"Tabbitha slept fitfully. The sheer white curtains of the balcony door billowed into the room on the soft Parisian breeze. The moonlight fell upon her soft cheek and the gentle movement of her breasts. Something stirred. Or did it? Was this a dream, another episode in her nightly festival of doubt? She thought of Atlanta, of the life she left behind, and then abruptly of Sergei, the Russian oligarch who had stolen her family's honor, and to whom she had sworn a terrible revenge – death.
But there again, that sound. The soft rub of shoe on tile. She looked then, and he was there. There with the moonlight, with the spire of Notre Dame behind him, heaven and hell intertwined - as pale and thin as Michelangelo's David. Could this be Bram, her hired vampire assassin? Her breasts heaved suddenly, a feeling of terror deep within her soul, but mingled with a feeling she had long ago locked tightly away, desire."