This story is available at eHarlequin.com under the "Nocturne Bites" section. It will also be available at Amazon, B&N, and your favorite online eBook retailer.

The Vampire’s Tango by Michele Hauf

He clasped my hand and placed his other hand at my bare back. Commanding fingers pressed firmly against my spine and sought to direct my movement. My skin sizzled at the connection.

I ignored the illicit response and met his eyes.

Dark and serious, his irises drew me into his sultry realm. Yet they didn’t ask anything more than ‘Will you follow’?

The bandoneón, an Argentinean accordion, pressed out notes. The violin sang. The singer wearing a black fedora enticed us into the tango.

The milongo, a tango club in underground Paris, was dark and smoky, reeking of whisky, perspiration and clove cigarettes, yet the dancers didn’t notice. They clung to one another in various stages of the dance, some close as lovers, others holding an open embrace and learning their partner’s movements as they taught him or her their own.

I was thankful my new partner held me in an open embrace that didn’t allow for direct chest contact as we stepped to the beat around the floor. I followed the subtle direction of his eyes, his fingers, and his steps.

I had been following him for two weeks around the city.

Tonight was the first time I’d allowed him awareness of my presence. This tenuous first connection slowly gained confidence.

He held my hand sure but not too tightly. I answered by following dutifully. He was taller than me by a head but his posture and the way he bent at the knee brought him to my level. His scent was interesting. Cinnamon. It was more appealing than what I had expected it to be.

A showy couple mastered the middle of the floor. We moved counterclockwise around the dance floor, flowing with the other dancers who had no need for grandstanding.

I knew his name: Alexandre. He would never know mine if I danced this tango of two opposites correctly. I was nervous about this physical link tonight. But determined.

The beat paused and he drew me closer, moving his face aside my cheek, but he didn’t press his skin against mine. As it was, the proximity of our mouths felt dangerous. His hot breath brushed my lips. His fingers at my spine bent, moving me closer until our chests touched. We stood in the close embrace similar to those I’d determined were lovers.

I couldn’t let him smell my fear. I’d doused myself with my favorite vanilla cherry essential oil this evening. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. Fear could be felt.

I was not afraid. Perhaps secretly cocky. The mark stood in my arms. All six-foot-two of him, long sleek black suit and red silk tie. Dark hair slicked back from his masculine bone structure emphasized his fierce demeanor.

I slid my hand up his arm and around behind his neck, silently reassuring him this close hold was all right by me.

He turned abruptly, and walked forward. I followed, feeling the rebuff and using the anger in my steps. He clutched me close, his hand high across my back and gripping my side, just under my arm.

We stepped the baldoso, back, side, forward twice, aside and then back to the embrace. A slide of his foot between my legs, was answered by a gancho as I hooked my leg about his. After the fight, the making up.

But we didn’t make up for long, and I preferred it that way.

Turning swiftly, we glided past the musicians. The brush of his pinstriped suit coat teased through the thin black chiffon dress I wore. Everything about him intruded upon my external defenses. My clothing, my skin—but he would not penetrate my determination.

Palm to palm, hip-to-hip, determination struggled to master surrender—on both our parts.

When the music stopped and the dancers applauded the end of the tanda—four tangos danced in succession; we had only shared the last—he held me in the shadows at the edge of the dance floor, his hand still at my back.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he said, his voice low and edged with genuine kindness. Yet around the edges laced danger.

“As are you.”

I stepped away from his possessive embrace, entering the air as if released from a hypnotic fog. I didn’t turn to smile at him, or acknowledge that we’d just shared an incredible three minutes. Instead I walked toward the door and took the spiraling stone steps up to ground level.

I emerged on a touristy street in the fifth arrondissement. The night was bold with partying vacationers bouncing from club to club. Neon flashed in restaurant windows. Grilled, spiced lamb and fried cheese tinted the summer air. Shouts and chatter distracted passersby from noticing me, a woman flushed and breathing heavily, hand pressed to her chest.

I retrieved my backpack from the doorman, and slipped into the shadows of a narrow alleyway across the street.

Tonight the hunt had taken a turn. Soon my prey would submit.

In a hundred years, I, Alexandre Renard, have never met a more frustrating, yet intriguing woman.

I suppose she thought her dramatic exit from the tango club would leave me wanting more, actually render me to pine for the mysterious woman who followed my lead masterfully. Our first dance, even. Her body had been fine, pressed next to mine. Not too slender, curves in all the right places. She was a woman. A real woman.

A woman who I was aware had tracked me for a couple weeks. I cannot be sure if she has followed me since I arrived in Paris on a sort of getaway-to-take-stock excursion. Unlikely she could have followed from my home state of Minnesota, though.

Does she think I am not aware? Silly girl. I’ve been waiting for her to make a move. When she met my eyes across the dance floor, I held her gaze. I don’t know what color those eyes were, but I do know they were sad. So sad. Why?

I decided to sit out the next tanda of dances. Perhaps I would leave for the night. Since arriving, this club has been a salvation to me. I come here to forget things that will never completely leave my blood. Memories embedded within my very DNA.

For three minutes tonight, I forgot the painful snapshots from my past. It was lovely.

But I don’t believe it’s going to get any lovelier. Interesting, yes. Exciting? Highly likely. But like the tango, I sense the relationship I have begun with the mysterious woman with sad eyes will only grow more volatile.

I wager she’s lurking outside, waiting in the shadows for me. It is her MO. I know what she wants—blood.

I am willing to play along to see how far she will go to get it.