For the Bite of It (7 page)

Jesus, what happened to his willpower? He had a choice to control the crazy maelstrom of lust building inside him or give in. Then his gaze honed in on Vincent’s bulging crotch again and his resolve fizzled like a bottle of flat soda.

Pulling at the hem of his shorts didn’t ease his discomfort. His balls were hot and heavy against his skin. Sweat trickled down his neck, between his shoulder blades. His heart thundered like a racehorse picking up speed, his breath rasping in his chest. If his body had anything to say about it, he’d be jumping the man’s bones any minute now.

Vincent’s eyes opened and he half sat up, elbows propped behind him. He smiled and John gave in to his impulses. He sat on the bed, his knee touching Vincent’s ribs. When Vincent stroked one finger down his neck, he groaned without meaning to.

This wasn’t real. It was just a dream—so why not enjoy it.

He closed his eyes and took a very deep breath, and when he opened his eyes again, nothing had changed. Vincent touched him everywhere, his warm fingers trailing fire in its wake.

Vincent pinched and teased his nipples, that ultra-sensitive spot, fueling his lust. A gentle brush across his abdomen sent tiny zingers of electric current down his spine. He didn’t care. Didn’t care Vincent’s nimble hands were exploring his body, or that his t-shirt was pulled over his head and discarded, leaving him bare-chested, his shorts half opened.

Hands suddenly rested on his shoulders and Vincent commanded him to open his eyes. He didn’t realize he’d closed them. The sensations were too intense, too alien. Never had a man made him this crazy, this hot.

Vincent kissed his chin, his brows, and John turned his head away from those full lips reddened by lust. It was too intimate to kiss a man on the mouth. His sexual encounters were for relieving a pent-up need, no mouth-to-mouth action necessary.

Pushing off the bed, they stood face to face, body to body. His dick responded to every stroke, every touch. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

It got even hotter when Vincent squeezed his ass and pulled him closer. The hard bulge rubbing against his thigh—surely it was leaving burn marks on his skin. He ground his hips into Vincent, needing…needing, not sure what, but oh, god, he didn’t want to stop.

“Jesus, Vincent. I had no idea it could be like this.”

“It gets even better,
amante
.”

Better? Than this…this was pretty damn good.

Cool air hit John’s cock and balls as his shorts and briefs were shoved down around his knees. Oh fuck, he should stop, stop it now.

He slid his hand inside the silk boxers and his fingers tangled in a thatch of wiry hair. Inching further downward, he skimmed the hard muscle. A thrill charged his heart.
Oh, yeah.
He instinctually wrapped his hand around Vincent’s cock.

Vincent thrust wildly, humping John’s hand, his face rigid as he moaned. John smiled knowing he had caused this reaction in Vincent.

John pushed up against the warm body, drawing Vincent’s arm down between them. “Take it.”

Those strong slender fingers curled around his hard shaft, and he groaned, unable to stop the building tension. He pushed into Vincent’s grip, the friction overwhelming, dangerously addictive. Vincent tilted John’s chin and started to lean forward.

John’s palm flew up to stop the kiss. “I don’t do that.” His fingers grazed Vincent’s lips and suddenly found them sucked into that moist hot mouth.

John couldn’t hold back. He shot off his load, coating Vincent’s fingers.

Oh, sweet Jesus!

Vince walked the perimeter of the parking lot, keeping to the minimal shade of the striped blue and white awning outside the stores. He was doing his own recon to figure out where Sala might have bought coffee and donuts before crashing into the bakery.

And dying.

Vince was tired of being a suspect, especially in Detective Reeder’s eyes.

There were many more damn reasons why he shouldn’t be considering John

Reeder as a potential lover. One of the most important, he didn’t believe John had
relationships
with men. And Vince didn’t do one-nights.

Let’s see, reason two.

Cop.
Check
.

Closeted.
Check
.

Suspected Vincent of killing someone.
Check
.

And the biggest, baddest reason of all. Vince wasn’t human but a blood-guzzling vampire. The genuine thing.
Double check.

If the
Jurisdictio
found out about his feelings for John, they would not hesitate to end his liaison. Exiled to the human world the vampires might be, but relations with humans were still forbidden to them.
Double, double check.

Still, as Angelo pointed out, it had been a long time since Vince was this attracted to someone. Surely, he owed it to himself to find out what this could lead to? He could make an exception. Would one stolen night hurt anyone? After all, it wasn’t like he was making a down payment on a house in the suburbs and painting the fence white.

With a self-deprecating shake of his head, he turned the corner and headed back to the bakery, squinting in the bright light even with his sunglasses on. Yeah, he could explain it a hundred different ways. The bottom line was he wanted to fuck John, or be fucked by him, cop or not.

He entered the welcome cool dimness of the bakery dodging the spider webs hanging from the ceiling. His assistant had been decorating for Halloween, not something Vince enjoyed. The noise made by the construction crew was enough to drive him from the shop. Fast work didn’t equal quiet with these guys.

He strode to his office hoping to drown out the whirring of a saw with his headphones and opera. Instead, he found himself rocking back in his chair, pondering the great mystery of the coffee and donut.

There were a few places in the vicinity where Sala might have gotten coffee, even that early in the morning. But in Vince’s experience people usually purchased a pastry with their drink. They didn’t make two separate stops.

When Sala’s car crashed into the bakery it was too early for breakfast so where had Sala been that he’d picked up a quick bite? If he’d come from home, he could have brought the coffee with him.

Vince cast his mind around recent encounters with the landlord. Yes, Sala sometimes carried a travel mug filled with coffee, especially in the morning. Hadn’t he even mentioned he liked the brand he kept at home rather than the brew Vince served in the bakery?

But Vince hadn’t noticed a steel-coated travel mug in the car. So Sala had to have been coming from somewhere other than his house. Sala had been at Hank’s the night before, making a pass at a young man in a Guess shirt and Daisy Duke shorts. Vincent hadn’t cared to watch the outcome, figuring Sala would get a not-so-gentle let down from the boy-toy.

What if that hadn’t happened? What if the boy-toy, for some godforsaken reason, had hooked up with Sala that night? They sure as hell wouldn’t go back to Sala’s mansion where his wife ruled the roost. No, they would have gone to a hotel or the boy-toy’s place. More likely they’d gone to Sala’s office, where he had a comfortable back-room complete with a couch and pillows. Vince had seen it once when he’d dropped off some papers.

Contrary to Sala’s flashy home, the office was located in a quiet side street in Mesa. Plenty of privacy to bring boys back at night.

Vince jerked his chair down to the floor with a bang and grabbed his car keys. He would drive out there. Instincts roaring as they did when he was onto something, he told Greg he was going out. He cursed at the mesquite pods scattered over his car, but this was the only parking spot that offered some shade. As he backed out of the spot, he wished he could call John and tell him about his suspicions. Or better still, he could ask the detective to come along.

The curse of his family—when they fell, they fell hard. In his circle, Vince was known as a fast operator. His impulsiveness had gotten him into trouble more than once. The proof positive lay in his exile.

Shoving aside the wishful thought of discussing this with John, he drove to Sala’s office. He checked the door, not surprised to find it locked. A painted Count Dracula with an asinine expression smiled at him from the window. He shook his head at why humans had to glamorize everything; if only they knew about the real ghouls they might encounter, they wouldn’t celebrate Halloween with such spirit. All the other suites appeared closed and the parking lot empty.

He got back in his car and swiped away the sweat trickling down his neck. The Arizona summer was lasting longer this year. It should have been ten degrees cooler by now.

He cruised around the building keeping a watchful eye out for restaurants. Seeing none, he pulled out on the opposite side where he had entered the lot. Maybe he’d been wrong about the coffee?

The drive past Kiwanis Park back to the bakery was much more pleasant than the interstate. A manmade lake glinted to his left, the sun’s rays causing swaths of shimmer on the water’s surface. On auto-pilot, he let his mind wander over the strange death of Sala and its consequences. The taillights flashed on the white van in front of him and Vince stamped on the brakes. The van slowed to turn right into a narrow parking lot. Vince rolled to a stop at the red light and waited, tapping an impatient finger on the steering wheel. A huge sign on the southwest corner advertised water and ice for sale in bulk.

He glanced idly at the white vehicle that had turned. The driver had opened the back doors and was loading large trays onto a metal dolly. The trays were similar to the ones he used in the bakery to move cupcakes from the kitchen to the shelves.

Wait a minute! Trays to move pastries.

The driver behind him honked and he realized he was sitting through a green light. Making a split-second decision, he swerved into the parking lot, pulling up behind the van. Trays of Danishes and donuts wrapped in plastic were piled three and four high. Vince smiled at the twenty-four-hour neon sign in the convenience store window. He strode into the store and glanced around.

The shelves displayed all the standard junk food one might expect—candy bars, potato chips, nuts. Behind those was a glassed-in refrigerated section that contained cold drinks. Vince took a bottle of water up to the counter.

“Dollar fifty-nine,” said the gum-chewing, tattooed cashier.

“Good looking donuts,” he mentioned as he gave the kid a five-dollar bill. “Bet they go fast.”

The cashier shrugged, counting out the change.

Vince persisted. “Been selling them long?”

“I guess. You want one?”

He collected his change. “Thanks. Not today. Do you work here in the early mornings?”

“Nah, the owner does. If you want to talk to him he’ll be in later this afternoon.”

“Thanks.”

Inside the car, he let the engine idle as he fished out John Reeder’s card from his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment. Let the games begin. He dialed the main precinct number.

“I’d like to speak to Detective John Reeder,” he told the operator.

“Name, please?”

“Vincent Esposito.”

“Hold one moment, please.”

A couple of clicks and John’s voice-mail came on.
Dio
, John’s voice sent tingles of pleasure down his back.

“Detective Reeder, this is Vince Esposito. I have some information for you about Sala.”

He left his number and slid his phone shut, pulse racing with anticipation as he drove to the bakery. He was back on the computer balancing budget numbers on his spreadsheet when his cell phone rang.

The caller id came up as unknown number. Could it be him?

“Vince.”

“Mr. Esposito, this is Detective Reeder. You called?”

Oh yes! Some days there was a God.

“I did.”

John’s sigh gusted over the connection. “And you have some information for me?”

“I do.”

“Mr. Esposito, I don’t have all day. What is it you want to tell me?”

I want to take you home, strip you naked…

Vince cleared his throat. “I have information about Sala.”

“I’m listening.”

Damn, he didn’t want to do this over the phone. He searched for an excuse to meet John. “I’m sorry. I can’t really talk right now. I could meet you later. Say this evening?”

“And this is information you have to give me in person?” Vince imagined John’s frown, his eyes puckering at the corners.

“It’s complicated.”

A long silence followed during which Vince held his breath.

“Fine. I’ll stop by the bakery.”

He had to come up with a plan fast. “Er, I’m not there. I’m in Scottsdale actually. I doubt I’ll be back in Tempe till later on this evening.”

Another moment of silence. “Where exactly did you want to meet?”

Vince went for broke. “Look, I won’t be finished until late. How about dinner around seven?”

“I don’t think—.”

“Sorry got to run. Café Venetia in Paradise Valley, seven o’clock.”

“I can’t—.”

“Thanks John, I appreciate you working with my schedule. The info’s worth it, I promise.”

He disconnected and grinned. Now all he had to do was get through the rest of the afternoon without dying of impatience. He hoped John wouldn’t check out the restaurant too closely. Despite the innocuous Café in the name, it was an exclusive Italian restaurant with a named chef. He’d better make a reservation.

Unable to curb the grin stretching across his face, he punched in the restaurant’s phone number.

He had just slid the cover shut on his phone when the air inside the car became tight and thick, like the pressure in the atmosphere before a storm. Expecting to see Angelo shimmer into sight in the passenger seat, Vince turned his head.

His heart turned a somersault as his sister appeared.

What the hell? John stared at the receiver before dropping it back into the cradle.

Okay, Vincent had information. That’s all that was. The bastard hadn’t let him get in a word. Why the hell couldn’t he give him the information over the phone?

His heart beat double time at the thought of seeing Vincent without the barrier of cop vs. suspect. They’d be in a casual setting, almost like a date. Shit. What an idiot he was for agreeing to meet at a restaurant.