He gave me a hug, and then leaned back to look at me affectionately. “Fine with me. We could use some eye candy around here.”
Hanging out with a houseful of men was going to be good for my self-esteem, I thought, whether or not those men were technically alive.
“Okay, back off, Ambrose. You might be bigger than me, but I’ve got a sword,” Vincent said.
“Oh really?” laughed Ambrose and, reaching up with one hand, grabbed a battle-ax as tall as him from off the wall. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Romeo!” And at that, the men began a three-way fight that topped anything I’d ever seen in the movies—and without any Hollywood special effects.
Finally Vincent called for a time-out. “Not that I couldn’t fight you all day, Ambrose, but I have a date, and it’s bad manners to keep a lady waiting.”
“Convenient, that, just as you were starting to get tired,” chuckled Ambrose. Turning back to his teacher, he slowed to a more sustainable pace.
Vincent picked up a towel from a chair and mopped the sweat off his face. “Shower,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.” He walked to one corner of the room and stepped up into a pine box the size of a sauna, with a large showerhead sticking out of the open top.
Ambrose and Gaspard continued their workout, the older man looking like he could go for hours without a break. I watched, amazed, as they stopped and changed weapons, and began working on some fencing-style footwork while Gaspard called out instructions.
Until I had picked up that two-handed sword, I never imagined how difficult martial arts could be. The movies make it look so easy, with all the flying up walls and acrobatic swordplay. But here, with the sweating and grunting and force expended with every single movement, I realized that I was witnessing truly breathtaking skill. These men were lethal.
The hissing of the shower stopped, and Vincent stepped out with only a towel around his waist. He looked like a god straight out of a Renaissance painting, his brown skin stretched tightly over his muscular torso and black hair falling back from his face in waves. I felt like I was in a dream. And then that dream walked right up and took me by the hand. “Let’s go up?” he asked.
I nodded, speechless.
Chapter Thirty
ONCE WE WERE BACK IN HIS ROOM, VINCENT pulled some clean clothes out of a paneled cupboard set into the wall. He grinned at me. “Were you planning on watching?” I blushed and turned around.
“So, Vincent,” I said, pretending to inspect his photo collection as I heard him dress behind me. “Can you come to dinner this weekend to meet my grandparents?”
“Finally, she asks. And unfortunately, I must decline.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised. I turned to see him walking up to me with an amused expression.
“Because I will not be in any condition to meet your family this weekend, much less make conversation or even sit, propped up, at a dinner table.”
“Oh,” I said, “when are you dormant?” My voice faded as the strange word tripped off my tongue.
He picked his cell phone up from a table and checked the calendar. “Thursday, the twenty-seventh.”
“That’s Thanksgiving,” I said. “We’ve got Thursday and Friday off school. It’s a shame you won’t be around.”
“The clock stops for no man, especially my type. Sorry.”
“Well, how about before then?” I asked. “Today’s Monday. How about tomorrow night?”
He nodded. “That would work. It’s a date. So . . . I’m meeting the grandparents? What should I wear?” he teased me.
“As long as you’re not wearing a body bag, I should think you’ll do just fine,” I laughed, turning back to his collection of portraits.
Among the head shots of angelic children, battle-worn soldiers, and tough teenage hoodlums was an old black-and-white photo of a teenage girl. Her dark hair was crimped into a 1940s hairstyle, and she wore a flowery dress with squared shoulders. Both hands were raised to one side of her face, where she was securing a daisy behind her ear. Her dark lips were open in a playful smile. She was stunning.
“Who is this?” I asked, knowing the answer before the words had finished leaving my mouth.
Vincent walked up behind me and placed his hands on my arms. He smelled freshly washed, like lavender soap and some kind of musky shampoo. I sank back into him, and he wrapped his arms around me. “That’s Hélène,” he said softly.
“She was beautiful,” I murmured.
He dropped his head to lean his chin on my shoulder, kissing it softly before he did. “Until I saw you, I didn’t let myself think of any woman besides her. My life since her death has been spent avenging it.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, I asked, “Did you ever find the soldiers who did it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you . . .”