From the Veranda

Adrienne stepped out and onto the veranda. It was an unusually warm evening, indicative of an early southern spring, and she hoped to catch a breeze from the river that ran alongside the mansion. Even though Adrienne had not yet danced, her face behind the mask was misted with perspiration, and she could feel beads of the same running between her breasts beneath the eighteenth-century costume.

Always looking for a reason to throw a party, her eccentric but dear friend, Angelique, was hosting tonight’s masquerade ball. As a result, Adrienne knew the celebration would continue well into the wee hours of the morning, leaving many a drunken and weary individual in its wake. At the moment, she was content to escape both the heat and the drunken revelry inside by seeking seclusion on the veranda. It was serenely quiet and the slightest coolness of a breeze drifted in to float lazily across its length.

Angelique had insisted on arranging a date for Adrienne although it was with someone whom she had not met whose name was Jean-Luc. In her own playful way, and since everyone would be wearing a mask, Angelique had insisted Jean-Luc must seek Adrienne out amidst the other guests. Vases of vibrant, gold marigolds filled the large mansion and tables in each room were laden with the same. Thus, once Jean-Luc thought he had found Angelique, he would need to pluck one and offer her a single, golden marigold as a way to both reveal himself and to validate her identity. It was a fun ploy and also offered Adrienne a choice in the matter since she need not reveal herself if she were not so inclined. She sighed. Chances were slim, anyway, that Jean-Luc would find her. Her chances at love had been dismal of late, so one more failed attempt would make little difference, she mused.

Suddenly, a brilliant flash of lightning lit the sky. Despite the warmth of the evening, Adrienne shivered. Hairs on the nape of her neck rose and she realized she was not alone. Turning abruptly to search for who might be there, she glanced about the darkened veranda until she stifled a gasp. A tall, lone figure slowly emerged from the shadows.

“Excuse me. Did I frighten you?” a deep voice drifted across veranda, oddly reminiscent of a cold winter’s air. Adrienne shivered unexpectedly. She saw the stranger wore a mask, but the semblance of a smile was still visible beneath it. She wondered if it was a smile of irony opposed to sincerity. How strange. What could this man, a complete stranger, possibly find ironic in about her?

“No, it's fine....I'm fine,” she stammered, a bit nervous despite the irritation she felt. “You just caught me off guard. I thought I was alone – just looking for a bit of cool air.” And with a strong desire to also avoid all those drunks inside, she mentally added.

The stranger drew nearer, choosing to stand only a few steps away from Adrienne on the veranda alongside the wrought iron fence that ran its length. “Me as well,” he nodded. “The air is much cooler here, is it not?” he asked, sensing her irritation. Amused, he smiled and turned to gesture toward the ballroom before he added, “But alas, I must confess. I, too, desired to escape the drunken souls inside.”

Adrienne absentmindedly nodded, aware that this man’s presence seemed to permeate the entire length of the veranda even though he was not unusually large individual. Moreover, and more importantly, had the man just read her mind? It would be impossible for him to do that, would it not? A room of drunken souls, after all, was an easy observation during a night of partying, especially in New Orleans.

Taking a large sip from her glass of wine, Angelique took note of the fact the stranger had also chosen to wear the requested eighteenth-century costume attire, but his had surely cost a small fortune it was so splendid and believable. Nervously, she smoothed the skirt of her own costume, very self-conscious that what she wore was not nearly as authentic.

“You look quite lovely,” the stranger said. “It's as though you've stepped from the pages of a classic French novel.” His voice was melodic, lyrical, nearly hypnotic.

Adrienne glanced up at him, surprise etched across her face. He must be joking. Interestingly enough, that was twice now he had commented on that about which she had been thinking. Was this man real or was the wine wreaking havoc with her thought processes?

“You can’t be serious,” she said emphatically. “At least, not while you look as though you’ve just stepped from the pages of an Anne Rice novel. Monsieur Lestat, I presume?”

She laughed lightly. “That’s quite a handsome costume you wear. You are the epitome of a French nobleman.”

Somewhat surprised, the stranger lifted a brow, but the semblance of another ironic smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you I do not jest, chère - you look divinely French,” he said. “As for me, I am only wearing a piece of dusty fabric I pulled from an old box in my attic.”

Adrienne eyed him with obvious distrust and a bit of curiosity before being distracted by a rowdy group of people crossing the street. When she returned her gaze to the man, she found, though only minimal, he had drawn nearer. She could now see crystal blue eyes behind the mask and strands of thick, dark hair tied in a neat queue at his nape. Yes, he was every inch the French nobleman as he held a glass of what looked to be Merlot. The drink momentarily stained his lips whenever he drank of it. He stood so close it was easy to see he was quite handsome, and she could not help but wonder what he would look like unmasked. Thus far, he had been too mysterious, but the intrigue persisted and she would very much like to see his face.

“Are you from New Orleans?” he asked while taking another sip of the rich, red wine. His blue eyes were penetrating, observant of every detail. They made her nervous.

“Yes, I’ve always lived here. What about you?”

“I was born in Paris and lived there for many years,” he answered.

“Paris? Really? You have no accent,” Adrienne observed.

“I’ve lived in the States for a long time,” he responded and took another sip of his drink. “As a result, I fear I’ve lost what accent I had.”

Adrienne eyed him skeptically. The man could be no more than thirty-five or so, but she decided he very much posed as a French nobleman despite the lack of accent. In this matter, she would give him the benefit of the doubt.

“How long have you lived in New Orleans then?”

“Long enough to lose my accent, chère” he quickly replied, smiling and giving her a wink. “And what do you do, ma petite, when you’re not looking as though you leapt from the pages of a French novel?” he teased. “As for me, I deal in antiquities.”

Adrienne hesitated before answering his last question. Was this man evading her questions with more questions posed for her? He was proving to be very mysterious despite the intrigue.

“I’m a writer – or rather, I should say I’m attempting to be a writer, but still to no avail,” Adrienne said with a laugh.

“Oh, but I am sure that what you’d write would be well worth reading,” the stranger replied.

Adrienne laughed again, scoffing at his words. She was about to respond with something completely flippant, but the look in his gaze gave her pause. He was dead serious. The intensity of his gaze gave her pause, leaving little doubt as to his belief what he'd said was factual. Embarrassed, she stared at her feet in an attempt to gather her thoughts. This man was making her more self-consciously aware than any other had in a long while. Despite the heat of the night and for reasons unbeknown, chills covered her body.

Beneath the mask, Jean-Luc watched the stain of a blush creep as it crept across her cheeks. He felt the shiver that ran through her as though it ran through him. She was lovely, quite enchanting. Angelique could have paired him with any of her silly, vapid female acquaintance, but she had known this one was special. He was anxious to learn more about this woman before him. It had yet to be revealed whether she would be someone with whom he could share his darkest secrets – the secrets derived from living many centuries as a vampire who was created in the dark streets of eighteenth-century Paris. He was for a new beginning. This one was no mindless female, but an astute, intelligent, and attractive one beyond even her own awareness. She very well might be the new beginning he sought.

Despite the shiver, Adrienne nervously fanned herself with the dainty fan adorned with hand-painted violets that was part of her costume. She lifted the wine glass and eagerly drained it of its content while the man who had emerged from the shadows stood by her, watching every move she made. She felt the warmth of the wine sensuously move through her, easing a bit of the nervousness she felt even though he continued to peruse her like a book. She knew alarms should be sounding, but strangely enough, she was no longer afraid. Instead, a cool calmness filled her. She was thoroughly and undeniably intrigued. Perhaps the wine added to the allure, but still, she was drawn to him much like a moth to the flame. She wanted to know his secrets, his desires, and his ways, and she knew he had stories that would keep her interested for years.

“Is something wrong? May I get you another glass of wine?” he asked, smiling seductively. She instinctively knew he was aware of why she shivered so.

“No, I’m good, I promise. Thank you though,” she lied. Was it her imagination or had he drawn even closer than only moments ago? His nearness was much like a beacon of light beckoning her to the unknown.

“I want to be sure you’re fine,” he said and placed a hand lightly on her forearm. His touch was eerily cool even in the warmth of night. Instantly, at his touch her response was visceral, moving through her like electricity. Without a doubt, she knew he felt it, too.

Of a sudden, she realized he had happened again. This was three times now he had seemed to read her thoughts. How strange! She drew back and studied him, clearly confused by the moment. “Am I so easy to read?” she asked in a low voice laced with disbelief as she gave him the faintest trace of a smile.

He cocked a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said, feigning ignorance.

She reached up to touch his left temple, feeling the thickness of hair beneath her slender fingers. His skin, like his touch, was decidedly cool despite the warm night and the heavy costume. How the bloody hell did he manage to stay cool, calm, and collected despite those things? Indeed, how did he manage to exude such confidence and also read her thoughts? Who the devil was this man?

Jean-Luc watched her, his eyes becoming such a deep blue they were nearly pools of black ink. There was no denying the voracity created by her mere touch. Moreover, did she not know how undeniably easy to read she was. There was no need of his ability to ascertain thoughts, no need to compel her with his will. It was as though he had known this woman all the years he had walked the earth.

“You seem able to pull my thoughts into that handsome head of yours and make me aware of your game. How is such a thing possible? Are you some creature from the depths of my imagination?” Adrienne asked, her voice a scarce whisper in the darkness.

He was keenly aware of her words and her nearness. The temptation was mounting. He was sorely inclined to make known to her precisely what kind of creature he was, thereby tossing caution to the wind to taste of her sweet nectar. And oh, but he already knew from her prevailing aroma that her blood would taste utterly divine.

Of a sudden, a voice drifted across the veranda, interrupting them in the midst of their conversation.

“Oh, Adrienne, dear, I’ve found you at last. I’ve been looking for you,” Angelique’s voice rippled from the doorway. “Oh, how splendid! I see you've met Jean-Luc. Well done my friends – you look as lovely together as I knew you would!” And with a look of smug satisfaction, Angelique turned, disappearing into the crowded room.

Amazed by her friend's revealing words, Adrienne turned to face Jean-Luc. He stared back with, if possible, an even more confident look of sardonic amusement.

“Jean-Luc?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer. Could the world suddenly have aligned to bring this man her way? She was afraid to think on the matter too much for fear it would not be so.

Jean-Luc watched her with renewed interest. Leaning forward, the coolness of his body brushed against her as he reached to pluck a golden marigold from the table behind her. He found it brightly tinged with a deep, crimson red and wondered at the premonition. It was an oxymoron, a foreboding, and an omen.

Adrienne leaned against him. All rational thought evaded at his nearness. She wanted more, so much more. All warmth left her body as she seemed to draw from the coolness running through his body. She was filled with a dawning awareness. It was coldly splendid in its welcoming embrace, and she sighed, rejoicing at the prospects found in the darkness and moonlight.

Jean-Luc sensed Adrienne's attraction, felt the heat of initial fear leave her body to be replaced with a cool, liquid sensation of desire. Unable to stop himself, his gaze dropped to her neck and the pulse within that beat so strongly. He released the coolness of his breath against her ear, felt her shiver anew with desires she did not realize resided within. Reluctantly, he drew backwards, his gaze dropping to the marigold he held. He slowly extended lifted it between them, aware that the blood colored crimson color seemed to seep from the flower's core, predominantly covering its once yellow petals.

“Might I offer you a marigold, sweet Adrienne? Come, mon amour, 'tis a key masked as a flower on this night of masquerade. You will find it opens dreams to a long awaited eternity.”