"Nik, where the bloody hell are you? Are you in here? I need you. Now!"
Klaus froze. So close again, and yet so far. If ever a man had been cursed by fate, it was him. He laughed out of sheer frustration as he pressed his forehead to Camille's.
He didn't immediately let go of her as he turned to face his sister, who was headed like a freight train towards the balcony. "Your screeching is enough to rouse the dead and certainly enough to wake my daughter. What is so urgent, sister?"
"All hell is breaking loose, and you're here—" Rebekah's eyes widened as she took in the two of them, and she stopped abruptly. "Oh, bollocks," she muttered. "Sorry."
"Never mind that now," Klaus replied impatiently. "What do you want?"
"Henri is threatening to leave. That's the French chef I hired for the evening," she added for Camille's benefit. "He says the escargots aren't fresh enough. As if I would have anything but the best flown in. The man's a fool."
"Yes, yes, undoubtedly he's a fool. What do you want me to do about it?"
"Why, compel him to stay," she said as if it was painfully obvious. "And some of the wait staff are be being downright impertinent. Oh, and some of Jackson's pack got drunk and they're behaving like buffoons. Elijah left when one of them spilled a drink all over his suit, so you need to sort it all out, Nik." She turned to Camille. "I'd do it myself if I could. This body is bloody useless."
"Very well," he muttered. "I'll meet you downstairs. Momentarily. I need to make sure you didn't disturb Hope."
Rebekah grinned. "Yes, you look after Hope," she said before disappearing in a flurry of silk.
Klaus turned back to Camille, who to his surprise was looking amused rather than annoyed. "A host's work is never done," she said, shaking her head.
"I shouldn't be very long. Will you wait for me?" Before she could answer, he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "I give you fair warning. When I return, I will allow nothing to stop me from kissing you. And once I start, I may not be able to stop."
When he pulled back, she gazed up at him, her beautiful eyes soft and shining. "Then hurry."
He discovered when he got downstairs that Rebekah hadn't exaggerated. All hell had broken loose. The French chef was cursing as he threw sharp implements at the kitchen hands. Putain de merde! He was a Michelin two-star chef. His reputation would be in tatters!
It wasn't easy to compel someone mid-rant, but once Klaus had calmed him, he was able to convince the chef that the escargots were magnifique. Then it was on to the next crisis. In between being harangued by Congressman Turner, the mayor, the chief of police and—dear God—the new regent of the nine covens, bloody Davina, he sorted out the shoddy waiters and the drunken wolves, a supposed champagne shortage, and a dozen other trifling issues. It would have been easier to kill the lot of them. Less effort on his part, certainly. The only thing that kept him from doing so was that the beautiful woman upstairs wouldn't take kindly to him massacring the guests at his own party.
The realization that he'd kept her waiting for so long blackened his mood. He already had so much to make up to her. As he entered Hope's nursery, he contemplated how he would do so.
The first thing he noticed was that the doors leading out to the balcony had been closed. She must have closed them to protect his daughter from the cold. He found himself smiling at the thought. He was grateful that she felt an affection for his little girl, and proud. She was a nurturing woman, and it was one of the things he admired about her. She would make an excellent mother herself…
No, best not to dwell on matters like that, or he would think of all the reasons he should push her away again. For once, he wasn't going to think of the consequences, or worry about what tomorrow would bring. For once, he wasn't going to deny himself the one thing he most needed.
He threw open the doors, expecting to see her lovely serene presence, desperate for her warmth, her touch.
She wasn't there.
He strode from one end of the balcony to the other, as if expecting her to jump out of the shadows. But he knew immediately that she'd gone.
He should never have left her. He should have left those fools downstairs to go to hell. He'd been given one chance to take his happiness, and it had slipped through his fingers again.
He didn't blame her. How could he? How could he fault her for coming to her senses and running away while she could? Any sane woman would. He blamed fate. It seemed the immortal bastard was always to be the butt of some terrible cosmic joke.
Anger, blasting hot, flared through him.
As he stalked back to his room, he felt more alone than he'd ever been. He'd been able to bear it for a thousand years.
But this, this might just break him.