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But I was seeing it now.
The aristocratic face had gone deathly white, except for two little spots of color high on his cheekbones. His hair was everywhere, a tousled auburn mess, and the sapphire blue eyes were as bright as I’d ever seen them. He wasn’t angry, I realized. He was furious.
I stopped struggling.
“I give a damn,” he finally said, his voice harsh. “I didn’t fall in love with Dorina. I still barely know Dorina. I fell in love with you.”
He got up suddenly and walked away, not bothering with the opulent robe that somebody had draped over the end of the bed. I didn’t go after him. I was angry, too, more so than I’d been for a long time. He had no right to keep me here!
But he had positioned himself, whether intentionally or not, directly in front of both possible ways out. He was standing between me and the door, and looking out of the sweep of windows that were currently showing a fake, or at least very enhanced, view of the desert. We weren’t anywhere near the desert, being in the middle of Old Cairo, but the wards here were determined to present a pretty picture.
It was pretty, although not because of the sweep of stars or the moon silvering the sand dunes or the wind whipping a few palm trees around. I barely noticed them with my husband standing there. That word—husband—still felt strange, while lover rolled easily off the tongue. Maybe because I’d had lovers before, while the other . . .
I was still getting used to.
Lovers didn’t tell me what to do; lovers didn’t care. At least not the lovers I’d ever had. Some of them had been okay people; some had been outright bastards. But none had ever cared enough about me to get wounded by anything I said.
And yet choose to stick around anyway.
I hugged my knees as wondered what I was supposed to do now. I didn’t talk out problems; I hit things. But I didn’t want to hit Louis-Cesare. So, I sat there and stared at him instead, trying to come up with an argument that might get me out that door. It didn’t work, but the view was nice. The view was incredible.
He was powerfully but elegantly made, with long, graceful lines that flowed smoothly from the muscles of his shoulders and back to the smoothness of his buttocks and thighs. The lamplight loved him, glinting off the hints of red in that glorious mane, gilding the smattering of freckles on his shoulders, and turning the blue eyes to tawny gold.
But while anyone else who looked like that would have been trying to distract me, using his body to get me into another frame of mind, Louis-Cesare wasn’t like that. He wasn’t like anyone I’d ever known. It was probably why we kept bumping heads.
Even now, even after marrying the guy, I didn’t really understand him. I knew things about him: he was every inch the aristocrat from another age, with crazy ideas like noblesse oblige, the concept that rulers had a responsibility to the ruled, and that power came mixed with duty. That idea was woefully out of fashion among humans, and it had never been in style with vamps in the first place.
I knew that he had serious trust issues caused by a series of important figures in his life walking out on him—something we had in common. In fact, we had a lot in common, including a lifetime of being lied to, left behind, betrayed, and discarded. It had resulted in both of us having issues opening up and being fully honest, even with a partner, something we were still working on.
I knew that he was a mass of contradictions, with nature and nurture in his case having come into serious conflict. He was generous to a fault with money, but often stingy with his thoughts. He was kind and patient with subordinates, but could be harsh and irritated with those on his level who were behaving badly. He was willing to roll up his sleeves and do menial work when required, but he was proud, even haughty, with his fellow vamps, holding them to a code of ethics that they’d never subscribed to.
He was stubborn, my God was he stubborn! But he could be strangely open minded, too, accompanyin
g me to shows for artists he’d never heard of, or listening—with the strangest look on his face—to some of the garage and neo-punk bands I liked, trying to see the allure. I don’t think that had worked, but we had discovered a mutual appreciation for trashy novels and spicy Sichuan cooking, so I supposed that was something.
But, no, I didn’t pretend to understand him. I’d partly agreed to this trip hoping to get away from the war and spend some quiet time together. And we had had a single, wonderful day. Hassani had been held up from playing chaperone by some court issue a couple of days ago, so we’d been given a local guide and a trip to the temple of Abu Simbel, the famous memorial to Ramses II and Queen Nefertiti.
Fortunately, we never made it there. I was already tired of aging stone monuments, desert sand, and heat. Instead, when our airplane stopped at Aswan, the nearest airport, we discovered a Nubian market and fell in love. Or, at least, I did, and Louis-Cesare hadn’t seemed to mind the idea of spending the day among a gorgeous collection of blue, yellow and green buildings, with colorful murals and quirky inhabitants, instead of a long, dusty trip into the desert.
So, we’d overruled our guide and gone shopping.
We’d started with a visit to a local family, who gave us bright red hibiscus tea while we tossed treats to their pet crocodiles. Crocs were everywhere in the village: alive, and waiting for their next snack; dead and carefully mummified; tiny and perched on a local man’s shoulder; or huge and skinned and splayed out above doorways. The usually vicious creatures had been tamed by being hand reared, along with being fed a hefty diet of chicken and fish, to the point that several of them were positively potbellied.
The left-over dinosaurs were well taken care of, being an important money maker for the locals. It was much needed after the famous Aswan Dam took their land away, which they were still waiting to be compensated for. The crocs were also a nod to the crocodile-headed, ancient Egyptian god Sobek, who ironically, like the dam, was supposed to control the flooding of the Nile.
Afterwards, we’d eaten an early lunch of hawawshi bought from a street vendor, which turned out to be a crispy pita bread stuffed with beef, onions, peppers and chilies—basically an Egyptian taco and every bit as good as it sounds. Then we wandered the streets, marveling at the artwork on the houses, which was huge, in your face, and exuberant. There was everything from abstract designs to full on murals, including a beautiful one of feluccas sailing on the Nile; from dusky Nubian beauties in traditional attire, to gorgeous Arabic calligraphy flowing along the sides of buildings like water; and, in a memorable instance, of a bunch of pert camels, one with his tongue sticking out.
Speaking of camels, the real things had been everywhere, with happy-looking pom poms dancing on their bridles in every color of the rainbow, to lure in tourists whose feet were starting to hurt. I had eyed them speculatively, but we’d chosen to walk to the market instead, where the hunt was soon on for the tackiest souvenir possible for my uncle Radu. He managed to combine deep pockets with Liberace taste, so it had been a struggle to find something suitable.
We’d finally settled on a galabeya, one of the full-length robes worn by men and women all over Egypt, in eye searing purple, with a shimmering phoenix on the back in gold paillettes and sequins. I was pretty sure it was supposed to be for a woman, but Louis-Cesare knew his Sire. He’d immediately declared the search over, and that Radu would love it.
He was very likely right.
The day had ended with savory-sweet chicken tagines with preserved lemon at a colorful restaurant overlooking the Nile. We’d completed the meal with spicy Nubian ginger-coffee made on charcoal and hot sand, while a glorious orange sunset splashed our faces. It was one of those perfect days, a picture postcard glimpse of a life that could be, and one that had given me unrealistic expectations for the rest of the trip.
Because that had been our only night off. I hugged my knees and jealously recalled the dreams I’d had for our honeymoon. Of lazy days sailing down the Nile, of a selfie on top of the tallest pyramid, of an evening making love in a tent in the desert with nobody but our camel around to hear . . .
Okay, maybe not that last one, since November could be chilly at night. Like this room. Like the knot in my gut, because I’d alienated the only person I had left and I wasn’t even sure why.
