Chosen (17 page)

Layla sees the smile that quirks the corner of my mouth.

She shoots me a venomous look.
Watch it. We’re here to do you a favor.

Mrs. Williams looks flustered when she catches Layla’s remark to me. She clears her throat in a nervous attempt to draw attention away from her gaffe. “Where are we going? Anna never told me.”

Frey, too, is suddenly anxious to put distance between Layla and me. “We’re taking you to a place where you can safely feed.” He ushers her toward the door with a hand at her elbow, crooking a finger at Layla. Layla follows with another black look in my direction. Once he has them both started for the car, Frey turns back to me.

“Are you going to be all right by yourself?”

“Yes.” After this morning, by myself is a welcome relief. “Lance will be home by noon.”

Frey doesn’t question or argue. The basis of his concern is that Williams was a threat as long as I refused to cooperate with him. It follows then that with Williams gone, the threat should be, too. Frey has no way of knowing my suspicions about the part Underwood played in William’s death. With Mrs. Williams here, there was never an opportunity to discuss it and now, what purpose would it serve except to add yet another reason for him to worry about me? I wave him off and watch until the car pulls from the curb. Mrs. Williams’ determined face stares out at me from the backseat.

Once they are gone, my thoughts turn to what I should do next. I know of only one way to contact Underwood—at his place in La Quinta. It takes me a moment to get the number and another moment to be connected.

I should have known it would not be this easy. The receptionist tells me Underwood checked out yesterday afternoon.

Of course he did.

Not getting his cell number was a stupid and negligent oversight on my part. I depended on Williams to be my contact. Now, I can only wait for Underwood to contact me.

Which is problematic. It will be hard to explain skipping out alone with Lance playing guard dog. I had hoped to meet with Williams yesterday or this morning before Lance got back to town.

Fuck.
Nothing
is ever easy.

With two hours to kill before noon, restlessness once again comes to roost on my shoulders like a leaden yoke. If I go to the office, I might at least have the distraction of a telephone call from a potential client. It doesn’t take me long to decide anything—even work—is better than sitting around.

The office is closer to the airport, too, so more convenient when Lance calls that he’s arrived. I leave a voice message on his cell letting him know where I’ll be.

Mind made up, I’m on the road in five minutes.

 

IT’S ANOTHER POSTCARD-PERFECT DAY IN SUNNY SAN Diego. The water sparkles, the blue sky shimmers cloudless and bright, the harbor is so full of boats it looks like a floating traffic jam.

A day like this, it’s a joy just to be near the water. I feel it even here on the deck outside our office.

Maybe I should buy a boat. No one can sneak up on you on a boat. Lance and I could anchor in the bay, stranding Underwood and his fortune-telling on shore. Maybe if I let the anniversary of my becoming vampire pass unnoticed, so would the prophecies. Let some other poor soul take on the mantle of the Chosen One.

Williams may be dead, but his goddamned legacy is as burdensome as Avery’s. When I should be mournful that a two-hundred-year-old vampire just flamed out of existence, instead I can’t let go of the animosity. If he’d been honest with me in the beginning, he wouldn’t be dead.

“Williams, you fucker. It’s all your fault.”

“Talking to yourself now?”

The voice at my elbow startles me so much, the vampire reacts before the human. Teeth bare, a snarl erupts, and I have a neck in my hands in the time it takes my eyes to register to whom the voice belongs.

Lance. Here. Safe. My hands drop from the neck to the small of his back so I can pull him even closer.

“Damn, Lance, you scared me. I thought you were going to call when you got in.”

He presses his body against mine. “It’s only a ten-minute jog from the airport. It’d take you longer to get there by car.”

His lips are so close, his body heat rising so quickly, it takes all my willpower not to pull his clothes off and fuck him senseless right here on the deck. Instead, exercising great restraint, I pull him into the office, sweep everything on David’s side of the desk to the floor, and we fuck each other senseless inside.

 

THE SOUND OF APPROACHING FOOTSTEPS FROM OUTSIDE clears our heads and startles us upright quicker than a splash of ice water on a sunburned back. Lance and I look at each other, then toward the door.

The door we hadn’t bothered to lock.

This is a place of business.

Good thing we can move fast.

Giggling like school kids, we scramble into our clothes, put the desk back in order and stand looking innocently and expectantly toward the door.

The footsteps stop. There’s a moment of silence.

Then an envelope drops through the mail slot.

Lance releases a breath. “Mailman.”

He walks over and picks up the envelope and hands it to me.

I slip it on the blotter, drop into the chair on David’s side of our partner’s desk, motion Lance into my chair. We grin at each other, enjoying the afterglow of sex and adrenaline.

I ask, “How’d the shoot go?”

Lance waves the question aside with a flip of a hand. “Fine.” He leans toward me, remembering what he’d intended to ask before desire trumped rational thought. “I want to know what the hell is going on here. I didn’t see the headline about Williams until I landed.”

The joy of the previous moment is erased by the concern on Lance’s face. Carefully, I draw a curtain on my real thoughts and fill him in on the visitors I had this morning. First Harris and then Mrs. Williams.

“Jesus,” he says when I finish. “You don’t really think Williams committed suicide, do you? And what was he doing in the desert?”

Once again, I have to compose my thoughts. Lance has no idea Williams was with Underwood in Palm Springs. I shrug. “Maybe Frey was right when he said we were followed to Palm Springs. Whoever followed us may have reported to Williams and he was on his way to intercept us.”

“Still doesn’t explain how he ended up dead.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

I’ve been toying with the envelope I’d thrown on the desk as I spin my tale. I reach into a drawer and pull out a letter opener, more a diversionary tactic than interest in the contents. When I slit it open, a single folded sheet of copy paper falls out.

Lance has picked up the thread of our conversation. “What’s going to happen to Mrs. Williams now? I can’t believe the bastard turned her and didn’t teach her anything about being a vampire.”

His words register in my head; I think I actually nod in reply. But my attention is caught by the four words printed in bold caps on the paper I hold in my hand:

I’d been wondering when Underwood would get in touch. I have my answer.

Lance peers at me, eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head, slip the paper into a desk drawer, toss the envelope into the wastebasket. “Nothing.” I push my chair back, stand up. “Let’s go to the cottage.”

He stands, too, but gestures toward the drawer. “What was in the envelope?”

I take his arm and turn him toward the door. “Just a reminder from David. He’s out of town, but we have a new partner and I’ll be working with her for the first time tonight.”

“New partner? When did that happen?”

I fill him in about Tracey. Most of what I tell him is the truth. Except, of course, the part about having a job tonight.

That’s a lie.

L
ANCE IS SHOW ERING. I’M PACING. FOR ONCE, I WAS hoping Lance would say he had to go home tonight, to the beach house. It didn’t happen. I should have known it wouldn’t. He’s still in protective mode.

We had a nice day. Took a walk on the boardwalk, had beers in a neighborhood bar. Watched a Padres game on the big screen. Did things that human couples do.

I might have enjoyed it more if I didn’t have this appointment with Underwood looming. And if I didn’t have to guard every thought that went through my head. Lance knows that my job entails midnight runs—he’s just made it clear he intends to make this one with us.

How am I going to get out of this?

Lance comes downstairs wearing one of my robes. It’s a big pink chenille job, and I laugh in spite of the heaviness I feel in my heart. “You look better in that thing than I do.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I found it in the back of your closet. Did you really used to wear this thing?”

“I didn’t have you around when I was human. I got cold in the winter.”

He fingers the heavy material. “No wonder so many mortal women have dreary sex lives. This is about as appealing as a flannel nightgown.”

“Good thing you didn’t check the dresser. There are a few of those in there, too.” I hook a finger in the belt and give a tug. “Besides, wearing it isn’t the sexy part. Taking it off, that’s the sexy part.”

He bends his face close to mine. “We’ll test that theory. Right after I fix us a drink.”

He lets his lips brush mine, a tease, and steps away to head for the kitchen. “Hold that thought.”

I start pacing again as soon as he’s out of sight.

What am I going to do? I don’t even have a sleeping pill in the house to drug him. Not that one pill would do it. Vampires have strong constitutions. It would take a half bottle to affect him. Nor can I bring myself to use physical force. I could knock him out but that would be painful. A headache is a headache no matter the species.

And when he came to, what then? He’d have every right to be furious with me. Caring for me has not exactly been easy. What if he wanted to stop seeing me? I’m not ready for that. I like having him around. I like the way he makes me feel. I like the way we
fit
.

Shit. The only thing I’m sure of is I can’t tell him the truth. I won’t risk his insisting on coming with me. Underwood has already shown how little regard he has for Lance. I won’t risk another attempt on his life.

Lance is back with two glasses, an ice bucket, a plate of limes and an open bottle of tequila. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Funny expression for a vamp to use,” I retort.

He fills the glasses with ice and booze and hands me one. “Not really. Not tonight.” His expression is serious, his eyes veiled, a reflection of the barrier he’s erected around his own thoughts. “You’ve spent most of the day locking me out of your head. Do you want to tell me why?”

He raises his glass and we touch rims and drink. His gaze never waivers from my face.

I’m the one who looks away first. I do it by pretending to spill some of my drink, by wiping at my mouth with a hand. “Jesus. I’m so clumsy. I’ll get a napkin.”

He takes my glass and I feel him watching as I leave for the kitchen.

This is going to be so much harder than I thought.

I stall as long as I can before rejoining Lance in the living room. He’s taken a seat on the couch and refilled my glass. I still have no idea how I’m going to get away in—a surreptitious glance at my watch—an hour and a half.

Lance’s mood has lightened. He smiles as he gives me back my glass. “I have an idea,” he says. “Let’s drink tonight. A lot. Let’s forget the last few days and get roaring drunk. Drink until we pass out.”

Now that’s a plan I hadn’t thought of. No drugs. No brute force. He’s picked his own poison. All I have to do is pretend to drink as much as he does. Then distract him while I dispose of the liquor. There are enough plants around us here in the living room to take care of that.

Potted plants. Many soon-to-be
very
potted plants.

I grin at my own little joke.

“I like it.” I tilt my head back and drain my glass. “Your turn.”

Lance has already refilled our glasses. I put mine to my lips and take a long pull. I know how much liquor I can hold. I figure another glass or two, and then I’ll stop drinking.

I don’t know how Underwood plans to contact me at midnight but if Lance continues to drink at this rate, he should be too hammered to realize I’m gone. He’s already started on a third drink.

I’ve been sitting close to him on the couch. He bends toward me to refill my glass and I peek into the gaping robe. “You have such great pecs.”

It’s what I’m thinking. In my head. What I hear coming out of my mouth is different. Slurred. My lips feel swollen and my tongue heavy. I look up into Lance’s face and the room starts to spin. The glass falls from my hand.

“What the—?”

Lance takes me by the shoulders. He stands up so he can lower my body until I’m lying full length on the couch. He strokes my cheek.

“I’m sorry, Anna.”

It’s the last thing I hear before the darkness rises to swallow me up.