Lover's Bite (4 page)

“Hell, woman, get it through your head that I know you better than anyone ever has. You look enough like her that I'm surprised it's not obvious to everyone. Or maybe I'm the only man who can see the real you. Tanya.”

His words hurt. Probably because they were lies—beautiful lies, lies she'd wished some man would make true one day. But none ever had, nor ever would. Particularly not him. “Don't ever call me that.”

“It's who you are, deep down.”

“It's not. It hasn't been for a long time now.”

He sighed. “Look, it doesn't matter how I know. I know, that's all. So I made a call to an…acquaintance of mine who's connected. I got some inside info for you. And I don't like what it implies.”

“I don't care what you like,” she lied. She was burning with curiosity. She wanted to open that envelope and pore over its contents right this second. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to kiss him.

“Digging into your mother's murder could be dangerous.”

She frowned hard, but before she could decide which of the dozens of questions to fire at him first, he was out the door. “Lock up tight, baby,” he called. “It'll be dawn soon.”

She watched him go, having no idea where the hell he was going—which should be the least of her worries, she knew. He walked to the road and got into his hot-looking black car, started the engine. Then he turned on the headlights and roared away.

Only then did she manage to close the door. She turned the locks not because he had told her to, but because it made sense. Then, her hands trembling, she took the envelope, opened the clasp and pulled out the paper-clipped sheets it contained.

The cover page read:
PROFILES OF PERSONS OF INTEREST IN THE MURDER OF MIRABELLA DUFRANE.

“What the hell? They had suspects? I never knew of any suspects.” Topaz moved through the giant, sprawling foyer through a wide archway into the living room, which had a fireplace and soft sand-colored furnishings, white carpet, and wide, wide windows that were bare and uncovered and looked out at the vista beyond. Rolling dunes and the mighty Pacific. The scene was so breathtaking that she paused for just a moment to take it in.

Then practicality intervened, and she glanced upward. Bamboo blinds, and window shades beneath them. Thank God, she thought. Those windows would let in way too much sunlight by day.

Okay. She sank onto the soft sofa—into it, to be more accurate—and laid the sheets out on the glass-topped bamboo coffee table. And then she began to read.

 

Jack parked the Carrera in front of a meter on a suburban street about a mile from where he planned to spend the night. He locked up the car, hoping no one would bother it, and put the maximum amount of change into the meter. It would get him through most of the day. And if he got a ticket toward sundown, so be it. It wasn't like he would ever pay the thing.

He took his bedroll from the passenger seat and, slinging it over his shoulder, began the walk to his temporary abode. It wasn't much, a family crypt in a cemetery beyond the suburbs, surrounded by rolling fields and with no one around to observe anything amiss. The crypt belonged to the family Carlisle, and it was roomy and spacious, and any corpses inside had long since turned to dust. They didn't keep it locked. Hell, who did these days?

There was utterly no reason why a vampire should sleep in a crypt. He liked the poetic cliché of it, though. It spoke to his whimsical nature. Besides, no one would bother him there—and if they did, he could scare the bejesus out of them without much effort, which would be good for a laugh, if nothing else. The crypt was completely impervious to sunlight, the main necessity.

Besides, it was the closest safe place to where Topaz would be sleeping today. And he didn't want to get far from her. Nor did he want to sit around analyzing just why that was, thank you very much. Suffice it to say, he was pretty sure she was about to tread on some dangerous ground, maybe ruffle a few feathers, stir up some long dormant evil and put herself at risk. That should be reason enough to want to stay close.

It wasn't. But it should be.

Of course, he had his other reason. She would be checking in with Reaper periodically, which he couldn't very well do himself. Not without raising suspicion, at least. He was too new to the white-hats, not really one of them yet. Any concern he showed would be suspect.

She could do it, though. And he could keep tabs on the big guy through her. That, too, should be reason enough to stay close to her.

And it, too, wasn't.

He sighed, set his backpack on the big stone bier and closed the heavy slab of rock that passed for a door, plunging himself into utter darkness. That didn't bother him. He could see just fine in the dark. Still, a little touch here and there to make the place homey wouldn't hurt.

Jack liked his creature comforts. And he'd done some shopping along the way to be sure he would have all he needed.

He hadn't spent a nickel of Topaz's money, though. He told himself he needed it, in case he had to return it to her. He paid no attention to the unfamiliar guilt that made him feel slightly ill whenever he thought of spending it.

He unzipped the backpack and took out a battery-powered lamp made to look like a gas-powered one. It was clever. He'd taken a liking to it right away. It provided the rustic ambiance of camping without the fuss. Then he took out his portable DVD player and flipped it open. He'd rigged it with a timer, and the lamp had its own. Both would shut off within a few minutes of sunrise.

No point wasting the juice while he was dead to the world.

He undid his bedroll, yanked on the cord and watched his air mattress inflate itself atop the bier. Quickly he made his bed with blankets and a pillow. All the comforts of home. Everything but a teddy bear.

He pulled out a pint of O-negative, sealed in a plastic bag. He would have preferred it warm, but this would do as a bedtime snack.

Finally he lay down in his bed and turned on a movie.
Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
Leslie Nielsen really bore no resemblance to Vlad. Jack had met the infamous vampire once, face-to-face. Moody bastard, and none too friendly. And while Nielsen looked nothing like him, neither did most of the actors who'd portrayed Dracula over the years. Bottom line? Nielsen made him laugh, so Jack was perfectly willing to overlook such minor issues.

T
opaz pored over the dossiers on the three men who the police had considered “persons of interest” in her mother's murder. None of them had ever been charged, so she knew going in that she wouldn't find much evidence. But she also thought she would just
know.
If she saw the face, or read the details of the life of the man who had murdered her mother, she was sure she would know who he was.

And yet, the photos she saw—the politician, the actor and the businessman who'd raised her—said nothing to her. None of them whispered “guilty.”

She couldn't even get an inkling for which one of them might have fathered her.

She ran out of time long before she'd had her fill of reading up on the men and their connections to her mother. Dawn was coming, and she was forced to turn in, to save the rest of her reading for nightfall.

She gathered up the pages into a folder and carried them with her up the stairs, where she checked out each bedroom before choosing one that faced west to the ocean and the sunset. It was perfectly dark in there, with the sun getting ready to rise on the opposite side of the house. There were perfect vertical blinds in the windows, and thick drapes as well. She drew them all nice and tight. Then, relishing her vampiric strength, she shoved the bed easily into a corner of the room where there was no chance of any light that might filter through, touching her.

She tucked the files underneath her pillow, then made a final round downstairs to be sure the entire villa was locked up tight, before finally curling up beneath the covers. She felt the sun rise. As it lifted, her eyelids sank.

Dead to the world, she thought. It's more than just an expression.

 

Briar sat on the carpeted floor of the vacant, unfinished home in Virginia. She and Reaper had headed north from Savannah, driving all night, until they came to this place. She didn't know who owned it. She didn't know if Reaper knew them and had permission to be there, or whether it had just seemed a likely place to rest for the day. She didn't know if they would be discovered and murdered while they slept, and she didn't particularly care.

“You've barely said a word all night,” Reaper said as he tossed her a bag of blood, taken from a cooler in the car he'd rented. She didn't know where he'd gotten the blood or how long he'd had it or how much remained. She didn't care about those things, either.

“I have nothing to say.”

“I could think of a pile of things.” He chugged his own liquid meal, tossed the plastic bag and sank down onto the floor beside her. “You could thank me for saving you from Gregor. You could tell me I was right about him all along. You could explain how he managed to break your spirit in such a short period of time.”

“I don't need to thank you for saving me, since I would have saved myself, sooner or later. I never had any doubt as to what Gregor was. I only thought he would show more loyalty to me, being that I'm just like him.”

“You're nothing like him.”

“You don't know me.”

He drew a breath, seeming to consider those words, then finally nodded, conceding the point.

“And as for the condition of my
spirit
—assuming vampires even have such a thing—that's my business.”

“I suppose that's true. I just thought it would take more than a day or two of torture to turn you into…this.” He waved a hand her way.

“Into
what?
”

He shrugged. “A docile, quiet, brooding woman. A victim. Yes, that's it—you're acting like a victim.”

“I
am
brooding,” she admitted. “But you're wrong about the rest.”

“Am I?”

She nodded, leaning back against the wall and closing her eyes. “There are things I need to work through in my own mind. I prefer to do it in silence, and in private. Just because I'm not clawing your eyes out at the moment, Reaper, don't assume I'm docile. It could be a dangerous mistake.”

He sighed, and she felt his eyes on her for a long moment. She'd never raised her voice, nor infused it with any particular inflection. She'd spoken to him matter-of-factly, in the same monotone that she'd been using for days now, when she spoke at all.

She heard him sigh as he settled down beside her to rest. And then, just before she fell asleep, he whispered, “I'd give a lot to have you trying to claw my eyes out. Better than this damn zombie you've become.”

“Fuck you, Reaper.”

“That would be even better.” She heard him flip open his cell phone, heard the tones as he dialed a number. Then she heard the recorded voice of Topaz's voice-mail message.

Reaper muttered, “She must not be near her phone,” and sighed. “Topaz, it's Reaper. Just checking in. Briar and I have headed north. We're just past Virginia Beach at the moment. I think we lost whoever was on our tails in Savannah. You can reach me at this number. I'll keep it turned on and monitor the voice mail. I hope you're all right. Call if you need me.”

Briar breathed slowly, deeply, her body growing heavy with the lethargy brought on by the approaching dawn. “Pretty fond of the princess, aren't you?”

“Jealous?” he asked.

She made a choking sound, then rolled away from him and went to sleep.

 

When Jack arrived just after sundown, as she could have predicted he would, Topaz was sitting on the plush sofa with the file folders spread out around her, the DVD of her mother's life flashing across the television screen in front of her, and her own notebook open beside her.

He didn't bother knocking. Nor did he need to; she'd felt his approach long before he picked the locks with his mind and walked in as if he owned the place.

“Miss me?” he asked.

“Like a toothache.” She didn't bother looking up to speak to him. “You know, you're very good at that, Jack.”

He crossed the room toward her. “You're going to have to be more specific, hon. I'm good at so many things.”

“Unlocking doors without a key.”

He shrugged. “Psychokinesis. Any vampire can move things by mental manipulation.”

“Yes, but I've seen very few who could open a lock in less than two seconds. It normally takes a bit more concentration.”

He plunked himself onto the far end of the sofa, carelessly enough to appear casual but managing not to disturb a single sheet of her research in the process. “That should show you that I have a very strong will and am a very powerful vampire.”

“What it shows me is that you're a crook through and through. That your strongest skill is breaking and entering really says it all, doesn't it?”

“Oh, Topaz, that is
far
from my strongest skill. As you well remember.”

She just barely bit her lip in time to keep from smiling. And even then, she couldn't keep the delicious tingle of awareness from slithering up her spine. She remembered very well. Too well.

“So have you learned anything new?”

She sighed, raising her head to look him in the eye. Big mistake. When their eyes met, it was
always
a mistake. How a man could be so phony, so unable to feel true emotions, and yet look at her like that—well, it defied explanation. “I really don't want your help with this, Jack.”

“Yes, you do. And I'm not leaving. This is the perfect way to kill time until Reaper's ready to reconstitute the gang and make another try at Gregor. At which time I'll get all your money back to you—if you let me stick around now.”

“Oh, now there are conditions? I thought you promised to give me back my money either way, Jack. What happened to that?”

“You're right. How about if I add interest?”

“Twenty-five percent of the total, every month until you give it back.”

“Are you a vampire or a loan shark?”

This time she let herself smile.

Jack sighed. “Ten percent of the half I still owe you, for every month until I give it back.”

“Twenty.”

He reached out a hand, stroked her hair where it had fallen forward over one cheek, tucking it back behind her ear, and whispered, “Fifteen,” as if he were whispering words of love. Sensation sizzled through her, and she knew he knew it, even as she pulled back from his touch.

“I'll take the ten if you'll promise to keep your hands off me for the duration.”

“I'll give you the twenty-five if you won't make me promise that.”

They stared at each other for a long electric moment.

“I'll compromise,” he said at last. “Fifteen percent and I won't touch you until you ask me to.”

“Like that's gonna hap—”

“I'm not finished.”

She clamped her lips and waited.

“I won't touch you until you ask me to. But you have to feel free to touch me any time you want. In any way you want to. Fully secure in the knowledge that I won't touch you back unless you want me to.”

She frowned as she let the images of what he was suggesting burn through her mind. Then she said, “You don't have the willpower.”

“Try me.”

She thought about leaning closer, maybe trailing her lips over his neck, just to prove her point. Because she had no doubt that he would wrap his arms around her, flip her onto her back on the sofa and mount her within about five seconds.

Or maybe it wasn't
his
reactions she didn't trust. Maybe it was her own.

“Chicken,” he whispered. “Ten percent, then. Take it or leave it.”

“And if I leave it?”

“I'll stay and help you anyway, return your money with no interest at all—as soon as I can lay my hands on it, that is—and touch you whenever the urge strikes me—knowing damn well you want it as much as I do.”

She drew a breath and sighed. “Fifteen percent, your conditions.” She held out a hand for a shake. “Deal?”

“Deal.” He held his hand out, too, but he didn't take hers. He just waited. She finally closed her hand around his to seal the bargain, and when she took her hand away, she skimmed her fingertips over his palm and thought she felt him shiver.

 

Sighing, Jack managed to keep his control. But he was wondering, even before the touch of her hand on his had faded, what he'd gone and promised. The impossible, probably. Was he testing her—or himself?

Time for a new subject. “So you've read up on the men in your mother's life?”

“Yeah.” She gathered her papers, shuffling through to the photos, and laid them out one by one. “The police seem to have focused on the men she was rumored to have been sleeping with in the year prior to her death.”

“Including your father?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes, shielding them. “I don't know which of them is my father. There were a couple whose blood types made it possible, but there was no DNA testing back then, so the courts awarded me to the one they felt was most likely to provide a stable home.” She picked out a five-by-seven black-and-white photo of the man who'd raised her, taken back in his younger days. “Thomas Martin, businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“Mostly government contracts. He owns several manufacturing plants. They make weapons.”

Jack looked up quickly. “He's an arms dealer?”

“Yeah. And according to the cops, there were rumors he wasn't too fussy about who bought his products. But no one could ever find proof he sold weapons to unapproved nations.”

“Unless maybe your mom stumbled onto some.”

“Yeah. That would give him a motive.”

“He raised you?”

She nodded. “He and his series of wives. He got older. When his women did, too, he just traded them in for newer models. And I do mean models.”

“Was he good to you?”

She glanced at him briefly, and he saw a flash of something—pain?—in her eyes, but she averted them so quickly that he couldn't be sure. He guessed the answer was no. Which made him wonder just how “not good” the man's treatment of her had been. Had he just been cold and uncaring, or something more? The notion sent a darkness through him.

She laid out the next photo. “Frederick Ramirez, state senator.”

“Corrupt?” Jack asked.

“He accepted exorbitant campaign contributions from a reputed mob boss—Tony Bonacelli.” She pulled another photo from a folder. “Interestingly enough, he was also sleeping with my mother. Or at least that was the gossip.”

“Was the mob boss a suspect, too?” Jack asked.

“He was cleared early on. Airtight alibi.”

“He could have had someone else do it for him.”

“There was no evidence of it, though. If he did, he covered his tracks very well. Or maybe he had the cops on his payroll. Who knows?”