Bloodlust

Chapter Eighteen

I mill around the ballroom after my heart-to-heart with Niklaus, taking great care to stay inside the sight of Monsieur Lambert. When I stop to pick up a glass of champagne, the man sees an opening and swoops in beside me. "Mademoiselle Audibert, oui?" he says charmingly, his full set of dimples popping out as he smiles.

I allow a small smile to grace my features as I shake his hand. "Please, call me Nadya, Presidente Lambert."

"If I'm to call you Nadya, you must also call me Gabriel. I do enjoy the title, but it's losing its shine quickly tonight. So many people use the word, hm?"

"Power attracts many people, Monsieur Gabriel." My eyes dance over the edge of my champagne glass. "You have to weed out the good ones, in my experience."

He sets his glass down as a waiter whisks by and he holds out his hand, which is significantly larger than mine. "Mademoiselle Nadya, you are a vision. And I am a man who listens to visions and prophecies, so will you do me the honor of having a dance?" The unspoken, but implied, words hang in the air: after you've avoided me all night?

"Bien sûr," I say graciously, setting down my own glass as I take his hand. [translation: of course].

The orchestra begins to play a soft melody, a slow dance that is not romantic, but dangerous. "So, Monsieur Gabriel. I suppose I have to congratulate you on your victory."

"Is it really so difficult to do?" he says, an amused glimmer in his eyes as we sway.

"Maybe if I had voted for you, it wouldn't be. Unfortunately, I was not as taken by your looks and charm as the newscasters seem to believe."

He throws back his head and laughs, but I don't miss how tightly he suddenly grips my fingers and how my waist, already sore from where Nik's fingers dug in, realizes a fresh and sharper pain. "Not many here would admit to that, Mademoiselle Nadya."

"Ah, let us stop with the politics," I wave my hand. "It's exhausting, non? Let us talk of France. Of you - but none of the PR information you spouted off of television, Monsieur. What is your worst vice?" He stays silent and guides me through the next few steps of the dance. "Don't worry, Monsieur. I won't sell you out to the press. I have a habit of nosiness, but that is not the same as betraying someone's trust."

His hesitation continues. "You must understand why I feel uncomfortable, Mademoiselle. It is not easy to trust anyone, especially now that...that my position has changed."

"Of course. I apologize for being so...invasive. Onto lighter things, I suppose. How about...candies? What's your favorite sweet, Monsieur Gabriel? That is a much easier question, non?"

"Quite," he says gallantly, smiling down on me. I internally curse my shortness, for it allowing someone else to gain the higher ground. It has been that way for the better part of my mortal existence, but I'm insistent on finding a way to complain about it. "I do love bergamote de Nancy," he muses. "I prefer my sweets a bit bitter, you know."

"No, I don't," I reply, my voice dripping with sweetness. "Personally, I prefer chocolate truffles. It hits the spot every time. It's too bad that the only good ones are made in France."

"Ah, you are not from our fair country, then?"

"I'm Bulgarian by birth," I acknowledge, "but I have traveled all over the world. France is by far my favorite, but Scotland rivals it."

"Bulgaria? I've never had the pleasure of visiting. Where are you from, there?"

"вълчи прилив. Wolftide, in English."

"A strange name," he says, glancing at me curiously. My fingers are nearly crushed in his grasp. "I'm unfamiliar with the townships of Bulgaria, but that name seems very odd."

"Monsieur, it is just a name. Just as this is Paris and that is New York."

"Ah." He looks unconvinced as his eyes start to dart furtively.

"Monsieur, please, calm down. The dance is nearly done and we can part ways and never see one another again. Although it is a hit to my ego," I smile dryly.

"No, no, that is not it, Mademoiselle Nadya," Gabriel says hurriedly, the politician in him arising. The horror of losing a vote is more awful than his clear distress. "No, please, continue asking your questions."

"Alright, then. Since we are in Paris, who is your favorite artist? And don't you say Da Vinci, Monsieur Gabriel, because I know you lie."

The French president throws back his head in a laugh, one clearly and horribly forced. "And what if he is my favorite, Mademoiselle Audibert? In all truth."

"In my experience, Da Vinci is the artist people uneducated in the arts first think of. He is a master, to be sure, but is he worthy of all of his praise?" I cock my head as I let my eyes roll over Lambert's face. "Perhaps he had demons hiding in his closet. A wolf in sheep's clothing, if you will."

His face drops, instantly, at my words. "You know."

"I do," I agree, a cocky smirk creeping over my face. "What price will you pay for me to keep your secret, Monsieur Lambert? And asking that, what is it like to be a werewolf in such a public position?" 

hehe, hehe. enjoy.