He—Max—was standing across the room from them as though he'd just walked in, greeting a cluster of people. Just as tall, just as dark-haired and arrogant-looking as he'd been a year ago. He was smiling as he shook their hands.
'No, indeed,' she replied to George, only a moment after he'd posed the question and it had sunk in. 'Except perhaps that I am a bit thirsty. Would you…?' She allowed her voice to trail off as she slanted him the convenient look that branded her a helpless female.
'Of course, of course, madam,' he replied, appearing a bit flustered. 'I have delayed you in your quest for a beverage, and I must apologize. I shall fetch a tea for you, or would you prefer a glass of that wine they call Chianti?'
'Tea would be lovely, or lemonade,' Victoria replied, trying to keep her attention from spanning back to where Max stood.
As soon as George started toward the tables where drinks were poured, she pivoted in the opposite direction and began to make her way through the loose clusters of people in the ballroom. She was about halfway across the room when Max saw her.
He had not expected it; that was clear by the poleaxed expression that flashed over his face, gone as quickly as it appeared. He did not hold contact with her eyes, but returned his attention to the cluster of people in which he was gathered. Someone said something amusing, and the group, including Max, responded with laughter.
He looked relaxed and well. Handsome and aristocratic, with his olive skin and high cheekbones, long, straight nose, and square-angled chin. His dark hair had grown long enough to be pulled back, but tonight was not and fell nearly to his shoulders. Certainly he didn't appear as though he'd experienced any travail or other casualty. Nothing, by the looks of him, that would account for his lack of communication for nearly a year.
Victoria knew she couldn't simply barge into the group and accost Max, nor even insinuate herself into the conversation with the four or five men with whom he was speaking. He glanced once more in her direction, and she could see the expression in his eyes from where she stood: dark, cold, flat.
'Mrs. Withers! I have been searching all over for you. I was wondering where you had gotten off to. May I call you Emmaline?'
'I was searching for you as well, Sara, and of course you may call me Emmaline,' Victoria replied. How might she use Sara to accomplish what she needed to?
'
Of course. Victoria wasn't surprised at all. Why should she be? Along with vampires, her life had become full of coincidences and unexpected arrivals. Sebastian appeared regularly as if out of thin air. George Starcasset simply happened to attend her first social function in Rome. So why would Max not be the beau of her new acquaintance, the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the Tutela?
'
Her
He gave the barest of bows; really, it was more insolent than polite, flickered an impersonal glance over Victoria, and said, in Italian, 'London, you say? And whatever would induce you to leave such a charming city?'
'Do not be offended, Emmaline. Max simply hates London,' Sara interjected. 'He had to spend several months there last year and says he couldn't wait to return.'
'Indeed? Well, I am certain there will be no need for him to return ever again if he despises it so much. But did you not go with him? And how did you find London?'
'Alas, I had not yet had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my fiancee when I was there,' Max said in his deep, smooth voice. Very, very easy. Nonchalant. 'That happened shortly after my return.'
'May I be among those who wish you congratulations on your impending marriage,' Victoria replied. 'When is the happy date?'
'It cannot come soon enough,' Max said, looking down at the beaming Sara, who gazed up at him as if he were a bonnet she just had to have. She did not even reach his shoulder; she was so petite, yet soft and curvy. Her blond hair, unusual in Italy, must have been what attracted him; that, perhaps, and the long-lashed brown eyes in a sweet, heart-shaped face. 'It is unfortunate that you won't be able to attend, Mrs. Withers, as I'm certain your travel plans will soon take you from our fair city.'
The message couldn't have been clearer if he'd written it.
Victoria realized her fingers were trembling. 'I see Mr. Starcasset has returned with a beverage for me,' she said to Sara. She refused to look at Max, for fear someone else might read the murderous expression that would surely be on her face. 'And I simply must take another look at that painting. Please excuse me.'
'It will be our pleasure.' Max's under-the-breath comment went straight to her ears as she hurried away.
Deep breaths. Victoria took deep breaths and made herself slow down. She would not allow him to see that he'd upset her.
And of course he'd upset her. He'd disappeared nearly a year ago, and now she found him happily ensconced with his fiancee in the bowels of the Tutela! Surely he could not be ignorant of his fiancee's father's involvement; he was, after all, a Venator.
As she reached George, who, luckily, had appeared with a drink for her just as she returned, Victoria recognized there were two explanations for Max's involvement with Sara Regalado and his conduct tonight.
Either he was acting a part, as she was, in trying to infiltrate the Tutela; or he had changed alliances and as a result had cut off all interest and communication with Aunt Eustacia and Wayren. If it were the first, Victoria did not understand why he would not have been in contact with them. There were discreet ways to do it; surely Max would know how. If he had joined the Tutela, the protectors of the vampires, then he must have denounced his position as a Venator.
That she couldn't believe. Not even for an instant.
But there was a third possibility.
Everything could be exactly as it seemed, no more, no less: He'd fallen in love with Sara Regalado and was planning to marry her.
Victoria had to endure George Starcasset's clumsy attempts to kiss her during the carriage ride back to her villa. She wanted to plant him back in his seat with a well-placed shove calculated to give him whiplash, but she refrained from so blatantly using her Venator powers. Instead, she chose to 'accidentally' grind her sharp heel into his toes hard enough to deflate any other amorous ideas he might have. Not only did it cool his ardor, but it would likely keep him from dancing for a week.
What she really wanted to do was hit someone. Preferably Max.
After she'd had a chance to reflect on the situation, Victoria had come to the only conclusion she could: that he was playing a role, and that as soon as they had a moment to talk privately, he would clear it up.
It was the only explanation that made sense. Max was a Venator, the most powerful one after Aunt Eustacia. He would never betray them.
And as for Sarafina Regalado? Victoria would not believe Max had fallen in love with that fairy-headed chit. If he ever deigned to allow himself to be distracted by a woman, it would be someone… different.
Having come to her conclusion, Victoria assumed that Max would be as anxious to make the truth known to her as she was to receive it, so she hovered near one of the ballroom entrances in hopes of catching his eye and hinting for him to leave. But he did not glance her way even once, and he seemed perfectly content to mingle among the guests, with or without Sara clinging to his arm.
When at last she had run out of excuses for Portiera and Placidia as to why she did not move from her spot, she allowed them to maneuver her to a cluster of young Italian men—the equivalent of the rakes and rogues that made their way through the ton in London—and present her to them.
For a short time, Victoria allowed herself to be lulled by the pleasure of being nothing more than a young, attractive woman interacting with young, attractive men. She'd forgotten what it was like to be concerned only with providing witty comments or flashing demure smiles.
