Getting What You Want (12 page)

Still, he had to tell her that last night was a mistake. A big, huge, colossal mistake.

He groaned and fell back against the pillows that smelled of Erika’s spicy cinnamon skin. His body reacted instantly, despite his disgust with himself.

He never lost control. Never. Yet, one damned kiss, and he’d been tearing at her clothing, plowing himself into her like some oversexed animal.

He stared at her ceiling, barely registering the ornate molding, the same that was on the ceiling of his apartment. What had gotten into him? Why did this woman steal all his sense, all his ideas of what was right and wrong and what he had to do?

He started to push back the covers, when the bedroom door opened. Erika stood silhouetted against the hallway light, but Vittorio could still make out her expression.

“Hi,” she said, and he could hear the wariness in her voice, matching the look in her eyes.

“Hello,” he managed, realizing his own voice sounded stiff, distant, as if it was a habit he couldn’t quite control.

“I was just checking on you.” She seemed like she was embarrassed to be caught coming into the room. Her room.

“I just woke up.”

“Oh,” she said.

Good God, didn’t the awkwardness of this conversation show her that they had no business whatsoever having sex? Even beyond the fact he was a vampire with a lunatic mother who might actually try to cause Erika bodily harm?

Erika took a step into the room, and he noticed that she was wearing a short robe. Her long legs tapered down to shapely ankles and high-arched feet. Her waist was narrow and her hips slightly rounded. Her small, perfectly rounded breasts hid just behind thin satin.

His penis hardened painfully against his unbuttoned jeans. His damned body certainly didn’t see any problems with their relationship.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, drawing his attention away from her body—and his body—back to her face. That sweet, expectant face that made him feel like a total cad. “I have cereal, and bread for toast, or I could make you a sandwich. I don’t really cook much. But I—”

“I’m fine,” Vittorio interrupted, unable to listen to her nervous kindness. God, he was a greedy bastard. He hesitated for a moment before rising from the bed. With as much normalcy and finesse as he could muster, he fastened his jeans.

When he looked back at Erika, she was watching him. Then she actually licked her lips, the action nearly more than he could stand. He shifted, trying to hide his body’s response.

He just had to deal with this situation. End it now, as crappy and awkward as it was.

“Umm—I have to go.”

Wow, that was a
really
crappy way to deal with it.

E
rika stared at him, praying that in this particular instance, even though it wasn’t remotely manly, he was referring to the need of a bathroom. But those hopes were quickly dashed.

“Last night was a mistake.”

She didn’t speak for a moment. She couldn’t. She should have known better than to believe that after a wham-bam moment, Vittorio was going to profess his love for her.

Now in the stark lamplight of her room, all her happy little fantasies of the afternoon seemed totally ludicrous. Juvenile, really.

Vittorio regarded her with that closed off, reticent expression she recognized well, and truly hated. And she still couldn’t think of what to say. Had what she experienced with him only been perfect on her end? Possibly. That idea made her feel more deluded. And more than a little pathetic.

Vittorio’s eyes left hers as he straightened his clothes. Then he met her gaze again. For the briefest moment, she saw some emotion there beyond his cool detachment, but she couldn’t quite read it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read it. She’d obviously read far too much into everything already.

“Well,” she said, and managed to keep her own voice even, calm, “if you have to go, then I guess you have to go.”

He nodded, but still didn’t move. Again she thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Maybe regret.

That hurt even more. Regret was far too akin to pity. And that idea not only hurt her, it irked her. She could deal with him not feeling the same way, she couldn’t deal with him feeling badly for her.

Okay, she hated that he didn’t seem to feel the same way. She hated that he was going right back to the same remote guy she had seen that first night. It was even harder to see now, when she knew there was passion and heat under that cold façade.

But ultimately what could she do? In the immortal words of Bonnie Raitt, she couldn’t make him love her, if he don’t. Or didn’t. Whatever.

So instead of saying anything more, she backed away from her door, offering him an exit. “It’s probably good if you go. I have an appointment.”

It was a lie, but all she could think of at the moment.

Her clipped words seemed to spur him into action. He came around the bed, his walk neither slow nor rushed, more like determined. She supposed it was better than fleeing, but not much. Any way you looked at it he was leaving, and nothing was good about that.

He paused beside her. “You’re okay, aren’t you?”

Erika wanted to say, no. She wanted to ask him if he’d felt the same way she did last night. But instead, she nodded. “Sure. I’m fine.”

He didn’t move right away and looked at her as if he was trying to read her expression. She longed to scream. What difference did it make if she was okay or not? He wasn’t staying either way. He thought what had happened between them was a mistake. Her feelings weren’t going to factor in.

But she didn’t break her steady gaze. She wouldn’t let him know how much this hurt. How much she’d felt a connection with him, even after such a short acquaintance. Especially after what they’d shared last night.

It was his turn to simply nod. Then he left the room, heading down the hallway. She didn’t move as she heard his deep voice rumbling from the living room, apparently saying something to the cat. Then there was a brief moment of silence, and she almost turned to see if he was returning. But she didn’t.

Then she heard the rattle of the doorknob. She heard the squeak of the hinges, then the quiet click as the latch closed.

He was gone. Just like that. Without any explanation why last night had happened. Why it was a mistake. Why he’d even bothered to come down here and help her through her horrible dreams in the first place.

Erika wanted to be philosophical about the whole event. She wanted to look at it as something they’d both wanted at the time, and had enjoyed, but the truth was…she was mad.

She didn’t bother to go check if he’d truly left, she knew he had. Instead she walked to her dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Her movements were wooden, despite her determination to stay strong and get a handle on all the emotions running through her.

Once dressed, she walked to the kitchen looking for her pocketbook. Boris came up as she double-checked to see if she had her keys, twining through her legs as if he was trying to comfort her. The cat’s actions made her feel even worse. Even Boris, the most self-absorbed creature on the face of the earth, knew she’d just been dumped after a one-night stand.

She made a face at the cat, then gathered up her stuff and headed toward the front door, not looking in the direction of the sculpture she’d been working on earlier. God, she hoped Vittorio hadn’t looked either. If she felt stupid and pathetic now, she couldn’t imagine how she’d feel if he’d noticed that the bust she’d been working on held an uncanny resemblance to him.

Vittorio reached his apartment before he allowed himself to think. He’d just needed to keep his mind focused on making his feet move, one after the other, because frankly every inch of his body was rebelling at the idea of leaving Erika. But he’d had to.

Damn, last night shouldn’t have happened.
He wandered over to the old sofa, the only piece of furniture in the living area of the dingy, dusty apartment. Collapsing onto the worn cushions, dust motes billowed up around him. Not that he cared. He wasn’t here to lavish himself in luxury. He certainly wasn’t here to engage in a relationship with his downstairs neighbor. Of course, that concept had been far, far from this mind last night, hadn’t it?

Groaning with frustration, he dropped his head into his hands, furrowing his fingers in his hair. How had he let that happen? His intent was to protect Erika. Not to get more involved with her. Certainly not to make her a target, if his suspicions about his mother were true.

And if they were true, sleeping with Erika might as well have put a bull’s-eye right on her back. How could he have been that selfish? That totally lacking in restraint?

Because he’d wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman in his life. Far more. He’d cared about Seraph, worried about her, but not once had he longed for her with that intensity. With a need that seemed to take on a life of its own when she was in his presence. God, just looking at Erika drove him mad. And now he’d held her in his arms. And felt her moving against him. He’d tasted her and been buried deep inside her.

How was he supposed to let her go?

He groaned again, this time the sound ragged and filled with yearning.

Damn it!
He couldn’t let himself think that way. He had to let her go. But even as he repeated that in his head, he heard her moving downstairs. He heard the creak of her door and her footsteps on the worn wood of the sun porch, then the outside door opening and closing.

Where was she going? He rose from the sofa and crossed to the window that looked out onto the street. For a moment, he didn’t see her as she opened, then relocked, the front gate, but then she stepped into view, heading down the sidewalk toward Jackson Square, her pace quick and determined as if she was on a mission. Her face placid, calm.

She certainly didn’t look as shaken by the events of last night as he was. She looked like she had already forgotten about what had happened.

Irritation filled him. Another emotion to remind him how damned selfish he was being. Did he want her to pine, even though he knew he couldn’t be with her?

He watched as she walked out of view. Then he turned back into the nearly dark, nearly empty room.
Where was she going?
Then a prickle of fear crept along his skin.

She might not be safe, even now. Even if he did make a pact to stay away from her, his mother might already be aware of her.

He couldn’t let her wander around unprotected. Before he even finished that thought, he was moving to the door. He had to stay away from her, couldn’t touch her, talk with her, be with her in any way his mother might feel threatened by, but he also had to watch her.

She could already be in danger. Thanks to him.

Erika turned onto Chartres, trying not to let her mind replay what had happened between her and Vittorio. Which was darn near impossible. Okay, it was totally impossible. How could something that had been so perfect for her be so easily dismissed by him? It just didn’t make sense to her, and it sure as hell wounded her ego.

The sign over Philippe’s shop, in the shape of a teacup and saucer, was lit as Erika moved to try the door. Bells jingled, the door opened easily, and she was immediately enveloped in the scent of incense and coffee. She supposed it was weird that she was so relieved to find the place open. She wasn’t sure it would be, given that it was a Sunday night.

She thought a lot of people would find it weird that her first thought after getting jilted was to head to her fortune-teller, but she needed to find out some answers. Plus, Philippe was her closest available friend, with Maggie gone. And Erika wasn’t sure she would go to Maggie about this anyway. After all, Vittorio was her brother-in-law, which made discussing the situation awkward for all involved. And Jo made it fairly clear that she found the whole thing a tad odd anyway. So that left Philippe.

As she walked up to the counter, she saw Saffron, a woman in her fifties, who handled booking the psychic’s appointments and ran the cash register. She was bent over her usual word jumbles, squinting at the newsprint in consternation. She glanced up as Erika approached, giving the same slightly vacant smile she always did.

And as usual, despite the regularity with which Erika came here, Saffron only vaguely seemed to remember her.

“Can I help you?”

Erika didn’t bother to act like she recalled her either, it wasn’t worth the effort, really. And she was too distracted this evening to bother.

“Is Philippe in?”

“He is. He’s just finishing up a reading. Did you want a reading next?”

Erika nodded. A reading, a therapy session, they were one and the same with Philippe.

“Tarot, palm or tea leaves?”

“Tarot.” Tonight she definitely needed the big guns of divination.

Saffron wrote down her information and rang up her bill, then Erika moved to the tables at the back of the shop to wait.

Saffron attempted idle chatter, asking her if she liked to do word puzzles, mentioning how good it was that nights were getting a little cooler, asking if she’d like some coffee. But finally Saffron seemed to get the hint that Erika was too preoccupied to make small talk, and she turned back to her word scramble.

Erika was thankful for the quiet—not that being stuck in her own head with her own repeating questions and thoughts was a great place to be, but she just couldn’t focus on anything else so it seemed pointless to try.

Fortunately she didn’t have to wait long before she heard Philippe’s voice from the back as he walked up with his client. They chatted about the fact that whatever changes were coming were going to be good. The client seemed pleased.

When they stepped out into the main room of the shop, Philippe saw her and gave her a nod to acknowledge her, but he continued to talk with the man whose hair was so curly it was nearly spherical.

Erika speculated on whether his hair was natural or if perming rods somehow came into play. Then she noticed the tight-fitting polyester shirt and Wrangler jeans, and decided perming rods it was. She looked away, feeling bad about being critical. It wasn’t fair to take out her irritation with men in general, on a stranger.

Erika tried not to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to, since the shop was empty and not even the usual new-age music played to drown out a little of the conversation.

Overall, the man with the unfortunate fashion sense was going to have a good month. And love was definitely on his horizon. To which he said, good, because he was ready to get back in the saddle.

Erika tried not to shudder. She knew it was unkind, but, given her total brush-off from Vittorio, it rubbed her the wrong way that this guy with bad clothes and a coarse attitude was, according to Philippe’s prediction, headed toward a hot romance. And she so wasn’t.

But then, Philippe had predicted her love affair too. So maybe this guy was going to have the same outcome. A one-night stand. She glanced back to the permed, polyestered man. Actually a one-night stand seemed like it would be fine with him. Maybe for him that would be the height of romance.

Okay, that wasn’t fair in the least. And she needed to stop making judgment calls on this guy because of her own broken heart.

She frowned at herself. Broken heart was too extreme. Battered heart maybe—at the very least battered ego.

Frankly, she just wanted Philippe to tell her she’d made a mistake. Or he’d made a mistake. There wasn’t a fair-haired, dark-eyed prince in her future or her present. Not that she’d forget about Vittorio or what she’d experienced in his arms any time soon. But she needed…answers.

“Erika, you’re back soon,” Philippe greeted her, with a big smile.

She nodded. “Yes. I’m…” How did she explain how she was feeling and why she was here?

Philippe’s smile slipped, then he waved for her to follow him back to his little booth. “Come. Let’s look at the cards.”

But they only took a few steps down the small hallway before he stopped, casting a worried look at her. “Oh dear, you met your prince, didn’t you?”

She didn’t even need to answer, because he nodded as if something else answered his question.

“These princes,” he muttered, as if he knew all along this situation was going to be hard.

Nice of him to pass that along,
she thought grimly, as he ushered her into his reading room.

“Sit, sit.” He gestured toward the chair where she always sat, then he angled his bulk around the small round table, reaching for the cards even before he sat down.

He shuffled them a few times, then held them out to her. She shuffled them too, and although she’d done it many times, her fingers trembled. She wanted answers. She needed them.

Finally, when she felt as if she’d mixed them up enough, or to the right combination, she handed them back.