Touch of Darkness (15 page)

Mary had done a nice job decorating the living room. Bright sunlight shone through the sheer curtains over a wide picture window onto a spotless white wall-to-wall carpet. The furnishings were tasteful, high-end colonial with gold and white striped upholstery on the couch and matching loveseat and polished cherry and brass end and coffee tables. A polished cherry armoire hid the big-screen television and the wide selection of movies my brother had amassed over the years. The only piece that didn’t “fit” was a huge old La-Z-Boy recliner that faced the armoire. It was Joe’s baby. He’d had it for years and wouldn’t have parted with it without a fight.

“Sit,” he ordered. “Rest. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

It sounded like a wonderful idea and I figured Joe was a lot more familiar with his own kitchen than me, and Mary had probably set it up for him to manage things alone. I collapsed into the recliner, tilting it back to a position that was perfect comfort. A quick pull of the lever and the footrest sprung out. I closed my eyes, thinking I’d just rest for a minute or two.

Tom woke me an hour later. Joe had heated up some high-end frozen lasagna for dinner. I fell asleep in the middle of it, almost literally. One minute I was awake, listening to Joe talk about his job prospects. The next Tom was carrying me upstairs to the guest bedroom. He made big, tall muscular me feel like a child in his arms. Let’s hear it for werewolf strength and stamina, ‘cause baby I wouldn’t have been able to make it up those stairs on my own. It wasn’t fair that he had to, admittedly. He’d been drugged too. But I let him. I vaguely remember him giving me a gentle good-night kiss, and then I was out.

I woke alone at 7:00 the next morning. I was completely disoriented for a few seconds, the way you sometimes are when you sleep too hard or in a strange bed. I blinked a few times, bringing the pretty sunlit bedroom with its white walls and floral print drapes into better focus. I was at Joe and Mary’s. Right. Okay. That meant the bathroom was down the hall and to the left. Good to know. And the coffee and cinnamon rolls I smelled (bless you, whoever thought of them) would be in the kitchen downstairs.

I didn’t remember Tom undressing me, but he must have. I was naked under the crisp cotton sheets, and there were some truly spectacular bruises decorating a good portion of my body—almost as if I’d fallen down a flight of stairs or something.

I threw off the covers, snagged Tom’s tee-shirt from the floor, and pulled it on. It wasn’t much, but it covered enough that I’d be decent if I ran into anybody in the hallway. Not that I was likely to. From the sound of the voices I was hearing everybody was downstairs in the kitchen helping themselves to breakfast. The upstairs bathroom in Mary and Joe’s house isn’t large. Painted sunshine yellow, it is just big enough for a shower, toilet, and sink with a minuscule cabinet. The curtains have white and yellow daisies printed on a gold background. A bright yellow throw rug lies on the white tile floor. Everything looked, and smelled, amazingly fresh. It almost seemed a shame to use the facilities, but I did. And started a shower to boot. Not to put too fine a point on it, I stank. I’d been terrified most of the day yesterday, and the nasty scent of stale sweat rank with fear clung to my body. If I hadn’t passed out from exhaustion, I would’ve showered before bed. As it was, I was amazed Tom had been able to sleep next to me. It had to be true love for him to put up with the stench rather than sleep on the couch.

I pulled the ties and ribbons from my hair and tossed them into the trash. They might have been salvageable, but I didn’t really care. I was just glad my hair had been braided. I couldn’t even imagine the tangled mess it would have been after yesterday if it hadn’t been. Tom thinks it’s prettier loose, but sometimes sensible has to win out over pretty. I winced as I finger-combed the braids out. There was a lump the size of a chicken egg on the back of my head. I supposed I should be grateful for my thick Irish skull. I’d fallen down a tall flight of stairs. It could easily have resulted in a concussion. But in that, at least, I’d gotten lucky.

I slid the glass shower door open and worked myself around so that I could keep the cast dry while showering. At least it was only on my forearm. Last time I was in a cast, it covered my whole shoulder and I wound up having to buy a stack of dry cleaner bags to cover half my body, which I then had to sponge down. I set the water as hot as I could stand it, and put shower massage on high and just stood there for the longest time, letting the heat and pulsing water work on the knotted muscles in my shoulders and neck. When they were as loose as they were likely to get without a massage, I lathered up with soap one-handed and used the shampoo sitting on the built-in shelf. I had to scrub carefully. In addition to the knot on my skull I had a wide assortment of bruises. They ranged in color from a sickly green to that deep, purplish black that means serious business. Looking at them seemed to make them hurt more, and scrubbing them was murder. But I did it anyway, and when I was done I was clean, and felt all the better for it.

I turned off the water, slid open the door, and stepped onto the bath mat. Grabbing one of the pretty yellow towels, I wrapped it around my dripping hair. I used the other one to start drying myself off and discovered a message traced into the fog on the bathroom mirror. While it wasn’t at all good that I hadn’t heard someone walk in the room, the pitty-pat of my heart wasn’t fear. Tom had drawn a heart with our initials in it. Right below that, an arrow, pointing directly down at a huge mug of steaming coffee.

Awww—

If he’d been here I’d have kissed him. If I hadn’t already agreed to marry him, I might’ve proposed. As it is, I swear sometimes that man knows me better than I know myself. Coffee first, then clothes and toiletries. A plastic bag in the sink held a toothbrush, my favorite brand of toothpaste, deodorant, and a comb and brush set. A brand-new pair of black jeans and a matching tank top sat folded neatly atop the toilet lid along with a black lace bra and matching panties with the tags still attached. Since it was too early for most of the stores to be open I guessed he’d gone shopping last night after I passed out. It was an incredibly thoughtful thing for him to do; and he’d even gotten the sizes right. I inhaled the coffee in between getting dressed and combing out my hair. Then I brushed my teeth, dressed, and was ready to face the day.

Other than the bruises, I looked okay. Grim, a little pale, but then I always look pale when I wear black. I usually compensate for it by putting on more makeup, but he’d either run out of money, or forgotten about cosmetics. I didn’t mind. It would’ve taken a professional with considerable skill to cover the marks that showed on my face and arms. I left my hair loose for the moment, giving it a chance to dry. It hung down the middle of my back in loose curls that were a darker red because of the water. The tank emphasized my shoulders. They don’t need the help. They’re plenty broad enough without it. But it was also cut to emphasize my bust, and the bra Tom had picked out helped with that too. I had cleavage. Oh, not a lot, but enough to actually warrant notice.

I carried my nearly empty coffee mug carefully downstairs. The white plush carpet was beautiful, but it had to be hell to keep clean. Give me hardwood floors and a dust mop any day. Still, it sure was pretty. The entire house was made up of clean lines and bright colors with lots of sunlight. I could see how it suited both their tastes, and it made me happy that Joe and Mary had found each other. They were good together.

I stepped through the swinging doors into a kitchen done in gleaming white and navy blue. Everything was spotless and sparkling and I felt a twinge of envy. I love a clean house. I hate housework. I can’t imagine having the time to keep things this nice, but I didn’t think Mary was springing for a housekeeper either. Joe was talking on an old-fashioned navy blue wall phone as I came in.

“Right. I’ll call Greyhound and give them my credit card number for your ticket. In the meantime, be careful. You may not have completely given them the slip.” Joe was finishing up his phone conversation as I walked across the room. He turned to face me, his expression just a little bit guilty.

“So,” I gave him a smile sweet enough to warrant a trip to the dentist. “Where’s Bryan?”

Tom choked on his coffee, trying not to laugh, but I ignored him, keeping my gaze locked with that of my older brother.

“What makes you think that was Bryan?”

Tom still couldn’t talk, but he was shaking his head no. Good guy that he is, he was trying to warn my brother not to step into something smelly up to his eyeballs. He probably assumed I’d used my psychic powers to find out who was on the phone. I didn’t need to. Joe had just sounded that relieved, and that guilty. I set my coffee mug on the counter, and reached for the half-empty pot on the burner without uttering a word. If I said anything, argued at all, Joe would use it as an excuse to storm off and leave me behind. By saying nothing, he had nothing to fight against. It’s not a tactic I use often. I’m too hard-headed. But Mother used it on Da to good effect when we were growing up and Joe is so like our father.

I stayed pleasantly silent, leaning against the counter and alternately sipping my freshly poured coffee and nibbling on the cinnamon roll I’d snagged from a blue and white floral serving tray on the white tile counter. It took a couple minutes, but in the end, he caved.

“Fine, it was Bryan,” Joe admitted sourly. “He called collect. He doesn’t have a dime to his name and is stranded in this tiny town just over the Texas border, a place called Mesquite Hills. I offered to come get him, but instead he asked me to just pay for his bus ticket and a little spending money.” He sighed. “You were right, by the way. He had to make a run for it from New Dawn, and sneak back over the border with a bunch of illegals. But he’s fine, and he has some information for Mike. And before you ask, he wouldn’t tell me what.”

“I see.” I kept my voice bland and pleasant, the sweetest of smiles on my face.

Joe gave me a suspicious look. I could tell he expected me to argue, or say something withering about the whole

“spy” fiasco. A part of me did want to. Another, wiser part told me to keep my mouth closed. It was all water under the bridge at this point anyway. I hate that Mike asked Bryan to do it—hate that Bryan felt compelled to agree. Most of all, I hate how the three of them deliberately deceived me. But unless I wanted a full-out battle, there was no point in starting the discussion. So I didn’t. If God gives brownie points for discretion I figure that earned me a bunch of them.

“I need to call Greyhound.”

“Feel free.” I gestured toward the phone with a wave of my hand. He didn’t move. He just kept staring at me, as if he was waiting for the other boot to drop. Eventually I completely lost patience with it.

“Oh for the love of God, Joe, just get over it. I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I’m fine. I think it was a stupid thing to do—but you already knew that. Let’s just clean up the mess and move on.” I grabbed my cup and went to take the chair next to Tom, who was chuckling softly.

The suspicious look vanished, replaced by a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to you being this reasonable.”

Tom stopped chuckling abruptly. “Watch it, buddy,” he said, pointing a single finger at my brother across the room. In a voice that was only half-teasing he advised, “You’d best stop right there, before you put your foot in it up to the hip.”

Joe’s smile broadened to a grin. “No doubt.” And without another word he turned his back on me to rummage in the kitchen drawers for the telephone book.

While he was chatting with Greyhound I shifted positions and started a conversation with Tom. “So, what are your plans for the day?” I asked. He’d dressed as though he was planning on doing something physical. He was wearing one of his oldest and most battered pairs of jeans and a blue plaid flannel shirt that had faded almost to gray, with the sleeves rolled up to just past the elbows.

“I figured I’d stick around, help you go through the stuff in the garage; maybe go with you to check out the ruins and deal with the insurance company.”

I opened my mouth to tell him it wasn’t necessary. He anticipated it, and answered me before I could say a thing.

“I know you don’t need me to. But I want to. Besides,” his expression soured just a little, his eyes darkening with suppressed anger, “Call it a hunch, but I’m pretty sure the insurance investigator is going to be a lot more polite if I’m there with you.”

He was probably right. I can handle myself. But there are still people out there who don’t take women as seriously in a business situation as men. It’s not fair, but life, in general, isn’t. I’d only dealt with the investigator in one brief telephone call before the scene with Janine in Las Vegas. He’d been marginally rude and condescending as hell. Tom had met him in person. If he believed I needed company, I probably did. Even if it was only to keep me calm enough not to do something “unfortunate.”

Tom continued, “Joe has an 8:30 interview. Mary called, she doesn’t expect to be back until some time this evening. We’ll have the day to ourselves.”

Joe had an interview. Well, that explained the expensive navy suit and tie. I gave him a second look. He looked good. The white dress shirt had enough starch in it that it might well have stood up without him. All traces of stubble were gone, and his hair was freshly cut and styled.

I heard my brother finish his conversation and hang up the phone, so I turned to him to get the details.

“Where’s the interview?” I asked him.

“Denver General.”

I grinned at him. I couldn’t help it. DG is a trauma center, the big leagues for an ER doctor like my brother. It would be a great job for him—and a slap in the face to the jerks at St. Elizabeth’s who’d suspended him.

“What’re you smiling about?”

“The interview. DG—that’s so cool.”

He rolled his eyes. I guess I was supposed to be too old to say cool. Whatever. I was still proud of him, and happy that he was looking for a job where he wouldn’t have to deal with the likes of Edgar Simms. Dr. Simms was the kind of administrator who gave “politics” a bad name. He was a world-class, certified, Grade A ass who had close ties to the vampires. I’d brought his daughter back from being an Eden zombie at the same time I’d cured Bryan, and while I knew he was grateful, it didn’t keep him from being solidly against everything he thought I stood for. It had made things very tense for my brother. “I’d better go. I want to make a good impression by getting there early.” He sounded a little nervous, but other than his face being a little flushed, he seemed to have his act together.