“Oh . . . yeah, it probably was,” she said, relaxing.
“Anyway,” Domitian continued, “I could hardly refuse the offer this time, not when I knew you were on the island and quite possibly in danger. So I accepted the job—as Dressler no doubt expected—and then I went straight to the villa to give Lucian the news.” He smiled wryly. “I expected him to be pleased. After all, Dressler had no idea I was an immortal so I would not be in danger, and my uncle could have my phone tracked and find out where the island was.”
“I gather he didn’t see things that way?”
“Hell no. According to him I was throwing myself in harm’s way. Dressler probably did know I was an immortal, and this was just a trap to add another one to his collection, and Dressler would incapacitate my phone and myself quickly to prevent their following. Which he was right about as it turns out,” Domitian said on a sigh.
“And yet he let you come,” she said.
Domitian snorted. “He had no choice. This is South America, the North American council has no power here or over me. Once I pointed that out, he had no choice and started making plans on how best to track me and keep me safe and so on.”
Sarita nodded, but was now frowning as she considered what he’d said and then asked, “I’m surprised that wasn’t a problem.”
“What?” Domitian asked.
“Well, this isn’t North America,” she pointed out.
“No,” he agreed.
“Mortal police can get pretty testy about jurisdiction and whatnot,” she said with a grimace. “Don’t the South American Council mind that your uncle has come into their jurisdiction in pursuit of a perp? Or did your uncle contact them and coordinate with them on this operation?”
Domitian made a face, and then admitted, “Actually, I assumed they knew, but when we were on the way to the docks, a call came from the villa that the South American Council were there and wanted to see him. Uncle Lucian just said he’d be back soon and hung up, but one of the men, Justin Bricker, said, ‘Uh-oh. They’ve found out we’re here.’”
“Hmm.” Sarita bit her lip. If immortals were anything like mortals, she suspected there might be a mini turf war happening on the mainland about now and wondered what that looked like between vampires. A duel at dusk with stakes? Shaking her head, she reached for another cracker, intending to make another cracker sandwich, only to pause as she realized they were all gone. They’d eaten every last crumb of food from the tray Domitian had brought as they’d talked. There wasn’t even an olive left.
“Time for dessert,” Domitian announced, grabbing the tray and slipping quickly out of their sheet-wrapped cocoon. When he didn’t reappear again right away, Sarita frowned and crawled across the bed to tug the sheet aside and see what he was doing.
Setting the tray aside and stripping off his boxers maybe? she thought hopefully. He would make a lovely dessert. But when Sarita looked out she saw that the room was empty. Domitian had left.
Releasing the sheet, she dropped back to lie on the bed with disappointment. The man was sending mixed messages. Saying no he didn’t plan to have sex with her, and then saying he’d lick the crumbs off her later. Now he had apparently gone off to find them dessert. She had no idea what he had planned.
Nine
Domitian cut the last profiterole in half, filled it with ice cream like the others, and then retrieved the chocolate sauce he’d left to stay warm on the range. Tipping the pan, he drizzled it slowly over the profiteroles he’d arranged on the plate, and then set the plate on the tray with the wine and small dessert plates. He took a moment to go over the items on the tray, making sure he had everything, and then picked it up and headed back to the bedroom.
Sarita had chosen bananas flamée as her dessert the three times she’d eaten at his restaurant, but after her reaction to the sirloin in mango salsa, he wasn’t making the mistake of serving her the dessert she usually ordered too. He was hoping the profiteroles would be better received.
“More wine?” Sarita asked with amusement as he pulled the sheet aside and climbed back into their cocoon.
“It is a muscat, perfect with profiteroles, but I made cappuccinos too. You can have one or both as you wish.” He settled on the bed and let the sheet drop back into place as he set the tray on the bed between them.
“Profiteroles?” she asked with interest and leaned over to look at them. Her eyes widened. “Did you make these?”
“Of course,” he said with amusement.
“I’ve never had freshly made profiteroles,” she confessed. “I’ve had the frozen ones they sell at the grocery stores in Canada, but—”
“Garbage,” he assured her as he slid two onto a small plate and offered them to her with a fork. “These will be much better.”
Sarita smiled slightly at his bragging as she took the plate and fork. She cut off a piece of ice cream–filled profiterole and slid it into her mouth as Domitian busied himself pouring her a glass of the muscat before pushing the sheet aside and leaning to set the wine bottle on the bedside table and out of the way.
“Mmmmmmmm.”
Domitian let the sheet drop back into place and turned to smile at Sarita as she moaned over her first bite of profiterole. “Good?”
Sarita nodded and swallowed. “Oh yeah. Heavenly,” she assured him. “You’re a keeper.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” Domitian said solemnly, and recognized the moment when she realized what she’d said by how she stilled and then flushed with embarrassment. When Sarita followed that up by gulping down a mouthful of wine, Domitian sighed to himself and picked up his own plate to eat.
The woman hadn’t yet accepted that they were life mates, and he knew he shouldn’t rush her, but couldn’t help himself. He had waited more than two millennia to find his life mate. Fifteen years ago he had found her, but had forced himself to wait for her to grow up and become her own woman. The plan had been to wait until she had worked for a couple years in her chosen profession and then find and woo her, but Dressler had cut some time off that goal with his actions. Still, to his mind, Domitian had been incredibly patient. However, it seemed he would have to be patient a bit longer. He could do it. One did not live this long without learning patience. But that didn’t mean he would enjoy it.
Glancing at Sarita, he noted the tight, uncomfortable expression on her face and sighed inwardly. The woman was as closed up as a turtle in its shell. He needed to open her up a bit before she would even see the possibilities before her. Swallowing the bit of profiterole in his mouth, he said, “Tell me about yourself.”
Sarita glanced up with surprise, and then arched an eyebrow. “I would have thought your private detective had told you everything there was to know.”
Domitian shook his head. “Those were just cold hard facts written on pristine white paper. I want to know more than the facts. I want to know you,” he said firmly. “I want to see the past through your eyes. The present too. I want to know your dreams, your wishes, your heart. I wanted to know the real Sarita, not the facts behind her existence.”
Sarita stared at him wide eyed for a moment, and then lowered her head and peered down at the ice cream melting and sliding out of her profiteroles. She was silent for so long he began to think she wasn’t going to respond at all, but then she said, “I had a pretty normal childhood until I was thirteen.”
Domitian exhaled slowly, realizing only then that he’d been holding his breath, unsure she would respond to his request.
Sarita shrugged. “Happy loving parents, good in school, lots of friends, and a grandfather who spoiled me rotten and who I adored . . . and then my mother was kidnapped.”
She took a bite of profiterole and ice cream, chewed, and swallowed and then chased it with a sip of wine before adding, “Although, I suppose that was pretty normal too when you think about it. Kidnapping in Venezuela is practically a national pastime and there were more than a couple of kids in my school who knew someone who had been kidnapped.”
Domitian nodded solemnly. Kidnapping had become rampant in Venezuela. It was visited on everyone, the rich, the middle class, and even the poor. In fact, it was so commonplace that people had begun forming groups with friends, coworkers, and neighbors, joining together to put money into funds to pay off kidnappers and get back the loved ones of the people in their groups.