Hot Blooded

him into the kitchen and fed him with extra scratches and praise.
She left him crunching happily while she went upstairs. Her bedroom mirror was
not full-length, merely a waist-up square above her chest of drawers. She
figured this would be less intimidating than the tall one in Bastien's bath.
    Even so, she gritted her teeth to brace herself once she pulled off her
clothes. Her eyes went wide as she took in the view.
    She was hot. More than hot. She was curvy, something she'd never been in her
life. Stepping back, she turned to the side to check out her breasts and butt. J
Lo's rep was safe but, honestly, she was fine! She slid one hand over her
stomach, which—to her relief—she didn't have to suck in. She had to admit she
didn't hate the hint of voluptuousness. She did notice she wasn't creating a
light show the way Bastien had last night, but maybe that was because she was
new.
    No doubt about it, though: her skin was seriously pale, more cream than white
but close enough. Then again, for all she knew she would look snowy to human
eyes.
    I'm not a human, she thought, her knees giving out so that she had to sit on
the bed. I'm not a human and if I were I would be dead.
    She pressed her hand over her heart. Despite being upset, it beat slow and
steady behind her ribs. Curious, she stretched her legs off the floor. Those
were nice legs: hairless legs, so she guessed vampires didn't shave. She
supposed she'd figure out the rules for why as she went along.
    "You need to do that," she said to herself aloud, then rose to put on a fresh
outfit. Her clothes were tighter than she was used to but they looked all
right—sexy, if she told the truth.
    Arabella would die of envy to see her looking this good.
    She wrinkled her nose at the reminder of their enmity. Right now getting back
at Arabella didn't seem important, no matter what she'd tried to do. Mariann had
a date with her refrigerator. Bastien could drink espresso… and wine, as she
recalled. Before she gave up her old life she was going to see just how much of
it was ruined.
    As Gramps liked to say, "If the third time's not the charm, go ahead and try
the fourth." That philosophy had made him a patient teacher. She was counting on
it to keep her from despair tonight.
    Â 
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    THE Night Owl's reception area was Bastien's favorite part of the inn. The
first section to be refurbished, it was a cozy Gothic hall with star-shaped
ribbing on the ceiling and a carved oak desk like something out of a rectory.
Though it was a romanticized Victorian version of the Middle Ages, Bastien took
no offense at inaccuracies. For him, the style was a bridge between the modern
day and his birth, a place he could feel at home but not out of step.
    Behind the desk, fifteen cubbyholes waited for messages; before it, a Persian
rug would welcome weary feet. Bastien didn't mind that he would never gaze out
the mullioned windows during the day, or that he would have to turn much of the
business's running over to others.
    He had conceived this, had made this bed and breakfast a place where humans
could step out of the humdrum and into another time. If it never made a penny,
he'd still be proud of the accomplishment. To his mind, its greatest value was
not as a potential profit center, but as a window on the mortal world. Humans
and
upyr
shared the planet. In order for his kind to thrive, more of
them needed to understand their fellow travelers. For those
upyr
who
agreed with him, his door would remain open.
    The ambition of the project occasionally took his breath away—his first taste
of running anything in a thousand years. He had enjoyed being in charge more
than he should. Whatever denials he'd given Emile, he had been born to rule. He
could not doubt it standing in this tiny kingdom that he had made, certainly not
with Mariann's accusations ringing in his ears.
    You did this. Without my permission. Knowing full well I'd be forced to
give up everything I care about.
    She'd hit the target truer than she'd known. He'd thought himself beyond such
dictatorial behavior, but he'd been wrong.
    Regrettably, being born to rule didn't mean being born to rule well.
    Impatient with his mood, he dropped into the reception desk's swiveling
chair, rolling back and forth on its bronze casters. Despite his regret, he
didn't see what else he could have done. Did it make him a horrible person to
admit he preferred Mariann's