And she didn't want to think about that vampire from her past…
Chapter Three
Close Encounters of the Cheating Ex Kind
There was no way that Lucy could have known what little trick fate had in store for her that night.
I should have just gone home after my meeting with Mr. Moody, she thought in irritation. Why had she agreed to the stupid rendezvous with Desmond Tribideux? Maybe because she was lonely, and perhaps she really had wanted to see the art gallery's new exhibits. The show on The Art of Paranormal was supposedly excellent.
Lucy narrowed her eyes at her date, thinking that next time she was lonely she would stay at home with a good book and a glass of wine. Women, she mused thoughtfully, were such suckers. They had an intense need to connect, which meant they were constantly setting themselves up for disappointment, even when instincts warned them to beware. And Lucy had more reason than most to be unhappy with her lacking love life. She had been reminded of it this very evening. Once, she had been loved and cherished by the very best. How could anyone else ever compare?
Shaking her head slightly, she decided ruefully that some southern nights the only things worthwhile were old dogs, children, and dandelion wine.
"This painting reveals man's need to dominate and control his woman," Desmond remarked, winking at her.
Looking at the painting, which held shapes vaguely resembling human ones, also with a pair of large red eyes and a long black chain, Lucy smiled vaguely. "Really?" Actually, the painting's eyes seemed to follow her movements, making her uncomfortable.
Desmond seemed put out. "Come now, Lucy. I should think you would know a bit more about art than this," he remarked, his eyes dancing upon the cleavage revealed by her short blue beaded dress. The garment had been a definite mistake, Lucy thought regretfully. I should have worn a turtleneck sweater—a baggy turtleneck sweater. Except it was too hot in New Orleans for heavy-duty date camouflage like that.
"I'm not really into more abstract art," she protested politely. Desmond was ruining the art exhibition for her, just as he had ruined dinner with his prosing about the wine, his work, and his rudeness to the waiter. Not to mention the amount of touching he'd done all during dinner and their walk to the art gallery in the French Quarter.
Smiling suggestively, he motioned to another abstract painting. "I see my work is cut out for me. I'll be happy to tutor you in abstract art—and in anything else, for that matter. I'm quite an expert," he announced pompously, a leer on his face, "in pretty much everything."
You're an expert sleazy troll, she decided, brushing his hand off her bottom for the seventh time. Her date, this human octopus, had more moves than Chuck Norris. She was almost considering inviting him on her show as a guest freak. "Oh, I wouldn't impose. I've always thought ignorance is bliss."
But her stratagem didn't work. Ignoring her words, he began explaining the next painting, which was a series of bright blue circles with dark golden slashes and a faint distorted humanlike figure. "This painting represents woman's wish to be dominated by her passions and by her master. The woman's longings are evident in the work. She can hardly wait for the forceful thrust of his—"
Lucy interrupted. "I see." Her date had sex on the brain, there was no question. She needed to put the kibosh on that.
"The woman is in need—extreme need," Desmond continued. "Note the powerful brushstrokes around her thighs."
Lucy let his words flow around her and disappear. But he continued to talk, no doubt in love with the sound of his own voice.
Chalk up another dud evening and another date from hell. Again, she wondered why she even bothered. Four years of being constantly assaulted with unwanted sexual passes, listening to men moan about their work, their ex-wives or girlfriends was getting to be much too much. And the men believed that after two or three dates she would be happy to hop into a bed with them, because this was dating etiquette for the twenty-first century!
Although she wasn't a virgin, not at the age of twenty-eight, she certainly wasn't easy, being a two-fingered-hand kind of woman. Meaning she could count her lovers on one hand—holding up only two fingers.
No, she didn't want to sleep with someone on a schedule, nor did she want instant sexual gratification. She wanted to love, or at least to feel deeply about her sex partner. She didn't want to sleep with someone she couldn't trust or respect, and therein lay the problem.
Supposedly time healed all wounds. But not, of course, if they were made by a vampire. After four long, cold, bitter years, the ghost of a memory was still tormenting her. Five years before and to her eternal sorrow, Lucy had fallen deeply in love with an amoral immortal. She had been working on her last sixteen hours of graduate study in broadcast communication when she'd met Valmont Frances Pierre DuPonte. He had come to San Antonio, where Lucy was attending the University of Texas.
Val had been born in a time when women were put on a pedestal—before women had all jumped off like sky divers with no parachutes. He had been born when kings and queens ruled, and he had been a French count. When being a count counted for something.
Valmont now was a law enforcement officer, and he had come to San Antonio to teach the police force some newer methods in restraining and incapacitating dangerous preternatural predators. One night, the vampire had gone to the Riverwalk to drink in the view—and probably from a willing pretty neck or two in the shadowy alcoves of the riverbank—when he had met Lucy.
He had immediately knocked her off her feet—quite literally, since she had bumped into him and fallen into the river. But love was moving in the shadows that night, and romance had bloomed in the dark. Twenty minutes later they were having drinks in a pub that catered to vampires and other supernatural creatures, and Lucy had stared into the vampire's deep blue gaze and realized that this amazing male was going to be someone very special to her. She had wanted to waltz across Texas with him in her arms, never letting go. Fortunately, Val felt the same way, because he had begun courting her in an Old World fashion. Lucy had found it both delightful and unsurprising; he was over 360 years old.
She'd thought it would last. When his lectures at the police academy ended three months later, they had conducted a passionate long-distance love affair. For eight months Lucy had felt more alive than ever before, and all because of a man undead. She had begun planning weddings and her happily-ever-after—which was very possible with a vampire for a husband. Unfortunately, Lucy had decided to visit Val one weekday, and had flown in to surprise him in New Orleans only to discover that her true love was in reality a liar. She had found him with another female vampire, his fangs in her neck, the two-fanged four-flusher! Which proved another thing her mother always said: "Once a bloodsucker, always a bloodsucker."
She had called him every name in the book and then some. She had never really loved before Val, and at his loss, she was stripped to the bone, with nothing left for a long, long time. No, Lucy had never forgiven Val. Nor had she forgotten him.
"Lucy, pay attention! I feel as if I'm talking to the wall."
Drawing herself out of her bleak thoughts, Lucy focused back upon Desmond. He continued: "As I was saying, this painting here depicts fierce raging desires and man's responsibility to have sexual conquest wherever he can."