Fangs But No Fangs (7 page)

He left the room, fleeing the need. He was halfway down the hall when realization hit him. The scrape on Jolee's arm had been bleeding when he found her. Her blood had been on his clothing, but until just now he hadn't even smelled it. His hunger hadn't cried out to him until he'd consciously smelled it. There was a time that he'd never have been able to block out the lure of her blood. Were his powers so far gone? Or had he been so worried about her that blood was secondary? He didn't really know.

But he did know he could smell her in the trailer, her spicy, rich scent. A scent that didn't have to do with blood, and only with Jolee herself. He entered the living room. She hadn't moved. She remained curled on her side, her injured arm cradled against her chest. Her dark auburn hair, which had been knotted at the back of her head, had fallen loose. Strands clung to her cheeks. She had a smudge of dirt on the side of her chin, or maybe it was a bruise. Guilt constricted his chest. But no hunger. Even after smelling her blood and reacting to her essence, his hunger had calmed again.

He frowned. But his hunger had responded to her last night in her trailer. His erection, his desire to touch her. That had been the hunger, he was sure of it. Maybe the additional couple ounces of blood had gotten him back under control. Maybe he had found the perfect amount. Enough to satisfy, but little enough to make him as close to human as he could get.

She shifted, her knees practically coming up to touch her chin. She would be more comfortable in his bed. The lumpy mattress was far from luxurious, but it was better than the sunken cushions of the sofa.

He started to lift her, easing one arm under her knees and the other around her back, but she moaned.

"No," she almost pleaded, as if she couldn't stand to be woken again. So instead, he moved her so she was better situated on the length of the sofa, allowing her long legs to stretch out.

He returned to his room and grabbed a blanket. As he covered her, she murmured thanks, but he didn't think she even woke up. He tucked the cover securely around her thin frame. He couldn't recall a time when he'd tucked a person in. Maybe his sister, Elizabeth. But he couldn't recall.

Pain and bitter remorse squeezed his chest. Another mortal he'd hurt. Another mortal he could have saved, if he hadn't been blinded by his own obsession with Lilah. He hadn't killed Elizabeth himself, but for all practical purposes, he might as well have.

Maybe that was why he was so drawn to this mortal. She seemed to need someone. To help her, to save her— he wasn't sure from what exactly, but he was going to make sure he protected her in some way. In the way he should have protected his sister, his brothers, and Jane. And himself.

He sat in a chair and watched Jolee sleep. She shifted slightly so he could see her face. Those lips, her long lashes against her pale skin. Her nose, straight and tipped up just a bit at the end. His body reacted to her, but he ignored the confusing reaction. Instead he went to his computer and to his blog page.

He glanced at her. He'd definitely hurt her. Both physically and mentally.

That idea now wasn't as appalling as it had once been. Again he looked over at Jolee. In fact, he rather liked the idea of being «friends» with a mortal. It would be quite a novelty, really.

Jolee breathed evenly, deeply. He didn't understand the strange reactions of his body to her. The urge to touch her. The erection without the fangs. All he knew for sure was he needed to be near her. He didn't understand the need, but she made him feel something other than emptiness and hunger. And he would protect her. That seemed like a fair and safe trade-off.

He turned back to the computer.

Jolee stretched, then groaned. Good Lord, she felt like she'd been hit by a Mack truck. She opened her eyes, staring at the ceiling. Then she turned her head, seeing tweed furniture. Furniture she didn't have. Wait, the Mack truck analogy wasn't far off, was it?

That's right. She was in her neighbor's trailer. Christian's trailer. Had he finally told her his name, or had she just dreamed that?

Bracing her good arm against the edge of the couch, she pushed herself up. She looked around, but the room was empty. She couldn't tell what time it was, because thick, insulated shades covered all the windows. The only light came from a bulb left on over the range in the kitchen.

Christian— she was pretty sure he had told her his name—was nowhere to be seen. She swung her legs off the couch and stood. Her whole body ached, so she moved in a stiff, awkward shuffle around the room, trying to find a clock. She checked the living room and then the kitchen. No clocks. She wandered over to the window and lifted a shade. The sky was bright, but from the placement of the sun in the sky it had to be afternoon. The trailer was stifling, the air overly warm and stagnant.

She was tempted to open a window, but it seemed like too much work. Not to mention he must like his place like this, given the heavy blinds. She dropped the shade back into place and moved to the kitchen. She needed a drink; her tongue felt like she'd been licking a bag of flour.

She opened a cabinet searching for a glass but instead she found an odd collection of items. The Eggstractor. A Pasta Plus pot, the items still in their boxes. Meatball Magic? She took down the box, scanning the back.

"No longer do you have to take valuable time making meatballs for dinner, now with the Meatball Magic, it's easy." She frowned at the box. Was making meatballs that difficult? She shrugged and put the box back.

She picked up a white object with a handle and a hole on the other side. "Salad Shooter," she read from the side of the contraption. She put it back, noting the only other doohickey open was the Eurosealer. No dishes. No glasses. Just infomercial gadgets. How odd.

She found a plastic cup that was actually the base of the Master Chopper. That would have to do. The first cup she guzzled down in one breath. Then she returned the cup to the faucet for a refill. Sipping this time, she further inspected his home. She knew she shouldn't be nosy, but after the compilation of items in the cupboards, she was intrigued. The rest of the cupboards were bare. The drawers were empty except for a large package of straws. She frowned. She could see Christian drinking from a martini glass or a champagne glass. Not with a straw. But then he didn't seem like the type to watch informercials either. Or live in a trailer park. The list seemed to be growing.

She went to the fridge, frowning at the typed list held by a magnet.

Being Human:

Step 1: Honesty

Step 2: Belief

Step 3: Surrender

Step 4: Soul Searching

Step 5: Integrity

Step 6: Acceptance

Step 7: Humility

Step 8: Willingness

Step 9: Forgiveness

Step 10: Maintenance

Step 11: Making Contact

Step 12: Service

This guy needed a list on how to be human? That was never a good sign. She read the list again, then shook her head. She opened the fridge and peered in. The only things in there were packets of… juice or something. Hence the straws, she guessed.

"Makes my fridge look like a regular grocery market." She glanced back at the cupboard with all the gadgets. "No wonder they all look new. He has no salad to shoot or eggs to eggstract. And forget about the easy meatballs."

This guy got stranger each time she met him. And she hadn't even met him today. God knew what he'd do now.

Aside from the hum of the computer on his kitchen table, the trailer was quiet. Where was he? She took her cup and went in search. The hallway was dark. She flipped on the bathroom light on the way by to see a little better. The door at the end of the hallway was closed, and she hesitated to knock. If he was in there, he was probably sound asleep. The door, just like the one in her trailer, slid on rollers into the wall. She moved her hand to the small round handle and eased the door open just enough to see in.

This room was also pitch-black, except for the light from the bathroom behind her. The strip of light created by the open door fell directly on him, where he lay on the bed.

He was sound asleep— and naked. Jolee almost closed the door immediately, but she couldn't get her brain to cooperate with her body. The lean sinew of his arms and chest held her captive, all hard curves and latent strength. One of his arms was flung up above his head, palm up. The other hand rested on his flat stomach. His hand was large, broad, with long, strong fingers. Jolee stared at those fingers, finding something oddly thrilling about his hand against his own skin. Spread over that flat, rigid stomach.

An image of his hand moving over his chest played through her mind. Traveling down his stomach, slowly, sensually.

She swallowed. What was she doing? But even as she reprimanded herself, her eyes wandered to the place where his fantasy hand had been heading. One of his legs was sprawled out straight, long and muscular, but the one closest to her was bent, offering him a little privacy.

Thank goodness, she told herself, even as a small wave of disappointment skimmed over her.

She stared at him for a second more, then with a shake of her head forced herself to slide the door shut.

"Pervert," she muttered to herself, then took a large swallow of her water, hoping the cool liquid would extinguish the heat in her skin. It didn't.

She might have been a pervert, but to be fair to herself, he was the most perfectly built man she'd ever seen. That alone was enough to explain why she hadn't been able to look away. Her fun was over, though; now she had to get out of here. The realization that her neighbor not only had a breathtaking face but the body to match didn't change the fact that he was not someone she wanted to associate with. In fact, that knowledge only solidified the fact that he was best avoided. She knew the ego that came with a face like that. She'd already seen his ego once. He might have been kind last night, but she doubted that kindness would last. His hero tendencies seemed to be short-lived.

She hurried back to the living room, looking for her tote and the white bag with her medication. She found both by the end of the couch. As well as she could with the limited movement of her arm, she folded the comforter. Then she saw his shirt wadded up in a ball and half wedged between the arm of the couch and the cushion.

She vaguely remembered he'd brought her a clean shirt to sleep in. She'd apparently balled up the expensive garment and used it as a pillow. She picked up the shirt, shaking it out. The white cotton was badly wrinkled and covered with dirt and bits of dried leaves. There was also a spot on the front that she feared might be drool. She spread the shirt on the back of the couch and tried to wipe off the debris and smooth the worst of the wrinkles. It didn't look much better for her effort.

She sighed, then picked up her bags. Well, he probably wouldn't be surprised. He already thought very little of her. He'd probably expect her to mistreat a custom-made shirt. She just hoped the drool dried before he woke.

She headed to the door, only glancing briefly toward the hallway that led to Christian and his perfect body. He might have a perfect body and face and clothes, but the man had problems, she was sure of that. Problems she couldn't begin to deal with, not when she had her own to sort out. The most immediate of which being how she was going to get through a night of work with this bum shoulder and still pounding head.

She stepped outside, the bright light doing nothing for the headache. Then she closed the door tightly behind her, hopefully leaving the memories of Christian still sleeping in his bedroom.

For the first time since Christian moved into the hell that was Shady Fork Mobile Estates, he didn't wake immediately irritated. Irritated with himself and with the events that brought him to this very low point. Or irritated with the hunger that had to be restrained by a strict diet. Or even irritated with the evil lawn ornaments next door.

His first thought was of Jolee. How was she? A still unfamiliar sense of concern filled him. But mingled with the concern was an even more foreign emotion. He searched for a name for the feeling. It was almost like… excitement.

He slipped out of the bed and looked for his pants. Before he even had them fastened, his newly recognized excitement faded. He paused, concentrating on the atmosphere of the trailer. He didn't feel her presence there. The fourteen by fifty-six foot space was empty as usual.

Hoping that his senses were just too weak to perceive her, he grabbed a shirt and strode to the living room. But by the time he reached the main room, he knew she was gone. The comforter was folded in the center of the sofa. Above it, his shirt was spread out against the back of the sofa, the arms stretched out wide. A lifeless welcome.

He ignored the disappointment that smothered the rest of his excitement. She must have gone back to her trailer. That was reasonable. She'd want to shower and to change into clean clothes. He tugged on the shirt he carried, then went to get his shoes.