The Undead Next Door (5 page)

Heather tiptoed past the giant dollhouse and wicker doll carriage to the bed topped with a Sunbonnet Sue quilt her mother had made. She dropped her purse and shopping bag on the foot of the bed. Her daughter’s feet reached only halfway down the length of the bed. At the head, strawberry-blond curls lay strewn across the pillow. The sight always squeezed Heather’s heart. She brushed the curls away to reveal a soft cheek. If she never accomplished any of her dreams, if she never designed clothes or saw Paris, it would be no great loss, for she’d already created the most perfect little masterpiece.

I will protect you, sweetheart. Heather went to the windows to make sure they were locked.

“Don’t run away from me again,” Emma whispered from the doorway.

Heather turned. “I had to make sure my daughter was okay.”

Emma nodded as she entered the room. “The first floor is clear, and all the rooms upstairs.”

Wow, she was fast. And thorough. “There’s a guest bedroom across the hall that you’re welcome to use.”

“Thank you, but no.” Emma hitched her tote bag higher on her shoulder. “I’ll be up all night.”

“Then please help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen.” Heather had to admit she would sleep a lot easier with Emma standing guard. Thank God she’d managed to avoid having Jean-Luc Echarpe over. The last thing she needed was another domineering man in her life. And a famous fashion designer? He’d probably go through her closet and throw everything out. Or worse, he would stand there and laugh.

Emma eased closer to Bethany’s bed and whispered, “She’s beautiful.”

Heather nodded. “She’s everything to me.”

“I understand.” Emma’s smile held a hint of sadness. “I’d like to see the attic now.”

“This way.” Heather went to the hall and pulled the rope that lowered the folding ladder. “Do you need a flashlight?”

“I see quite well in the dark.” Emma ascended the ladder. She stayed in the attic for a moment, then came down. “It’s clear. I’d like to check outside again.”

“Okay.” Heather folded the ladder and let it swing back into the attic. Emma had already moved down the stairs and out the door, so Heather decided to get ready for bed.

She retrieved her purse and shopping bag from Bethany’s room and proceeded to her own bedroom. She closed the blinds over the French doors to the balcony. What a night. A job offer from a famous designer and a death threat all in one evening. She replayed the night’s events in her mind as she dragged her desk chair over to her closet. Why would a deadly assassin pick on a fashion designer? Unless…he was more than a fashion designer? Jean-Luc did have a James Bond aura of mystery about him.

With a snort, she rejected that theory. International espionage was not interested in Schnitzelberg, Texas. She climbed onto the chair, located the shotgun on the top shelf of her closet, then took it to her bed. Didn’t Jean-Luc say something about Louie’s other names? Cadillac? No, something else. She inserted two shells.

Maybe if she relaxed a bit, she could remember. She’d always had a great memory. She’d given her ex-husband, Cody, the shock of his life when she’d recalled his every insult and threatening remark in court.

She undressed and put on her favorite green silk pajamas. She adored the feel of silk against bare skin, and the sensation always calmed her. She sat on her fuzzy chenille bedspread, snuggled against the pillows, and closed her eyes. An assassin who had taken many names. Not Cadillac, but Ravaillac. Jean-Luc had admitted to stopping Louie, and that was why the assassin wanted revenge.

What kind of fashion designer stopped an assassin from carrying out his evil plan?

James Bond music started playing in her head. No, it couldn’t be. She was letting her imagination go crazy.

She turned on her computer, then dragged her chair back to the desk while it booted up. She Googled “Ravaillac” and sat there, stunned. This was even crazier than her James Bond theory.

François Ravaillac had been executed in 1610 after assassinating King Henri IV. Four horses had ripped him into four parts. Sheesh, did they do his death certificate in quadruplicate? One thing was for sure, the man was definitely dead. Even if Louie managed to live four hundred years, he couldn’t be Ravaillac. And the French government had ordered the infamous name never be used again.

At the bottom of the web page, there was a link to another assassin named Damiens. That was another name Jean-Luc had mentioned. She clicked on the link.

Robert-François Damiens had tried to kill King Louis XV in 1757. He’d failed, but had still won the grand prize—death by drawing and quartering. Once again, the French had ordered the name never to be used again.

A search for Jacques Clément yielded similar results. He’d killed King Henri III in 1589. He’d been quartered and burned. As a history teacher, Heather found it all fascinating, but confusing. It just didn’t make sense. Either Jean-Luc was mistaken or purposely lying or…something very strange was going on.

That brought Jean-Luc’s list of flaws up to number five: ambiguity. How could she trust him if his story didn’t make sense?

There was a soft knock on her door, and Heather quickly minimized her screen. “Yes?”

The door cracked, and Emma peered inside. “I just wanted you to know everything is safe. You can relax for the night. I’ll be leaving shortly before dawn.”

“Thank you.”

“Fidelia woke up, so I told her what was going on. She insists on reading my future.”

“Oh, right.” Heather nodded. “She does her tarot cards for anyone who comes to the house. It’s her way of protecting us.”

“Along with her guns? This should be interesting.” Emma glanced at Heather’s computer. “Catching up on e-mail?”

“Yes. I’ll be down in just a minute.”

“All right. Please keep the door open a bit, so I can check on you during the night.”

“Okay.” Heather waited for Emma to leave, then turned back to her computer. She Googled “Jean-Luc Echarpe” and found a few sites that sold his clothing. She ignored those and looked for personal information. She found a picture taken a year ago at his annual show in Paris. Dark curls, blue eyes, a hint of a dimple with his debonair smile. Sheesh, could the guy get any more gorgeous? Back to flaw number four: too handsome for his own good.

She found a recent article, translated from the Parisian newspaper Le Monde. Everyone was wondering why Jean-Luc Echarpe hadn’t aged in thirty years. Hmm, they had to be referring to Jean-Luc’s father. The Jean-Luc she had met looked only about thirty years old. Apparently the elder Jean-Luc had not been seen for several months. The media suspected he was undergoing another facelift.

Heather found another article dating back thirteen years. This one had a photo. Sheesh, he looked exactly the same as he had tonight. This wasn’t making any sense. She searched for Jean-Luc’s date of birth, but found no personal information at all.

Back to flaw number five: ambiguity. Some women might call an aura of mystery a plus, but Heather didn’t like surprises when it came to men. Though it was intriguing…

Why would he call Louie a bunch of names that had disappeared centuries ago? And why did he look exactly the same after thirteen years? Cosmetic surgery or…A thought flashed through her mind. A totally bizarre thought, no doubt triggered by the late hour and her overactive imagination.

It had always been one of her favorite TV shows—the immortal Highlanders who lived for centuries, fighting their old enemies with swords. It would explain why Jean-Luc and his friends fought with swords. And why he talked of assassins who lived centuries ago. He even had the kilted Highlander friends. The way they had huddled across the room, whispering to one another, had definitely looked like a bunch of guys with a secret.

Could Jean-Luc be immortal?

With a snort, Heather turned off her computer. Her theories were becoming more and more ridiculous. Immortal men? She might as well believe in elves and fairies, too. Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that trolls existed. She’d lived with one of those for six years.

As she descended the stairs to fetch a glass of water, she noticed the television was off. She could hear Fidelia’s slightly accented voice. “The reversed Hermit card could mean you are suffering from a deep loneliness.”

That didn’t sound like Emma. Heather stopped at the entrance of the living room. Her mouth fell open. It wasn’t Emma.

Jean-Luc stood. His slender foil was propped against the wingback chair. His blue eyes glimmered as he checked out her pajamas. “I stopped by to see you. Emma let me in.”

She’d been tricked. Heather gritted her teeth. She should have known Emma was in league with this guy. “Where is Emma?”

“She’s upstairs, guarding Bethany.” Fidelia winked at Heather. “This young man says it is his sworn duty to guard you. He’s muy macho, no?”

Jean-Luc bowed. “I am at your service.”

Heather bit back an angry retort. The man refused to take no for an answer. Back to flaw number one: stubborn as a mule. And the way Jean-Luc Echarpe bowed—it seemed old-fashioned. Extremely old-fashioned.

She had to wonder just how old a mule could get.

She was beautiful even when she was angry. Jean-Luc admired the glittering green fire in Heather’s eyes. And the way that silk top clung to her breasts wasn’t bad, either. She glared at him as she planted her hands on her hips. The movement caused her breasts to jiggle ever so slightly. No bra. He’d always had a good eye for detail.

“Jean-Luc,” she muttered. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Please call me Jean.” It would be so easy to slip his hands underneath her top and fill his palms with the sweet, soft heaviness of her breasts. He lifted his gaze to her face and noticed her reddening cheeks. He caught the scent of her blood as it rushed to her face, engorging the delicate veins beneath her skin. Type AB.

Hunger coiled in his belly and sent flickers of desire throughout his body. Luckily he had some bottles of synthetic blood stashed in a cooler outside in his car. That would take care of his physical need, but he was slowly becoming aware of a different hunger, a hunger brought on by years of abstinence. He missed making love, but it went deeper than that. He missed the satisfaction, the peaceful contentment of feeling emotionally connected to a loving woman. Because of Lui, that joy had long been impossible.

Heather folded her arms across her chest, which only pulled the sleek material tighter against her breasts. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to spend the night here.”

“I must. It is my duty and honor to protect you.”

“That is so romantic,” Fidelia said from her seat on the couch. She shifted her square body sideways so she could see Heather at the doorway. “Don’t you think so?”

“No.” Heather frowned at her. “It’s not romantic if he’s forcing himself on me.”

“Chica, it’s not like he’s trying to seduce you. He just wants to protect you.” Fidelia’s eyes twinkled as she glanced at Jean-Luc. “At least that’s what he says.”

Seduce her? Jean-Luc had avoided mortal women since Claudine’s murder in 1832. His sense of honor had demanded that he not expose another innocent female to Lui’s twisted vengeance. But Lui already believed he was involved with Heather. The most pressing reason to resist her was gone. That realization sent a jolt of desire straight from his heart to his groin. Seduce her. You know you want her.

But why would she welcome any advances from him? Her life and her daughter’s life were in jeopardy because of him. She was more likely to slap him than succumb to passionate kisses.

He took a deep breath. “I assure you, mes dames, that my intentions are honorable.”

Heather snorted and gave him a dubious look.

Did she question his honor? Merde. But she was correct, given the direction his thoughts were going.

“From what Emma told me, I could be in danger, too.” Fidelia’s brown eyes glimmered with mischief. “Where’s my bodyguard? Do you have like a…catalog?”

Jean-Luc blinked. “I can protect you both, but if you prefer a guard of your own, I could call Robby—”

“Roberto?” Fidelia fluffed up her long, straggly black hair. Unfortunately, two inches of gray showed at the roots. “Is he muy macho like you?”

“I…wouldn’t know.” Jean-Luc retrieved his cell phone from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

“He’s a Scotsman in a kilt,” Heather muttered. “He’s got a bigger sword than Jean.”

What the hell did that mean? Jean-Luc paused in the middle of dialing to meet her challenging glare. “A claymore is naturally larger than a foil, mademoiselle, but its very weight causes the swordsman to be more slow.”

She gave him a bland look. “Slow’s good. I like slow.”

He stepped toward her. “Finesse is better. And do not forget experience and perfect timing. I am a champion, you know.”

“Right.” She yawned. “But you know how it is. Only those who are lacking claim that size is not important.”

He gritted his teeth. “I lack nothing, mademoiselle. I will gladly prove myself. As slowly as you like.”

Fidelia burst into laughter. “Ooh wee, if only I was twenty years younger. Well, make that thirty, but anyway, I’m not into swords or men in skirts. I’ve got all the men I can handle.”

Jean-Luc dragged his eyes off Heather to focus on the babysitter. “You do not want Robby?”

“Hell, no, I was just foolin’ with you.” Fidelia hefted her large purse into her lap and fumbled inside. “What would I do with a Scotsman when I have this nice German muchacho, Mr. Glock.” She removed a revolver, patted it fondly, and set it on the cushion beside her.

She pulled out another one. “Then there’s Mr. Makarov from Russia with love.” She set the pistol next to the first one. “And my Italian honey, Mr. Beretta.”

While Jean-Luc slipped his cell phone back into his pocket, he noticed there were trigger locks on all her pistols. “How many guns do you have?”

“One for every husband I went through. At least these honeys don’t shoot blanks.” Laughing, Fidelia stuffed the pistols back into her purse. “My favorite, Mr. Magnum, is upstairs in my bedroom. Too heavy for my purse.” She winked. “But talk about size—”

“Fidelia, I need something from the kitchen.” Heather motioned with her head toward the back of the house.

“Then go get it.” Fidelia’s eyes widened when Heather angled her head once more to the kitchen. “Oh, right. Let me help you.” She stood, cradling her purse against her large bosom. “We’ll be right back, Juan. Don’t go.”

“Of course.” He bowed slightly as Heather strode down the hallway.

Fidelia waddled after her, her long skirt swishing. She glanced back with an amused smirk. “I’m sure she’s just lost something. Like her senses.”

Jean-Luc eased toward the foyer to watch them, and once the kitchen door stopped swinging in their wake, he zoomed at vampire speed out the front door to his BMW.

He removed a bottle of synthetic blood from the cooler and chugged it down. He hated cold meals, but in his case, it was the best thing. Filling himself with cold blood was the vampire equivalent of taking a cold shower. Just what he needed, for he was hungry for more than food.

He surveyed Heather’s two-story, wood-framed house. Blue with white trim. So warm and appealing. So different from his stone chateau north of Paris. It was flawless and formal, chilly like a mausoleum. This house was full of vibrant people, and looked so…lived in. His eye for detail had noted all the signs. A pair of small, wet sneakers left on the porch. A half-crocheted afghan spilling from a basket next to the fireplace. Seat cushions on the couch that remained permanently indented. A cross-stitched sampler on the wall, beseeching God to bless their house. Exuberant artwork, obviously drawn by Heather’s daughter, displayed on the mantelpiece with pride.

It was a real home. A real family. Like he had never had. Merde. You would think in five hundred years, he would have gotten over it. One thing was for sure, he couldn’t let Lui destroy this family. The battle would be difficult, though, because he didn’t know when or where Lui would strike next.

Jean-Luc’s most dreaded fear, the feeling of powerlessness, lurked in the shadows, waiting for a moment of weakness. He would not succumb. For Heather’s sake, he had to protect her and vanquish Lui.

He scanned the yard and street before zipping back into the house. He quietly shut the front door. With his superior vamp senses, he heard Fidelia’s whispered voice.

“Why not let him protect you? What do you have against him?”

There was a pause. He silently locked the door.

“There’s something odd about him,” Heather finally said. “You can see the obvious flaws, but there’s something else I can’t quite figure out.”

“What obvious flaws?” Fidelia asked.

Exactly. What obvious flaws? Jean-Luc eased down the foyer, frowning.

“He’s too good-looking,” Heather announced.

Jean-Luc grinned.

“And arrogant,” she continued, and his smile faded. “I swear, if I have to hear about his championship one more time, I’ll take that sword of his and make him a champion blue ribbon steer.”

He winced.

“Don’t be silly,” Fidelia hissed. “If you mess with a man’s equipment, then what good is he for?”

“I’ve been wondering that for about four years now,” Heather muttered.

Jean-Luc restrained himself from marching into the kitchen and tossing Miss Heather Westfield onto the table for some much-needed illumination.

Fidelia chuckled. “Well, if he stays here for very long, you might find out.”

Damned right. Jean-Luc nodded.

“He’s not staying here,” Heather insisted.

Damned wrong. He scowled at the door.

Heather lowered her voice. “I want to know if you’re getting any sort of strange vibes off him.”

“Nothing yet. You know most of my visions come in my dreams at night.”

“Then go to bed.”

Fidelia laughed. “I can’t guarantee I’ll dream of him…but you might. I can tell you like him.”

Jean-Luc tiptoed closer to the kitchen door. He needed to hear Heather’s response, but instead, there was a fumbling sound.

“Are we out of triple chocolate ice cream?” Heather made a sound of exasperation as the freezer door slammed shut.

“You’re in denial,” Fidelia announced.

“No, I’m fully aware that I’m overweight.”

“No,” Fidelia countered. “You will not admit that you are attracted to Juan.”

“His name is John.”

He grimaced. Neither one of them pronounced it right.

“He’s very handsome,” Heather whispered. “But he’s too domineering.”

“No, no. Chica, he’s nothing like your ex. You just think all men are bad right now.”

“There’s something weird about him I don’t trust.”

Fidelia made a clucking sound. “Then let’s finish his reading and see what the cards reveal.”

Jean-Luc dashed back into the living room and eyed the cards on the coffee table. After Fidelia had shuffled them, she’d invited him to select seven cards. Only one had been turned face up so far, that damned Hermit card. He didn’t normally believe in such nonsense. He’d seen too many charlatans over the centuries. Still, hearing someone announce his loneliness had pricked his pride.

Of course he was lonely. How could he court a woman knowing that Lui would try to kill her?

“I’m not sure he’s what he says he is,” Heather’s soft words drifted from the kitchen. “He has…secrets.”

She was a perceptive woman. Jean-Luc leaned over the coffee table and flipped the next card. His heart froze.

The Lovers. It was so tempting to hope for a happy future and a glorious union with a loving woman. But how could it possibly happen with Heather? Even if she survived Lui and forgave him for endangering her, how could she accept a lover who was undead?

He heard them enter the foyer. Quickly, he grabbed the Lovers card and stuffed it back into the deck. He picked another card at random and set it facedown where the Lovers card had been. Then he sat in the wingback chair and assumed a bored expression.

“We’re back!” Fidelia marched into the room, her long skirt swishing. She flopped down onto the middle dip in the couch and set her purse beside her.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Heather motioned to the kitchen with a hand that held a glass of ice water. The cubes clinked together like musical chimes.

“No thank you.” Jean-Luc clenched the arms of his chair to keep from standing. He’d lived through several centuries when good manners dictated a male should stand whenever a female was standing. Such habits were hard to break, but it would be even harder to explain why he had such a habit. Heather already suspected too much.

“How about we finish your reading?” Fidelia leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees.

Heather set her glass on a coaster close to the cards. “Do you mind if I watch?”

“No. I have nothing to hide.” He was such a liar.

She gave him a suspicious look as she perched on the sofa arm. She dragged a powder-blue chenille pillow into her lap and twisted the fringe around her fingers.

“All right, the second card.” Fidelia flipped it over.

Thank God he’d gotten rid of the Lovers. Whatever he’d substituted had to be an improvement.

“The Fool,” Fidelia announced.

He winced.

Heather chuckled, then pursed her lips when he glared at her.

“It doesn’t mean you are foolish,” Fidelia assured him with a smile. “It means you have a secret desire to leap into the unknown and start a new life.”

“Oh.” That might be true. He glanced at Heather. She hugged the pillow to her chest, her fingers lightly stroking the soft chenille.

She likes texture. She liked to touch and feel things. His groin reacted. Hopefully she enjoyed hard things as well as soft.

Fidelia turned over another card and frowned. “Oh dear. Ten of Swords.”

“Is that bad?” A dumb question since Jean-Luc could see the card’s depiction of a dead man on the ground with ten swords in his back.

“Desolation,” Fidelia answered. “Your fate is tracking you down, and there is nothing you can do to avoid it.”

“Louie,” Heather whispered, and squeezed the pillow tighter.

“I won’t let him harm you,” Jean-Luc assured her.

Fidelia turned the fourth card. “Eight of Swords, reversed. Your past has come back to haunt you.”

He shifted in his chair. This was too close for comfort.

Fidelia flipped over the fifth card. “Knight of Swords.” She shook her head with a confused look.

“That’s bad, too?”

“No, good. You are brave like Sir Lancelot and a defender of women.” Fidelia sighed. “I just find it odd that you would select so many Sword cards. There are three other suits. The chance of picking cards from only one suit is rare.”

Jean-Luc shrugged. “I am a swordsman.”

“The swords stand for reason.” Fidelia narrowed her eyes. “It must mean you have been concentrating on your intellect and ignoring the needs of your heart.”

“I had no choice. I couldn’t risk a relationship with anyone because of Lui.”

“How old is Louie?” Heather whispered.

Jean-Luc stiffened, then forced himself to lounge back in the chair nonchalantly. “He is…older than I.”

Heather watched him closely, her fingers digging into the soft chenille pillow. “How old would that be?”

Merde. She was on to him. How could he gain her trust if he had to keep lying? “I don’t know his exact age.” At least that much was true.