Of course he hadn’t found it—all the legends spoke of the instant intense attraction, the certainty that you were meant to be with the other person the moment you touched them. Laurent hadn’t felt any of that with Jean Pierre but he’d still enjoyed the other man’s company and missed him sadly, though he knew Jean Pierre was doubtless entertaining other men in the bed they had shared right now.
“Where are you going anyway?” his mother asked, watching as Laurent straightened his cuffs, making sure they were immaculate. He wore the collar of his white button-down Charles Tyrwhitt shirt open. The light fawn Prada pants and Berluti shoes that went with it were also casual but expensive.
“There’s a new gallery opening on Biscayne,” Laurent lied. “I thought I’d see if I could find something new.” In fact, he wasn’t going anywhere in particular—just out to roam the city at night and get away from the stifling confines of the three-thousand-square-foot villa his parents had rented in Coconut Grove for this extended family “vacation.” Even though he was currently occupying the carriage house, which had been converted into a luxury apartment, he still felt confined anywhere near his parents. And if he looked like he was going to a gallery opening, his mother was less likely to doubt his story.
It was a handy lie that he used frequently—Laurent had even begun a collection of modern art in order to back it up. He couldn’t care less about most of the pieces he bought but his mother had put them on display anyway, in one of the smaller salons.
The “collection” made her and Laurent’s father feel he was finally getting a taste for the good things in life and kept peace in the household so he kept adding to it. And in the meantime it gave him an excuse to go out.
“Well do be careful,” Celeste said again. “And mind you stay out of the way of the weres.”
“Yes, do.” His mother shivered. “Nasty dog-like creatures. And tonight is nearly a full moon too.”
“Don’t worry, Mother.” Laurent headed for the door. “I’ll be sure to steer clear of them.”
Once outside he set out purposefully toward Biscayne Boulevard in case his mother and Celeste were watching from the lighted window of the villa. He could have called the family car or driven himself in the black Porsche Boxster Spyder his father had bought him as a consolation prize for losing Jean Pierre but Laurent preferred to walk.
He could, of course, move with supernatural speed but he enjoyed taking his time, feeling the warm, humid wind ruffle his hair and smelling the scents of the city around him.
There were the usual urban smells of course, gasoline, car exhaust, trash, unwashed humans who lived on the streets—but there were other scents as well. The sweet, heavy perfume of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine, the more delicate aroma of wild orchids and the rich, almost rotten smell of the tropical vegetation all around him. It was like being in a jungle where a city had just happened to take root and grow.
As he walked, those tropical scents seemed to enfold him more and more. Laurent looked around and saw, to his surprise, that he’d ended up on Biscayne after all—albeit the unfashionable end. He was right at the edge of the huge park he’d driven by a hundred times and always meant to visit but never had.
Well, no time like the present. Normally he preferred to keep to the more urban parts of the city—he was more likely to find someone for a quick bite and a quick fuck at an all-night coffee bar than in a park that closed at sundown. But he’d fed just the night before so he wasn’t particularly thirsty. Besides, a walk in the wilderness—or as close to the wilderness as one could get in such a large city—sounded nice. The moon was nearly full and it cast a silvery radiance on the lush vegetation making a picturesque and inviting scene.
Without a second’s hesitation, Laurent stepped onto the grass and glided noiselessly into the darkened park.
He was deep in the park when he scented something else—the warm fur and spice scent of wolves. Despite Celeste’s warning it wasn’t a smell that automatically raised alarm. In Europe vampires and weres had long made peace. They even attended some of the same functions and worked together to keep humans ignorant of their existence.
That was as close as they came to mixing, however, and they were never much more than uneasy acquaintances. Which was something of a pity, in Laurent’s estimation. Weres tended to be hot tempered and not afraid to get their hands dirty, unlike his own people who were cool and subdued and always so above it all. He wondered idly what his father would say if he took a were for a lover— quelle horror— and smirked to himself. Now that would be the ultimate rough trade. He would probably be disinherited at once or more probably judged mad and forced to face the sun.