was brought out. But honestly, it could have been anyone. It was just sitting on that table for hours, yes?”
“I would think so.” Johnny picked up their empty glasses. “You ready?”
“Yes.” They stood in tandem.
“We need to cover your shirt,” Johnny said. “The blood is a little too realistic looking. Let’s see if Saxon has a jacket or something.”
He had a point. Lizette imagined she looked like a secretary who had been stabbed. It was not conducive to blending in.
“This will work.” Johnny pulled an olive-colored button-up sweater off the couch. Trying not to wrinkle her nose, she let him drape it over her shoulders, effectively covering her back and shielding her handcuffed hand from view.
It smelled like patchouli and didn’t match her outfit, but she supposed she had no right to be picky. Johnny smiled at her. “You look adorable. Like Mister Rogers.”
She had no idea who that was, but she suspected it wasn’t a comparison she was going to like. Nor did she have it in her to suggest they stop at the drugstore so she could purchase a pack of panties, which was what she really wanted to do.
THERE WAS NO way Lizette looked like Mister Rogers, but it was amusing to Johnny to see the old-man sweater draped over her. She looked exactly like what she was—an elegant, classy woman who had taken her hair out of her bun and had some fun. Johnny just wished he could remember it.
As they left Saxon’s, he said, “Does all this architecture here in the Quarter remind you of home? I’ve never been to Paris.”
“Actually, the majority of this is Spanish architecture. Most of the French buildings burned down in the late eighteenth century. It does feel very European though.”
Of course she knew the history of New Orleans better than he did, because she was that kind of woman. Intelligent and well-read, and in desperate need of someone to shove her slightly off balance so she didn’t end up shitting diamonds. He was just the man to do it.
“Is that so?” he asked her mildly. “It looks as French as a poodle to me.”
“Poodles originated in Germany.”
Johnny laughed. “Thanks, Miss Encyclopedia Britannica. This is why I like hanging out with older women.”
“Older women?
She looked severely put out by the idea, which was ludicrous, given they were immortal and she would never physically age, so Johnny knew he had hit on a fun way to rib her. “Turn left here. And yes, you are older than me. Substantially older. I’ve always wanted to make it with a wise woman. I’ll be the student, you can be the teacher.” He gave her a wink.
“Is that a sexual reference?”
“Absolutely.”
Glancing at him from under her dark, luscious eyelashes, Lizette said with an honesty that he had come to realize characterized her, “Then I don’t imagine I can be much of an instructor to you. My sexual experience is rather limited.”
Now why was that suddenly so arousing to him? Johnny stopped walking and nudged Lizette until she was back up against a wooden door.
“What are you doing?” she asked, sounding suddenly breathless. “This is inappropriate.”
“I’m going to kiss you. Something I’ve been wanting to do for an hour.”
“I don’t think that is wise. We’re on the street.”
“Haven’t you noticed that sex and alcohol cling to all the dark corners of New Orleans? Everywhere you turn someone is making out or flirting or drinking. Normally I don’t act like a tourist, but I do like the freedom it gives me. No one is going to look at us if I kiss you.” Johnny studied Lizette, marveling at how delicate and sensual she was, and she seemed to have no idea. Her rich brown hair was thick and came down over the hills of her breasts in chocolate waves. He touched it, stroking his fingers back into it to get a sense of its weight, its soft silken texture.
Her eyes had widened, her shoulders stiffening, but she didn’t push him away and she didn’t tell him to stop. “I suppose I have no objections then,” she said, her French accent one of the sexiest damn things he’d ever heard, even when she was saying something as priggish as that.
“Good.” Johnny leaned forward, shifting his body in closer to hers. She smelled like a soft floral perfume, blood, and the tangy musk of desire. He briefly closed his eyes and drank in the scent. Normally, he wasn’t the least bit grateful for his heightened sense of smell, and he had long suspected it was why he’d taken up smoking. The cloying sweet cloud of cigarettes muffled the assault on his nose of everyday smells like garbage, fried foods, and the body odor of tourists sweating in the Louisiana sun.
But now he was glad for his sense of smell, because Lizette smelled beautiful, like everything feminine and delicious, a perfect aphrodisiac.
“Are you sniffing me?” she asked.
“No. I’m breathing you in.” Johnny leaned down over her neck, her breasts, hand still buried in her hair, torturing himself, dragging out the anticipation.
“This is where the student becomes the teacher then,” she said, “because while you may be substantially younger than me, you are most effectively seducing me.”
Male pride swelled, along with his cock. “That’s good to know.” He kissed the soft flesh of her neck, and moved down to rub his lips over the cleavage peeking demurely out of her blouse. “And here European men get all the credit for being romantic.”
“Aren’t you European?” she asked, her voice breathless, her lithe fingers gripping his bare arms. “You are Irish.”
“It’s not the same as being from the Continent. No one has accused Irishmen of being romantic like Italians or the French.” He lightly kissed just her bottom lip, enjoying the way she shifted restlessly, his slow brushes of flesh on flesh clearly stirring her arousal. “You know the Irish curse, don’t you?”
She shook her head.
“They say Irishmen in general are underendowed.” It was the rumor. Johnny couldn’t say with any sort of certainty whether it was true or not. Certainly in his youth, the lads had all bragged about their prowess.
“Oh dear,” she said, her head falling back as he nuzzled along her jaw to her ear. “You are not giving a glowing report for your countrymen. How do you compare then?”
“Well, you’ve said my charm is adequate. And I can assure you that you will be equally satisfied with the rest of me.” He was no porn star, but he hadn’t heard any complaints.
“So is my impending knowledge of your anatomy such a foregone conclusion then?”
“That’s entirely up to you.” Johnny finally kissed Lizette fully on the lips, tilting his head and taking her mouth with confidence, ready to taste her.
She didn’t disappoint. He’d known from staring at her all night that her lips would be soft and full beneath his, and as he kissed her, Johnny decided that he had found the perfect fit for his mouth. The connection felt amazing, like the closest a vampire was ever going to get to heaven, their bodies in sync and intimate, yet not exactly touching. It was satisfying, yet it wasn’t enough. It was a teasing taste of how far he wanted to go if she would let him.
Lizette gave a soft sigh between kisses, an acquiescence that made him feel oddly happy. If anyone had told him two nights before that he would be pleased that Lizette Chastain was giving in to his advances, he would have laughed himself sick. He still wasn’t sure even now why he wanted to so desperately, other than that he was of course attracted to her. But it was more than that. It was her sincerity, her unwavering honesty, her clear loyalty that appealed to him. Plus she was damn cute when she was quivering in indignation. It wasn’t indignation that was making her shift restlessly against the wall in front of him now though.
“So what do you think?” he asked her, spreading his hand across her waist to the small of her back, enjoying how petite she was, how big and powerful he felt standing in front of her. He kept his tone casual, but he had a deep desire to give her the most intense pleasure she’d ever known. “Want to see what I’ve got?
