"Slick, very slick," I said.
He widened his eyes, trying for innocent and failing. He was many things, but innocent wasn't one of them.
"Now, let's start negotiating on dinner," I said.
"You make it sound like a chore."
I sighed. "Before you came along, I thought food was something you ate so you wouldn't die. I will never be as enamored of food as you are. It's almost a fetish with you."
"Hardly a fetish, ma petite."
"A hobby, then."
He nodded. "Perhaps."
"So just tell me what you like on the menu, and we'll negotiate."
"All that is required is that you taste what is ordered. You do not have to eat it."
"No, no more of this tasting shit. I've gained weight. I never gain weight."
"You have gained four pounds, so I am told. Though I have searched diligently for this phantom four pounds and cannot find them. It brings your weight up to a grand total of one hundred and ten pounds, correct?"
"That's right."
"Oh, ma petite, you are growing gargantuan."
I looked at him, and it was not a friendly look. "Never tease a woman about her weight, Jean-Claude. At least not an American twentieth-century one."
He spread his hands wide. "My deepest apologies."
"When you apologize, try not to smile at the same time. It ruins the effect," I said.
His smile widened until a hint of fang peeked out. "I will try to remember that for the future."
The waiter returned with my drinks. "Would you like to order, or do you need a few minutes?"
Jean-Claude looked at me.
"A few minutes."
The negotiation began.
Twenty minutes later I needed a refill on my Coke, and we knew what we wanted. The waiter returned, pen poised, hopeful.
I'd won on the appetizer, so we weren't having one. I'd given up the salad, and let him have the soup. Potato-leek soup, hey, it wasn't a hardship. We both wanted the steak.
"The petite cut," I told the waiter.
"How would you like that prepared?"
"Half well-done, half rare."
The waiter blinked at me. "Excuse me, madam?"
"It's an eight-ounce cut, right?"
He nodded.
"Cut it in half, and cook four ounces of it well-done, and four ounces of it rare."
He frowned at me. "I don't think we can do that."
"At these prices you should bring the cow out and have a ritual sacrifice at the table. Just do it." I handed him the menu. He took it.
Still frowning, he turned to Jean-Claude. "And you, sir?"
Jean-Claude gave a small smile. "I will not be ordering food tonight."
"Would you like wine with dinner, then, sir?"
He never missed a beat. "I do not drink—wine."
I coughed Coke all over the tablecloth. The waiter did everything but give me the Heimlich. Jean-Claude laughed until tears trailed from the corners of his eyes. You couldn't really tell it in this light, but I knew that the tears were tinged red. Knew that there would be pinkish stains on the linen napkin when he was done dabbing his eyes. The waiter fled without having gotten the joke. Staring across the table at the smiling vampire, I wondered if I got the joke or was the butt of the joke. There were nights when I wasn't sure which way the grave dirt crumbled.
But when he put his hand out to me across the table, I took it. Definitely, the butt of the joke.
8
Dessert was raspberry-chocolate cheesecake. A triple threat to any diet plan. Truthfully, I preferred my cheesecake straight. Fruit, except for strawberries, and chocolate just muddied the pure cream cheese taste. But Jean-Claude liked it, and dessert took the place of the wine I'd refused to order with dinner. I hated the taste of alcohol. So Jean-Claude's choice of dessert. Besides, the restaurant did not serve plain cheesecake. Not artistic enough, I guess.
I ate all the cheesecake, chased the last chocolate curl across the plate, and pushed it away. I was full. Jean-Claude had laid his arm across the tablecloth, rested his cheek on his arm, and closed his eyes, swooning, trying to savor every last taste. He blinked at me, as if coming out of a trance. He spoke, head still resting on his arm, "You have left some whipped cream, ma petite."
"I'm full," I said.
"It is real whipped cream. It melts on the tongue and glides across the palate."
I shook my head. "I am done. If I eat any more, I'll be sick."
He gave a long-suffering sigh and sat back up. "There are nights when I despair of you, ma petite."
I smiled. "Funny, I think the same thing about you sometimes."
He nodded his head, making a small bow. "Touchй, ma petite, touchй." He stared off past my shoulder and stiffened. The smile didn't fade from his face. It was wiped clean. His face was its blank unreadable mask. And I knew without turning around that someone was behind me, someone he feared.
I managed to drop my napkin, and picked it up with my left hand. With my right hand I drew the Firestar. When I sat back up, the gun was in my hand in my lap. Though shooting up Demiche's seemed like a bad idea. But hey, it wouldn't be the first bad idea I'd had.
I turned to see a couple walking towards us through the tables and crystal. The woman looked tall until you got a glimpse of the heels she was wearing. Stiletto, four inches. I'd have broken my ankle trying to walk in them. The dress was white, square necked, form-fitting, and more expensive than my entire outfit, even if you threw in the gun. Her hair was a white-blond so pale it matched the dress and the simple white mink stole curled around her shoulders. The hair was piled in a mound atop her head with a sparkle of silver and the crystal fire of diamonds to frame the hair like a crown. She was chalk-white, and despite the expert makeup I knew she hadn't fed yet tonight.
The man was human, though there was a thrumming energy to him that made me want to take back the human part. He was tanned that wonderful rich brown that olive skin can manage. His hair was a luxuriant curling brown, shaved short on the sides, but done so it fell in curls near his eyes. The eyes were pure brown and watched Jean-Claude steadily, joyously, but it was a dark joy. He was dressed in a white linen suit, complete with silk tie.
They stopped at our table like I knew they would. The man's handsome face was all for Jean-Claude. I might as well have not been there. He had very strong features, from high cheekbones to an almost-hooked nose. An inch either direction and his face would have been homely. Instead, it was striking, compelling, handsome in an utterly masculine way.
Jean-Claude stood, hands loose at his side, face beautiful and empty. "Yvette, it has been a long time."
She smiled wonderfully. "A very long time, Jean-Claude. You remember Balthasar?" She touched the man's arm, and he obligingly slid it around her waist. He planted a chaste kiss on her pale cheek. He looked at me then for the first time. It wasn't a look I'd ever gotten from a man. If it had been a woman, I'd have said she was jealous. The vampire's English was perfect. Her accent was pure French.
"Of course, I remember him," Jean-Claude said. "Time spent with Balthasar was always memorable."
The man turned back to Jean-Claude then. "But not memorable enough to keep you with us." He, too, sounded French, but there was an undercurrent of some other language. It was like mixing blue and red and getting purple.
"I am master of my own territory. It is what everyone dreams of, is it not?"
"Some dream of a seat on the council," Yvette said. Her voice was still mildly amused, but there was an undercurrent now, like swimming in dark water when you know there are sharks.