I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling and said, “Being the young, dashing artist, Jules, I’m sure you have lots of girls just beating down your door.”
“Yeah, we dead guys really score with the chicks.” He let go of my hand and sat back in his chair, wearing a cocky expression. “Actually, since you have so adamantly refused my attentions, I feel free to tell you that I have several girlfriends that I see on rotation, just to make sure nothing gets too serious.”
“Is one of them the barely dressed model I saw in your studio that day?”
“That is purely a professional relationship. Unlike what ours would be if you would just give me a chance.” He puckered his lips in a sexy kiss.
“Oh, Jules. Stop!” I groaned and mock-punched him in the arm.
“Ow!” he said, rubbing the spot with his hand. “Damn, you’re not just pretty, you pack a mean punch, too!”
“If you’re going to sit here and torture me, then you can just get up and go back to that fancified mortuary you all live in,” I said.
“Ooooh! She dares send the poor zombie boy away in shame! What if I bring news?”
I looked up at him. “News of what?”
“News that Vince is pining away for you. That he’s inconsolable.” Jules’s tone was serious now. “That he’s not only technically a ‘dead man walking’ . . . now he’s emotionally one too.”
My stomach clenched, and I fought to keep my voice steady. “Look, Jules, I’m really sorry. I wanted to give it a chance, but after seeing Charles carried home in a body bag . . .” I paused. Jules was staring at me with challenge in his eyes. It gave me strength.
“I can’t let myself fall for Vincent if it means having a constant reminder of death. I’ve had enough of that to deal with in the last year.”
He nodded. “I know about that. I’m sorry about your parents.”
I took a deep breath, and my aching heart hardened as I spoke. “Besides, I don’t think you’re being honest with me. I saw Vincent yesterday sharing a very tender moment with a gorgeous blonde.”
Jules acted like he hadn’t heard me. Turning over his paper place mat, he took an artist’s charcoal pencil out of his shirt pocket and began doodling on it. He talked as he drew.
“Vince wanted me to check on you. He doesn’t dare approach you himself. He says he doesn’t want to cause you any more agony. After seeing you sprint out of La Palette yesterday, he was afraid that you might have drawn the wrong conclusion. Which you obviously did.”
I felt my temper flare. “Jules, I saw what I saw. How much more obvious could it have been?”
Jules seized my gaze. “Kate, you’re obviously not stupid, so I’m assuming you must be incredibly blind. Geneviève is one of us. She’s an old friend who’s like a sister to us. Vincent’s in love, but not with her.”
My breath caught in my throat.
Satisfied that he had gotten my attention, he looked calmly back down at his paper, concentrating intently on his scribbling as he continued. “He’s trying to figure things out. To find a way around the situation. He asked me to tell you that.”
Jules’s gaze flickered up at me and then back down at his place mat. “Not bad,” he said. He tore off a square and then, standing up, handed it to me.
It was a sketch of me, sitting there in the café. I looked like a Botticelli Venus, radiating serenity and natural loveliness. “I look beautiful,” I said in awe, looking up from the drawing to his serious face.
“You are beautiful,” he said, leaning over and kissing me softly on the forehead, before turning and striding out of the café.
Chapter Twenty-Six
WHEN I GOT HOME THE NEXT AFTERNOON FROM another book-reading session at the Café Sainte-Lucie, Mamie was coming out of the apartment with a visitor. Most of her clientele—paintings dealers and museum curators—stopped by on weekdays during working hours. So if someone came on the weekend, you could be sure it was a private collector.
The well-dressed man stood in the hallway with his back to me, holding a large, slender, brown-paper-wrapped package, watching Mamie lock our front door behind them. “You can take the elevator, and I’ll carry the painting up the stairs,” she was saying, when the man turned around. It was Jean-Baptiste.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. My body froze as my mind struggled over this head-on collision between my two worlds: the undead clan I had almost gotten mixed up with, and my own comforting mortal family.
“My dear girl, I’ve frightened you. My apologies!” His voice came out smooth and monotone, as if he were reading a script. He was dressed as he was the first time I saw him, wearing an expensive suit with a patterned silk ascot at the neck, and gray hair carefully oiled and combed back from his aristocratic face.