked.

“She got my sword.”

“Your 4.8 million Euro sword? The one-of-a-kind sword you picked out and had us bid for?”

“
Oui.
That one.”

“Fine. You love her so much you gave her your new sword. Invaris is going to have your ass. He spent weeks pursuing that.”

“I didn’t give it to her. She claims it was stolen from her clan. She wanted it back.”

“Very well, then. You let her waltz off with a 4.8 million Euro sword and then you went swimming. Got it. Anything else?”

“I did not allow her to waltz, or anything approaching a dance. She cheated.”

“Well…you just can’t trust a woman. How many times have I said that?”

“I need your help, Akron. Please? I am desperate here.”

“That’s why I’m still listening.”

“I need help finding her.”

“I thought you just said you found her.”

“I did! And it’s wondrous!”

“You know, Margolis, I’ve been told finding your true mate is a wonderful thing. I have to go by what I’m told, unfortunately. I am not that lucky. But I have to state the obvious. You don’t look to be experiencing much wonder at the moment.”

“You are no help! I should have found a drunken sot and drowned my sorrows in his blood. That would be better than this!”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? I’ll need specifics. What’s her name?”

The scraping sound of a chair being moved and then the creak as it got used came from the shadowy recess. Margolis stared at the unlit fireplace as if it had answers.

“I do not know,” he finally replied.

“Hair color?”

“I would say…it is dark.”

“Would say?”

“
Oui
.”

“Okay. Eye color?”

“Dark, as well. I think.”

“Size? Build?”

“Oh. Of that I am certain. She is of perhaps…five feet, five. Approximately 120 lbs. Athletic build. Very athletic.”

“Heritage?”

“I would say…Asian. But again, I am not sure.”

“Do you know what she looks like, or not?”

“No.”

“It’s not the voice at the other end of the all-night drive-through again, is it?”

“
Non.
And you are being unfair. That hasn’t happened for over a half century when they first came out. You know I learned my lesson once I found out what the woman behind the voice looked like. That was not my mate. This woman is. I swear it.”