by SK Ryder
This place had seen a lot of life. Happy life, she liked to think, and for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she felt safe here in spite of the cranky Frenchman camping in the back bedroom. How long had he or his family owned this place? Was he part of whatever had created the good vibes she sensed? Maybe she felt safe here not in spite of, but because of him. He claimed to want nothing from her—except to be left alone—but he was here. She wasn’t alone. And for now here is where she intended to stay.
Her other roommate, Eddie, flowed down the stairs and poured himself onto a rug beneath the whirring ceiling fan. There he stretched and twisted with abandon. Cassidy joined him on the floor and rubbed his squirming belly. “Hey there, buddy. Feeling better now?”
After Dominic left last night, she had tried to bribe the cat out from under her bed with kitty treats for an hour, but he didn’t surface until she turned in herself. This morning, he was under the bed again. But whatever his misgivings then, he now purred with enthusiasm.
The back room door was closed, and she wondered how anyone could sleep in this heat. Whatever it was that knocked him out must be formidable. Alcohol? Drugs? So sad. He was such a handsome guy—until he opened his mouth. Cassidy sighed. None of her business. She had enough problems of her own.
She went for a jog on the beach and noodled around with an idea for an article before enjoying a bowl of leftover mac ‘n’ cheese in one of the creaking Adirondack chairs on the front porch. Shadows lengthened and a puff of breeze brushed against her damp skin. Insects buzzed over the whoosh and mumble of the ocean. Evening gathered around her, bundling her in peace—which only lasted until she finished a cool, soapy shower.
“Well, look who’s up,” she said, descending the stairs. Anticipating such an encounter, she had dressed in a long, tie-dyed peasant skirt and the most conservative top she could tolerate in this heat.
Dominic sat cross-legged in a corner of the sofa, a bottle of Perrier in one hand and a laptop balanced between his thighs. She was cheered to see that his attire tonight included not only gym pants but also a black, V-necked T-shirt. He ran his fingers through his unruly hair, pushing it off his face, and gave her a quizzical look.
“Look who is still here.”
“Right.” To buy herself some time—or maybe to avoid having to face that intense interest directly—she padded to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator before she knew what she wanted from it. That’s when she noticed that Radio Denver had been replaced by a pop beat underlying French lyrics. He had reprogrammed her Internet radio. Right then, a station break identified Radio St. Barth. She inhaled, preparing to tell him exactly how she felt about him touching her things, but then remembered her continued precarious situation. So she opted for a diplomatic, “Is that where you’re from? St . . . Barth?”
“Oui. St. Barthélémy.”
Not in the mood for sweetness, she took one of the Perriers, opened it, and drank straight out of the bottle, relishing the bite of the cold bubbles in the back of her throat.
“Isn’t that the island where that Italian actress was killed last year? What was her name? Jo-Sebastian-something?” When he didn’t even look up from his laptop, she continued, “That was quite the media circus as I recall. Were you there for that?”
Dominic snapped the laptop shut. “Why are you still here, Cassidy?”
“Sorry. Guess you were.” She made a mental note to look up more information about that Caribbean island online. She knew it was small. And, oh yeah, French.
“Look,” she said, facing him from behind the kitchen counter. “This wasn’t my first choice of places to stay. In fact, it’s safe to say that it was my last choice. Though it’s growing on me,” she added quickly. No point in insulting his home more than she already had. “I don’t have anywhere else to go right now.” She drank some more of the chilled bubbles before that depressing thought could sink in any deeper. “Besides, there’s a contract I can’t afford to break. You should have told them you were here.”
He looked at her, his expression neutral.
“I’m quiet. I’m neat. Eddie”—she glanced around, but saw no trace of him—“well, Eddie is obviously the disappearing cat, and I make sure he’s always clean. It doesn’t look like you’re allergic or anything. We should be able to coexist for a bit, right?”
Dominic took a slow swallow from his own little green bottle. “Your pet is allergic to me.”
“He’s shy around strangers. But at least he doesn’t bite. Neither do I, by the way.”
As she hoped, that got a smile out of him. “Maybe I do.” At her puzzled frown, he shrugged. “Do you really have nowhere else to go?”
“Nowhere else I can handle being right now, no.”
“Why?”
Cassidy cringed. Here came the questions again. “That’s . . . personal.”
Dominic made a small noise that sounded French somehow. Setting aside the laptop, he unfolded his long legs. “You insist on sharing my home. What could be more personal than that?”
Though it was a casual question, the suggestive purr in his voice sent heat crawling up her neck. She didn’t want to go there with him, needed to keep their accidental relationship as business-like as possible. She had no room in her life for more complications right now, and, God help her, Dominic Marchant had ‘complicated’ written all over him.
“Se détendre, Cassidy. Relax,” he said, getting up. Coming closer, his mood shifted with the same sinuous ease as his body when he leaned one hand on the kitchen counter across from her. “I greatly value my privacy. Yet you are determined to invade it. All I want is to understand why that is.”
Cassidy searched his face and found only quiet interest. Like it or not, he had a point. Were their roles reversed, she doubted she would be half so accommodating. That deserved something. Relenting, she summarized her situation, mentioning a big move, new job, and low pay, but leaving out the personal details—or tried to.
“And where is the man who gave you that?” He indicated the ring with a nod.
“Not here, obviously.”
“Is he still in Colorado?”
She shook her head and studied the ring, remembering how Jackson had presented it to her on one knee two days before they both graduated—she with her journalism bachelor’s, he with his MBA—both of them full of excitement and hope.
“So he is dead?” Dominic prompted.
“No. We . . .” broke up, but I’m still wearing this because I might be out of a job if I don’t and will be financially sunk for eternity if I lost it? No. Keep it simple. “We’re taking a break.” A long one.
“Because of the bite?”
Cassidy gasped. “What the . . . what is it with you and that bruise?”
“It makes sense, non?”
“No. It doesn’t.” Agitation rippled through her. Before he could push the issue any more, she went on the attack. “And to be perfectly honest, neither do you.”
His eyes widened a little. “Oh?”
“An obvious hunk like you hanging out here all by yourself? Sleeping all day and disappearing all night? What gives?”
“Ah. I knew you were enjoying the view.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Like you?”
“What are you doing here, Nick? I can call you Nick, right?” ‘Dominic’ was such a pretentious mouthful. “Who are you really?”
For a while he said nothing, and Cassidy was pleased to think that she had turned the tables on him. Then a corner of his mouth lifted. “Perhaps I am a depraved French serial killer hiding from justice?”
She stared at him, bewildered yet again by this walking, talking, irritating contradiction of a man. Well, two could play that game. “Oh, a French serial killer, is it? Good to know. I’d hate to be here with a criminal who m
ight have some manners.”
Now it was his turn to look befuddled. She lifted a brow in challenge. He shook his head and upended the Perrier to his lips.
Male model, she thought again, watching his throat bob. Probably lost his contract because he couldn’t check his attitude at the door. South Florida. Such a magnet for the freak shows of humanity. What a waste.
When the bottle settled back on the faded yellow Formica surface between them, it was empty. His long fingers idly spun it in place. “I have an allergy. To the sun.”
“Don’t tell me. You sparkle,” she shot back. He tilted his head, in exasperation or amusement, she couldn’t tell which. She took a closer look at his skin. It was very fair and did look like it might blister if exposed to anything stronger than a forty-watt bulb. “Um, sorry. I do know that’s a real condition.”
“What? Sparkling?”
“No. Sun allergy. But it’s kinda strange that you’re trying to avoid the sun on a beach in a tropical climate.”
He watched the bottle in his fingers, a small frown drawing his sweeping black brows together. “This house belongs to my family. They do not know I’m here. I would like to keep it that way.”
“Fine. But the rental agency is trying to reach the owners about the busted AC.”
His head snapped up. “Tell them to stop.”
“Are you going to fix it then? Assuming you’re not throwing me bodily out of here, which is about what it’ll take to get rid of me, by the way.”
Another one of those long, searching looks as if he were trying to read her every thought. Abandoning the bottle, he returned to the living room where he sprawled into the sofa, his arms outstretched across the back. “You may decide to leave on your own.”
“I doubt that.”
“There are house rules.”
“House rules?” That sounded promising. Armed with all the best intentions to take every single one to heart, Cassidy settled in the nearest wicker armchair and folded her legs underneath her. “Shoot.”
“If you are going to drink my water, you will keep us both supplied. I don’t like going to the store.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then saw the half-empty green bottle clutched in her hand. “Expensive habits.”
“My least expensive habit, actually. Consider it part of your rent.”
Cassidy smothered a spike of irritation with forced good cheer. “Fine. Perrier it is. And anything else in the fridge, while you’re in there. Be my guest. Help yourself to snacks.”
“Help myself?” Somehow he managed to look aghast and eager at the same time.
“Really. I don’t mind.”
“Oh. I think perhaps you would.” He shook his head. “No matter. Your groceries are safe from me. Except for the apples and eggs, there is not one piece of real food in this house. It is all processed, and therefore shit.”
“Wow. Do you feel better getting that off your chest?”
“Much,” he agreed. “I will give you the money for the Perrier, if you like.”
“That . . . would be good,” she agreed, taken aback by the unexpected offer. “What other house rules?”
“Your radio. When I’m here at night, it will be tuned to Radio St. Barth.” He held up a hand to forestall a protest. “Consider it rent for using my Internet connection, non?”
Cassidy sucked in a breath. Her hands clenched around the bottle. “Radio Denver is all I have left of home.”
“Listen to it when I’m not here.”
Which should be most of the time, then, she thought, calming herself. And it was a radio station she could change. It wasn’t like he was carting off the entire state of Colorado.
Dominic leaned forward, elbows propped on his thighs. “Your radio is a blessing, chérie. I have not felt so close to home in over a year.”
Something about the soft tone and the casual endearment touched her in a way she didn’t expect. “Sounds like we have something in common then.”
“Oui. We are both . . . refugees?”
Tears stung her eyes without warning. She blinked to keep them from spilling. “Yes. That about sums it up.” She cleared her throat and swallowed. “Okay. We share the radio. What else?”
Dominic pulled a crushed pack of cigarettes out of one pocket and a lighter from the other. Tapping one out, he lit it and pulled hard. Cassidy slumped back into her seat with a sinking heart. “How often do you do that?”
“When I need to.”
“When the cravings hit, you mean.”
His smile didn’t quite make it into his eyes. “Oui. Cravings.”
“It doesn’t bother you that those things are going to kill you?”
“This?” He studied the smoldering tip. “I should be so lucky.”
“It’s not a joke, Nick. I watched my mother die of lung cancer, and she wasn’t even the one smoking. It’s a horrible way to go. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not even you.”
A haunted look fled across his face. “My condolences on your loss, but I promise you, you would not like me much if I did not smoke.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That assumes I like you at all.”
“I know you do.”
“Like hell.”
He inhaled again, his face tense with concentration, and exhaled on a heartfelt sigh. “Oui, chérie. Exactement. Like hell.”
Cassidy waved off the pollution drifting her way. “Are we done?”
“Do you agree to all the rules?”
“Yes,” she said, trying not to breathe too deeply. Smoking would have been a deal breaker had she known about it beforehand. But she hadn’t seen or smelled any evidence of it in the cottage when she got here. Chances were he smoked rarely and at the moment likely only to annoy her. At which he succeeded in spectacular fashion.
“Then you can stay.”
“Thanks.”
She got to her feet, preparing to retreat up the stairs when he said, “I don’t sparkle in the sun.”
“Really. Imagine my surprise.”
He gestured with the cigarette. “I smoke. Maybe . . . with your help . . . I can show you some time. Non?”
“Right.” She snorted and headed for the stairs. “Just what I need. A comedian for a roommate.”
Jackson called Cassidy every night. He told himself he needed to keep tabs on her state of mind because the serum in her blood might yet lure his target into the open, but he knew better. Uncle Garrett’s warnings barely penetrated before Jackson brushed them off. No way would he give up on Cassidy. He needed her too much to keep himself grounded. The last few days had made this abundantly clear. Anything else was secondary and could be dealt with later.
To entice her back into his life, he used these calls to try and rekindle their friendship by reminding her that he cared about her and had been there for her in the past. He didn’t push. He respected her desire to keep the conversations to brief courtesy check-ins. But tonight, Friday, she was worked up enough to share more about ‘a guy at work’ who stressed her beyond endurance. Jackson’s immediate and not so brilliant advice was “come home, babe, and forget the job. You don’t need to put up with that shit.”
“Apparently I do,” she told him and disconnected.
“Fuck.” Jackson slammed his phone on the desk, grabbed a pen and flung it clear across the Foundation library. It bounced off the canvas of great-grandfather Grayson Striker and clattered to the polished wood floor.
Why did she have to make things so difficult for herself? Did she trust him so little now? How much of that was because of that vampire’s attack on the beach? Did she remember any of that yet? Didn’t sound like it. And what about the ring? He would cut off another finger before asking about it, but she hadn’t said a word all week. Not one. It could be anywh
ere by now. Though he liked to think she kept it with her and allowed it to remind her of him and their past. It might even be the reason she still answered his calls.
Jackson raked his fingers over his scalp and tried to rein in his mounting frustrations. He couldn’t worry about that rock right now. He had a vampire to find and kill before it decided to find and kill Cassidy. Which was easier said than done with Uncle Garrett keeping him chained to this desk. While Jackson verified targets coughed up by the Grid—everywhere but Florida—Garrett jetted off to destroy them on his own, leaving his nephew behind to find the next. Two vampires put down this week, and he was hot on the trail of a third. Garrett claimed he’d rarely been so productive. Jackson had rarely felt so useless.
All of this would change in an instant if he could convince his uncle that there was a target right here in Orchard Beach. The gang war casualties still looked like his best bet. At first this theory was a blind grasp at straws, but after securing the police and coroner reports through the network of Striker contacts, he was convinced that someone or something was trying to hide the true cause of death. Every victim found to date was exsanguinated, a fact not released to the media and which the medical examiners attributed to the beheadings and possible ‘other unknown events.’
Jackson stared at the triple monitors on the library desk. It still made no sense. No vampire would risk discovery like that. Even if it did, why here? Why now? Their activities tended to fall into patterns, most of them invisible. But when a youngling vampire was first made, those patterns affected the human world. People fell mysteriously ill and disappeared. Often violent deaths followed. At that point, a limited window of opportunity opened for the Foundation to locate and destroy the youngling and, with a little luck, the sire as well. With even greater luck, a whole nest. Such events popped up at random and in no particular order.
