The first thought that occurred to Argent was that Millie LeCour couldn’t be more porcelain white if she were, in fact, a corpse. His second, that the crimson and white striped dress accented her pallor so absolutely, she brought to mind the Countess Bathory, a woman famous for bathing in the blood of virgin peasants to maintain her skin’s youthful perfection.
Her smile was brilliant in every sense of the word, and Argent found himself with his hand pressed to the chest of his jacket. It happened again. That curious little jolt in the cavern of his ribs. It was the same when she’d smiled at him from the stage. A startle of sensation. A current of awareness that singed along the nerves beneath his skin with warmth and maybe a touch of pleasure.
It seemed, if she was the Countess Bathory, tonight he was Vlad Tepes, dead but for strange, lethal animation and his insatiable hunger for blood. Not for physical sustenance, like the vampire, but just as necessary for his survival.
For in the spilling of blood, he made his living.
Beaming, Millie LeCour let go of her foppish escort to execute a curtsy at the top of the stairs before descending down to her adoring public, rouged lips pursed to receive and return a plethora of air kisses.
Of all the jewels on display at the Sapphire Room, she gleamed the brightest. Christopher had marked the tired cliché that men would often tell their female companions. They would say that a woman lit up a room. In the past, it confounded him that such a sentiment would occur to either party as a compliment.
But now …
What was once a tepid room filled with the press and stench of people flirting with debauchery, now seemed to glow with whatever luminescence was contained beneath her nearly translucent skin.
Objectively, it was a shame to rid the world of such beauty. Such talent. Though her smile might just be an illusion, and her graciousness may amount to artifice, her loss would further tip the scales toward the desolation of humanity by means of mediocrity.
It wouldn’t stop him, though. If he fulfilled his vocation, she wouldn’t live to see the dawn. He could do it here, he supposed. Draw her into a corner and snap her pretty neck, drape her limp body across a chaise and disappear before the alarm was raised.
He’d have to charm her. To lure her into the darkness with him, into his realm. As a creature of the spotlight, she’d be vulnerable there. She’d be defenseless.
The idea shouldn’t excite him, but he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit having Millie LeCour to himself in the darkness didn’t arouse urges other than the one to kill.
Dangerous urges. Dangerous to him.
Though surrounded by people, Millie found him at once. Her head snapped up as though she’d heard his thoughts articulated above the drone of the crowd.
But Argent was certain she knew nothing of his intentions, because her eyes became warm midnight pools of delight the moment she noted him.
Excusing herself from her adoring public, she pressed through the throng as the orchestra began to play once more. She didn’t stop until she stood in front of him, unaware, or uncaring, that all eyes were on them both.
“I have found you,” she announced with a coy smile.
Argent had no idea what she meant. Maybe she knew why he was here. Maybe someone had warned her of the contract drawn against her life. Perhaps she was as unafraid and unfeeling as himself. A human free from the chains of pathos.
It still didn’t change anything.
“It is I, Miss LeCour, who have found you.”
And it is I who will end you.
* * *
Millie couldn’t believe her luck. Here he was, the night’s audience of one. She’d never had the pleasure of actually meeting one of them before. And to be in the presence of this particular man was an unexpected pleasure. Could it be that somehow he’d felt that strange, electric connection that she had experienced from the stage?
That would be terribly romantic, wouldn’t it?
“I thought this was a private gathering, Mr.…” She looked at him expectantly, offering her hand for an introduction.
“Mr. Drummle,” he answered, leaning over her hand, but not kissing it. “Bentley Drummle.”
Millie was unable to hold in a sound of mirth.
“My name amuses you?”
Everything about him amused her.
“Not at all.” She rushed to cover any offense. “It’s only that you don’t look like a Bentley.”
“Oh? And what name would you deem appropriate for me?”
Millie regarded him with gathering interest, somehow unable to answer his question. He didn’t look like he’d have a proper English name at all. He was nothing like the slim, elegant, fashionable men-about-town she was usually introduced to at these parties. Indeed, with his thick locks of hair the most uncommon shade of auburn, startling blue eyes, and raw, broad bones, he seemed as though he belonged on a Celtic battlefield wielding a claymore against Saxon intruders. Though his handsome features were relaxed into a mild expression, something dangerous shimmered in the air about him. Something … she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It wasn’t violence or anger. Nor was it anything unbalanced or wrong. Could it be that when he smiled, it didn’t reach those fiercely blue eyes?
She searched those eyes now, her smile fading just a little. They were like ice, and not only because of the color. A glacial chill emanated from behind them. Charm and geniality warmed the slight curve of his hard mouth, but looking into those eyes was like staring across an endless arctic tundra. Bleak and empty.