From the Veranda

His blue eyes deepened to midnight black and reflected anticipation as he lingered in the shadows of the veranda, silently awaiting her arrival.

Adrienne stepped onto the lengthy veranda. It was an unseasonably warm evening in February, and she fervently hoped to catch the breeze coming off the river. Even though she had not yet danced, her face behind the mask she wore was finely misted with perspiration. She could feel small rivulets of the same running down between her breasts beneath the heavy eighteenth century costume she had worn to this evening's masquerade ball.

In honor of Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday, her eccentric but dear friend, Angelique, was hosting tonight’s event. As a result of the celebration, Adrienne knew the party would continue well into the wee hours of the morning, leaving many a drunken and weary individual in its wake. At the moment, however, she was content to escape both the heat and the drunken revelry housed inside by seeking the seclusion of the veranda. It was quiet and the crisp, coolness of the river's breeze floated lazily across its length.

Angelique, had insisted on arranging a blind date for Adrienne with someone whom she had not met named Jean-Luc. In her own playful way, and since everyone would be wearing a mask, Angelique had insisted that Jean-Luc must seek Adrienne out amidst the crowd. Vases of vibrant, golden marigolds filled the hallways of the large mansion and tables in each room were laden with the same, bright blossoms adorning their centers. Thus, once Jean-Luc thought he had found Angelique, he would need to offer her a single marigold as a way to both reveal himself and to validate her identity. It was a fun ploy and offered Adrienne a bit of a choice in the matter as well, since she need not reveal herself if she were not so inclined. Chances were slim that Jean-Luc would find her amongst the crowded rooms. She sighed. Her chances at love had been dismal of late, so one more such failed attempt would make little difference at this point, she mused.

A flash of heat lightning lit up the sky, and suddenly, despite the warmth of the evening, Adrienne shivered as hairs on the nape of her neck rose, and she quickly realized she was not alone. Turning abruptly in search of who might have joined her, she glanced about the darkened veranda and stifled a gasp as a tall, lone figure emerged from the shadows.

“Excuse me. I didn't mean to frighten you,” a deep voice issued forth across the night air. Like everyone else, he wore a mask, but Adrienne could easily see the semblance of a smile playing upon firm lips beneath it. Was it a smile of irony she saw? How strange. What could this man, a complete stranger, possibly find ironic in this moment?

“No, it's fine....I'm fine,” she stammered, a bit nervous despite the irritation she felt. “You simply caught me off guard. I thought I was alone in my desire for some fresh air.” As well as my desire to avoid the drunken people inside, she mentally added.

The stranger drew nearer, choosing to stand mere steps from Adrienne beside the wrought iron fencing that ran the length of the veranda. “Yes, me, as well. The air is much cooler out here, is it not?” he asked, sensing her irritation. Amused, he smiled and then added, “But alas, I must confess I was also seeking to escape the many drunken souls inside.”

She acquiesced and nodded, aware that this man’s presence seemed to permeate the entire length of the veranda even though he was not a massive person. Moreover, had he just read her mind? It would be impossible for him to do that, would it not? After all, a room of drunken souls was an easy observation to make on this night of celebratory endeavors during Mardi Gras.

Taking a large sip from her wine, Angelique inadvertently 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 tugged at the skirt of own costume, very self-conscious that what she wore was not nearly as authentic.

“You look charming....quite lovely. It's as though you've stepped from the pages of a French novel,” he commented, his voice deeply melodic, lyrical.

Adrienne glanced up, surprise etched across her brow. He must be teasing her. However, interestingly enough, that was twice now he had commented on that about which she just had been thinking. Was all of this real or was the wine she was drinking 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 teased, laughing lightly, “That’s quite a handsome costume you wear. You are most certainly the epitome of a French nobleman in it.”

Clearly surprised by her words, the stranger lifted his brow at her comment, but the semblance of another ironic smile tugged at his lips. “I assure you I do not jest. You look divinely French in your garments,” he said. “As for me, on the other hand, I am only wearing a piece of dusty fabric I pulled from an old box in my attic.”

Adrienne eyed him with obvious curiosity before being distracted by a rowdy group of young people crossing Laurel Street where the house was situated. When she returned her gaze to the stranger, she noted, even though it was only minimal, he had drawn even nearer. She could now see crystal blue eyes lurking behind the mask and strands of thick, dark hair that were tied back in a neat queue at the nape of his neck. He was indeed quite the French nobleman in every aspect. He held a glass of what looked to be Merlot, and it momentarily stained his lips whenever he drank from it. So close, it was easy to see that he was a handsome man, and she wondered what he would look like without the mask. Thus far, he had been interesting enough, though a bit mysterious, and she would very much like to see him without the mask.

“Are you originally from New Orleans?” he asked casually, taking another sip of the Merlot. His blue eyes were penetrating and observant as he spoke, making her a bit nervous.

“Yes, I’ve lived here always. And you? Are you from New Orleans as well?” she asked.

“No, I am from Paris,” he said.

“Paris? But you have no accent,” Adrienne observed.

“I have lived in the States for many years,” he responded while looking into his drink. “And as a result, I fear I have lost my accent.”

Adrienne eyed him skeptically, since he could not be more than thirty-five years of age, but she decided he did very much embody a French nobleman despite having no accent. In this, she would give him the benefit of the doubt.

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

“Long enough to lose my accent, chère” he quickly replied, smiling broadly and giving her a wink. “And what do you do, ma petite, when you’re not looking like you leapt from the pages of an eighteenth century French classic?” he teased. “As for myself, I'm in the business of antiquities.”

Adrienne hesitated before answering. Was it just her or was he evading her questions with more questions posed for her? This man was proving to be mysterious - and intriguing - in many ways.

“I write – or rather, I should say I attempt to write,” Adrienne said with a bit of a sardonic laugh.

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

Adrienne laughed, scoffing at his words and was about to retort that she would not be so sure, but the look in his blue gaze stopped her. He was dead serious. The intensity of his penetrating gaze gave her pause, leaving little doubt as to his belief that what he'd said was fact. Embarrassed for an unknown reason, she looked down to gather her thoughts. This stranger was making her more self-consciously aware than any man had in a long while. Despite the heat of the night and for reasons unbeknownst to her, she shivered.

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

Despite the shiver that ran through her, Adrienne nervously fanned her face with the dainty porcelain fan covered in painted violets that had come with her rental costume. She lifted the wine glass and drained it of its content as the man who had emerged from the shadows stood close and watched every move she made. She could feel the warmth of the wine sensuously move through her, easing a bit of the nervousness she felt as the stranger continued to peruse her much as he would a book. She knew she should be alarmed, but strangely enough, she was not. Instead, though nervous, she was intrigued. Maybe the wine was adding to this man's allure as he was not the type of man she usually attracted. However, she was interested in learning about his differences. Moreover, she instinctively knew he had stories to tell that could keep her interested for years.

“Are you all right? May I get you something? Perhaps another glass of wine?” he asked, smiling seductively while knowing exactly why she shivered so.

“No, I am fine, thank you,” she said. Was it her imagination or had he drawn even closer than only moments ago? His nearness was a beacon of light that beckoned her toward something alluring, something unknown.

“I just want to be sure you’re all right,” he said reassuringly, lightly making contact with her forearm, his touch eerily cool in the heat of the warm night. Her response to his touch was instantaneous, moving through her like a bolt of electricity. Without a doubt, she could tell that he clearly felt it, too.

Of a sudden, she realized he had done it again. How strange. It was as though he could read her thoughts. She drew back ever so slightly and studied him. “Am I so easy to read?” she quietly asked, eyeing him with skepticism and the faintest trace of a smile.

He cocked his left brow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he feigned ignorance.

She reached up and touched his left temple very lightly, feeling the thickness of his hair beneath her slender fingers. His skin, like his touch, was decidedly cool despite the heat of the night and the heavy costume he wore. How the bloody hell did he manage to appear so cool, calm, and collected amidst all the revelry on this unusually warm night? Indeed, how did he manage to exude such confidence while also seeming to read her thoughts?

If Jean-Luc could have shivered, he would have done so now at her touch. Instead, his eyes turned such a deep blue that they were nearly pools of black in response to both her touch and the question she posed. There was no denying the voracity created by her mere touch. Moreover, she was undeniably easy to read despite his ability to ascertain thoughts and there was little need to ply her with his ways and wiles. Instead, it was as though he had known her all the years he had survived on this earth.

“You seem to be able to pull my thoughts from my head and into that handsome head of yours. How is that so? Are you real or some figment of my imagination?” Adrienne questioned, her voice a light whisper in the darkness.

Jean-Luc watched her closely, keenly aware of her nearness. He was sorely tempted to make known to her what kind of creature of the night he was, mayhap tossing caution aside and by tasting of the sweet nectar of her blood. He was already sure of its sweetness without even tasting it.

Of a sudden, a voice from across the length of the veranda interrupted their thoughts.

“Oh, Adrienne, there you are. I’ve been looking for you, dear,” Angelique’s voice rippled from the doorway. “How wonderful! I see you've already met Jean-Luc. You two look as lovely together as I always knew you would!” With a look of smug satisfaction, Angelique turned on her heel and disappeared again into the crowded ballroom.

Stunned, Adrienne turned to look at Jean-Luc, who simply stared back at her with, if possible, a more confident smile of irony.

“Jean-Luc?” she whispered, nearly afraid of his answer. Could the world suddenly have aligned itself to come full circle, bringing this man to her? She was afraid to think too much on the matter or to admit how much she wanted it to be him.

Jean-Luc watched her with keen interest, as he reached to pluck a single golden marigold tinged with crimson from a vase on a nearby table. Intrigued by the oxymoron of intrigue and fear the man before her embodied, Adrienne watched every move he made.

Jean-Luc sensed the attraction and the fear she felt. His gaze fell on the marigold in his hand. The beautiful yellow of the flower looked as though someone had dipped it in blood,. Surely, this was a mysterious foreshadowing of a predestined meeting. His lips formed a smile of smug satisfaction.

“The night is young. Might I offer you a beautiful marigold, my dear Adrienne?”