She wanted to feel something besides her rebelling stomach, but he obviously wasn’t her type. She smiled up into his eyes. “It’s not going to happen,” she said softly, persuasively.
The smile faded from his face, and she could see the latent violence in him. This was a man who didn’t like to be thwarted. His fingers tightened like a vise.
“Let go of me.” She said it calmly, but she wasn’t calm inside. She had somehow counted on enjoying the best of both worlds tonight, thinking whatever creature she had become would protect her from this kind of thing.
The man’s laugh was frankly nasty. “Let’s go outside, babe.” As he made the suggestion into an order by grabbing her wrist, he felt something on his arm. He glanced down and, to his horror, saw his black widow tattoo crawling up his forearm toward his biceps. He could see the fangs clicking angrily, feel its hairy legs on his skin. He froze, then yelled loudly, dropping Alexandria’s wrist, slapping and brushing wildly at his arm.
Alexandria saw nothing but took the opportunity to glide away, disappearing into the crowd.
The man stared down at his arm, gasping heavily, his chest heaving. But the only thing he saw was his tattoo. Nothing moved. He raked a hand through his hair, leaving it wild and disheveled. “I’ve had too much booze, man,” he said to no one in particular.
Alexandria slipped through the throng, her head pounding with the beat of the music. Her blood was hot, but her skin ice-cold. Her stomach seemed to rebel at the bodies she brushed against. A stocky man with chestnut hair and a ready smile touched her shoulder. “Dance with me?”
He was lonely, she could feel it, as well as his deep sadness and near desperation to hold another human being. Without thinking she smiled an assent and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The moment his arms surrounded her and he pulled her body against his, she knew it had been a mistake. She wasn’t human. She wasn’t what he needed. And his illusion was no more desperate than hers. His desperation was no sadder than her own. Neither of them spoke. She knew his thoughts, his terrible sorrow for the loss of his wife some six months earlier. But she wasn’t Julia, his wife. She wasn’t even the customary, warm body to help him make it through the night. And he wasn’t Aidan, and he never could be.
That last thought struck terror into her soul. Why had she thought that? She could find a man. A human man. It wouldn’t be this one, but there must be someone.
The man stirred. “Come home with me?”
“It isn’t me you want,” she said gently, moving to put a few inches between them.
He tightened his hold, pulling her body into his. “It isn’t me you want either, but we can help each other,” he pleaded, wanting someone to push away the ghosts for a few precious hours.
The smell of his blood called to her. Alexandria’s stomach lurched, and she felt bile rise into her throat. She shook her head adamantly. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” When she went to step away, the music changed to a frantic, driving rhythm that seemed to goad the man to clutch at her. As his arm tightened across her back, static electricity seemed to arc from the floor into his arm, jolting him. He swore and released her immediately. Surprised, Alexandria stepped away. “What happened?”
“You shocked me!” he accused.
“I did?” She inched away from him. Had she inadvertently done so without knowing it? Or had it been an accident? She had no idea, but she was grateful for the timely intervention. She ducked into the whirling, gyrating crowd and made her way across the room, the music beating in her head, through her body.
Alexandria found the bar. Several men in suits parted to allow her access. Their greetings were speculative, hopeful. They seemed nice enough. Some were good-looking. Some even seemed legitimately friendly. But she felt nothing. It was as if she was totally empty inside. Dead.
Suddenly wondering what she was doing, what she was trying to prove to herself, she spun around, leaned her back against the bar, and stared down at her shoes. There was no way around it. She had never been a promiscuous person. It just wasn’t in her. She wasn’t attracted to a man for his looks, and even those who mildly intrigued her, whom she had things in common with, didn’t stir her physically.