Carnal Thirst

mind.

Of leaping over the banister, landing sure-footedly on the floor below, and dashing for the door—all while he merely gaped at her in stunned amazement at her agility, too surprised by her speed to block her path.

Unfortunately, she'd never been terribly coordinated. She thought it was much more likely that she'd hang her foot in the banister and land on her face. And even if she managed to scramble to her feet and he was laughing too hard to move as quickly as he did before, she thought her limp would probably slow her down too much for her to make her getaway.

It was probably locked anyway, she thought glumly.

After her brief hesitation, while she tested the scenario in her mind, she continued down the stairs, pretending it hadn't occurred to her to make a break for the door.

A knowledgeable smile curled his lips. Asshole . He knew what had been running through her mind. She had to learn better control over her expressions and her bad habit of letting every thought show on it.

'Leave the poker by the stairs,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest and gestured at her with one forefinger, pointing to where she should leave it.

Maggie thought about clobbering him with it, but she wasn't certain he'd stand still this time anymore than he had the last. Heaving a reluctant sigh, she leaned her weapon against the wall and stepped off the last step, moving toward him.

He bowed when she reached him, lifting her hand and kissing the back in the sort of quaint, old-fashioned chivalry that might have seemed ridiculous if anyone else had done it—or made her feel ridiculous. Instead, it made him appear indescribably suave, and it sent a delicious quiver through her belly.

Resolutely, she ignored it as he turned and walked her down the hallway toward an arched opening at the other end.

It was a formal dining room. And although, like the rest of the house, she knew that it was sadly aged, the tapers burning in the center of the table lent a mellow, golden glow that softened the harshness of the room's aging.

The tablecloth was pristine and set with elegant china and crystal. It seemed so incongruous, given the setting and situation. Nevertheless, she took her seat without comment when he pulled her chair out for her.

The entire situation took on a sort of bizarre, surrealistic edge as he removed the covers from the dishes on the table, displaying food that was as elegantly beautiful as the table setting. Try though she might to imagine him slaving over a hot stove, the image simply did not fit the man sitting across from her.

She didn't know why, but she'd assumed the two of them were alone in the house. Now she wondered if there was an army of servants lurking in the dark. That made no sense either, however. Surely if he had kidnapped her, he wouldn't have that many people that he could trust to aid him in his abduction?

She didn't bother to question him about it. She knew she couldn't trust anything he told her anyway.

Instead, she forced a smile. “The food looks delicious.'

He nodded at the compliment and served her plate. She wasn't actually hungry. She was way too terrified to be hungry, but she thought that the best way to get him to let down his guard long enough for her to have a chance to escape would be to behave as if she accepted the situation.

When he'd served her plate, therefore, she smiled up at him again and thanked him. The first bite she took brought tears to her eyes. Not because the food was inedible, but because she immediately sank her teeth into her tongue. Her tongue went numb at the wound and throbbed in her mouth like a live thing.

The taste of blood filled her mouth.

With an effort, she chewed the food and swallowed anyway, feeling a little sick. It was her blood, of course, and she shouldn't have found it disgusting. She'd always had an aversion to blood though. She wanted desperately to spit the food out, but good manners precluded it, and even in her current situation, especially with that very elegant gentleman sitting across from her—kidnapper or not—she just couldn't bring herself to do anything that crude. Wouldn't her mama be proud to know that she could act like a lady?

'Is there a problem with the meat, chere?” he asked, arching a brow.

She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked at him. “Actually,” she said, blushing, “I bit my tongue.'

'That would be the fangs, chere. They can be inconvenient. And it does take some time to grow accustomed to them.'

She stared at him, but he didn't appear to be making a joke. “I don't have fangs,” she said.

'Didn't,” he corrected.

'Don't,” she said, feeling a little childish. “I'm not a dog.'

'Certainly not. You're a vampire.'

Chapter Three

While they dined, he talked about the history of New Orleans. Despite everything, it soothed her. The sound of his voice stroked along her nerve endings like the caress of a hand. She was surprised to discover that she ate most of the servings that he'd placed on her plate. She'd drank the wine as well, more wine than she'd intended, and certainly more than was wise. Her weight and height usually allowed her to drink more than the average person, however, so she wasn't worried about it. She couldn't remember ever even having a buzz from alcohol.

She didn't comment on his suggestion that she was a vampire. If he thought she'd believe that, he was crazy. Besides being ridiculous, she didn't feel remotely different than any other day of the week, and they'd both eaten the food he'd served—which canceled out all credibility of either of them being a vampire. Vampires could only drink blood. Everyone knew that.

He didn't seem insane, but on the other hand, sane people didn't usually brutally attack women on the street. She remembered hearing once that insane people were incredibly strong. That might explain how he had managed to attack her when she felt that she should have been fully capable of going toe to toe with pretty much any man.

The wine calmed even her fear of his mental stability. She found herself smiling at some of the anecdotes that he told.

'How old were you then,” she asked impulsively at something he'd said.

'Six hundred and fifty nine years.'

She burst out laughing. “No, really.'

'Ah, chere, would you have me whisper sweet little lies in your ear instead?” he said on a husky note that made her insides quiver.

'I'm not sure I'd want you getting that close.'

'Wouldn't you?'

Smiling devilishly, he reached across the table, and with his index finger, began swirling a little pattern on the back of her hand. “Perhaps I'm not close enough,” he whispered.

Warmth flowed up her arm, lifting the fine hairs on her arm and the back of her neck. A delicious little shiver skated down her spine as she looked into his dark eyes. There was a smoldering look in his gaze that she immediately identified, despite the fact that she'd never had a look like that directed at her in her memory. It sent heat surging through her. Her belly clenched as a sweet, sharp spasm reverberated from the core of her sex straight up to her heart.

A warning voice niggled in the back of her mind. He was a kidnapper and insane besides. She was convenient and his captive, otherwise, she was sure a man that looked like him would never be interested in even looking at her, much less touching her. She was used to people swearing to go on a diet after one look at her size eighteen frame—not with any kind of desire.

That more than anything else was the clincher. She forced a slight smile. “You're not trying to seduce me, are you?'

He smiled wryly. “Not very successfully,” he murmured, “if you can ask.'

It occurred to her that she was probably a little bit tipsy, but she knew that she was still clear-minded