Desideriel Merovech. Hmm. Sounded like another old-lady name. He was glad she preferred Dez. But, too, the longer version reminded him of the Latin desiderata, which means "desired things."
He bowed to a sighing Olive and planted a kiss on the back of her hand. Word must be getting around that the youngest guy at the gala was giving away hand kisses. Ivan smirked. It was a hell of a lot better than crushing skulls and capturing AWOL souls.
It was evening, though, and he had to grit his teeth every time the coercion pricked at his shadow. Certainly Himself understood seduction happened slowly. Ivan sensed the restraint in the coercion."Will you be in town for long, Mr...."
"Drake," Ivan offered. "As long as necessary."
"Will we be hearing wedding bells in the future?"
"Er..." That one blindsided him. Ivan twisted to catch a real drink from a passing waiter's tray. He put back a goblet of red wine in one gulp. "Wedding?"
"She's notoriously single," Elise whispered. "What that woman needs is a good man."
"Oh yes, a good man," the other biddy chimed.
Well, then he was definitely out of the running. Not that he needed to be in the running. Just dizzy up the girl, grab the book, and depart.
"Oh, here she is now," a geriatric proclaimed. "Oh my. Now isn't that an interesting color."
Ivan turned and now felt the heat from the alcohol rise in his cheeks. No, it wasn't the alcohol. It was the slinky red number that sashayed toward him down an aisle lined in worshipful violet pansies.
Desired things, indeed.
Since moving to Willow Cove a decade earlier, Dez had few reasons to don a party dress, fix up her hair and actually put on makeup. The makeup was spare: a little black eyeliner, though she did like to draw it out in a curl at the corners of her eyes, and some blush.
There were so few interesting men in this town. She'd exhausted her resources within two months of moving here. So why bother to fix oneself up when it wasn't worth it?
Same with clothes. Her wardrobe was huge, but she kept it concealed in a magical otherwhere. She'd conjured the slinky red number right onto her body.
Tonight, Dez had dug out the tigress. She wanted Ivan Drake to see exactly what he couldn't have.
All eyes followed her as she crossed the lawn before the gazebo. Lights had been strung about the various flowerbeds featuring designer roses and luscious clouds of baby's breath. The entire park looked a fairy revel-if the fairies happened to be aged horticulturists.
Tugging at a curl hanging from her upswept hair, Dez realized she'd never had quite so much attention before from the townspeople. It was a little unsettling. A woman accustomed to hiding away from the world perhaps shouldn't take so large a leap as this.
But she'd leapt. And she wasn't uncomfortable. Just ultrasensitive to reactions and the vibration of emotions about her. She felt them all: curiosity, wonder, desire and even jealousy.
She had to look at this as if it were an interview for the Rose Club. She must hold her head high and dazzle the members with her wit and intelligence. It couldn't be that difficult. She had endured far worse trials than a mere social event. Witch floating, anyone?
A popular pastime of a religious sect in the seventeenth century. She had not floated. But of course, being immortal, death hadn't come, either.
"I can so ace this inquisition," she murmured, then nodded to a few smiling faces. "Miss Merovech." Harold Gorm stepped between her and her destination, which diverted her concentration. Dez had to mentally jerk herself out of the glare she knew she suddenly gave the man. "You're looking lovely this evening."
A wave of halitosis curbed her approach. She should have performed that repellent spell after all.
"Thanks, Harold. Why so friendly all of a sudden? You pass my shop every morning on the way to work at the butcher shop.
You usually break your neck looking the other way."
"I, er..."
So she didn't have to shine on everyone.
Leaving the tongue-tied butcher to ponder her stunning lack of civility, Dez finally reached her date. Or, at least, his vicinity. He wasn't accessible for the crowd that had gathered about him. Elise and her gaggle of hens were gushing and beaming about the towering vampire's flanks. Didn't they know it was unbecoming for women of a certain age to gush?
Of course, Dez was of a certain age. Certainly she would never gush. Even if the man was impeccably attired in suit and tie, and looking not at all like a creature of the night who could very well send the entire gala screaming should he flash a little fang.
You have nothing against vampires.
Didn't mean she had to befriend the man intent on taking the grimoire from her.
This is war, she reminded herself.
Elise's giggle was followed by patting the vampire's arm and calling him Ivan.
So that was his name. Ivan. Sounded like some kind of warrior. Fittingly macho. Wonder what his nationality was? He looked European, possessed of unconventional charm that overwhelmed any physical flaws he might have. Said flaws she had yet to discover. Save an aversion to wild roses. To be expected.
It was Ivan's whiskey-dark gaze Dez focused on as she entered the press of admirers. Before she could acknowledge the ladies flittering about-fairies indeed-Ivan turned and swept up her hand. He pressed a kiss to the back of it, lingering, holding her hand as if it were a feather that might drift away. The heat of his mouth on her flesh traveled up her arm. The sudden surprising electricity of their contact tightened her nipples. The thin red silk revealed all.
Let them stare. Yeah, she was aroused. What of it?
"A woman named Dez dressed in red," he said, still holding her hand and looking up from the kiss. "I think I've never known the meaning of beguilement until now."
Dez tugged her hand away. She may be aroused, but that didn't mean she was easy. "Give it up, fixer. So where's the booze?"
"Would you like me to grab you a Shirley Temple, dear?"
Much as she wanted to ingratiate herself to the girls in the Rose Club, Dez couldn't stomach an evening spent chatting it up with the blue-haired geriatrics when it was very apparent her main concern should be on repelling the devil's fixer.
But then again, her purpose for being here was to gain friends. And if she could ditch the date sooner rather than later, well then.
"Don't worry, Elise, Ivan will get something for-"
That was all he needed, an invitation to escape. But he didn't do it alone. Ivan hooked an arm in Dez's and strolled with her down the stone path toward the bar cart perched at the edge of the park."But I was going to talk to Elise," Dez protested.
"Really? I smell a lie."
"I want to join the Rose Club and-"
"You don't want to do that."
For the first time, Dez took a moment to really look at his face. Though young, his skin possessed the veneer of a long and hard life. She had seen farmers and blue-collar workers who had lines in their faces-not wrinkles of ages, but lines from strife. Those same lines traced the corners of Ivan's eyes; a mask of survival.
And then she really peered into his eyes. Yes, like whiskey glinting behind glass. They were kind. And not. Delving. He searched for something in her eyes she wasn't prepared to let him find.
Dez jerked her gaze out of what she knew could become persuasion-a little vampire trick-toward Elise and her posse.
"I had no idea the club insisted upon an age minimum of seventy. Do none of the younger people in town plant flowers?"
"Still want to join?" he wondered. He paid the bartender, then placed a goblet of white wine in her fingers. "This is definitely geriatric central."
Blowing away a loose strand of hair from her face, Dez asked, "What's wrong with an older woman?"
He tilted a gaze over her, eyes traveling the edges of her mouth and up to the corners of her eyes. Trying to figure her age? Dez would never tell, but he'd be surprised, even for an immortal vampire.
"You're too young to worry about that," he finally offered. "Care to dance?"
Something akin to a polka om-pa-paaed out on the dance floor. The hair on Dez's arms prickled. "Actually I'd like to sit awhile. I can smell the heliotrope from here. I think I'll steal some petals for my oils when no one's looking."
A two-seater bench sat beneath a pergola laced with blooming honeysuckle. White heliotrope frothed around and behind the bench. The sweet scent attacked the air as Dez sat and slipped one shoe off to dangle on her toes. She preferred as much bare flesh as possible, and though she adored spike heels, the freedom of slipping out of the confining leather was a joy.
Ivan sat right next to her, so close their arms and legs brushed. He was an immense presence, and he made Dez feel rather small sitting next to him. But that didn't hurt her confidence. She'd once already mastered him with her magic.
"You know, this doesn't mean anything," she said. "I merely accepted your conniving invitation as a means to ingratiate myself into the club. You're nothing but a tool."
"A tool? I'm insulted."
"You know what I mean."
"I suppose I can live with that. Though I really hate to know I'm serving as a means to such utter boredom. But if it's what you desire."
He said the word desire on a murmur. It tickled at Dez's staunch determination. Easy to be here right now. Next to him. Close to him.
She softened her shoulders and smoothed a hand along her foot.
"Want me to rub it?" "Huh? No. Don't touch me. And slide over. You're too close."
"There is but six inches on the other side of me to sit. And there's bird crap at that end."
"Make it disappear."
Ivan sighed. He hung his head, hands clasped between his knees.
Dez wasn't about to fall for the "poor pitiful me" act. She intended to keep her guard up and protect the grimoire to her very last breath. And it would be her last breath if she failed.
Keep one's enemy close? The theory sounded right, but the actual act disturbed her on a level she wasn't sure how to approach.
Because right now close proved disconcerting. She wanted him; she didn't want him.
A trio of giggling elderly women waved at Dez and she waved back. A tilt of her wine goblet to acknowledge them was met with raised toasts.
"Wonder if they'll start coming into the shop now to ask me about my boyfriend? You're quite the hit. Bet those old ladies haven't seen prime USDA like you in decades."
"Doesn't matter what they think. What do you think? Tell me why a gorgeous woman like you is living in a lazy little place like Willow Cove? Without friends, or family or..."
"A man?"
He shrugged. "Smart, attractive women don't usually stay single for long."
"Sure they do. That's what makes them smart." A sip of wine rewarded her sweetly. "You forget my kind have a tendency to outlive our mortal mates. Having a relationship is never a wise thing."
"What if the man is immortal?"
"I think you're losing track of your goal, fixer. What you want from me cannot be obtained by seduction. Only sheer force of will and a stubborn sense of survival might see you a challenge. But never the victor."
"Relax, Dez. Do you find me threatening right now?"
Yes, but on a sensual level, not a magical-battle level. "You could never be a threat."
"You have no idea."
And if she truly were as smart as he claimed, she would be wise to heed that warning.
Sitting back, Dez's shoulder brushed Ivan's wool suit coat. Men fell into two categories for her: worth getting to know, and better just as friends.
The "better just as friends" kind attracted her on a mental level. They usually were smart and held an occupation that Dez wasn't familiar with, but that made them all the more interesting to listen to. They could be physically attractive, but she usually never felt the vibe from them, that intangible sense of wanting to come undone in the man's presence.
The "worth getting to know" ones attracted her physically and stirred that pining to fall to pieces, to come undone. An undoing she wanted to explore, go deeper into, to get lost in.
Right now she couldn't decide about Ivan. All right, to be honest with herself, she knew exactly the kind of man he was. And denying it was the only safe option.
Ivan stood and said, "I came here to party. It's rare I'm allowed such freedom during the night, and I intend to take advantage of that. I'm going to find someone who wants to dance."
And he walked away. The suit was immaculately tailored; stylish fine gray pinstripes traced the deep navy color. The British cut, slender and close-fitted, emphasized his broad shoulders and sleek, long build. He looked as good from behind as he did from the front.
And Dez caught herself as she licked her lips. "Focus, girl. He's using persuasion. Has to be."
Quick enough, Ivan found a partner, and he started in on an impressive polka.
Dez crossed her arms and tapped the rim of the wine goblet against her teeth. The man actually knew how to polka.
"Wonder how long he's been around?"
A vampire could look as young as Ivan yet be centuries old. Surely Himself wouldn't pluck up a youngling as his fixer. And if his parents had been a phoenix and a witch, well, then he was truly a unique and powerful breed.
If he intended to seduce the book from her, then what if she switched her game of playing hard to get and, instead, seduced him first? Rendered him virtually incapable of wanting to harm or trick her, for he would wish only to serve as her sexual slave.
Dez smirked. The idea sounded far more intriguing than the execution did. Many a lover had rumpled her sheets, but this tigress had softened her mien of attack and conquer. She preferred to be conquered, actually.
Truth be told, she was vulnerable in the relationship department.
Was it because she so desperately pined for the attention? A simple hug. A lingering kiss? Waking each morning alongside a man who claimed love?
She shook her head and set the goblet on the bench. "I'm not a virgin. I have a few tricks up my sleeve."