Why Desmond—who was an insurance administrator for necromancers and wizards—thought he knew beans about art was beyond Lucy's comprehension. Cocking a brow, she glanced at her date and then at the painting in question. At least she recognized the subjects. The painting was of a kitchen table with a giant swordfish lying across it, and a swath of white was a female form lying beside the swordfish. A bigger swath of a brown male stood next to the table, with an enormous purple penis.
"Can you feel the power radiating from it?" Desmond asked, staring at her, a look of what could only be called horniness on his handsome features.
"I can certainly feel something," Lucy muttered.
And it was true; suddenly the back of her neck was tingling. She felt like someone was staring hard at her, possibly someone she knew or had interviewed on her show. Everyone and their dog was here tonight at the gallery opening.
Turning around abruptly, she almost bumped into a drop-dead gorgeous female vampire dressed in a slinky red number. The vampiress had a cool narrow white face with fat red lips the color of ripe pomegranates, and was sporting a choker with a diamond the size of the Rock of Gibraltar.
"Pardon me for being so clumsy," Lucy apologized, then caught her breath as she glanced over to see the vampiress's escort. Speaking of dogs! Or rather, undead monsters, Lucy corrected in stunned recognition.
The moment seemed frozen in time, with the past interceding into the present, everything blending together in shades of betrayal, pain, and the ever-present hope of lost love becoming found again. Lucy felt a sense of dislocation, as if she were underwater where everything was slow and wavy, for she stared at Valmont DuPonte, now the detective superintendent of the Supernatural Task Force for New Orleans.
The vampiress smiled slightly, her smile widening as she took in Desmond. Lucy's date might be a tad conceited, a tad kinky, a tab obnoxious, but he was handsome. Lucy sighed.
Val, on the other hand, wasn't smiling—although he too looked wonderful in his black jacket and black jeans. He was still going for the austere look, Lucy mused, her long-suffering eyes drinking him in.
His dark black hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung to slightly below his broad shoulders. His dark blue eyes were staring down at her from his wonderful height of six feet three—eyes that always had reminded her of the icy North Atlantic.
He looked great in those tight jeans. He had a good seat for riding, and rode hard and hot for somebody that wasn't a cowboy. Dang him! He just oozed sex appeal, and Lucy couldn't help thinking cattily that his date looked like she'd been around the block a few times—on her back.
"Lucy Campbell," Val remarked casually.
Lucy inclined her head, trying to regain her breath.
Her body was heating up, her legs slightly shaky and her stomach doing somersaults. "Val."
What should she say next? She needed mundane words for this extraordinary situation. Finally she managed, "Long time no see." Four years, two months, and a week to be exact, with the exception of the times she had seen him featured on some news story about an exceptionally hard capture, like that charmingly lucky leprechaun who'd turned out to be a serial killer.
"Has it?" Val commented dryly.
Lucy fumed. Four years, two months, and one week might not seem like a long time to Mr. Immortal, but to her human mind it sure as heck was.
"Cherie, you must introduce me to your little friend," Val's Bourbon Street vamp said.
Lucy fumed harder. Little? She might only be five feet four, but it wasn't like she was one of the seven dwarves.
"Certainly, ma jolie fille," Val remarked. He placed an arm around his date's svelte waist. "Beverly Perrogeut, this is Lucy Campbell, an old…" Here, Val seemed to hesitate. "An old acquaintance of mine."
Even though he made her sound like an old shoe, Lucy held her smile firmly in place—likely resembling a deer frozen by headlights. Why couldn't she be nonchalant like Val was being? Well, she supposed she didn't have three-plus centuries of practice with meeting ex-lovers.
Her heart cried out with every cell of her body that had once known Val's body intimately. Once, he had cherished her like she was made of rare stone. They had been both lovers and friends. Now she was relegated to a position of "old acquaintance," which hurt.
Tearing her eyes away from Val's, she heard Desmond introduce himself to the vampiress. She in turn introduced Val.
"Have you been dating long?" Val asked, speaking to Desmond. He kept his expression deadpan, which was actually quite easy for a vampire like himself. Poor deluded male, he thought. Lucy was a hardheaded and hard-hearted female. She was also impossible and immature, with her idiotic twenty-first-century lack of understanding of what exactly honor meant to a man, and most especially to an Old World vampire.
"Tonight is our first date," Desmond confided; then he leered at Lucy and pulled her closer. "But we are becoming acquainted very quickly."
In your dreams, buster, Lucy thought with irritation. Wanting to shove the jackass away, she instead resisted the impulse, hoping to spark a little jealousy in the old ex-boyfriend. Her mama had always said: "A skinny worm might be worthless to a cat, but if you're trying to catch a bird, watch out." And she recalled as well her grandma's sage advice for every situation: "Remember the Alamo."
Val kept his expression relaxed as he watched Lucy let Desmond hold her hand. The man was a randy goat with absolutely no savoir faire whatsoever. Even now, the idiot was trying to flirt with both women while also trying to stare down Lucy's dress—a dress that was too revealing for public viewing, low-cut and short, showing those muscular slim legs that had been made so remarkable by years of horseback riding. He fought back irritation.
Beverly flashed a very toothy smile at the human male, then looked the painting over. She loved competition, though she viewed no mortal as much of a serious challenge. She said, "I see this painting is done by Salvador. From his earliest period."
"I was just telling Lucy its very sexual implications. Such passion in the work. Look at the brushstrokes! Such primal desire. Such a forceful presence is the man. And the woman's face is remarkable—a true study in sex-slave ecstasy," Desmond explained with his slight hauteur.
Such a big purple prick, Lucy thought sardonically. Looking at the painting, her date and her ex-lover, she amended: pricks.
"Lucy didn't seem to properly appreciate the painting," Desmond remarked. "But with her beautiful face and body to match, I can tolerate that she's not knowledgeable about the art world. A man can't have everything, you know."
Wanting to slam his nose into the painting, Lucy instead remarked through clenched teeth, "Why, thank you, Desmond."
Val's mouth twitched, hiding a smile. He knew Lucy hated condescension. In spite of the pair holding hands at the moment, Desmond wouldn't be holding anything more tonight; Val was certain of that fact. Unable to resist stirring the pot a little, he asked, "What did you think of the painting, Lucy?"
She retorted flippantly, giving Desmond a long dark look and Val a hard glare. "It looks like a painting of a dead fish on a table to me, and a big prick." Take that, you faithless fang-face, she added hatefully. She knew her thoughts were rude, but she had had her fill of Desmond's condescension and Val's cool demeanor.
Val stopped the grin from coming to his face, wondering just which of them was the big prick Lucy had mentioned. Did she mean the painting? Or… She was glaring at both him and the human. He stirred the pot a little more by saying in a patronizing tone, "A prejudiced viewpoint never advanced the science of art."