I didn't think Evangeline would show up, but here she is in my foyer, all wide eyes and rosy cheeks. Heartbreakingly beautiful would be the way I would describe her, but I can't get trapped in the superficial. Not now, not while I'm so close to getting what I need.

"Is this a good time? I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I got your note and..."

Her voice fades when I lean down and kiss her right cheek, then her left, like we do in Italy. Now her cheeks are even rosier, which makes me grin. 

"It was an open invitation. I was on my early morning walk and got the idea to invite you over." No need to explain that I was up all night, as usual, because I sleep during the afternoon, if at all. Or that I was wandering the dark streets of Boston for hours in the cold, thinking about her, and her brother.

Now that she's here, I need to pour on the charm. It won't be difficult, because she's so gorgeous. If only she was related to anyone but John Ransom.

"May I take your coat? And what's this?" I tap the plastic top of her coffee cup.

"Oh, I stopped at a convenience store. Can't live without my coffee, you know?" Her laugh is a little too forced and shrill.

This elicits a genuine chuckle from me. "My dear, sweet girl. Give that to me and I'll make you some real coffee."

"Uh, okay." I take the offending cup from her and set it on a side table.

She shrugs out of her heavy wool jacket, and I carefully hang it on a hook in the foyer.

"This is a beautiful house." She rubs her upper arms and that's when I notice a lock of her hair is frozen solid. I reach over and take it in my fingers, wanting to snap it in two.

"Wet hair? Icy hair?"

She nods. "I didn't have time to dry it this morning."

"You're going to get pneumonia. Let's go to the library. I have a fire started."

Normally I'd never light a fire—there's no need, since I'm impervious to cold. But since I suspected, well, hoped, she'd come by, I built a beautiful stack of wood to blaze in the hearth. I have to admit, the aesthetic of the fire in the book-filled room is quite beautiful.

Sensual, even.

"Come." I put my hand on the small of her back and propel her down the hall.

She leans into me and I capture her scent in my nose. I can smell her blood, a rich, heady fragrance. It's so much more evident today, now that she's not awash in perfume and cigarette smoke from that club last night.

"Wow, this home is incredible. They don't make them like this anymore. Greek Revival, right?"

Impressive that such a young woman would even know that term. "Yes. But it's not mine. It's a dear friend's house, and I use it whenever I visit Boston."

"Oh. Damiano?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

I pause at the library door, wanting to shake her for uttering my friend's name out loud. How dare she, with the legacy of her family? With what they did to Damiano?

"It's... it's on the buzzer outside." She blinks, obviously taken aback from my demanding tone.

I force myself to chuckle. "Of course, of course it is."

"Are you here alone? Or are there others?"

"No, it's just me. Well, and a housekeeper who comes twice a week." Another vampire in fact, but I don't tell Evangeline this.

I push open the door to the library and she gasps.

"This is. Wow. Oh wow. I've never seen a private library like this before."

"It is impressive, isn't it?"

She stands in the middle of the room on the scarlet-colored oriental rug, slowly turning in a circle, taking in the floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves stuffed with books. The library is bathed in the gentle glow of the fire, a warm golden light. The windows are obscured with heavy, red velvet drapes.

"Look at that, a ladder to reach the upper shelves," she murmurs, almost to herself.

At one end of the room is the fireplace, with a large painting over the mantel.

She pauses to stare at it, then takes a step toward the fire. It's the art in the large, gilded frame that's captured her attention, a massive painting depicting a particularly violent scene.

"Whoa. That looks familiar. But no. That can't be." She shakes her head.

"What?" I ask, amused at her befuddlement.

"The painting. I took a European art history class last year, and that looks like Artemisia Genti...Genti... I can't pronounce it."

"Aertemisia Gentileschi," I say in a thick Italian accent.

"Yes. That's it."

"Judith Slaying Holofernes. That's the name of the painting."

"But I thought it was in the Uffizi?" She looks to me, confusion contorting her pretty face.

"Very good. You must have paid attention in class. This is an alternate work done by the artist. A precursor to the one in the Uffizi, if you will."

"No way. That can't be. That's real?"

I laugh, genuinely this time. "You Americans are always so skeptical. My friend Damiano was quite the collector."

"Was? Where is he now? Does he no longer collect art?"

My laughter fades. "Why don't you take your boots off and warm your feet by the fire, while I make you a cappuccino? Feel free to get comfortable, Evangeline."

I squeeze her upper arm and walk to the kitchen. I have a few things prepared, such as croissants, fruit, and jam, but still must make the coffee. It makes me shudder to think anyone would drink coffee from a convenience store.

For the next several minutes while I brew coffee, I try not to think of how she pronounced Damiano's name in her American accent, or whether she's even aware that Damiano died from the virus her ancestor introduced to the world.

Probably she doesn't know, but it doesn't really matter, does it?

I carry a tray with the cappuccino and the croissants into the library, and find Evangeline sitting in front of the fire, her back to me. Her boots and hat are off, and her still-damp hair cascades over her shoulders.

"Are you warming up?" I set the tray on a nearby leather ottoman and sink onto the floor next to her.

"Yes, this feels incredible. Thank you."

"You haven't even tried my coffee. Here."

She carefully takes the cup from my hands and sips. "Oh, god, that is so much better than the 7-Eleven coffee." Her laughter fills the room and I can't help but smile. "You must think I'm like a redneck or a hick for drinking that."

"Nope, you're simply American." Her mouth drops open and I laugh. "Kidding. Just kidding."

"Well, we all can't be European royalty, or whatever you are."

"Is that what you think? That I'm royalty?" I stare at her, amused. She really is refreshing and lovely.

Her shoulder lifts and she takes a sip of her coffee, then swallows. "I don't know what to think. I was pretty shocked that you came by and left a note at my dorm, especially after everything last night. I'm not used to men being this...interested, this quickly."

"Really? I find that difficult to believe."

"Why?"

"Because you're gorgeous. You're also funny. I would think you have to beat back guys with a stick."

"You're very good at flattery, you know that? Is that an Italian thing?"

I smirk in her direction. "Perhaps."

She takes a few more sips of coffee and stares at the fire. "I almost didn't come. I was supposed to meet my brother for breakfast but he stood me up."

Prickles of awareness wash over me. John Ransom is in Boston? Oh, this is so much easier than I anticipated. "Oh, really?"

She nods. "He showed up, out of the blue, last night after you left."

As she describes how they went for a slice of pizza in Kenmore Square, I have to remind myself to remain calm. To not project any emotion. To not show how eager I am for more information.

"Yeah, it was the first time I've seen him in so long. He's been over in London. I guess he's leaving Boston soon, I don't know. We used to be close, but now..." Her tongue darts out and licks a drop of milk on the corner of her mouth, a move that's achingly sensual.

"Now you're not close?" I reach across her and take a grape from the tray, pretending to be only mildly interested.

"Pfft. I don't know what we are. He's changed a lot. Family's really complicated, you know?"

"So why didn't you stay at your dorm this morning, in hopes your brother showed up? Maybe he was late, and you missed him." I'm hoping for further revelation, another nugget of detail. Something that will lead me to him.

She sets her cup down on the tray and twists her body so she's staring directly at me. We're only a foot apart, but I feel a need to close the distance in some way. It's too soon for a kiss, although that would be satisfying. So I reach out to stroke the top of her hand with my thumb.

"I live my own life. My brother had the chance to see me, and didn't show. I waited almost an hour. When I got your note, I felt..."

We stare into each other's eyes, and for the briefest of seconds, I think of how I'd be content to look at her beautiful face for a thousand years.

Even I can sense the temperature rise in the room, and my resolve to pump her for information is fading, replaced with the overwhelming desire to feel her lips once again.

"You're not finishing a lot of your sentences today," I murmur while continuing to caress the smooth skin of her hand. "Why is that? What did you feel, Evangeline?"

"I felt. Ah. Drawn to you. Drawn here. I don't know why. Well, actually, I'm lying. I do know why."

"Tell me," I whisper.

She leans into me, her eyelids fluttering shut. For the second time in twenty-four hours, she kisses me first.