Passion Bites: Biting Love, Book 9 (7 page)

It firmed my resolve. “We are not changing the plan.”

“So stubborn.” She shook her head and made a face that was part annoyed, part affection, part resignation. “It’s because of your family of origin.”

This
was what you got when someone who knew your childhood got Freud. Just because Mom hand-decorated special Christmas wish-list notebooks each year didn’t mean I equated planning with love. But Lizelle could shine her psychological light into the murkiest depths of my psyche because she knew exactly where the basement steps were.

A phone started tweedling.

“Hey, is that my cell phone ringing?” I thought it was my salvation. With a “one minute?” finger and plea for permission in my gaze, I pulled out my phone. Taking Lizelle’s eye roll as leave, I answered. “Byornsson.”

“My dear,” Marrone’s oily purr coated the airwaves. “I have another proposition.”

Yeah, salvation had a funny, flaming-pits look to it. I snapped, “Not interested.”

“Don’t hang up. Hear me out.”

“If this proposition is anything like your last one—”

“Not in the least. But it will take a bit of explaining. Can we meet for coffee somewhere?”

I frowned at the clock, well past bar time. “In the morning?”

“I was hoping tonight. Somewhere nearby?”

I thought he meant near to the hospital. “There’s a ChainBucks by the gift shop.”

“I thought rather that darling little brew-and-chew a half-mile up the road from you.”

I chilled. If he meant the Caffeine Café, he wasn’t talking about the hospital. The café was six blocks north of the townhouses and a few blocks east. Damn it, Marrone’s pursuit unnerved me, but my skin
crawled
thinking he might get anywhere near Lizelle. I could take care of myself, but my friend wasn’t so resilient.

When in doubt, the best defense is a good offense. “Do you know what the hell time it is?”

Lizelle jammed a finger to her lips and pointed upstairs. “Ix-nay on the ell-hay.”

I winced. Supposedly her daughter was asleep, but I swear kids learn cuss words by osmosis.

“Come, my dear, you’ve barely gotten home from work. Meet in, say, half an hour? Or I could come to you,” he suggested silkily.

Ice invaded my veins. Marrone, here with Lizelle? Not happening.

“Make it an hour.” I thumbed my phone off.

“What’s wrong?” Lizelle’s troubled expression said she’d caught my agitation.

What wasn’t? “Oh, nothing. Marrone has another idea and wants to meet with me. I’ll be home before dawn.” With that quick and hopefully non-alarming explanation, I headed for the bathroom to straighten up. Getting a whiff of myself, heavy with Parfume de GotSome, I jumped in the shower for a quick scrub.

Marrone was being all kinds of persistent. I wondered why. If he really was interested in sex, why didn’t he come out and ask? Although Giuseppe Marrone had as much relationship to straight-shooting as a moth.

I coaxed the cranky plumbing into a stream of warm water and washed the best I was able. When I finally twisted off the shower and toweled myself dry, I still hadn’t come to any conclusions except one. I needed more information.

I was ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent certain Marrone was a vampire, which, if you believe Euler, was one hundred percent sure. For whatever reason, Marrone was insinuating himself into my affairs. Better to meet with him, find out what he wanted. Find out how dangerous he was to me, and everyone else in my life.

Then decide how to deal with the threat.

Chapter Seven

Meiers Corners, where I grew up, was a town of only 7000 folks. In miles, it was a little bit west of Chicago, but in attitude it was light-years into the boonies. Some towns are stuck in a 1950s
Father Knows Best
time warp, men in their easy chairs with their beer and the game on TV while women rustle up dinner in pearls and pumps, and life is golden.

Meiers Corners took that one step further—we were still in the 1800s, when life was
Little House on the Prairie
. Okay, not really, but the town was settled by German immigrants in the nineteenth century and emotionally it had stayed pretty much the same since.
Everyone
was family, most of us related by genes or marriage, but more—we all knew everyone’s secrets and still liked ’em anyway (sometimes while gritting our teeth).

Like a family, the whole town kept to the same schedule. Aldermen met on Monday, church choirs rehearsed on Tuesday and trash pickup was on Thursday. We had enough bars, churches and cafés to make their own little city.

But at one time or another everyone got their beer at Nieman’s, their
halleluiahs
at Good Shepherd Lutheran and their coffee at the Caffeine Café.

A little before four a.m., I set out in jeans and a scoop-neck top made dressy with a looped scarf, walking. Yes, in any other city walking alone at night would be dangerous. But while Meiers Corners didn’t have a Sheriff Andy or Matt Dillon, we might as well. Crime was non-existent because perpetrators weren’t jailed but given worse—they were turned over to their mothers for a
severe
scolding.

So I was shocked when my neck prickled. Someone behind me, someone
dangerous.

Hands fisted, I spun.

Luke Steel sauntered along in my wake, shoulders even broader-looking limned by moonlight, hands in his pockets, supremely relaxed and comfortable in the night.

My fists loosened, but my body tightened, anticipation tingling through lips, nipples and belly, even my clit nosing up for a little look-see. While that was a perfectly normal reaction to Mr. Sex-on-a-Saunter, I didn’t want the distraction right now. Stupid body. I was immediately so annoyed with myself I snapped, “What are you doing here?”

“Protecting you. You shouldn’t be out alone at night.”

“What am I, five?” I made a
tch
of disgust and continued on my way. “I don’t require protection. First, I’ve studied self-defense since I could make a fist. And second, the worst thing we have in Meiers Corners is mosquitoes, and you can’t protect me against that.”

“You’ve been living in Chicago for years. Things have changed here.” He shrugged, my objections rolling off his shoulders…his broad, powerful shoulders…crap. He said, “It’s not so safe anymore.”

“How would you know? You don’t live here either.”

“My friends do, and my brother makes his home nearby. Believe me, I know. This is ground zero in a fight between two very big vampires.”

My sister, cousin and friends spent so much time and energy pussy-footing around vampires, that hearing the word, I was shocked. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about v-guys in public.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because my sister never does. Because my friends are all wink-wink nudge-nudge around the topic. Because every time I
do
overhear something, it’s in horrendous euphemisms like ‘v-guys’ or ‘fangy dudes’ or the ‘hemoglobin challenged’.”

“We’ve been careful to preserve the masquerade. It’s for self-protection. But the vampire population is skyrocketing and we’re fighting for territory. Pretty soon we won’t be able to hide. Humans will discover us whether we want them to or not—and some of those people can’t be hypnotized into forgetting us.”

I knew more than I should about that. “Especially in Meiers Corners.”

“Yes. Some among us say that sooner or later we must deal with exposure. They argue we should reveal ourselves while we can still control the news cycle.”

Honesty appealed to me as a medical scientist, a discipline that thrived on critical thinking and testing, questioning and proof. “You?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I tried not to be disappointed.

He must have caught my expression because he tried to explain. “I belong to an alliance. The Iowa Alliance. Our leader believes it’s in everybody’s best interests to continue the masquerade.”

“Everybody? Or vampires?”

“Everybody. And I support Elias. But…” He grimaced. “If I were still human, I’d want to know. I’d want to make my own decisions.”

He was more open-minded than Julian and the rest. I liked that. I wanted to talk about it more with him, and not simply as pillow-talk, which surprised me.

But we’d arrived at the café, and I had a meeting. “Finish this conversation later?”

Hands in pockets, he shook his head. “I ought to get going.”

“Oh. Okay.” I tried not to be disappointed. It wasn’t rational. “Well, thanks.”

He was already walking off, into the night, streetlamps gleaming on his bent blond head.

I pushed through the door. Marrone sat in the shadows of a back corner, like a spider. Ringing his table were a quartet of big, hard-looking guys, sitting arms across chests, facing out.

A fifth, bigger than all the rest with a nose like a boat sail, stood nearby, eyeing me with such suspicion it made me uneasy.

That, and he smelled strongly of
Don’t fuck with me.

Those stony faces weren’t there for the lattes. Scary gang enforcers, or Marrone really took his privacy seriously.

“My dear.” Marrone stood when I entered. Expression and voice were warmly welcoming—a carefully arranged warmth. “Please, sit. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for us both.” He motioned to the barista, Tammy, who immediately came over with a tray.

I didn’t want to be social, but besides being a patron of the hospital, the man had both money and an interest in me that could maybe be turned into an interest in my shelter. I couldn’t be overtly rude.

Well, I
could,
but if I behaved that way with every patron simply because I felt uneasy or anxious or even skin-crawly, I’d be out of cash quick and out of a job quicker.

So I pasted on a smile and sat. “Thanks. You said you had an offer for me?”

“A proposition, yes. Oh, not like the last one,” he hastened to reassure me. “But first, our food and drinks.”

Tammy set a warm raspberry scone dripping buttery icing before me, along with a dark fresh-brewed coffee. My stomach growled and my salivary glands stung in response. I was hungrier than I knew.

She set a mug in front of Marrone too, a glossy reddish-brown liquid.

I blinked. “What’s that?”

“A concoction of my own. Espresso, tomato juice and whiskey. A sort of bloody Irish coffee.” He took a sip.

“Yup. Okay. Um.” Maybe tomato juice, maybe not. I covered my nausea by picking up my heavy silver fork and taking a bite of my scone. Immediately my outlook brightened. Warm, melt-in-your-mouth goodness had a dance party on my taste buds. A sip of the rich dark coffee and all was forgiven. “Does this new proposition have to do with my buildings?”

“It does. Do you remember our chat at the charity fundraiser in Chicago? Something you said to me sparked an idea.”

I frowned. All I remembered was him talking about himself. The only word I’d gotten in edgewise was a plug for the free clinic in Chicago where I’d been working at the time. “You checked out the clinic?”

“Indeed. You made quite an impression there. Not only because of your beauty.” He paused to smile.

Where the clinic was concerned, only money impressed me. “You made a donation?”

“After I’d vetted them, yes. Quite talkative, your colleagues. They spoke eloquently about your drug and blood research.” He waggled a finger at me with a
tsk-tsk.
“You didn’t tell me you were making strides in pharmaceuticals.”

“Because I wasn’t.” That research was private, damn it. “Someone brought me a bloodborne pathogen. I simply did a few tests to try to find a cure.” It was actually more horrendous than that. My sister’s vampire husband had been nearly killed by a toxin that short-circuited his incredible ability to heal. It had taken years, but we’d finally come up with an antidote.

Although she’d never admitted in so many words that her husband was a vampire.

“You mean you haven’t been researching the effect of certain compounds on blood?”

“Well…”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t been interested in the effect of chemicals on biology since high school?”

He knew that?

I’d done an experiment on our local water and found something that shouldn’t,
couldn’t
be there. The community called me a liar, my teacher called me a bad scientist. It didn’t bother me at the time because I’d had Lizelle.

“I nearly failed chemistry because of it.”

“Curiosity is deplorable in the fast food industry, my dear. In my line of work, it’s an asset. Come to work for me. I can always use a brilliant developer, and you, frankly, could use the money.”

“Well, that’s nice, but there’s an unspoken work-locally requirement for buying the townhouses.”

“If it is unspoken, it is not legally binding, correct?”

“Well…”

“My companies pay quite generously. For the right research, with bonuses, as much as fifty thousand dollars…”

“That’s nice, but—”

“…a month.”

Holy hand grenades. “That’s extremely generous.” On the one hand, even a couple months would nail the down payment plus make a real dent in setting up shop, and maybe even provide a chunk of the mortgage.

On the other hand, working for Marrone would take me out of Meiers Corners. Leave Lizelle alone at the hospital.

And while I was on that hand, what if Old Man Crahn got shirty and wouldn’t sell us the townhouses because I wasn’t working in the Corners?

“Dearest Alexis.” Marrone took my clenched fists, rubbing his thumb gently against the back of my hand. It sent shudders along my skin, not the good kind. “I can see you’re on the fence. But this would mean the world to me. You see…” He blinked glossy eyes. “I was taken from my family as a child. The adults in my life…well, abusive is a mild term. I might have died. But my uncle swept in like an avenging god and rescued me from the horror. But then…” His voice thickened. “He died of complications due to hepatitis C. Tragic. It’s driven me to research bloodborne pathogens and blood in general.”

Surprise and sadness for him hit me. He was orphaned. He’d been abused, like Lizelle.

He wiped his eye. “Ah, I haven’t told anyone that story.”

My heart contracted. “I’m honored. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“I lived through it,” he said simply. “That’s the best revenge, is it not? A life well lived? But that is why blood research is so important to me. If you would only come and look at the labs, I know you’d be impressed.”

I didn’t want to, but after his tragic story, I didn’t want to come off as a douche either. I hedged, “Well…this is my day off. I don’t know if you can find someone at this late date to deal with me—”

“I’ll give you the tour myself. Excellent, my dear. It’s a date. Now, you’ll bring your research, right?”

A premonition rumpled my flesh at his words.
He wants my research.
I nearly backed out.

But something stopped me. Maybe because he’d been abused. I knew firsthand from trying to help Lizelle how abuse could black-box a soul, and that could be why I kept getting squicky vibes from him.

Or maybe it was because this male had made it his business to know a crapton about mine, and I damn well wanted to know why.

“Fine. When is good?”

“Call my admin any time after ten o’clock.” He patted my hands before releasing them to extract the gold pen and a matching business card holder, neatly plucking out one thick card. He scribbled. “This is her phone number. She’ll let you know when I’m available…” He trailed off as his nostrils flared. With a frown his head came up, and his gaze sharpened on the front window.

“What’s wrong?”

“Hmm? Nothing, my dear.” He raised a finger at the men sitting interference at the tables in front of us, then flicked the guy with the boat-sail nose outside. The man’s stalk as he left was pure menace.

I frowned. “Are you sure nothing is wrong?”

“I’m certain. Thank you for agreeing to tour my lab. I know you’ll find our facilities and compensation compelling.” He tucked away his pen and card holder and swept out.

I glanced at the card. It had Marrone’s name and the name of his pharmaceutical conglomerate, but no specific lab. Probably Bloodrug (I’d only ever seen it on the web as bloodrug.org), but I’d have to get the details from the PA. Pocketing the card, I stared after Marrone.

As I watched him go, my mind churned. Marrone was interested in blood drugs.

Like my brother-in-law’s vampire poison?

I’d gotten my first glimmering that vampires were real about six years ago, as a bridesmaid at my sister’s wedding—during her bachelorette party. She let slip all kinds of interesting things when we were too drunk to remember. Don’t ask. It was Vegas and most of the casinos accepted our apologies the next day.

I would have talked to her about it, but everyone treated it as this big secret, whispers and code words. Actually, I think I did talk once. Someone got me on the phone with a dark, ultra-bass voice and…and I don’t remember much after that. I forgot about vampires until I read my drunken scrawl in my journal from the Vegas trip.

I remembered, and I didn’t ask again.

Then, five years ago, a real vampire called me, asking for a sample of my blood to track down my sister, after which my sister told me her husband had been poisoned.

But here’s the thing. The poison was mixed with a unique thermostabilizer to keep the enzymes from degrading at body temperature—giving it a
signature.

That signature? It was also on the odd compound I’d discovered in high school, a compound everyone from the chem teacher to the mayor said didn’t exist.

And where did I find these chemicals that didn’t exist?