Immortal Angel

by Lynsay Sands

  Ildaria’s gaze shifted automatically to the plate piled high with food and she noted that it held two huge double stacked burgers and about a pound of french fries. Their delicious scent wafted to her and her stomach gurgled with interest.

  “It’s not for you.”

  Ildaria blinked at that growled announcement in a thick British accent and dragged her gaze from the delicious smelling food to the man’s face to see that he wasn’t looking at her. He was peering down toward . . . his groin? Confusion filled her at that realization. He couldn’t be talking to his penis. She didn’t think. Shaking her head, she said, “I didn’t presume it was for me.”

  The big man stopped walking and jerked his head up at her words, his eyes widening when he saw her standing there. “Marguerite’s Ildaria?”

  “Si.” She started forward again.

  “Hi.” He smiled and then added, “Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you, I was addressing my . . . Arsehole!” he ended with irritation and did a little shuffling dance.

  “You were addressing your arsehole?” she asked, amusement curving her lips as she reached the bar and stopped between two stools.

  Looking flustered now, the man shook his head and then scowled down at something she obviously couldn’t see below the bar. “No. I—” Pausing, he did another little shimmying dance and barked, “Dammit H.D.! Stop that! You aren’t getting any food.”

  Curiosity rising within her, Ildaria stepped up on the brass rail that ran along the bottom of the bar and leaned over the dark stone top to peer at the floor on the other side.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured and then bit her lip to hold back a burst of laughter when she saw the tiny, cream-colored ball of fur that was presently humping the huge man’s ankle. It looked like a fluffy teddy bear come to life, and he was really romancing the big guy’s ankle.

  “Your dog?” she asked mildly.

  “Yeah,” he grunted, giving his leg another shake in an effort to dislodge the determined little guy.

  “What kind?” she asked with interest.

  “Bichonpoo,” the man said still glaring down at the dog, and explained, “Bichon Frise and toy poodle mix.”

  “Oh.” Ildaria nodded, a grin pulling her lips wider as H.D. refused to be removed and continued to hump at the big man’s lower leg. Lifting her gaze to the plate the man was holding, she snatched a french fry from the pile and tossed it to the dog. The pup was immediately off the man’s leg and leaping to catch the treat. Really, it was an impressive catch. He got some serious height in his jump to snatch that fry out of midair. As the dog dropped to the floor to gobble up his prize, the man heaved a sigh, drawing her attention back to him.

  Ildaria’s gaze moved with interest over his muscular body before sliding up to his head. When Marguerite had asked her if she’d mind stopping to pick up some blood from the Night Club on the way back from the university, she’d said the man she would be getting it from was G.G. which stood for Green Giant. Ildaria had immediately asked why he was called that, but the other woman had merely smiled and said she’d understand when she met him. Her gaze moving over the green strands of hair standing up stiff on his head in a Mohawk, Ildaria understood.

  “That’s what he was working for and what I was trying to avoid,” G.G. announced now, reclaiming her attention to the fact that he was scowling between her and the dog.

  It took Ildaria a moment to return her mind to the conversation, and then she gave a disbelieving laugh and asked, “He was humping your leg for food?”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” G.G. pointed out dryly. “He humped my leg and you gave him food to get him off.”

  “Ah.” She shifted her gaze down to the dog who had finished his fry and was now staring up from her to G.G., his tongue coming out repeatedly to lick his upper lip as if he was trying to tell them he wanted more. Shaking her head, she shrugged apologetically. “Sorry. But I couldn’t resist. Damn that’s one cute dog.” Opening her eyes wide, she smiled at the pooch and added, “Aren’t you, H.D.?”

  When the dog focused his attention on her, she found herself using that cooing voice all humans resort to when faced with cute creatures like babies and puppies. “Aren’t you a pretty puppy? Hmm? Yes you are. You look like a little teddy bear. I just want to cuddle you all up.”

  That elicited a high-pitched bark from the little fur ball, and then he turned and charged to the open end of the bar by the swinging doors and careened around it, his little nails clacking on the hardwood.

  “H.D., no!” G.G. said with alarm, dropping his plate on the bar and chasing after the dog even as he warned, “Get on a stool. He doesn’t like women and he’s an ankle biter.”

  Ildaria ignored the warning, and turned to face the dog as he sprinted into view around the corner of the bar, still yipping as he came. Rather than climb up on a stool, she stepped down off the brass rail and crouched down to greet the little fluffy dog. When he reached her, she caught him under the front legs and lifted him fearlessly to her face so she could press kisses to his furry cheeks. He immediately began licking wildly at any part of her face he could reach.

  “Well, damn.”

  Lowering the dog, Ildaria cuddled him to her chest and petted him soothingly as she glanced at his owner. The giant gave a huff of disbelief.

  “That dog doesn’t like anyone but me. Usually, anyway,” G.G. added, his gaze shifting to the dog now licking her hands, neck, and chin.

  Ildaria shrugged almost apologetically. “Dogs like me.”

  “So it would seem,” he muttered, some of the tension sliding out of him now that the danger of the little fur ball attacking her had passed. His gaze slid from her to the dog and then to his plate of food before he heaved a sigh and headed for the swing doors. “I’ll get Marguerite’s order.”

  “No rush,” Ildaria said, sliding onto one of the bar stools and settling H.D. in her lap so she could continue to pet him. “Why don’t you eat your food first so it doesn’t go cold?”

  The Giant paused with his hand on one of the swing doors and looked back with surprise. “Yeah?”

  “Si. Marguerite expected me to be at the university for several hours so went to visit Lissianna. There’s really no rush.”

  His lips quirked with amusement at this news and he asked, “Playing hooky?”

  “You have to be enrolled in classes to play hooky from them,” she pointed out unhappily.

  That had his eyebrows rising and his feet carrying him back to stand on the other side of the bar from her. “I was told you were finishing your third year, taking accounting at the university.”

  “Were being the key word in that sentence,” Ildaria said, her tone dry as dust. She pressed a kiss to H.D.’s head and then lifted her gaze back to G.G., surprised to find him eyeing her with concern.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said in a deep, sympathetic rumble. “Were the courses here harder than—”

  “Oh, God, no,” Ildaria said quickly, dismayed at the idea that he might think she’d dropped out because she couldn’t hack the courses here. “I was doing well. I didn’t want to quit.”

  “Then what happened?” he asked with confusion.

  “Lucian happened,” Ildaria said bitterly, and then deciding that wasn’t fair, added, “Or to be fair, the truth is I happened, and then life happened and Lucian was forced to intercede.”

  Now, the poor man looked thoroughly lost, she noted and smiled wryly, but merely reminded him, “You should really eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

  G.G.’s gaze moved back to the plate between them with surprise. Apparently he’d forgotten all about his meal. Reminded of it, he nodded, but didn’t start eating at once. Instead, he raised his eyes back to her and said, “I need to get a drink. Do you want anything?”

  Ildaria hesitated, but then asked, “Do you have any sodas without caffeine?”

  His eyebrows rose slightly, but he asked, “Do you like Tahitian Treat?”

  When Ildaria stared at him blankly, he
grinned and said, “Hang on.”

  She watched him move along the counter, and then focused her attention on the pup in her arms when he shifted in her hold so that her hand could reach his belly. Grinning at the silent request, Ildaria rubbed his stomach and then chuckled softly when the dog released a little sound that was part grunt and part sigh and then rolled completely onto his back in her arms and let his legs flop open so she could cover more belly. It was a very trusting move. He was lucky she didn’t drop him, but Ildaria managed to retain her hold and petted his belly as he appeared to want. Much to her amusement the dog closed his eyes then and seemed to fall asleep under her ministrations.

  “Little gremlin. He’s never like this with women.”

  Ildaria lifted her head to find that G.G. had collected two glasses of a clear, cherry-red liquid over ice and walked around to join her on the client side of the bar.

  Settling on the chair next to hers, he placed one of the drinks on the bar in front of Ildaria and then took a sip of the other as he pulled his plate closer. After swallowing the drink, he set the glass down, looked at the dog again and shook his head. “Actually, he’s not like that with anyone but me. You must be a dog whisperer.”

  Ildaria smiled faintly as she peered down at the sleeping dog. He was a tiny little thing. Hardly the breed she would have expected a big man like G.G. to have.

  “Big dogs need room to run and in the UK I live in a flat four blocks from the club,” he said, as if having read her mind, which as a mortal he couldn’t do. She supposed most people commented on the size of his dog when he continued, “A walk to the Night Club there and back is enough exercise for this little guy.”

  He didn’t have to say it wouldn’t be enough for a larger dog. She got that, but asked, “And where do you live here?”

  Her gaze slid from G.G. to H.D. as she awaited his answer, imagining the sight the pair must make walking down Toronto streets, a big, scary-looking guy with a Mohawk, tattoos, and piercings, leading the fluffy little fur ball on a leash. Probably a black leather leash with studs or something, she thought, taking note of the dog’s black leather collar with spikes sticking out of it. If it was supposed to make the little fuzz ball look tough, it failed miserably. He was too damned cute to look scary. But she suspected the sight the pair made left most people gaping.

  “Right now I’m living in one of the apartments over the club,” G.G. told her. And then lowered his gaze to his plate and frowned before muttering, “If you drink soda, you probably eat too.”

  Ildaria raised her eyebrows at the comment. “Not as often as I used to, but si, I still eat.”

  G.G. nodded. “Would you like something? I can make you a burger.”

  Ildaria considered the offer briefly. She was hungry. It was a sensation she experienced less and less often lately, but which was presently gnawing at her stomach. She didn’t want to make him cook for her though, so promising herself she’d hit a drive-through on her way back to Marguerite’s, she murmured, “Maybe just a fry.”

  “Help yourself.” G.G. pushed the plate to rest halfway between the two of them on the counter.

  “Thanks,” Ildaria breathed, and left off petting his dog to pluck a french fry from the mountain of greasy goodness.

  The moment she bit into it, the dog in her arms sprang awake, his body jerking as if the slight sound were an alarm of some sort. The little mutt then squirmed to turn in her arm and climbed up her chest to sniff her mouth as she chewed. Chuckling, Ildaria caught the little beast and set him back in her lap.

  “Ill mannered cretin,” G.G. said with a scowl, scooping the dog out of her lap and setting him on the floor as he said firmly, “We’re eating. Go lay down.”

  H.D. merely rose up on his back paws and laid his front paws on the man’s lower legs, his eager gaze sliding from his face to Ildaria’s, his eyes wide and tongue sliding in and out of his mouth eagerly.

  Ildaria chuckled at the display, amazed at how human he looked with his big green eyes and lip smacking. Her laughter earned a scowl from G.G. and an exasperated, “Don’t encourage him.” He then turned his gaze back to the dog and repeated firmly, “We’re eating, H.D. Get in your basket.”

  H.D. hesitated, the hope dying on his face, but then dropped back to all fours and began to walk slowly back along the bar to the end of it. He was walking as slow as molasses, head and tail down, looking back every couple of steps as if checking to be sure G.G. hadn’t changed his stance on the issue, but G.G. just scowled and eyed him firmly until he disappeared out of sight around the bar.

  “Where is he going?” Ildaria asked, raising herself up enough to see over the bar again.

  “I put his bed behind the bar so he could stay with me until we open,” G.G. said, picking up his burger.

  “Oh.” She settled back in her seat as he took a bite, and then commented, “Marguerite didn’t mention that you brought your dog to the club. I’d have come in to check out the place sooner if I’d realized that.”

  G.G. shook his head as he chewed and swallowed, and then said, “I don’t usually. But his sitter didn’t come in today and I didn’t want to leave him at home alone.”

  Ildaria’s eyebrows rose. “You have a sitter for your dog?”

  “Have to. The little monster eats things he shouldn’t if he’s left alone. And I don’t mean human food.”

  “Like what?” she asked with interest.

  “Shoes, rugs, clothing . . . my razor.”

  “Razor?” she squawked with alarm. “Was he all right?”

  “It was a cordless electric razor,” G.G. said on a sigh. “He chewed off those little round blade things. Didn’t swallow any of the pieces, though, before I caught him.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed a bit.

  “He destroyed the razor though,” G.G. added with irritation. “I was pretty pissed.”

  “I can imagine,” Ildaria murmured.

  “Not as pissed as I was when he ate my passport, though,” he grumbled and bit viciously into his burger.

  “Your passport?” she asked on a disbelieving laugh.

  G.G. grimaced and nodded as he chewed, but once he’d swallowed, he added, “I was packing and it was lying on the bed next to my suitcase. I left the room, came back and he was chewing on it. He’d already managed to eat a corner of it, the one with the bar code.” Shaking his head with disgust, he added, “This was ten o’clock at night, the evening before I was supposed to fly back to London. I had to cancel the flight and arrange for a new passport. I was not a happy camper.”

  “Oh, dear,” Ildaria murmured and then bit her lip to keep from laughing at the gloomy irritation on his face.

  G.G. took another bite of his burger, chewed, swallowed and then said, “The worst, though, was the cashier’s check he demolished.”

  “Cashier’s check?” she asked, her eyebrows rising.

  G.G. nodded glumly. “A hundred thousand dollar cashier’s check. The down payment on this place when I bought it from Lucern. It was on the dresser in my hotel room. I had an hour before my meeting with Lucern and the lawyers, went to take a shower, came back out and he’d jumped on the chair next to the dresser, got a hold of the check and was curled up in the chair eating it like it was a dog bone.”

  “Madre de Dios,” Ildaria breathed with horror.

  “Yeah,” he said unhappily and then added, “Fortunately, he hadn’t eaten all of it and there was enough left of the destroyed check that the bank was willing to issue a new one. But I was sweating it until they agreed.” His mouth tightened at the memory. “I started calling him the hundred-thousand-dollar dog after that.”

  “H.D.,” Ildaria breathed with realization.

  “H.D. for short,” he agreed. “H.T.D.D. was a mouthful, and H.D. is close enough to his real name that he answers to it.”

  “What’s his real name?” she asked with interest.

  “Eddy.”

  “Eddy?” she echoed. Teddy would have fit better. He looked like a teddy bear af
ter all.

  “Edward Simpson Guiscard on his registration,” G.G. announced. “Eddy.”

  “So you’re G.G. Simpson Guiscard,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Joshua James Simpson Guiscard,” he corrected quietly. “G.G. is a nickname. Joshua James Simpson was my birth name. My birth father was John Simpson, but he died when I was young and my mother remarried Robert Guiscard. Robert adopted me and Guiscard was legally added to the end of my name.”

  “Ah,” Ildaria murmured, thinking Joshua was a nice name. It didn’t really suit the Mohawked and tattooed man beside her though. G.G. did.

  “And you?” G.G. asked with interest.

  “Me?” she asked uncertainly.

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Oh.” She blinked, and then blurted, “Angelina Ildaria Sophia Lupita Garcia Pimienta.” The moment the words left her mouth, she frowned and turned to stare blindly at the mirrored shelves behind the bar, wondering why she’d told him that. As a rule, she avoided telling it at all, or lied. The last two hundred years she hadn’t used Angelina at all. She’d gone by Ildaria and used Garcia because it was as common as Smith in North America.

  “Pretty name,” G.G. said, and she turned back to him with surprise to see a faint smile tilting his lips before he popped the last of his first burger into his mouth and began to chew.

  “I just go by Ildaria Garcia,” she murmured, feeling her tension slowly subside as she watched him eat. Some part of her mind was assuring her that it didn’t matter that he knew her name. It was fine. She was in North America now, far away from the Dominican Republic and the danger that revealing her name held there. Letting her breath out, she searched for something to say, and found herself asking, “So, how did a mortal end up owning and running not just one, but two nightclubs for immortals?”