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had not spoken since the night he brought Solange back to Paris in 1814. Taking Solange as his lover had infuriated Gabrielle, and had been the final blow to their already stormy relationship. To this day, they shared the city in an uneasy truce. Yet she has agreed to come here tonight.
    He listened for Solange’s return from the Bois de Boulogne. She had gone hunting in the park for the usual fare: a prostitute, a drug addict, or one of Paris’s many homeless. The Bois was one kind of park by day and an infamous red-light district by night. Prostitutes were a dime a dozen; easy prey for his kind. He had not told her about the meeting, fearing her typical reaction: rage. He ran his hand through his sandy brown hair and fought his own hunger. Though he was older and needed less blood to survive, tonight’s meeting worried him and he could not afford to lose his focus. A quick drink would take the edge off, but there was little time to hunt. Just a sip , he thought, fighting the urge.
    He threw open the French doors and breathed in the late summer air. His sense of urgency grew with each passing night. A warm breeze blew his shoulder-length hair away from his chiseled face and creamy skin. Lucien had returned to him and reported that Antoine had slit the young mortal’s throat, but paid with his own life. Lucien had barely escaped with his own life, yet he had done the unthinkable. He had taken blood from the dead mortal, scooping it up into a vial before the retched Christian had chased him away. When he dangled the blood in front of Gaétan, the older vampire saw no other way. Luring him into the Bois, he had chained him and left him to die in the late summer sun, not before he learned where Lucien had hid the precious blood. When he returned two days later, only ashes remained.
    Gaétan reached for the warm vial around his neck and shut the window. He appeared odd, surrounded by feminine finery; the room had been decorated by Solange in Chintz draperies, upholstered chairs, white overflowing book cases, and a white marble mantle adorned with English porcelains. Even the oriental carpet was in pink and blue hues.
    He dashed into the masculine master bathroom. Turning on the hot tap, he methodically removed his Rolex watch and numerous silver rings as the sink filled up. Bending over the bowl, Gaétan splashed hot water on his face in an attempt to calm himself and to focus on the task at hand. A million thoughts raced through his mind, most revolving around the vial of blood dangling at his neck.
    Solange had been a child when he had seen her for the first time, after following Christian and Michel to London. He had to admit that he had been just as curious about her as was Gabrielle. In all his life, Gaétan knew of only one instance in which a mortal and a vampire had produced a child; that child had died shortly after birth. But Solange had been a miracle. He had kept a watchful distance, intrigued by Christian and Michel’s roles in her life, as well as the little girl.
    As he dried his face, he recalled going back and forth between Paris and London under the resentful eyes of Gabrielle, as Christian and Michel had settled into a new life in London and Solange had grown up. Many French aristocrats had fled there out of necessity, yet he found the city unimaginative and boorish. He squirted on his favorite French cologne and studied himself in the bedroom mirror. It is only Gabrielle you fool, so why are you preening like a teenager on his first date?
    Black jeans hugged his thin, muscular legs, and his black shirt lay tucked in at his narrow waist. His black Harley Davidson boots with silver buckles and a high heel gave him the illusion of being taller than his 5’8” frame. Let Solange comb Rue du Rivoli and Avenue Foch for haute couture. He preferred jeans and a T-shirt to the ruffles, great coats, and knickers of centuries past.
    He took the vial from around his neck and buried it in his dresser drawer beneath