Authors: Mary Hughes
Ric was chafing now—Aiden’s feelings were never wrong—but he knelt to open the crate.
Revealing the portrait of Nosferatu.
It had been painted in the early 1800s by an unknown pupil of John Singleton Copley. Like Copley, the unknown portraitist included ordinary items in his pictures. In this case he’d painted a blunderbuss braced against Nosferatu’s foot. A wooden house, a mansion for the times, was in the background. The second floor window was clearly visible.
Aiden, looking over Ric’s shoulder, grunted. “Once he finds out you’ve retrieved this, he’ll attempt to steal it back—after which he’ll try to kill us.”
“I know.” And if Nosferatu killed them, he’d be free to attack Ric’s humans, including Synnove.
Especially
Synnove. Ric didn’t know when she’d become the most important person to him, but there it was. “But I’ve had it. Enough with image and smoke. Synnove is too important for tricks. It’s time for me to stop faking it and just deal with the bastard.”
“Using the picture as a deterrent isn’t actually dealing with him. Not like walking up to him and punching him in the face.”
“Satisfying, but it didn’t go so well last time we tried.” Ric closed the crate, gathered it up and stood. “This is the best we’ve got.”
Holding the crate to his chest, Ric dissolved into mist and filtered up through the soil, easier than hiding it here a hundred years ago. Then, they’d been too young to mist. They’d had to dig a hole to get down.
He’d calmed somewhat by the time he snapped solid on the surface. Misting was a strange process, when he thought about it. The first few times his clothes had dropped through, and he’d snapped back naked. It took him painstaking years to learn to mist his clothes along. “Carrying” the clothes, but he didn’t know what the actual process was or where they went. Even after he’d learned to carry his clothes, small items dropped through his misted pockets, thumping uselessly to the floor. The day he’d first carried his knife he’d danced like an idiot for ten triumphant minutes.
Now it was automatic to carry anything light attached to his skin. Which had actually backfired with the zip cuffs. He could have dropped them through his mist and fought two handed. Unless Nosferatu’s pet scientist had not only made them stronger but mist-proof as well. Thank goodness that had eventually worked out all right.
Aiden emerged from the cavern beside him. Ric set off at a glide, streaking along at nearly forty miles per hour. He hugged the picture to his chest and didn’t slow until they were in the car and squealing off into the night. Ric drove so Aiden could protect their insurance.
“What’s wrong with you?” Aiden leaned back in the passenger’s seat, hands negligently behind his head. “You’re as jumpy as a chicken in a hatchet store.”
Ric scowled. “May I remind you that your bad feelings are never wrong?”
“Relax. We got back to the car just fine. Apparently this time I was off.”
“‘Never wrong’ means you’re never off. Something is going to happen. Damn, I wish the digging hadn’t taken so long. Are you sure we can’t get back to Minneapolis before dawn?”
Aiden gave him the dead black glare he’d perfected.
Ric glared back, but then his shoulders slumped. Another delay seeing Synnove. He’d have to call her when he got settled. No, no good. She’d be asleep. He mustn’t wake her. Except he needed to make sure she was okay. That was a much better reason than the simple churning in his gut, the yearning need to talk to her. “You reset the booby traps at the office, right? Checked the safeguards at the condo complex?”
“Yes, dear.” Aiden rolled his eyes.
Ric’s foot pressed harder on the accelerator. He should have made sure Synnove knew how to check for tails. Camille couldn’t have followed her in daylight, but the vampire woman could have a shielded car driven by a human minion. Or even another of Nosferatu’s human goons could have tailed her.
No, Synnove was staying with her cousin, whose lover was a very old vampire. He had to believe she was safe enough where she was while he and Aiden were stuck in a motel, hundreds of miles away.
He had to believe it, or he’d go insane.
Early the next morning—as in five-crack-my-eyes-with-a-pry-bar-thirty—Rosie called me.
I’d been dreaming about Ric.
He laid me naked in bed, his eyes burning violet. His long fingers trailed sparkles along my skin. I sighed happily. He kissed down my chin and along my throat to lave my collar bones. I threaded fingers through his spiky hair as he sprinkled butterfly kisses along my breasts, then licked down my belly…all the way down…and
just
as he’d extended his tongue to flick the “go” button—
The phone rang. I snatched it off the night stand where I’d put it.
Dreamus interruptus
made me bark, “Hello.”
“I would have called sooner, Dr. Byornsson.” Rosie was almost panting in her anxiety. “But I didn’t know myself until Ms. Park phoned me, and that was an hour ago which was so early I thought I should wait rather than wake you…” She was talking so fast she was stumbling over herself.
“Slow down, Rosie. Deep breath. It’ll be okay. Start from the beginning.”
“The beginning.” She sucked air audibly, whistled it out. “Last night, late, after everybody got done with the trauma counselor, Mr. Little called me. He wanted Ms. Park’s cell phone number. She’s one of our top account reps.”
“Why did he call you for Ms. Park’s phone number?”
“I was her secretary. Now she’s mentoring me. We’re both in Mr. Holiday’s ‘condo group’.” The emphasis made me think vampire household. “Mr. Little sometimes does things behind Mr. Holiday’s back. So I called Ms. Park to find out what was going on. But she didn’t answer so I left a message to ask her to call me about Mr. Little, but Ms. Park didn’t get back to me until after the meeting or I would have called sooner—”
“Breathe,” I repeated, wishing I was there with her to give her a hug. “What is Little doing?”
“The client presentation. The Meiers Corners comparison? Mr. Little moved up the scheduling, Dr. Byornsson. He’s set it for ten thirty
today
.”
Charles called my meeting days early? I dragged a hand through my hair. “I thought Ric had to be there. He’s out of town.”
“Sure, the person who sets up a comparison presentation usually runs it. But there are precedents. Mr. Little has taken Mr. Holiday’s daytime meetings before. And as I said, it isn’t the first time Mr. Little has gone behind Mr. Holiday’s back.” She added in a low undertone, “But it’s probably the last.”
The faceoff with Camille, this morning? I wasn’t ready. I swallowed past a suddenly tight throat.
But when Ric returned he could reject the results, right? I started to relax.
Except Ric had allowed the competition in the first place because he was trying to avoid a costly confrontation with Nosferatu. Charles Little was Ric’s legitimate representative. Ric couldn’t countermand the chicken without breaking some major eggs.
“There’s more.”
I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, sat up and scrubbed my face with a hand. “Of course there is.”
“Last night’s meeting was to schedule who‘ll be there today. Besides Mr. Little and Ms. Park, it was only Mr. Riley from Finance and Ms. Dullea, a media buyer.” She paused for me to get it. It was too early. She had to spell it out. “Dr. Byornsson, there was no one from creative at all!”
Hippocrates on a pogo stick. Without creatives at the meeting, the number crunchers would favor Camille.
I was well and truly screwed. It wasn’t quite Crisis Time but I flipped my switch and shut off the panic. “It’s okay, Mr. Holiday briefed me before he left. I’ll make sure Camille has some real competition.”
“But, well…Mr. Little shouldn’t get away with this. I’d like to help you.” She took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “I can call some creatives, get them to come. Mr. Little won’t like it but…well. I know a copywriter and a couple photographers who will help if I ask them. And Ms. Park can call in a few favors…well, she
can
, but I don’t know if she will. Oh, and I’m secretly dating a production artist. I’m sure he’d help.”
“You mean Harry?”
A little gasp. “Nobody’s supposed to know that.”
“I guessed.” Why let her know it was painfully obvious? And why let her know I heard every cell in her body screaming against going behind Little’s back as he’d gone behind Ric’s, even for a good cause? “That’s awfully nice of you. But unless I win this on my own, Little will continue to think he can screw with me.” Not a very solid reason, but I needed to reassure her fast.
“Well…if you need me to I will.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Whatever happens, know I’m rooting for you.”
“Thanks, Rosie. That means a lot.”
I’d managed to lock away the panic for Rosie’s sake, but as soon as I hung up it surged back, worse than ever.
I’d counted on Ric’s being there, not only to nudge me from any black pits of infinite mistake, but for simple moral support. Now it would be just me and Camille and the numbers.
And Chicken Little, who hated me.
Chapter Fifteen
I dug in my purse for Ric’s business card, the one with his cell phone number. Not to ask him to come rescue me, but for some long-distance moral support. Or maybe last rites.
I released a pent-up breath when I found the card, and thumbed the number into my phone.
He picked up on the first ring. “Sunshine.” His voice was warm. “I was thinking about you.”
“And I was dreaming about you.” Until Rosie splashed me with cold water. I gave him a quick sketch of what had happened.
“Damn. This is Aiden’s bad feeling.”
No, it isn’t
, I heard from the phone.
“Shut up,” Ric said. “Not you, Synnove. Just an attack of the interfering stupids here. Don’t go, please? Stay safe at your cousin’s cabin for me.”
“Ric, I can’t
not
go. Little’s your legitimate rep. I don’t think I’ll be in danger. I had a talk with the gang here last night. They think Nosy sent that wave of goons because you said no to Camille at the party.”
“Nosy?”
“That’s what my cousin calls Nosferatu. Dunno why. Camille phoned Nosy after you said no—she told us that the next morning, remember? He probably sent the goons before he got word that she has another chance. Now that she does, Nosy will hold off. Ric, you don’t want an escalation. Let me handle it.”
He made a frustrated noise. “I don’t have a lot of choice, with the sun up and me stuck in Ma…stuck here. But I should be
there,
with you.”
More vampires secrets. But the yearning in his voice spoke directly to my heart. “I understand. Your nature means you’ll be unavailable at times.”
“My sunshine.” A pause. Even in the silence, Ric was so very present. “Some day I’ll tell you everything. But one hurdle at a time.”
“I’ll hold you to that ‘some day’.” I shivered, realizing I’d just made a date with Ric Holiday. “I have to go now, to prepare. I’ve got a proposal to win.”
“Wait! Please don’t go. I don’t care if it escalates. I can deal with anything, as long as you’re safe.”
“You can, but what about your employees? Your condo group? This meeting is bogus, but if we back out now, Camille will say you bargained in bad faith and Nosy starts a war.”
He chuffed a laugh. “When did you get so business savvy?”
“It’s not business, it’s the nature of bullies. I have to play their game while they hold the cards.”
He made an angry sound. “It started out as
my
game but they’ve changed the rules.” A snap of fingers. “I’ll simply reverse any bad decisions when I get back.”
“You can’t,” I said. “Same problem with backing out.”
He blew a sharp, disgruntled breath. “They won’t play fair.”
“I know. But I have to do this, Ric.
Trust
me to do it.”
“I trust you. I don’t agree…but I do trust you. Don’t underestimate Charles.”
“I’m not worried. He’s not the sharpest scalpel on the tray.”
“No. But he’s willing to fight dirty. Both he and Camille are.” Silence, but Ric hadn’t hung up. “Synnove…I’m in Madison. Near Cave of the Mounds.”
My secretive vampire had shared something of himself. I was deeply touched. “Thanks. And thanks for what training you were able to give me. I won’t let you down.”
“You could never let me down, Sunshine.”
I smiled as I ended the call.
All right then. Time to not let Ric down. Time to
fight
. Cue the warrior music.
Camille and Little are willing to fight dirty
. When sparring an opponent who has the upper hand, Mr. Miyagi taught us that the trick is to overwhelm them from the start. So knock ‘em dead with my infallible arguments and reasoning.
But it wouldn’t hurt to add a bit of sizzle in the form of starching the hell out of my white cotton blouse. Good thing I’d packed for an extended soul-searching.
Twyla pleaded with me the whole time I ironed. “You’re not wearing that, are you? Don’t you want to dazzle them?”
“With my wit, not my clothes. This gives my arguments the right backdrop.”