by Lori Devoti
Harry shook off the other male’s hand. “Are the shackles better? There’s no going back; you know that. Too many have seen Lindsey. She needs a weapon.”
“And you choose that?” Brett fisted his hands.
Harry set down the glass he’d just picked up. “This isn’t some TV show, and I’m not a sensei. I can’t make her into a slayer.”
“You don’t know that that will either.” Brett’s gaze slid to the bottle. “You don’t know what it will do, do you?”
“It will make her stronger and give her a fighting chance.”
“Or it might turn her into a monster.”
“Like you?” Harry bit out the words. He’d never thought of Brett as he thought of most vampires, Emilie included. He tolerated them because they were part of the world he needed to be close to if he wanted to seek his revenge. Brett he actually liked.
“Yes, just like me.” Brett spun and began slamming glasses into the sink. This time they broke.
“Save one. I need it for Lindsey.”
Brett growled but didn’t reply. When Harry reached past him for a glass, he didn’t object, and when Harry poured a finger’s worth of the dark liquid into that glass, topped by another finger of the bar’s Bloody Mary mix, Brett continued his silence.
But as Harry turned to walk to his office, he felt the vampire’s gaze on his back and knew this time he might have pushed his old friend too far.
But Harry didn’t have a choice.
Sacrifices had to be made. Sacrifices had already been made. Lindsey was just one more.
o0o
Lindsey was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face still pale when Harry entered his office.
His grip tightened on the glass. She looked up and smiled, strained but welcoming. Her hair had fallen down around her face, and any makeup she might have worn had disappeared. She looked like a child, the picture of innocence.
His gut twisted.
“What’s that?” she asked, her gaze moving to the glass.
“I…” He looked down. The Bloody Mary mix hid the drink’s secret well; only the scent could give it away, earthy and heady.
Lindsey pushed herself to a stand. Realizing he was just watching her, Harry jumped forward to help. The liquid jostled. A bit sloshed onto his hand.
“A Bloody Harry?” Lindsey asked. Her lips were still lifted, but her eyes were tired. “It smells good.”
“It’s for you.” He held out the glass before he could change his mind.
“Oh.” Her fingers brushed against his hand as she took the glass. A small zing of electricity seemed to pass between.
She moved the glass close to her face and inhaled. “It’s rich, isn’t it? What’s the brand?” A tremor ran through her voice. Harry could see she was trying to appear under control, but she wasn’t—not completely.
Harry hesitated. “Brand?”
Feet scuffed over the floor behind him. Before he could turn, Brett spoke. “She means of the vodka. It’s a house secret. Everything about a Bloody Harry is a house secret.” Brett stood in the doorway, his hand flat against the dark wood, holding the door open. The veins in his arm stood out, and tension showed in his neck and shoulders. His eyes glittered.
“A secret? Does that mean you won’t tell me?” Lindsey let out a light laugh, but it was thin. She lifted the glass to her lips.
Harry turned, his shoulders pulled back, and took a step toward Brett. “Your break isn’t for an hour.”
Brett turned his head to stare Harry in the eyes. His hand slowly slid down the door until it hung by his side, his fingers curling and uncurling. “Wanted to let you know the police are here.”
“The police?” Harry deepened his voice.
“You told me to call them.”
Harry hadn’t, and he wouldn’t. Police were never called to Bloody Harry’s. Never. But then Brett knew that.
“Oh, I guess I should talk to them.”
At Lindsey’s voice, Harry and Brett both started. Brett’s gaze moved past Harry, and the dhamphir turned.
She held out the empty glass. “It was good. Thanks. I don’t drink much, but tonight…” She shook her head. “I needed something.”
A stillness settled over the room. Still holding out the glass, Lindsey shifted her gaze from Harry to Brett and back again. “Is there something… The boy, where is he?”
“He…” Harry took the glass and dropped his arm to his side, out of his sight. “He’s fine, or was. I didn’t want to tell you, but he escaped.”
“Escaped?” Lindsey’s eyes widened, and her hand moved to her chest.
“It’s okay. Brett is going to see about closing off that fire ladder I told you about. There will be no way for him, or anyone else, to get into your apartment again.” Harry took her hand in his and led her toward the door. As they passed Brett, he shoved the empty glass into the bartender’s hand. “You know what to do.”
Brett lifted the corners of his mouth in a mock smile. “Never doubt it.”
o0o
Harry’s fingers were warm around Lindsey’s. She tried to act casual, as if his touch didn’t send flutters of excitement through her. She had already felt shaky from the attack, and Harry’s touch was enough to send her over the edge—or would have been if he hadn’t brought her the drink.
She’d never been one to believe in liquid courage, but whatever had been in that glass definitely seemed to have restorative properties. More than restorative. It had only been moments since she had drained the liquor, and she already felt stronger and more in control.
As they stepped into the bar, she looked around. “Where are they?” The bar was full as usual, but there were no signs of police.
“Are they gone?” Brett walked past her and Harry, her dirty glass in his hand. “They must have left.”
“Left?” Surprised, she looked at Harry.
“They must have had a call,” he replied.
“A call?” More important than some teenager trying to kill her?
“I’m sure Brett gave them the details.” Harry looked at the bartender, and once again some kind of communication that Lindsey couldn’t interpret passed between them. The same thing had happened earlier in Harry’s office.
She frowned.
“Lindsey, how are you?” Emilie flew toward her in a cloud of citrus-scented air. “I heard what happened. It sounds just—dreadful.”
“So dreadful I’m sure you have no interest in hearing any of the details,” Harry responded.
“Now, Harry.” Emilie slapped him on the arm. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t take the time to listen to my friend’s problems?” She slipped her body between the bar owner and Lindsey, and to Lindsey’s disappointment, she felt Harry’s fingers fall from hers. “We’ll just go right over here. Brett will bring us a drink. Won’t you, Brett.” She cocked her head at the bartender but didn’t wait for his response.
“I’ll have my usual.” She waved her hand. “And Lindsey, what are you drinking tonight?”
Harry lowered his head so his gaze pinned the bubbly female. “Lindsey is done drinking for tonight.”
Obviously surprised by the bar owner’s terse tone, Emilie hesitated. “Okay, then soda. Is soda okay?” There was an edge in her voice, a steel Lindsey hadn’t heard there before.
“Perfectly.” Harry shifted his attention to Lindsey. “We will add those new security measures tomorrow. Until then, perhaps you would feel better if you didn’t spend the night alone.”
Emilie twisted in her high heels. “She is welcome to stay with me.”
“I was thinking more of Brett…” He glanced at the bartender, and his jaw tightened. “Or perhaps, myself.”
“Really? You?” Emilie stood between the two of them, her lips moving into a smile. “How…interesting.” She looked at Lindsey and winked.
Embarrassed by Emilie’s reaction and afraid Harry would think she’d said something to elicit it, Lindsey shook her head. �
�I’ll be fine. I was stupid. I was standing on the balcony.”
Emilie pursed her lips. “That is what balconies are for.”
“Yes, it is, and it’s decided. Have your drink with”—Harry pulled in a breath—“Emilie…and when you are done, I’ll escort you to your apartment. I can guarantee there will be no further trouble tonight.” And with one last pointed look at Emilie, he turned on his heel and strode back toward his office.
A laugh bubbled from Emilie’s throat, and she slapped her hands together like a four-year-old who had just discovered Santa was real. “Oh, goodie, a sleepover. I do so wish I was invited. Now, we really must talk.” She looped her arm through Lindsey’s and dragged her to a table.
Unable to pull away without causing a scene, Lindsey allowed herself to be guided and even sat when prompted. She was tired to the marrow of her bones and, she knew, still in shock, but Harry had just announced that he would spend the night in her apartment. Her mind spun.
“Lindsey!” Emilie snapped her fingers in front of Lindsey’s face. “Have you been listening?”
The obvious answer being “no,” Lindsey just stared silently at the other woman.
“You were thinking of Harry, weren’t you?” Emilie grabbed a martini off a passing waitress’s tray, then spun on her seat to face Lindsey again. Bobbing the olive up and down in the clear liquid, she waited.
“I—” Lindsey couldn’t compile an answer. She glanced over Emilie’s shoulder at the bar. Brett was there, but Harry was gone. She closed her eyes and tried not to feel deserted. He probably thought she’d wanted to have a drink with Emilie, when all she really wanted was to be held—by him.
“He’s mad at me, you know.” Emilie’s teeth sank into the olive, and she slid it neatly off its toothpick spear. “Because of you.”
There was no accusation or anger in the words, but still Lindsey felt the need to explain. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
Emilie waved her apology off. “It’s not you; it’s him, which makes it all very, very interesting, though.” She dabbed one finger into her drink, then touched it to the tip of her tongue. “You really should have something stronger. I don’t know what Harry was thinking, insisting on soda.”
“I did, earlier. He brought me a Bloody Harry.”
Emilie’s eyebrows rose, and she wiggled forward on her seat. “Did he?”
Lindsey could tell by her response that she found this information tantalizing, but for the life of her, Lindsey couldn’t imagine why. “It helped; it made me feel better—stronger.”
“Oh, I bet it did. I bet it did.”
After that, their conversation went off into mundane topics like a shoe sale Emilie was planning to attend the next day, and the best place for pasta in the city.
Eventually, when Lindsey didn’t think she could stay upright a moment longer, Brett appeared at the table and informed Emilie that Harry had told him to escort Lindsey to her apartment door. Lindsey had felt like a bystander during the conversation, with no vote as to when she left or with whom, but since she was more than ready for the evening to come to an end, she didn’t argue.
She left Emilie sitting alone, her legs crossed and her foot bouncing up and down with the same contained energy as a cat’s tail when its owner had spotted a bird.
Brett stepped outside first, glanced up the stairwell, then motioned for her to step outside too. His obvious cautiousness made Lindsey lick her lips and wonder if he or Harry had heard something from the police that they hadn’t shared with her—something to indicate that the teen might come back.
“Harry will be up later. He had a few tasks to complete,” Brett said, moving more confidently now.
“Okay.” There were a hundred questions in Lindsey’s mind, but she couldn’t seem to get any of them out. She satisfied herself with watching Brett for any other signs that he was worried about who or what might be outside with them, but after leaving the stairwell and escorting her to the front door of her building, he seemed relaxed.
He stepped back, waiting for her to open the door.
She paused. “Brett, did the police call? Did they know something about the boy who attacked me?”
“Harry would tell you if they did.”
But she hadn’t seen Harry, not since he’d sent her off with Emilie. She started to say as much to the bartender, but before she could, he reached around her and pulled open the door.
“Go inside, Lindsey, and stay. It’s the best advice I can give you.”
Then, before she could ask more, he turned on his heel and jogged back down the walk to the main sidewalk that lead back to Bloody Harry’s.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, the muggy outside air seeping into the cool air-conditioned world of her apartment.
“Inside.”
She heard the voice but wasn’t sure how. Brett was gone, completely out of sight. Still, the message was clear and the idea solid. With a shiver that didn’t go with the hot spring night, she stepped inside the building and pulled the door shut behind her.
Chapter Eight
Harry stood outside Lindsey’s apartment door, his hand balled into a fist, ready to knock.
Lindsey had left the bar an hour earlier. Harry had sent Brett to escort her as far as the building’s front door, with a message that Harry would be arriving later.
He’d used the time to place a new ward on the roof and to double check that the camera he’d ordered installed on her balcony, while she was occupied with Emilie, was operating properly.
With the new ward and camera in place, there was no reason for him to stay tonight, and he planned to say as much to Lindsey. Not about the wards or camera—those, like most things involving the bar and Harry’s plans, would stay secret from Lindsey—but he could tell her the nonexistent fire escape was gone and assure her the building was now safe.
There was no reason for him to spend the night in her apartment. His own apartment, where he could monitor the balcony on the newly installed security camera and hear any disturbances, was close enough.
Confident with this new plan, he knocked on the door.
o0o
After leaving Brett at the entrance of the building, Lindsey had come upstairs, showered, and put on clean clothes. Her earlier scrub with the wet wipes might have cleaned off the visible blood, but it had taken much more to make her presentable. And, cheap though they might be, she preferred wearing her own clothing.
The feel of hot water pounding onto her face had been reassuring, but as she sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and staring at the french doors that opened onto the balcony, she found herself craving another of Harry’s drinks.
The sound of a fist on the apartment’s door caused her to jump. Wary but also glad to be snapped out of her fixation on both the balcony and the alcohol, she deserted the couch and approached the door.
She placed her hand on the wood and leaned forward.
“Lindsey, it’s me.” At Harry’s voice, she jumped again. She’d been expecting him, but she hadn’t expected him to realize she was standing on the other side of the door listening. But perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps his comment had simply been him calling to her, knowing she was somewhere inside the apartment.
She waited a second so it would appear she had just walked across the room, and then opened the door.
He was wearing his suit, but it was creased, and his shirt, which he normally kept buttoned, was open at the neck. A triangle of bare skin called for her to reach out and touch.
She folded her fingers into her palms and swallowed. “I was thinking of having a drink. Would you like one?”
Without waiting for his reply, she walked into the kitchen. She heard the door shut behind him, but he didn’t follow her. A few minutes later, with a scotch for him and a beer for herself, she walked out into the living area.
He stood facing the french doors, his hands in the front pockets of his pants. As she approached, he turned. “The fire escape is gone. I had someone take it d
own.”
She held out his glass. “Scotch, unless you’d rather have the beer.”
He shook his head. “I added a…an alarm too, on the roof. You should be safe now.”
She nodded, but her mind wasn’t on her intruder; it was on Harry.
It had been a long time since she’d dated anyone, and she’d never dated anyone like Harry—dark, handsome, and sophisticated, but also…intense. It was the intensity that got her, as if he’d had a traumatic past, some memory or memories that haunted him.
She wanted to curl up next to him on the couch, lay her head on his shoulder, and feel his arms around her. She wanted to hear his secrets and share her own, wanted to belong…with him, to him.
She took a few tentative steps forward until she stood beside him, staring out the french doors. She tipped the beer bottle up until some of the bitter ale spilled into her mouth.
“I’ll keep the doors locked,” she murmured.
He turned so he faced her. “It isn’t… You don’t have to. With the alarm in place and the fire stairs gone, your balcony should be safe.”
She could feel his gaze on her. She took another drink, became conscious of the act of swallowing, of the muscles in her neck moving. She licked her lips and tried to focus on the small scene outside the french doors, the railing and, past that, the top floors of the buildings across the street.
“I don’t want you to be afraid,” Harry added.
Lindsey didn’t want to be either, but the attack had left her shaken, brought back the dark outline of memories she wasn’t sure were even hers. Her hand trembling, she took another sip of beer.
“So you’ll be okay.” Harry moved back, his body turning toward the apartment’s entrance as he did.
He was leaving. Her fingers tightening on the bottle’s neck, Lindsey spun.
“What about Karin? Was she safe?” The thought had been nagging at her.
“Karin?” For a moment, confusion clouded Harry’s eyes. Then he blinked, and the confident, in-control bar owner was back. “Nothing happened to Karin. She quit.”
“How do you know?”
“She gave me her notice—or lack of.”
