Burnt Offerings by Laurell K. Hamilton Page B

there was nothing under the pants but him. Black boots climbed his legs to the knees. The boots were soft, crepe-like leather, wrinkled and pettable.
    He glided towards me, and I stood there watching him come. I was still half afraid of him. Afraid of how much I wanted him. I was like a rabbit caught in headlights, frozen, waiting for death to come. But did the rabbit's heart beat fast and faster? Did its breath come like a choking thing into its throat? Was there an eager rush to the fear, or was there just death?
    He wrapped his arms around me, drawing me close. His pale hands were warm as they slid over my bare arms. He'd fed on someone tonight, borrowed their warmth. But they'd been willing, even eager. The Master of the City never went begging for donors. Blood was about the only bodily fluid I wouldn't share with him. I slid my hands over the silk of his shirt, underneath the short jacket. I wanted to mold my body against his stolen warmth. I wanted to run my hands over the roughness of the linen, contrasting it to the smoothness of the silk. Jean-Claude was always a sensual feast, right down to his clothing.
    He kissed my lips lightly. We'd learned that the lipstick came off. Then he tilted my head to one side and breathed along my face, down my neck. His breath was like a line of fire along my skin. He spoke with his lips just above the big pulse in my neck. "You are lovely tonight, ma petite ." He pressed his lips against my skin, softly. I let out a shuddering breath and drew back from him.
    It was a greeting among the vampires to plant a light kiss above the big pulse in the throat. It was a gesture reserved for the very closest friends. It showed great trust and affection. To refuse it meant you were angry or distrustful. It still seemed too intimate for public consumption to me, but I'd seen him use it with others and seen fights start with a refusal. It was an old gesture just coming back into vogue. In fact, it was becoming a chic greeting among entertainers and others of the same ilk. Better than kissing the air near someone's face, I guess.
    The maitre d' held my chair. I waved him off. It wasn't feminism, but lack of grace. I never managed to be scooted under a table without the chair banging my legs or being so far from the table I had to finish scooting forward on my own. So the heck with it, I'd do it myself.
    Jean-Claude watched me struggle into my chair, smiling, but he didn't offer to help. I'd finally broken him of that at least. He sat down in his own chair with a graceful fall. It was an almost foppish movement, but he was like a cat. Even at rest there was the potential of muscle under skin, a physical presence that was utterly masculine. I used to think it was vampire trickery. But it was him, just him.
    I shook my head.
    "What's wrong, ma petite ?"
    "I felt pretty spiffy until I saw you. Now I feel like one of the ugly stepsisters."
    He tut-tutted at me. "You know you are lovely, ma petite . Shall I feed your vanity by telling you how much?"
    "I wasn't fishing for compliments." I gestured at him and shook my head again. "You look amazing tonight."
    He smiled, dipping his head to one side so his hair swept forward. " Merci , ma petite ."
    "Is the hair permed straight?" I asked. "It looks great," I added hastily, and it did, but I hoped it wasn't as permanent as a perm. I loved his curls.
    "If it was, what would you say?"
    "If it was, you'd have just said so. Now you're teasing me."
    "Would you mourn the loss of my curls?" he asked.
    "I could return the favor," I said.
    He widened his eyes in mock horror. "Not your crowning glory, ma petite , mon Dieu ." He was laughing at me, but I was used to it.
    "I didn't know you could get linen that tight," I said.
    His smile widened. "And I did not know you could hide a gun under such a ... slender dress."
    "As long as I don't hug anybody, they'll never know."
    "Very true."
    A waiter came and asked if we wanted drinks. I ordered water and Coke. Jean-Claude