“Why do you want my painting?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t hesitate and he seems utterly sincere as he says simply, “It gives me joy.”

I exhale the breath I’m holding. “All right. You can have it, but I won’t take your Van Gogh.” I turn to look at the painting inside its heavy gilded frame. “To start with I have nowhere to hang it and I would be terrified of it getting stolen. Let it remain here. It is enough that I have seen it.”

He bows his head formally. “Thank you, Autumn. You do me a great honor.”

After that the tour of the ground floor of the mansion continues, but something is different inside me. I no longer see him as an insanely rich Count who has more money than sense. He is too beautiful and privileged to be pitied, but I can see now his great wealth and all his wonderful material possessions have not brought him any happiness at all. In fact, he seems to be desperately lonely on a level I cannot even begin to comprehend. Of course, I felt sad and mourned for my parents when they died, but that was a natural process of grieving for my terrible loss. But even then, I never felt as deeply alone as he seems to be. I would even go so far as to say, he is somehow damaged. Something very bad has happened to him in the past, and he has never gotten over it.

“And this is the library,” he announces, as he stands back to allow me to precede him.

Of course, it’s absolutely beautiful. Like something from a magical movie. There must be thousands upon thousands of leather-bound books here. I breathe in the cool, dry air, scented with the fragrance of leather and old paper. It is full of history and ancient secrets. All those authors long gone who have left a little bit of their souls on those aged, yellowed pages. There is no fireplace here, presumably to protect the books from smoke and soot, but the cold doesn’t really bother me. Through the many narrow windows I see a storm is starting outside. Wild streaks of white lightning fill the window panes, as I turn to face him.

He is watching me silently, expressionlessly. The flashes of light make him appear like a supernatural being. Exactly the way I want to depict him on canvas.

“Here. I will paint you here,” I say decisively.

He smiles. “Good. It is my favorite room.”

Chapter 19

Rocco

The wind howls outside and rain lashes at the windows. The storm has been raging for more than an hour now. I am positioned slightly turned away from her, but I can see her from the corner of my eye. And I have done nothing but watch her. Every expression that crosses her face, every movement she makes, every pause, every backward journey. I cannot stop watching her. The craving for her is so visceral it is an ache in my gut.

I see her: naked, defenseless, and begging me to take her… I can almost taste her sweetness.

I take deep, even breaths and force myself to calm down. To match her state of composure and tranquility. Painting has given her Zen-like peace of mind. Her concentration and focus are so absolute I’m certain she can carry on working for many more hours, but reluctantly, she stops and addresses me.

“Do you need… like a bathroom break or something?” she asks, her brush still.

“Not a bathroom break, but dinner would be nice.”

Her eyes dart to her painting then back to me. She bites her bottom lip. While she was painting, she lost the usual nervousness she shows when she is around me. Her hands had moved quickly and without hesitation, but now the nervousness is back. “Yes, of course, we can stop for dinner.”

“Would you like to wash up first?”

She drops her brush into the jar of turpentine. “Yes, I’ll use the restroom first and join you afterwards. Will dinner be in the dining room?”

I nod. “Yes.”

She stands awkwardly next to her easel for a second, then she begins to move towards the door. “See you in the dining room.”

As she walks out, William enters. “Shall I serve dinner now?”

I nod, he leaves, his shoes hardly making a sound on the hardwood. I walk to the small table where there is a decanter of whiskey and a crystal glass next to it. I pour myself a generous amount of the amber liquid. It is Irish whiskey from the time of the prohibition. It is rare and even my own stocks are dwindling. I savor it on my tongue, then let the fiery liquor run down my throat.

I walk towards the window. I see my ghostly reflection in the windowpane. I reach out my hand and touch the face on the cold glass. It feels as if I have been standing here waiting and looking at my own pale echo for centuries.

Tags: Georgia Le Carre Vampires
Source: readsnovelonline.net