A Hunger Like No Other (Immortals After Dark #2)(29)

“No, wait! I know no one will notice me, but I…I can’t help feeling like everyone would watch me and see that I don’t eat.”

He raised his eyebrows. “No one will notice you? Only males between seven years old and death.” And still he pulled her along.

“This is cruel, what you’re doing. And I won’t forget it.”

He glanced back and had to see the alarm in her eyes. “You have nothing to worry about. Can you no’ just trust me?” At her glare, he added, “On this.”

“Is it your intent to make me miserable?”

“You need to stretch yourself.”

When she parted her lips to argue, he cut her off, his voice like iron. “Fifteen minutes inside. If you’re still uncomfortable, we’ll leave.”

She knew she was going either way, knew he was merely giving her the illusion of choice. “I’ll go if I get to pick the restaurant,” she said, making a bid for some control.

“Deal,” he answered. “But I get one veto.”

The minute they emerged onto the public walk, amid all those humans, she wrested her hand from his, her shoulders shot back, and her chin jutted up.

“Does that keep people away?” he asked. “That arrogance you don whenever you go about?”

She squinted up at him. “Oh, if only it worked on everyone….” Actually, it did on everyone but him. Her aunt Myst had taught her to do this. Myst kept people so busy thinking she was a snobby, heartless bitch with the morals of an alley cat that they never got around to thinking she might be a two-thousand-year-old pagan immortal.

Emma glanced at the walk and found several restaurant choices. With an inward evil grin, she pointed out the sushi place.

He surreptitiously scented the air, then glowered at her. “Vetoed. Choose again.”

“Fine.” She pointed out another restaurant that had an upscale club attached to it. She could almost tell herself it was a bar. She’d been to a few of those. After all, she lived in New Orleans, the world’s leading manufacturer of hangovers.

He obviously wanted to reject her choice again, but when she raised her eyebrows, he scowled and grabbed her hand once more, dragging her along.

Inside, the host greeted them warmly, then strode over to assist her with her jacket. But something occurred behind her, something that had the host returning to his podium, paler, and left Lachlain alone at her back.

She could sense him tensing. “Where’s the rest of your blouse?” he snapped under his breath.

The back was completely cut out and only a bow-tied string held it together. She hadn’t thought she’d be removing her jacket, and if she did, she’d thought her back would be glued to taupe leather right now.

She looked over her shoulder with an innocent expression. “Why, I don’t know! You should send me outside to wait.”

Lachlain glanced at the door, clearly debating leaving, and she couldn’t help her smug expression. He narrowed his eyes, then rasped in her ear, “All the better to feel their gazes on you,” while the back of his claw traced up her back.





10


“I s your blouse Azzedine Alaia?” the girl showing them to their table asked Emma.

She answered, “No, you could say it’s very authentic vintage.”

Lachlain didn’t care what it was; she’d never wear that damned unfinished shirt in public again.

The bow that swayed low across her slim back as she glided along was like a magnet for the gazes of every male in this place. Lachlain knew they were imagining untying it. Because he himself was. More than one man elbowed a friend and murmured that she was “hot,” earning a killing look from Lachlain.

It wasn’t only the men who openly stared at her as they passed. The women looked at her clothes with envy and remarked to each other that she dressed “cool.”

Then more than a few of them eyed him with blatant invitation.

In the past, he might have enjoyed the attention, possibly accepted an invitation or two. Now he found their interest vaguely insulting. As if he’d choose any of them over the creature he followed so closely!

Ah, but he liked that the vampire noted their looks as well.

At the table, Emma paused, as if to make a last show of resistance, but he seized her elbow and assisted her into the booth.

When the girl left, Emma sat with her back stiff, arms over her chest, refusing to look at him. A waiter walked by with a sizzling plate of food and she rolled her eyes.

“Could you eat it?” he asked. “If you had to?” He’d begun to wonder if it was possible, and now prayed it was.

“Yes.”

In an incredulous tone, he asked, “Why do you no’?”

She faced him with an arched eyebrow. “Can you drink blood?”

“Point taken,” he said evenly, though he was disappointed. Lachlain loved food, loved the ritual of sharing meals. When he wasn’t starving he savored it, and like all Lykae, he never failed to appreciate it. Now it hit him that he would never share a meal with her, never drink wine with her. What would she do at functions within the clan—?

He stopped himself. What was he thinking? He would never hurt them by bringing her to their gatherings.

She finally leaned back, clearly resigned to sitting there, giving a polite expression to the boy who briefly appeared to pour them water.