“You’ve been speaking English to me all afternoon, and you haven’t made one mistake yet,” I complimented him as we waited for our food to come.
“When you sleep as little as we do, you have a lot of time for things like books and films. I’d rather read in the original language and watch movies without having to read the subtitles. So I’ve managed to learn my favorites: English, Italian, and some of the Scandinavian languages.”
“Okay, I’m starting to feel intimidated.”
“I’m sure if you had enough decades to work on it, you’d totally show me up,” he responded, his eyes vivid in the flickering candlelight.
The waiter set our plates in front of us. “Bon appétit,” said Vincent, waiting for me to pick up my fork and knife before touching his own.
“So you eat normal food,” I commented, watching Vincent cut a piece off his magret de canard.
“What? Were you expecting me to order raw brains? I thought we were going to stay away from unearthly topics of conversation tonight,” he said with a grin.
“It’s not every night I have dinner with an immortal,” I joked. “Give me a little leeway.”
“We eat normal stuff. We drink normal stuff. We don’t sleep, except when we’re dormant, which doesn’t really count as sleeping. Anyway, everything else works the same. . . .” His eyes narrowed brazenly, and his lips formed a sexy smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”
I blushed and concentrated intently on my silverware.
“Kate?”
“Mmm?”
“What’s the rest of your name?”
I met his eyes. “Kate Beaumont Mercier. Beaumont’s my mom’s maiden name.”
“It’s French.”
“Yes. I’ve got French roots on both sides of the family. Anyway, naming your kids after your maiden name is a Southern thing. And the South is where Mom grew up. In Georgia, actually.”
“It’s all falling into place now.” Vincent smiled.
“How about you?”
“Vincent Pierre Henri Delacroix. We get two middle names in France. Pierre’s my dad’s name, and my grandfather was Henri.”
“Sounds very aristocratic.”
“Maybe way, way back.” Vincent laughed. “But my family was nothing like Jean-Baptiste’s. It’s easy to tell what kind of background he’s from.”
“Jean-Baptiste,” I murmured. “He doesn’t seem very fond of me.”
Vincent’s face darkened. “I want you to know that, though Jean-Baptiste is like my own family, his opinion of you doesn’t matter to me. If you want him to like you, then I will reassure you: It will come. You have to earn his trust . . . he doesn’t give it easily. But until then, you are with me. He will respect my choice and be civil from now on.”
Vincent saw the doubt on my face and said quickly, “That is, of course, if we keep seeing each other. Which I hope we will.”
I nodded to show I understood, and Vincent, seemingly relieved to see I hadn’t made a run for it after his overearnest diatribe, changed the subject. “So are you and your sister very close?”
“Yeah, she’s not even two years older than me, so we’ve always joked about being twins. But we’re totally different.”
“How so?”
I took a bite and thought about how to describe my sister, the social butterfly, without making her sound shallow.
“Georgia is a total extrovert. Not like I’m exactly a shrinking violet, but I don’t mind spending time by myself. My sister has to be with people twenty-four/seven. In New York everyone knew her. She always managed to find the best parties and was continually surrounded by her entourage: band members, DJs, performance artists.”
“And let me guess . . . you were too busy reading and going to museums to join her.” I laughed when I saw Vincent’s wry grin.
“No, I went with her sometimes. But I wasn’t in the spotlight like Georgia. I was just Georgia’s little sister, along for the ride. She took care of me. She always nominated someone in her group to make sure I had a good time.”
I didn’t explain how she would always choose a “date” for me: gorgeous hipster guys who, to my amazement, enthusiastically took on the challenge of entertaining Georgia’s sister. A few of these setups had turned into something more. Not much more, really, but if one of these guys happened to be at a party Georgia and I went to, I knew I had someone to dance with, sit next to, and maybe kiss in some dark corner of the room later in the night. Georgia called them my “party boys.”
Now, with Vincent sitting across the table from me, larger than life, they seemed like ghosts. Shadows, in comparison to him.
“I worried how she would handle having to step down from her queen-of-nightlife throne when we moved,” I continued, “but I underestimated her. She’s well on her way to reaching the same level here.”
“Different city, same scene?”
“She’s basically out every night that Papy and Mamie don’t force her to stay home. But unlike in New York, I don’t go with her.”