Sam reached over, putting his hand over hers for a moment. Chloe barely had time to form a thought before his hand was back on the steering wheel. She blinked quickly, banishing the tears the unexpected gesture had summoned.
Neither of them spoke. Sam turned onto a steep incline that crawled up a winding lane between tall stands of pine and cedar. It was like plunging into a primeval forest.
She cleared her throat. “How does anyone find this place?”
“It’s meant for a select clientele. There’s a helicopter pad for those who don’t care for the drive.”
She could see the appeal for Jack. He worked every hour of every day, but he liked his luxuries. “Who owns this? It wasn’t listed anywhere in his estate.”
“The Hope family. The place is called Hope’s Reach. And I don’t think he ever made a formal agreement. He took risks once in a while, but people always paid him back eventually. These folks did.”
Chloe could see the Reach’s sign now, arching over the narrow roadway. As they drove beneath it the trees opened up into a wide clearing at the top of the hill. Ahead stretched an unobstructed vista of ocean, only a pair of eagles interrupting the view. Breathtaking.
The drive circled around a broad lawn set with a stone fountain. The main building was four stories and curved around the north side of the grass. Smaller structures that might have been private cabins were scattered farther away beneath the trees.
Sam pulled up in front of the main entrance, the Mercedes humming to a final cadence. The butterfly doors lifted gracefully. By the time Chloe picked up her handbag, Sam was at her side of the car to offer her his hand.
“A man of mystery and style,” she said.
“There’s no point to a poor effort.”
The only sign of tension was a crease between his brows, and she realized this was perhaps the first time she’d seen him standing in full sun. The contrast between his dark hair and pale skin was striking enough that she had to force herself not to stare. It took him beyond handsome to something exotic.
The moment didn’t last long. Valets ran forward, vying for the privilege of parking Sam’s car. He tossed the keys to the fastest, and quickly escorted Chloe beneath the glass-and-fieldstone facade of the main building.
Inside it was dim and cool, all the light coming from floor-to-ceiling glass windows that were shaded by the dogwood and arbutus trees outside. With the rough rock walls carried through to the interior, it felt a bit like walking through an upscale cave.
“The dining room is this way.” Sam led her up a short flight of steps that opened to a shady patio.
The hostess was a pretty brunette. “Welcome back, Mr. Ralston.”
“Fay,” he said cordially. “How are you?”
The woman dimpled in a way that made Chloe itch. How well did these two know each other, anyway? Don’t be ridiculous. He’s being polite.
But Fay brightened under his pleasantry. “I’m very well, thank you. The corner table is free, if you would like that.”
“Please.”
She led them to a space that was sheltered from the ocean breeze, but still had a view. From this side of the hill, a steep cliff descended to the beach. Chloe could see a boardwalk and pier far below. The scene was utterly peaceful. Sailboats, some with white sails, some with brilliant reds and blues, floated on a silver sea. Sam held her chair, and then took the seat in the deepest shadow.
Chloe couldn’t help herself. “You must come here often, if you know the staff’s names.”
“Fay is one of the owners. As I said, I came here with Jack when they first opened.” He gave her a slight smile, just a twitch of the lips. “There are three Hope daughters, all young, beautiful and unmarried.”
“No wonder my uncle invested.”
“I didn’t inquire about Jack’s methods for testing the assets.”
Chloe closed her eyes. “I’m not touching that statement with a ten-foot pole.”
“Good. Just so we’re clear, I came here for the wine list.” He glanced over the top of his sunglasses. “Though I hear the spa offers an amazing hot rock treatment.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I’m very selective about hot rocks and who is offering them.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
Fay returned. Chloe ordered seafood salad; he asked for the bisque.
“I’ve never seen you eat much,” she said. “If you don’t mind my mentioning it.”
He answered with the air of someone used to the question. “My job requires rigorous physical training. That means following a very restricted dietary plan.”
“And yet you drink.”
“It’s a failing. I’m not a saint.”
“Fair enough.” The wine Sam ordered came and Chloe sipped it. A Mondeuse blanche. Her tastebuds tingled at the citrus taste. “Not an everyday choice. I appreciate someone who knows their vintages.”
“You apparently do, as well.”
She shrugged. “I have to for my business. I have a lot of food and wine experts on speed dial. You never know what someone is going to ask for.”
“What made you choose to spend your time arranging other people’s weddings?”
She felt a twinge, like an old injury. “My own.”
Sam frowned. “You are—or were—married?” He sounded shocked.
“Almost.” She took another mouthful of wine. The memory of Neil was enough to drive her to drink. “My college sweetheart. It never happened.”
“Why not?”
Chloe hesitated. “It’s a long story.”
Sam played with the spoon resting on his napkin, seemed to catch himself, and put it down. “Something must have made you decide against it.” He was clearly curious.
She smiled, a bit wryly. “Actually, it was the other way around. He backed out the morning I was to walk down the aisle. Another hour and I would have literally been left at the altar.”
Sam pulled off his sunglasses. “That’s not possible.” He said it quietly.
“I beg to differ. I was there.” And people wonder why I have abandonment issues.
“What reason could he have?”
“There was another female in the picture. He wasn’t up to sharing that tidbit of information until the last possible moment. Either I was blind or he hid it very well.” She remembered the world dropping out from beneath her, the rage born of fear. Fear that she couldn’t navigate a world where the one person she loved best could make such a fool of her. Fear that she couldn’t trust anyone ever again.
Sam was studying her face, as if he could see her memories there. “He is fortunate I don’t know his name.”
“Jack made his feelings clear. Neil left the state after that.”
Sam gave an unpleasant smile. It was enough to make a girl adore him.
Chloe gave a short laugh. “I guess when it comes to lovers, what you don’t know can actually hurt you.”
Sam had been reaching across the table to touch her but withdrew his hand. She pretended not to notice.
Time to change the subject. “The good part of it all was that I found out how much I liked weddings—the pageantry and celebration, the decorations, everything. I’d organized my own event pretty much by myself and had a blast doing it. So I thought, why not plan weddings for a living? I had just finished a fine arts degree in set design. There weren’t too many jobs around in literal theaters, but with weddings the stage is wherever the bride and groom want it to be. It’s one of the few moments in life where everyday people are the stars. I’m there to make it a hit production just for them, and it feels wonderful.”
Sam nodded, his slow smile igniting something deep in her belly. “Good for you. Good for turning the situation around.”
“I consider my own experience a fortunate escape. Th
at doesn’t mean I think a happy ever after is impossible.”
He raised his glass. “To an eternity of happiness, Chloe Anderson. May you be your own most successful client.”
The food came, and there were many pleasant things to contemplate. Sam sipping his wine. The delicious food. The glorious day. Sam offering her a taste of his soup, then stealing a pecan from her salad. She’d never been tempted to gaze at a man for hours on end, but he was handsome enough. And interesting. Without showing off, Sam seemed to know something about every subject under the sun.
They talked lazily, drifting in and out of subjects the way the eagles overhead banked from one air current to the next. There was still the underlying tension of newness between them, like glue that hadn’t yet set. A slip could still make everything come unstuck. And yet there was also an instant comfort, as if they’d known each other long before.
Sam had a confidence she normally saw in someone far more mature. It wasn’t cockiness. To her it felt more like the ease of experience. He didn’t have to impress. He just knew who he was. His sureness made her relax.
“Are you sure you won’t try dessert?” he asked. “I understand their pastry chef is extraordinary.”
“I wish I could, but that was a huge salad, and it was so good that I ate every bite.”
“Coward.” He smiled, and this time it was wide enough that she could see his strong, white teeth. Not that he’d used them much at this meal. He had only eaten about half his soup. How could anyone survive on so little food? She wondered if she looked in the backseat if she’d find a secret stash of fast-food wrappers.
“So tell me something about your work. What kind of security jobs did you do for Uncle Jack? Was it just bodyguard work?”
She regretted her words as soon as she spoke. He sat back, pushing the sunglasses back on. It was obviously not a welcome question.
“There’s more to it than being a bodyguard, though that’s mostly what I do.”
“I see.”
She had time to pour cream into her coffee before he spoke again. When he did, he looked away, as though he was talking more to himself than to her. “Being a bodyguard isn’t as easy as it sounds. Sometimes things go wrong and innocent people die. Then you wonder if you were to blame.”
The way he said it resonated with memory. Whatever had happened still stung, but he said nothing more. He was apparently done sharing for the day.
Was this the source of the “monster” comment? What was so awful that he couldn’t tell her?
Chloe tasted the coffee, but the pleasure of it didn’t reach beyond her tongue. Neil had kept secrets, but they were the simple kind. Another woman. A fickle heart. Unkind, but hardly lethal. She’d survived him. But Sam?
She watched him cautiously. There was nothing fickle about the set of his jaw or the square strength of his shoulders. And yet, she was willing to bet his secrets were far, far bigger than a second girlfriend. Even more disturbing, if she let herself fall for him, she wouldn’t get over it so easily. Their kiss had told her that much. He would be the lover that destroyed her for anyone else.
The warm summer afternoon lost its charm. She set down the coffee cup, no longer thirsty.
Sam’s dark black sunglasses were aimed her way, but they gave away nothing. The perfectly sculptured mouth—the one that had kissed her so beautifully—clamped into a hard line. “My work isn’t as pretty as setting the stage for a wedding.”
“No.” What was she supposed to say?
“Does that frighten you?”
“What I don’t know about you frightens me more.”
He folded his napkin, setting it on the table. “Good call.”
Chapter 11
Sam drove down the dark highway, wishing he could just keep going and leave Oakwood in his taillights for good.
There is a reason that vampires don’t date, Sam told himself. It was confusing. Chloe wanted him, and that was natural. Vampires seduced; it was part of their hunting behavior. Their legendary attractiveness was no more than survival skills with a few pheromones thrown in. After all, what was courtship but a mild version of the predator’s dance with its prey? That much Sam understood.
But there was more between them than that. Chloe had looked at him as if she actually saw who he was. Not the monster, but the man. The Sam he’d been long ago. And, more than anything, he’d wanted to believe what she saw was true.
But that was impossible. He’d barely caught himself before he surrendered to the lie. He was a vampire. As War, he battled with murderers, thieves and abominations worse than himself. By nature, he was a killer surrounded by death. Women like her die around creatures like you.
Moreover, any kind of a relationship could get truly awkward. It would be impossible to explain who he was. There was no good way to raise the topic of sucking blood.
No, it was far less complicated to be the superhero in the background, protecting the golden-haired maid from the dark forces of villainy. That, at least, had dignity.
“What are you brooding about?” Kenyon asked from the passenger seat.
“I’m not brooding.”
“Yes, you are. Your eyebrows get all wrinkly.”
He cursed. “I’m planning how we’re going to find the dress thief in this dive.”
“If they’re still around,” said Kenyon darkly. “This neck of the woods is big on hunting and fishing. There’ve been a surprising number of guests in and out in the last couple of days, and it’s not like we had a good description to go on. Just another bunch of guys with knapsacks and equipment.”
“They’ll be there. They didn’t get what they wanted. They’re too professional to give up just like that.” At least that’s what Sam was counting on. Kenyon had spent the entire day roaming the area in search of a lead.
And, although he’d said nothing to Chloe, the files Sam had searched out at Gravesend Security had been Jack’s detailed notes on local tourist businesses. It seemed the Salmon Tail Hotel and Saloon had a reputation for renting rooms to scum.
Sam slowed as the sign for the Salmon Tail—missing a few of the old neon letters—came into view. He took a right into the gravel parking lot, parking the Ford Super Duty right in front of the saloon-door entrance. He’d borrowed the truck from Jack’s garage. His own ride would have stuck out like a Thoroughbred among a herd of goats.
“Like I said, there’s no other hotels or motels close by,” Kenyon said. “It’s a reasonable theory.”
Sam grunted agreement. The Salmon Tail occupied a gray area between functional drinking establishment and dump. Sam noticed a dent in the siding where someone with a skinful had driven right into the west corner of the building. Another, smaller neon sign hung over the front window, representing a heifer doing a jerky cancan and holding a tray of burgers.
They got out of the truck, Sam’s muscles grateful for the chance to stretch. He looked around. The town was tiny, no streetlights bleaching the velvety black night. Frogs chirped a counterpoint to the country music spilling from the bar.
Kenyon folded his arms, scowling at the ramshackle building. Sam ignored him, instead giving the parking lot a critical review. No vehicles he recognized. Not that he had really expected any. Kenyon took a step toward the door. Sam caught his arm. “Be careful.”
“I’m new. I’m not brain damaged.”
Sam dropped his voice to a murmur. “The thief who attacked Chloe was a professional, and that means subtle. We don’t know who we’re looking for.”
“I thought you said it was the Knights of Vidon.”
“That’s my theory. They would be more likely than most to know about the gems. They’re human, but they use silver bullets. And they hate the idea of an alliance between Vidon and Marcari. Covert ops is their specialty. Plus, they were always after Jack and had the guts to t
ake him on.”
“So they fit the profile. That’s good, right? We’ve fought them and won before.”
“Not like this. The Knights are at their deadliest when they’re operating in secret.”
Kenyon drew his eyebrows together, his expression a mix of sympathy and irritation. “Like I say, I may be fuzzy, but I’m not fuzzy-headed.”
All the members of the Company had experienced a run-in with the slayers, but in the time-honored code of men they never openly spoke of it.
“I’ll mind my manners,” Kenyon said quietly. “But you know I could bend, fold and spindle any of them.”
“Maybe one at a time. No one can take them all.”
Kenyon gave Sam a toothy smile. “I wouldn’t want to be greedy.”
“I wouldn’t let you.” Sam jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go find Winspear.”
Jack’s autopsy would be done by now. Not that they wanted to think about that. Sam pushed through the double doors without another word. Kenyon followed a pace behind.
A sour fog of noise and slopped beer engulfed Sam the moment his boots hit the bar’s wooden floor. The place was stereotypical enough for a movie set: dark, down-at-heel, complete with pool tables, rickety stools and strings of lights shaped like tiny chili peppers.
The atmosphere itself didn’t bother Sam, whose first alcoholic experiments had taken place in a shack in the woods. One of his father’s tenants had come by a recipe for home brew and, well, it had been a wonder any of them still had internal organs. Compared to that, this place was upmarket.
What bothered him was not knowing which of the blue-jeaned, flannel-shirted patrons were slayers in disguise. Sam let his gaze touch each person, assessing body language, posture, scent. No one stood out. Then again, they never did.
Eventually, his scrutiny fell on a lone dark-haired figure at a corner table, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Winspear. Sam and Kenyon navigated the room, skirting the pool table and a cluster of barely legals playing darts. Winspear straightened to a sitting position as they grabbed chairs.
Kenyon picked up the beer bottle sitting in front of the doctor. His eyebrows lowered. “Since when do you guys drink plain old pilsner? I thought you were all, like, Chateau Frou-frou Chardonnay types.”
Possessed by a Warrior Page 10
