THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

northward along St-Denis Street, through the Quartier Latin, letting the scent of sweat and sex and booze and perfume and high spirits wash over him. He rarely walked among people like this, choosing not to torture himself with what he could not have. What he could not be . Except tonight, the hot, bright, slightly desperate gaiety was his salvation. Sweet, sweet distraction.
    Eventually the sky started to lighten in the East. Only then did he head back in the direction of the high-rise.
    It was her fault, dammit. The smell of her, the sound of her pulse, the way it quickened when he moved close to her. He’d had to tell her, had to show her, what the blood lust did to his kind. But she hadn’t recoiled from him, as he half hoped she would. Instead she’d offered him her slender, delectable, innocent white throat. It had taken every shred of discipline he could summon to step back.
    And this even knowing it could be the death of him. Literally.
    Damn Edward Webber to the furthest reaches of hell for muddying the waters. Delano still didn’t know if it was Ainsley’s blood itself that killed the rogue outright, or whether her blood merely started a rapid reversal of the mutation.
    The legends were murky. This particular strain of the Merzetti family was said to be lethal for vampires. But interestingly, not all vampires who partook of the blood died. According to the old tomes that Delano had unearthed, some vampires who infused themselves with the fabled toxic blood were reputed to have been mysteriously restored to a “state of grace”. Delano interpreted that to mean their mutation was reversed, leaving them once again human.
    And knowing what medical science now knew about transfusion medicine, it was entirely possible that those who died did so because the Merzetti blood reverted them to type, so to speak. Unaware of what was happening internally, they might have gone on to feed upon another victim whose ABO type was incompatible to their resurrected blood type.
    Is that what happened with Webber? Would the Merzetti blood have killed him outright, even if he hadn’t taken the second victim’s blood? Or had the Merzetti blood already reset his genetic code, setting off the reversal?
    Somehow, he hadn’t imagined the reversal could be so quick. But why not?
    Certainly the original mutation had acted quickly enough. Contrary to what he’d led Ainsley to believe, it generally took just over twenty-four hours for the change to begin, once the virus was imparted. Thirty at the outside. Why shouldn’t the reversal be equally expeditious?
    Clearly, what he needed to do was orchestrate another attack on Ainsley. Only this time, he’d be right there, right goddamn there , to monitor the situation. It had been frighteningly close the last time. The shock of the blood loss might have killed her if he’d been a moment later arriving.
    The thing that had lurched in his chest earlier made another jerking wrench. His hand went to his breastbone as though to still the pain.
    Damnation. This couldn’t possibly be good. It happened every time he thought about putting her in the path of another rogue. But it had to be done. He didn’t see a way around it.
    And dear Lord, all that talk about taking blood from a sexual partner. It made him hard just to think about it. Hard and angry with himself.
    Oh, it was all true, the incomparable rush, the full-on body-brain-soul connection. But what he’d failed to tell Ainsley was that he hadn’t shared that sacred act with a living soul in almost 80 years.
    How safe would she feel in his penthouse if she knew that?
    And, oh Christ, how safe was he ?
    Well, that was a question for tomorrow. Tonight was all but gone. He glanced to the eastern horizon and picked up his pace.
    Two minutes later, he entered the building’s lobby, only to be braced by security. The shift must have changed in the night, because the security guard was different than the one he’d passed on his way out earlier. This one was older, military haircut, and clearly unimpressed by Delano’s claim to be the owner of the building. As was the German Shepherd at his side.
    “All due respect, mister, I don’t care if you own the entire Island of Montreal. You’re not taking that elevator or the stairwell until or unless I see some identification. So let’s have it.”
    The dog growled, its hackles rising.
    Delano ignored the dog. It didn’t do to make eye contact with them. He always wound up in a