Rafe laughed. “True enough, but, like I said, it's not a bad life.”
Technically, he wasn't alive at all, but I didn't say that. “And now you're the leader of the North American Vampires,” I remarked. “How did that happen?”
He shrugged. “My godmother arranged it.”
“You have a godmother?” I wouldn't have been any more surprised if he had told me that he was related to Cinderella.
“Yes.” He grinned, no doubt amused by the stunned expression that was surely on my face. “Her name is Mara, and she's the oldest living of our kind. When we went to war with the Werewolves, our people decided we needed a leader. She was the obvious choice. She appointed others to positions of authority in various parts of the world. I was given North America, and my parents were given South America. My grandparents are looking after things in Europe. Last I heard, they were in France.”
“What happened to your brother? Do you see him very often?”
A dark shadow passed behind Cordova's eyes. “I don't know where he is.”
I heard the knife-edge of pain in his voice, a soul-deep sorrow that went beyond tears.
“No one in the family has seen Rane, or heard from him, in the last fifty years.”
“What happened? Did you have a fight?”
“No, nothing like that. Not all who are made Vampires react the same way. Some seek it and embrace it. Some are turned against their will. Some accept the change and move on. Some can't adapt to their new lifestyle and quickly end it.”
I held my breath. Was Rane one of those?
“For me, it was a natural transformation,” Raphael said. “For Rane…” The pain in his eyes deepened. “At first, it seemed as though Rane had accepted it as I did. He was gifted with all the powers I had, and more.”
“What do you mean ‘more'?”
“He has a knack for magic, as well. It's a potent combination.”
“I can imagine.”
“Oddly enough, my maternal grandmother is also a practicing witch.”
“So he inherited it from her?”
“No, our mother was adopted.”
“Your family is certainly unique.”
Rafe nodded. “Indeed.”
“And your brother, he doesn't want to be a witch or a Vampire?”
“So it seems. All his life, he's been torn between light and dark, between good and evil. Becoming a Vampire was more than he could handle. He ran away from us, and from himself. I looked for him. The family looked for him, but he's closed his heart and his mind to us. I don't know how he is, or where he is. All I know is that he's alive.” Rafe stared past me, his expression bleak. “I'd know if he were dead.”
I had read somewhere that Vampires were incapable of tender human emotions, but whoever had written such a thing would surely have changed his mind if he could have seen the anguish on Rafe's face, the hurt in his eyes, or heard the pain in his voice.
I stared at him, wishing I could help, and thinking that I had learned more about Raphael Cordova and Vampires than I had ever wanted to know.
Chapter Four
Raphael was right about the filet mignon. It was the best I had ever tasted, rare and tender and seasoned to perfection. I have to admit, I felt a little strange enjoying a full-course meal in front of a Vampire. When I offered him a bite of my steak, he made the kind of face I would have made had he offered me a glass of warm blood.
“Don't you ever eat anything?” I asked. I couldn't imagine never drinking a glass of ice-cold lemonade on a hot day, never eating a double scoop of fudge-ripple ice cream, never biting into a cold, tart green apple, or a juicy slice of watermelon. And the thought of never again indulging in a brownie still warm from the oven didn't even bear thinking about. “Don't you miss it? Food, I mean.”
He looked at the steak on my plate. It was medium rare, the inside a deep rosy pink, just the way I liked it.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, “but not often.” Lifting his glass, he took a drink.
I wondered again if it was really wine. I told myself it had to be. I mean, he had obviously planned to share it with me until I ordered something else. Still, when I wasn't looking, he could have signaled the waitress to bring him something more to his taste. I spent a moment debating whether to ask him, and then decided I didn't really want to know.
The waitress arrived to clear our dishes. She asked Raphael if she could bring him anything else.
He looked at me. “Kathy?”
“Nothing more for me, thanks, I'm full.”
With a slight nod at me and a smile for Rafe, the waitress gathered my dishes and moved away from the table.
I shifted in my seat. I was all too aware of the silence, of the man beside me, and of the way his thigh was pressed intimately against my own. His scent tickled my nostrils. It wasn't cologne, it wasn't soap. I don't know what it was, just the scent of the man himself, I guess.
“Kathy?”
“What?”
“Would you like to go for a drive?”
I cleared a throat gone suddenly dry. Every instinct I possessed screamed that going for a drive with a man whose scent was more intoxicating than a shot of whiskey straight up was a very bad idea. So naturally I said yes.
Moments later we were flying down the highway at a hundred miles an hour. It was a first for me, and I have to admit that it was exhilarating until I let myself think about what would happen if the car skidded out of control and wrapped itself around a tree. It probably wouldn't hurt Raphael much, at least not permanently. I would most likely end up dead.
Before I could ask him to slow down, he eased off the gas and turned on the radio. Kenny G's “Songbird” filled the air, though I didn't pay much attention. I was too busy watching the speedometer. I didn't relax until we were doing a nice, reasonably safe sixty.
Raphael flashed a grin in my direction. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Going a hundred miles an hour with my hair on fire has always been my way of letting off steam.”
“Really? What are you steamed up about?”
“You.”
“Me?” The word emerged from my throat as little more than a squeak.
With a nod, he pulled off the road and put the car in Park. “You.” His dark eyes glowed when he looked at me. “I've wanted you since the first night I saw you.”
Mindful that a Vampire could mesmerize a human with little more than a glance, I was careful not to meet his gaze.
“Admit it,” he said, and there was a rough edge to his voice. “You feel the same about me.”