“Ah, is that how it is?  Well,” Gavin cocked an eyebrow at him and smirked, “I suppose I can still be surprised.”

“Gavin, did you want company tonight?” Giovanni asked out of politeness, hoping the vampire would answer in the negative.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude on your evening with a friend,” he replied, “but don’t be a stranger.  I think it would be beneficial for us to catch up soon.”

Nodding at the subtle message, Giovanni took Beatrice’s hand and led them to an empty couch near the fireplace.  They both sat down and he leaned over to murmur in her ear.

“He’ll be able to hear everything we say in a normal voice, Beatrice.  Just so you know.”

“Yeah,” she said softly.  Her heart was now beating far more rapidly than he would have liked.  “I kind of figured.  Does he think we’re…”

“That’s the impression I want him to have.  If he thinks I drink from you, he won’t touch you.  Nor will anyone else in the bar out of courtesy.”

They both fell silent and he could almost see the rush of questions racing through her mind.

“A chaser, huh?”

He cocked an eyebrow.  “Not necessary, but a polite offer.”

She looked down at her lap and whispered.  “So—what, he keeps humans around as refreshments?  What kind of bar is this?”

“It’s a popular one for a certain crowd, and one where people do not ask questions.  One where they keep certain things to themselves.”

“Even the humans?”

“Especially the humans.”  He paused, trying to decipher the expression on her face.  She was frowning, but he sensed more worry than anger.  “No one lures them here, Beatrice, if that’s what you’re wondering.  No one has to.”

“So what?  They like it?  They like being…bitten?”

He only raised an eyebrow and gave her a cocky look.

“Well, that is certainly interesting,” she said, still speaking in a low voice.  “Can I ask why you brought me here?  Warning?  Field trip?  Or do you just have the munchies?”

He put an arm around the back of the sofa, leaning close enough that his claim couldn’t be doubted by the rest of the room, but not so close that he would make her uncomfortable.  Her heartbeat had yet to slow down.

“I brought us here for two reasons, Beatrice.  One, if certain people decide to make their appearance in the city, it would be beneficial for them to think of you as ‘my human,’ and yes—” he anticipated her response, “I know how insulting that sounds to you, but that’s not the way he thinks.”

“The way who thinks?  Gavin or Lorenzo?”

“Either.  Both.  Gavin’s a good sort, mostly, but that’s the most common way of viewing humans in our world.”

“As property?  Food?”

“Neither, precisely.  Or maybe a little bit of both.  But in a fond sort of way.”

“Like a pet?” she whispered scornfully.

He smiled again.  “I most certainly do not think of you as a pet, Beatrice.”

She narrowed her eyes.  “You better not.  What’s the second reason?”

He leaned to the side and reached for a small bar menu on the coffee table in front of them.  “The second and most important reason is, this place has the best selection of whiskey in the city.”

Her lip curled.  “I don’t like whiskey.”

“You have probably only had horrible whiskey that bars serve because it’s cheap.  These whiskeys,” he held up the menu, “are not that kind.”

A server slid silently toward him, and Giovanni held up two fingers as he spoke.

“Two of the scotch tastings, please.  And a small glass of water.”

“The premium board, Dr. Vecchio?”

He gave a slight nod.  “Yes.”

Beatrice just looked at him in amusement.

“The name’s Vecchio.  Giovanni Vecchio,” she said with a horrendously bad Scottish accent.

He chuckled.  “But are you the good Bond girl, or the bad one?”

Beatrice winked at him and said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He just shook his head, enjoying her audacity as she looked around the pub.  It was atmospheric, to say the least, though not fussy.

Gavin Wallace had a distinct dislike for the sentimental or stuffy.  The Night Hawk pub had clean, white-washed walls that showed off the old woodwork around the windows and made the large stone fireplace in the center of the room the focal point.  It had little decoration and even less in the way of food.

The reason people, including most of the small immortal community of Houston, came to Gavin’s pub was because he served the finest and most extensive collection of whiskeys and bourbons in the city and probably the state.

“Do you mostly drink whiskey?” she asked.  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever seen you drink.”

He shrugged.  “If I don’t drink much, I’m going to drink what I like.  And I like whiskey.”

“Shaken, not stirred?”

He laughed lightly and looked into her eyes, still surprised by how amusing he found her, and how easy her company continued to be.

“Neither.  Good whiskey should be served neat, that is, with no accompaniment or mixers, with a slight bit of good water to open up the scent and flavor.”