Pleasant, everyday, normal things.
I decide to wait.
* * *
In the short time I’ve known Lance, I’ve taken some things for granted. How he made his money, for instance. He’s a model. Those cheekbones and a hard body make him a natural for both print and runway work, and since the advent of the digital camera, no worries about a distorted (or nonexistent) vampire film image. He’s constantly flying off somewhere for a shoot or a show. I know enough about the fashion world to know a top model makes big bucks. Hence, the house in Malibu and this, a second home he’s often talked about but one that I’ve never seen.
We’ve taken the turn off Highway 74 onto 111—known to the locals as East Palm Canyon Drive. It’s the long, well-traveled artery that connects the various communities that make up the Palm Springs area. High-end boutiques, restaurants, resorts and country clubs pass in a seamless array on a wide highway lined with palms and oaks. A stark mountain range known as the Little San Bernardino Mountains forms a backdrop.
Even under the shimmer of a brilliant summer sun, there’s an exotic beauty to the place.
Ours is the only car we pass with the top down. Most people hunker down behind windows rolled tight and air conditioners on high, protection from the blast-oven desert heat.
Lance slows the Jag at the entrance to a gated community with a simple brick sign. Thunderbird Cove. A uniformed guard steps from his air-conditioned perch inside a stone gatehouse and approaches the Jag. He tips his hat and smiles when he recognizes Lance, and the gates swing open like the parting of the seas.
The road sign says Evening Star Drive.
This is when I begin to think there is more to Lance’s story than a good life forged by great cheekbones.
Evening Star Drive meanders back toward the mountains. Only the discreet signs on mailboxes identify private residences the size of hotels. I count twelve homes before we stop at the last—a castle that looks like it might have been transported from medieval Europe brick by brick. It climbs four stories into the sky, is topped with turrets and a widow’s walk. The only thing missing is the moat.
Lance pulls up into the driveway, fishes keys from his pocket and hits a remote. One section of a wall slides up to reveal a garage. He pulls the Jag inside and kills the engine.
“Honey,” he says, “we’re home.”
Lance leads the way toward a door at the end of a three-car bay. Beside my Jag, there’s a small vintage MG convertible in the garage. It gleams under a dust cover made of gauzy muslin.
Another boy toy.
And a lime green Prius. A hybrid? Not exactly Lance’s typical mode of transportation.
The door to the house opens before we get to it. A woman no bigger than a minute bursts through. She’s dressed in long paisley skirt and white cotton blouse knotted at the waist. Her honey-colored hair is tied back from her face with a comb. She’s barefoot and gives off a serious earth-mother vibe.
The Prius.
She squeals and envelops Lance in a hug, dancing on tiptoes to do it. “It’s so good to see you, Rick. I’ve missed you.”
Rick?
Lance is laughing and hugging back. “I’ve missed you, too, Adele.” He pushes her gently away and reaches for me. “This is Anna, my houseguest for the next few days. Anna, this is Adele. My very good friend.”
Adele blushes. Physically, she looks like she might be forty-something. Laugh lines crinkle her eyes and frame her mouth. The vibe she gives off, however, is older. I scan but detect no otherworldly presence. Doesn’t mean she’s human, though. My senses automatically spring to alert.
“Rick is too kind,” she says. “I’m the housekeeper. Anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She’s looking at me with keen eyes. Before I can react, she’s raised a hand to touch my face. “Very good bone structure. Are you a model, too?”
“She could be,” Lance answers, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But what she does is much more exciting. She’s a bounty hunter.”
Adele’s eyes widen. “Like Dog? I watch his program all the time on TV.”
Lance moves us toward the door. “Yep. She catches the bad guys just like Dog.”
“Uh—not exactly.” The image of Adele thinking me a female Dog spouting Jesus and counseling skips on clean living is too bizarre. And what would that make David? His tart-tongued, bleach-blond wife?
Now that’s an image.
The current passing between Lance (or is it Rick?) and this tiny woman has my head swimming. She’s emitting a fiercely protective air toward him. There’s a story here, and I can’t wait to hear it.
Lance smiles down at me. You will.
Adele shepherds us through the entryway and into a kitchen the size of Rhode Island. We keep walking—through a dining room bigger than the entire first floor of my cottage and a living room with glass walls that look out over a swimming pool, and finally, she opens another door and gestures us inside.
“I know you must be tired from the drive. I have drinks waiting for you on the side bar. Rick, you have several messages on the desk. The boys are in town for the weekend. They’re having a party tonight at Melvyn’s.” She cocks her head to the side and looks me up and down. “I do hope you brought evening clothes, Anna.”
Another abrupt change of subject that knocks me off kilter. She’s like a train leaving a station and I have to run alongside to keep up. “Evening clothes?” Except for the jeans I have on, all I brought were two pairs of shorts and a couple of T-shirts.
Adele plunges ahead with an airy wave of a hand. “No matter. You’re what—a size four? I’ll call Stephen. Luckily, you look like an Armani type—nice shoulders, narrow waist. I’ll have him bring some things for you to try. Now, what’s your shoe size? Seven and a half? Eight? I’ll have him bring an assortment of Jimmy Choos—or would you prefer Blahnik?”
Lance moves to Adele’s side, taking her arm and turning her toward the door. “You choose. Anna and I are going to wash the road dust out of our throats and relax a while before I return any calls. See that we’re not disturbed, will you?”
Adele smiles and nods and leaves us with a bemused parting glance. Lance closes the door, turns an imaginary lock and nails an imaginary board over it before turning to me, swiping a hand across his forehead. “Whew. Alone at last.”
I hardly know which question to ask first. I settle on, “Who the hell is Rick?”
Lance smiles and moves to stand in front of a mahogany-framed fireplace. He looks at me, arms crossed over his chest. With hurricane Adele gone, I have my first opportunity to look around the room. It’s dark-paneled, full of heavy, overstuffed leather furniture, one huge desk and a fireplace with a coat of arms over the mantel.
Lance hasn’t moved. Since he seems to be making a point of something, and that something must be near or on the fireplace, I step forward for a closer look. He glances over and up.
The coat of arms?
I’m about to remind him how much I hate games when I’m rewarded with a thumb jab.
Okay, the coat of arms.
It’s a huge crest, a gryphon or phoenix in the center surrounded by three arrows and a Latin inscription. The only word I recognize is a name—DeFontaine.
“I don’t understand. Whose house is this?”
“It’s mine.”
“DeFontaine? That’s not your name.” I frown. “Is it?”
Lance laughs. “You didn’t really think my name was Lance Turner, did you?”
His laughter ignites a spark of irritation. “Why the hell wouldn’t I believe your name was Lance Turner?”
The tone of my voice squelches his amusement. He backtracks with a quick, “That was stupid. You wouldn’t have any way of knowing Lance is a professional name. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.” He winces. “My real name is Broderick Phillipe DeFontaine. Any doubt now why I don’t use it professionally?”
He lets his voice drop, waiting for
the recognition to hit.
It does. It would to anyone who has been around for the last hundred years or so. “DeFontaine? The South African diamond people?”
A nod.
“You’re a member of the DeFontaine family.” Now I’m not only startled, I’m shocked.
Another nod.
I take a closer look around the room—at the sumptuous appointments, the art in gilded frames, the leather-bound books lining the walls. Even the smell of the room is subtle but rich. A blend of citrus potpourri and old money.
Jesus. Did I know this guy at all?
I turn my gaze back on Lance. I feel as if I’m seeing him—Lance or Rick, short for Broderick, I assume—for the first time.
I know a lot of rich people—and rich vampires. Rich, however, doesn’t begin to describe the net worth of a family that, until recently, controlled the diamond business. And had for hundreds of years.
“I don’t know how to feel about this.”
Lance is smart enough to remain silent. He shows that he knows me a hell of a lot better than I do him. He’s reading the confusion that could easily shift to anger with the wrong prompting, the wrong word, so he does nothing. He stands very still and waits for me to come to my own conclusions.
Part of me feels he should have told me who he was sooner. Part of me wonders truthfully if it makes a difference. Lance or Rick, this is the man who healed me, then trekked across ten miles of desert to help me bury the vampire who attacked me.
“Jesus.” This time I say it out loud. “I can’t wait to see what you get me for my birthday.”
Lance’s laugh is a mixture of relief and delight. In two steps, he’s across the room and at my side.
I hold up my hands and gently push at his chest. “Whoa, there, cowboy. Not so fast. I have a shitload of questions.”
He takes a step back. “Ask away.”
Adele mentioned drinks on the sideboard. A glance around and I spy a bar set up. A cooler, a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket, red wine and glasses. “Any beer in that cooler?”
He’s there and back faster than my eyes can follow with two open bottles of Corona and a plate of lime slices. He holds one of the bottles out to me and waves me toward the couch.
I take the beer, squeeze a lime slice through the neck of the bottle and take a swig, debating which existence to question first—past or present, human or vampire. I sink into plush couch cushions, arrange myself so I can see Lance, watch him, read his expressions, and jump in.
CHAPTER 7
I decide to start with something easy, something mundane to gauge his reaction. “How did Adele know we were coming?”
Lance is surprised. He expected something more Annaish. Like, “What the fuck is going on?” I can tell because his mouth turns down and his eyebrows jump up. He recovers quickly and replies, “I called her from the house this morning. When you went inside to get the sheet.”
“How?”
Understanding sparks his eyes. “On the telephone. No magic involved.”
“Who is she? She seems to know you pretty well. Does she know what you are?”
He shakes his head. “That I’m vampire? No. But she knows I’m—not normal. She’s never asked what I am, and I’ve never offered. She is the granddaughter of an old family friend. Her parents worked for us in South Africa. I used to keep up with the family and when I came to the States forty-five years ago, she was just a baby. She attended college in the East. We saw each other once or twice. After graduation, she came to California for a job. It didn’t work out. I had inherited this place, so I asked if she’d like to live here, manage the house when I was away, take charge of the staff when I was in residence. It was supposed to be a temporary thing. She stayed on.”
“And this was when?”
“Twenty years ago.”
“So she’s forty-something. She knows you’re eighty. And she looks her age and you look like you could be her grandson. She’s never questioned it? What is she? Witch? Shape-shifter?”
Lance waves the question away. “She’s a good friend and a good administrator. That’s all I need to know. She has a home here as long as she wants it.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” His answer brings my animal instinct for self-preservation to the surface. “She’s human and you have this cavalier attitude that she doesn’t wonder what you are. You aren’t afraid she’ll make the connection and stake you in your sleep?”
He frowns. “I wasn’t before now.”
I look around the room. The house in Malibu is filled with funky furniture, Warhols on the walls, bright splashes of color. Its best feature is the ocean, a few steps away from the wall of glass that frames it, capturing a sun-soaked ever-changing landscape. The feel of this place is dark, heavy, full of old things and older memories.
I wave a hand to take it in. “This isn’t you.”
“I agree,” he replies without hesitation. “It’s pretty much the way I inherited it. I don’t spend much time here, you know. A weekend here and there. It’s become more Adele’s house than mine.”
“But you have friends here. She mentioned ‘the boys.’ ”
Suddenly, Lance’s expression mirrors more concern than curiosity. We’ve been talking out loud, but now, he answers with a quiet, Not friends exactly. The man who sired me also has a place here. He and his entourage, others he’s turned, travel together. I don’t enjoy seeing him. But it’s the price I pay for my freedom.
It’s the first time Lance has mentioned the circumstances of his becoming. Something in his tone triggers an alarm. I know what it’s like to be under the control of a powerful vampire. My anger burns through. Does he threaten you?
He smiles at the tone of my response. He reaches out a hand and touches my cheek. No. We’ve made our peace. I am allowed to live my own life. But I am expected to pay my respects when we’re in town together. This party tonight. We’ll go, he’ll show me off as his famous protégé, we’ll leave. It’s not important. The rest of the weekend will be ours.
His tone betrays more than his casual words, however. A little nervousness, a bit of agitation. It’s there though he’s trying to hide it. My protective instincts spring to the fore. I want to know more—the story of how he became vampire. But I don’t press. Not now.
I smooth the concern from my thoughts. What about your human family? Is there anyone you’re still close to?
A shrug. My parents are dead. I have two brothers who manage the business. For obvious reasons, I don’t see them. They live a world away. I’m not interested in the business, never was. We communicate through lawyers, mostly, though I’ve divested myself of most of my family’s holdings. This house and a trust fund is all that’s left. When I move on, the house and trust fund will go to Adele.
A smile. So you see, like you, I have to work for a living. I’ll have to buy those expensive birthday presents just like anybody else.
The old Lance, the one I’ve come to know and depend on, is back. The fact that he had a past he didn’t share has no bearing on the man he is now, the man who has been nothing but good to me. I put the beer bottle on the coffee table in front of me. His smile warms me, ignites a familiar hunger. “How long before Adele and her couturier blow in?”
He places his bottle on the table beside mine. “She won’t disturb us until we’re ready. What did you have in mind?”
My roaming hands discover that he knows exactly what I have in mind. It’s obviously on his mind, too.
“Where’s the shower?”
CHAPTER 8
I’ve always known that when it comes to sex, my attitude is, well, different. I’ve never had any illusions about sex and love being either interchangeable or interdependent. I had my first sexual encounter at sixteen. I chose the guy carefully—he was older (a friend of my brother’s) and rumor had it he’d been involved with a married woman (a teacher, no less). I figured that meant he was (a) adventurous and (b) skilled. I hadn’t read Penthouse Forum and Kr
afft-Ebing for nothing.
Turned out he was neither, much to my chagrin. But he was eager to please. We spent a few wonderful weeks educating each other. Would have gone on longer if my brother hadn’t found out. Still, I figure that guy owes me any future success he had with women.
My point is, I have loved sex—the act, the smells, the pure joy of it—since that time, since that boy. As a human, I thought sex enjoyable. As a vampire, it is liberating, sublime.
The pleasure of sex is the only part of being a vampire that comes close to justifying the existence.
A cosmic joke. Vampires cannot procreate—not like humans. Perhaps as consolation, they’re given bodies that respond to sex in an extraordinary way. Bodies that are aroused with a look, a thought. Bodies that warm, become vibrant, alive during the act. Sex overwhelms the senses, wipes the mind clean of all worry, concerns, fears. Sex without consequence. Sex that reminds us of how it felt to be human.
Lance is not human. I am not human. But for a few minutes, we make love as if we were. No biting. No blood. Nothing but the feel of his body, on top of me, inside me. We move together, slowly, locked in the most intimate embrace, wanting to prolong the moment until we can hold back no longer. When he comes, it’s to the pulse of my own orgasm, and when it’s over, he whispers in my ear.
I bury my face in his shoulder, afraid to acknowledge that I heard what he said.
Afraid that I might be feeling the same way.
Afraid of what it means if I do.
* * *
Adele’s discreet knock on the door comes minutes after Lance calls to let her know we’re ready to rejoin the world of the living. He doesn’t use those words, of course, but there’s a reason the French call the orgasm “la petite mort.”
We’re in the bedroom—another huge room with huge furniture. Lance said his parents decorated the place seventy years ago. It’s obvious that their taste ran to Old World castles and provincial country chateaux. Lance never cared enough to invest either time or money to change it, and Adele doesn’t seem to mind.
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