Page 15 of Just for a Taste

My entire body grew hot. Company? Did she mean in a romantic or intimate sense? I was neither my mother’s child, nor my father’s, when it came to emotional or physical openness. From a young age, I’d admired from afar—in the same impossible-to-replicate way as I would a circus performer—the way the two had gushed over one another like newlyweds. And while I had never experienced such a relationship, I felt I was doomed to repeat its end—not the literal death that had ended their love, but the death of intimacy. Emily and I hadn’t slept together for months before we broke up, and it had been years since I’d been with a man. God knew I hadn’t even considered the possibility of sharing a bed with Duca de’ Medici. With the face of an angel but the temperament of the devil, was I even attracted to him like that?

“I thought I was abeniaminain name alone. I thought you said Zeno may not even interact with me. When you say ‘company,’ do you mean . . .?”

After swiftly removing the needle and instructing me to hold a cotton ball to where it had been, she replied, “He just wishes to talk with you, Cora. Zeno has been getting to know you, albeit from a distance.”

I only felt relief for an instant before I considered the implications of the latter sentence. Had he seen what I was up to? Did he know he was in all of my paintings?

Doctor Ntumba keyed in on my panicked expression and was quick to elaborate. “I’ve seen him looking at the library’s logbook. Anything you’ve listened to here, so has he, often while reading what you’ve read. Truthfully, he’s so busy studying your tastes that he barely speaks to me at all anymore.”

“That’s . . .” I wasn’t sure what the end of my sentence would be. Invasive? Weird? Flattering? “. . . unexpected. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? How long have you known?”

A twinge of guilt flickered onto her face briefly, but her expression quickly returned to its usual stoniness. “It wasn’t my business. You’re going to have tea in the main library this evening with him before dinner. I have other matters to attend to.”

I felt lightheaded. “I thought he hated me.”

“Far from it,” she replied with a chuckle.

“I mean, he always glares at me, or outright ignores me, and—”

“Keep pressure on that cotton ball,” Doctor Ntumba cut in with an uncharacteristically stern tone. I pushed down the cotton as she explicitly ordered and followed the implicit one to shut up.

I watched in silence as Doctor Ntumba carefully stowed away the blood bags and retrieved a set of fresh supplies. Once she laid everything out, she turned back to me with folded arms. “How do you feel?”

“Okay?” My answer sounded like just as much of a question as hers.

“Well enough to walk?”

“I guess.”

“Good.” She pulled a string on the wall I hadn’t realized was there. Another bell.

From across the hall, I could hear two sets of footsteps nearing. Shit. I was only half of the transfusion.Duca de’ Medici was coming to the exam room, presumably, and the two of us would have to cross paths. Per my racing heart, this was neither the time nor the setting for small talk.

I closed my eyes and charted an escape route. If I left the room right away, I could make it out the side door. Then I could cut through the garden and hopefully make it into my suite entirely unseen.

I leaped off the exam table. “Thanks! I’ll let you know if I have any issues.”

I snatched the bandage from the doctor’s hand. To my relief, she didn’t stop me as I raced out the door.

Once I made it to the courtyard, I looked at my watch. I had two hours before tea. Two hours to figure out how the hell to talk with my strange host.

Chapter 7: Chiaroscuro

Duca de’ Medici was late for our meal. I had the feelinghewould have said he was fashionably so, but I filed away that he was exactlyfive minutes late—to the second, according to my watch. Five extra minutes for me to plan my reconnaissance.

I had no clue how this would go. For reasons that stumped me entirely, this conversation was two weeks in the making. Both times we had spoken had ended in me blowing my fuse, but now that I knew the vampire was more awkward than antagonistic, I’d have to force myself to be open-minded. And of course, I’d have to plan.

When Duca de’ Medici finally arrived, he carried himself with a nonchalant air and tossed his coat over the back of the chair before sitting. Good. I had prepared a casual yet upfront way of approaching the conversation.

“I heard you’ve been looking at the library logbook,” I said, giving him a sideways glance. Studying his face, waiting for a reaction.

“I heardyou’vebeen painting me.”

I grew as red as the carpet at my feet. Maybe if I stared hard enough at the floor, I could bore a hole into it and curl up into a ball.

“No, no need for that look,” Duca de’ Medici exclaimed, voice loud and dripping with mirth. “I’m flattered, really. It’s very Degas, you know, with the heavy chiaroscuro.”

He tilted his head up and to the side, which revealed the elegant curve of his jaw I had tried to capture time and time again.

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