by Viki Lyn
“Sure, John.”
Vincent leaned slightly forward, his hand resting on the table. “I told you everything I know, John,” his silver-blue eyes twinkling. “Now if we’ve exhausted all avenues in this discussion, I have to get back to my shop, clean up this mess, and hopefully, sell some cupcakes.”
John leaned back in his chair. Vincent’s gaze lingered too long. All he could focus on were those eerily all-knowing eyes fringed with dark, dark lashes. Then he blinked.
Earth to Reeder. Jesus!
John jumped from his seat, anxious to get the hell away from Vincent Esposito. Pointing his finger at the baker, he ordered, “I’ll have more questions for you so don’t go anywhere.”
John turned away but a hand on his shoulder startled him. He jerked back as he swiveled on his heels, surprised to see Vincent standing next to him. His heart stalled for a second before he could breathe again.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
The low timbre of Vincent’s accent coaxed a thrill from John. He stepped back from the invasion of his personal space. “Yeah, what?”
Vincent raised his hands. “Hey, relax. When is your crew leaving? They’re bad for business.”
“You’ll have to be closed for a few days until we get the autopsy report.”
“But why, if it’s an accident?”
“Can’t be helped. It’s an on-going investigation.” He turned to leave but Vincent grabbed his wrist. His skin tingled where the baker’s grasping fingers touched.
John jerked back. “End of discussion, Mr. Esposito.”
He glanced past Vincent’s shoulder, spied Free coming out of a store, and waved her over. Vincent, thank God, took the hint and walked back into the bakery. He breathed easier once the man left his personal space, yet Esposito’s rich cologne lingered.
John glanced at the marquee above the doorway—For the Bite of It. What kind of name was that anyway? Ghoulish. Then again, what did he know about selling cupcakes? Maybe it was some weird play on words or a book title, or something. The gleaming black and chrome shop was located in a typical Arizona strip mall with stucco and tile architecture and a gigantic parking lot. He stepped back and read the other signs lining the building.
Sally’s videos, Myra’s Alterations, Trudi’s Massage…women-owned businesses and one gay man.
Figured.
Free ran her hand over her short, cropped reddish curls. “Got through talking with Sally. She owns—”
“The video store,” He tilted his head toward the sign.
“Yeah, anyway,” She opened her notebook. “According to her, Mr. Sala was a real ass. He was threatening to raise the rents even in this shitty economy. Plus he wouldn’t make repairs that were needed.”
“Still a weak motive for murder.”
Free gnawed her lower lip with her teeth. “When did it escalate to murder?”
“Stiller thinks the guy was dead before he crashed through the window. He’s not ruling out heart attack, but there could be another cause of death.”
Free whistled. “No shit. You know, she told me something interesting about Vincent. She overheard an argument between him and Mr. Sala in the parking lot last week.”
He tensed from excitement. He’d give anything to nail the guy. “What about?”
“She’s not sure but she did make out one word—kill.” Free shook her head. “She suspected it had something to do with the plumbing repairs the landlord refused to make.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Myra from alterations confirmed her story. Not unless they’re all in it together.”
John scratched his chin. “So out of this bunch, who wants Sala dead?”
She scuffed her tasseled loafer along the cement. “You could go back and ask him?”
John raised his brows. “Ask who?”
“Vincent, he seems to like you.” Her smile widened into a loopy grin.
“Yeah, like I care.”
The warm sensation in his chest from hearing those words alarmed him. He’d have to be extra vigilant when dealing with the baker. The man could be their killer.
Never get involved with a suspect, idiot.
Sure, the man was good looking, and probably a wild cat in bed, but he never wavered from rule number one. He never had sex with a man in town.
Chapter Two
Vince shut the cardboard box of fresh pastries leaving the top un-taped, and slid it to one side of the already cramped counter. It was best to let the customer see their order before they left the bakery. He’d learned the hard way it prevented last-minute calls from panicked customers needing more cupcakes or a different colored icing.
Greg, his assistant baker, came through the temporary makeshift door. “The cops are outside.”
How well he knew it already. Awareness had started to spider-walk down his back the minute they arrived in the parking lot. He’d spent the last hour glancing at the door hoping John Reeder would walk in. Free had been around when he stepped outside to talk to the contractor but not Reeder. Vince had been surprised at his sharp disappointment.
“Yes, I saw them earlier.” Vince pretended a keen interest in the order book. “Did they talk to you?”
Greg nodded. “Yeah, man, questioned me up one side and down the other. Didn’t mind too much when the dream-boat cop joined in.”
Vince suppressed a strong desire to use his telekinetic power to slam Greg up against the wall behind him. Oh wait, he didn’t have it anymore. He gnashed his teeth instead. It wasn’t Greg’s fault Vince had a man-sized crush on Reeder. “You’re taken, and your boyfriend could crush Reeder with one blow,” he reminded Greg. “What did the cop want to know?”
“How well we knew Sala. If you and Sala had problems,” Greg sent him a questioning look. “Why would they ask me that?”
“Probably checking every angle or something equally detective-like. They can’t think I made his car crash into the building.” Well, technically Vince could have made it happen, but he hadn’t. All the detectives knew was Vince was a baker with a foreign accent. They probably knew he was gay since he made no secret about it.
Greg nodded his agreement. “Well, neither of us had a problem with him. I mean the guy was a dickhead, but hey, who isn’t?” He glanced over to where the car had broken parts of the wall. “Emergency crew did a good job restoring the window. But man, it’s hard to work in this mess.”
“I couldn’t shut the place down. We had orders to fill.” It would have been crazy to reschedule events and phone other bakeries to take over his orders.
“I know. Did they tell you when we’ll be up and running full steam?”
“No firm date.” Vince rubbed his forehead. Twice he’d walked into the temporary wall closing off the area where the crew restored the building. “You’re delivering the Sanderson order or is your helper coming in?”
They’d hired a temporary delivery boy last week. Business was good, and here he was selling cupcakes out of half a store. Damn Sala and his car.
“I’m the delivery boy today. Later, man.” With a wave, Greg swung his pony-tail over his shoulder and left for the kitchen.
If you’d asked him last week, he’d have said he had a good life. All things considered, he was half a vampire with a hankering for blood and weak with power. Still, he had adjusted.
Today, all he could do was compare it with what he’d had before. Another lifetime, when he’d been at the top of his game, respected, even revered. How low could a man fall from grace? How long could he pay penance for something he hadn’t done? And now his ruling council wanted a favor from him? Fuck. That. He’d wither away to bones without blood before he did them any favors. Besides knowing the Jurisdictio this would be no prize at the bottom of the cracker-jack box. More like, thank-you-for turning-your-back-so-we-can-stick-a-knife-in kind of favor. No, this time Vince would watch his ass. There wasn’t anyone else around do it.
The sharp tang of regret rose up in his thro
at and he slammed the order book closed.
He needed a distraction, any distraction. Except what walked into his shop wasn’t really what he would have chosen.
Looking up, he groaned as Angelo strolled through the bakery door. Vince cast his eyes to the heavens. Angelo wore black jeans—surely stitched on, for no one could have pulled those on. A skin-tight lavender shirt with an outrageous black leopard-spot pattern fought for attention with a grey jacket made of some shimmering material. And to cap off the ensemble, a purple silk scarf, carelessly wrapped around Angelo’s elegant neck, its trailing fringe bringing the eye straight to a bulging crotch.
“Just what I need,” Vince muttered through gritted teeth.
“Alors ce qui s'est passé ici?” Angelo inquired.
“You’re not seriously asking me what happened, are you? And why are you speaking French. I know it might tax your mind to remember but we’re Italian.”
“I am a man of the world. Why so touchy, mon ami?” Angelo leaned against the doorjamb, twirling one end of his scarf in a dizzying up and down motion.
“What you are is minchione.” Angelo was anything but the fool Vince had called him. Yet you’d never guess it from looking at him. “Are you auditioning for Project Runway?”
Vince ran his gaze over Angelo’s outfit and hoped John didn’t choose this moment to walk into his bakery. How would he explain this peacock to the detective? “This is summer in Arizona, you know?”
“Non. You know I don’t feel temperatures. I tell my body it is not hot and it is so. I am as cool as a cucumber.”
While he had a special place in his heart for his best friend, there were many, many days when he could have strangled him. With no regrets afterward. Vince turned his ire on Greg who had come back out of the kitchen to gawk at Angelo, delivery forgotten.
“Shouldn’t you be loading the van?” he snapped, his tone harsh.
“Yes, sir.” The young man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and turned to go.
“Greg! Au voleur!” Angelo called out, fluttering his scarf in his hand.
Vince frowned. “Stop thief? What the hell has he stolen?”
Greg turned away from Vince to Angelo his brows puckered in confusion.
“My heart,” Angelo pressed his hand to his chest and jutted his hip, posing.
Vince bit back a growl, having had enough of Angelo’s nonsense. He wasn’t in the mood. Not today. Not when John Reeder prowled somewhere outside his half-a-goddamn-bakery. And his hankering for John’s ass and his bloodlust ate at him in equal measure.
“You,” he stabbed a finger in Greg’s direction. “Load up the van. Lock up and make the delivery. Angelo, you come with me.”
Vince only had one use for Angelo today—to feed his hunger for the food that sustained his kind. He untied his apron, flung it in a box behind the counter, and practically dragged Angelo out the door.
“Such a—”
“Get in the car. We’re going to my house.”
He slammed the door shut on his convertible and reversed, not bothering to see if Angelo had settled in. Turning right, he drove home, barely managing to slow down in the school zone. At the next light, he glanced at his friend, who was humming a tune and still playing with his scarf.
“Santo cielo, Angelo. What are you doing dropping in wearing that? There are cops outside the store.”
“Tsk tsk, you need blood, no?”
“I don’t…all right, I do. But it’s no reason for you to come looking like a—like a—.” Words failed him.
“Oh lighten up, Vinny boy.” Angelo pushed a button and his seat moved back with a quietly expensive swish. He stretched out his jean-clad legs. “So what else has you in such a tizzy?”
“I am not in a tizzy,” ground out Vince.
Vince swung the car into his driveway and stabbed the garage door opener with his finger. Knowing his feeding was seconds away, he could barely contain his bloodlust.
He strode into his bedroom, tugging off his t-shirt. Sweat drenched his skin, his heart thudded in his chest as his fangs dropped. He loathed needing blood but not having the vampire powers of his past. They went hand-in-hand, and he had never had a problem with it before. Now, exiled from his people and his home for a crime he didn’t commit, his powers reduced to a meager almost-none state, the bloodlust was simply a detail he didn’t need.
Angelo strode in, dropped his folded jacket over a chair-back, and rolled up his sleeve as he sat on the edge of the bed. He held out his arm, palm side up, and smiled, two fangs protruding from his curved lips.
“Vinny, come and feed.”
Vince dropped to his knees and grabbed the deceptively delicate wrist. Angelo had a vampire’s strength and could crush him if he chose to, so Vince didn’t hold back.
He sank his fangs into the soft flesh. Vince bucked as the first taste of blood hit his tongue. The viscous liquid dribbled down his throat as he sucked greedily. He was vaguely aware of Angelo stroking his hair, murmuring soothing words in the old language.
Il mio bello, fratello stupido.
Fond and affectionate scolding between two men who were as close as brothers.
He was so hungry, his body starved for nourishment. He sucked harder, his fangs digging deep, taking more and more blood from his friend. More than he normally would but Angelo could handle it.
Heat soared through his body, lust clawing at his groin. His cock reacted as it always did when feeding. Hard and hungry just like his need for blood. He kept drinking, even after he glanced up and saw how pale Angelo looked, his wavy hair looking blacker in contrast to his white skin.
At last, his hunger sated and his heartbeat slowed. He lifted his head, swiping at his mouth, pushing back on his heels.
Angelo ran a caressing hand over Vince’s shoulders. “So why did you wait to so long? Even now, you didn’t call me. I came because I knew.”
Vince rubbed his palms along his thighs, now fighting a completely different need. His crotch burned hotter than the blood coursing through him. He couldn’t look Angelo in the eyes, not like this.
He shrugged. “No reason, just busy. My bakery’s become a second-home for the police, you know?”
Angelo shook his head. “You were testing how long you could go without, weren’t you?” Angelo spoke in his normal voice, all trace of the teasing accent gone. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I am not your problem.”
Angelo, as usual, had called it. Vince had been eating bloodied meat and seeing how long he could go without feeding. If he had to live in exile for the rest of his life, maybe he could give up the bloodlust too. The damn Jurisdictio ruled his world with cast-iron rules, and they would never allow him to regain his full powers.
Angelo sighed. “You are my problem.”
Vince rose to his feet, body heavy and weary. He stumbled, his back coming into sudden contact with the stucco wall behind him. Leaning against its coolness, he rubbed his neck trying to ease the taut muscles. “Why? You helped me resettle here. I’ve followed all the damn rules.” He checked them off on his fingers. “No contact with family. No contact with other vampires. No returning to the city. No mating with a human. What more does anyone want from me?”
“It’s not that simple anymore, Vin, and you know it.”
“I am not discussing any offers from the J,” he declared, the arrogance of a hundred years of being heir-apparent to the Vampire Council, bleeding into his voice.
“Still the prince.” Angelo shook his head. “Between the stupidity of the J members and your pig-headedness…our country, our ways might get lost while you’re all defending your backyards.”
“It was their choice to condemn me.”
“For a bloody crime against your race.”
“One I did not commit.”
“But they thought you did. You admitted guilt.” Angelo slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. “One of these days, I am going to run a stake through you, then strangle you.
Gladly. And have no regrets.”
Vince chuckled as he remembered thinking just that. “Funny, I’ve thought the same. In fact, I’ll make it something my grandchildren aspire to.”
“You’re not having children. You need to consider this offer. The J does not make their offer lightly. They—we need someone in the human world to take charge of the vamps living here.”
“And they can find another patsy.” Vince was firm in this. His own sister hadn’t stood up for him, hadn’t believed in him. Enough discussion. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Angelo knew Vince well. He knew when to stop pushing. “Want me to join you?” Angelo asked, wagging his eyebrows.
“Cazzo, no.”
“Okay, I’ll stick around.”
“Don’t.” Vince shuffled to the bathroom and leaned on the doorjamb. “Angelo, thank you.”
“Anytime, loverboy.”
The teasing words and grin on his best friend’s face brought a reluctant smile to his own. For all of Angelo’s flirting there had never been anything but friendship between them.
He shucked his jeans, waited a moment for the water to heat up and stepped into the shower. The river-stone floor massaged his feet. He flinched as the warmth seeped into him, but his cock remained at full mast. Squishing shower gel into his palm, he stroked himself. His hand pumped slow and steady to relieve his need.
Stepping back from the sting of the hot water, his head fell back against the cool tiles. The handsome face of John Reeder filled his sight, blue eyes all lazy and warm, not suspicious and hard as they had been. His traitorous mind took it even further. The sexy detective spread-eagled on Vince’s king-sized bed, a hard cock poking out from damp brown curls. Crimson silk sheets pooled around John’s ankles as Vince straddled his body.
He shot off with more force than he could remember doing in a long time.
Dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt, he wandered into the kitchen where Angelo sat eating an orange. His face ruddy once more with no sign he had given Vince so much of his blood. Vince quelled the stab of envy at how fast Angelo healed.
“I thought you were leaving.”
