He slowed the bike as he approached his cabin. This had been one ride where the engine hadn't felt good between his legs.
He needed to be alone and get himself under control before he ventured out again. He had to call John to report in, and needed to feed.
"Nothing so far," Pete said into his cell phone, "and I've covered hundreds of acres. All I've found is that one stand of pot I mentioned last week, and that was so small I think it was for home consumption."
"There has to be something, somewhere," John insisted. "Forget pot for now! We've got crystal meth flooding the area, and we're next thing to certain it's not coming in from outside."
"I'll keep looking. Remember that old road I said might have had tracks that the storm obliterated a few days back? I'll go back there."
"Great! Keep going, Pete. It's there. We just have to find it."
Easier said than done—even a vampire couldn't work miracles, and thinking about that…"I need advice." Pete gave a strictly censored account of his new neighbor.
"If you're that interested, I'd say you might be ready for human feeding. Be sure you throw a glamour on her first. You don't want her waking up and screaming in horror. Very upsetting for both of you." Something about John's attitude teed Pete off. "Mind you, once you get the hang of it, it's much easier. Human skin's thinner than the deer and horses you've been using. All it takes is a little nip. Veins are easier to find too."
Pete almost snapped at John. Comparing Vickie Anderson to a horse!
"Be careful, and enjoy yourself!" John gave a totally unnecessary laugh. "It can be fun with mortals! You could call it the ultimate one-night stand."
It took all Pete's self-control not to snap his cell phone shut there and then. Unfortunately he had to listen to a string of suggestions of where to look next, and totally superfluous advice about being careful as they were dealing with desperate and ruthless people. Pete had learned, while still a mortal, about desperate and ruthless people.
He snapped his phone shut after agreeing to meet John in Roanoke the night after next.
Outside was warm and soft as dark velvet. As a mortal he'd never fully appreciated the beauty of the night. Pete reveled in the calm warmth around him, as much as he did the snap of frost on a crisp winter evening, or the night breeze at the beach. Night was different every time and every place, and wonderful when a fascinating woman slept five miles down the dirt road.
He left his bike and ran towards Vickie's, loping at an easy pace. The moon had risen and cast dappled shadows through the woods on either side. He passed the old logging trail. Later. Right now, he had better things to do.
Vickie's house came into sight. All lights out, even the porch light that had drawn him like a moth to flame when he'd first glimpsed her silver hair and pale face in the night. If his heart still beat, it would be racing. Damn good thing he didn't sweat, or his hands would be clammy and his shirt sticking to his back. His mouth ached as his fangs primed to bite.
Could he do this right? What if he hurt her? Took too much? Suppose he mucked up throwing the glamour and she woke? He paused in the middle of the dry dirt track, and ran his hands over his hair, shaking his head so his ponytail brushed his shoulders. Hell, this was too much, too hard. John had not given him enough instruction. It could not be "just" like a deer or horse. Damn! He never got a hard-on over whitetails!
For the first time in nine months, he sorely missed being able to take a deep, calming breath. At least he didn't have an anxious pulse throbbing in his ears. Just a cold weight in the pit of his stomach, and the boner of the century.
Should he go back home and calm down? Prowl the woods a bit until his mind settled? Hell, no! He wanted Vickie Anderson. Needed to feel her warm skin and taste her rich blood. And he'd do it right. As a mortal he'd always made sure his partners received as much pleasure as he did; it wasn't going to be any different now that he was dead.
He'd hold her lovely body in his arms, stroke her short, silky hair with his fingertips, brush her eyelashes with his lips, and ease her smooth skin with kisses before he bit, and he'd make damn sure he left her smiling in her sleep.
He hadn't felt nervous when he walked up her porch steps before. Why this ache in his gut now? Must be his pants, suddenly two sizes too small. Hell, he was hurting. He needed her!
He had to get himself together, or he'd mess this all up. He was vampire. This was part of his nature, how he'd lived. He'd follow his instincts and give her the loving of her life.
He crossed the porch, his footsteps silent in the night. Using his mind, he unlatched the screen door on the inside. Too easy! Even a mortal could have done that. The front-door lock was old and took little effort to open. She needed better protection than that with drug runners lurking in the woods and hollows. Pete grasped the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door opened.
He looked into a neat living room, with old-fashioned furniture, and a braided rug in the middle of the plank floor. An open doorway led through to what looked like a kitchen. To the right a floor fan hummed in the entrance of a darkened room. Behind the noise of the fan, he heard a heartbeat and gentle breathing.
Vickie was so close, he could taste her in his mind. Her skin would be sweet, her blood warm, rich, and heady. Her body soft and supple in his arms. He couldn't wait. Silently, he stepped forward.
And slammed against the metaphysical barrier that barred vampires from mortal homes.
Chapter Two
« ^ »
It took all his control not to wail aloud in frustration. To come this close and hit an unsurmountable and impenetrable obstacle. Why? How? Hadn't she invited him into her house? He slammed his body against the invisible block, clawing at the air with his nails, but nothing shifted. She might just as well be in Antarctica for all the chance he had. Hell, he should be the one in Antarctica. He needed cooling down. Fast.
He stepped back, growling in his mind. It made no sense. She'd asked him in, damn it! Or had she? As he looked around the dark porch and the unmoving glider, he remembered her words, in her light, welcoming voice: "Have a seat on the porch."
That was as far as her invitation went. And as far as he could go.
In his pent-up frustration, he leapt down the steps and ran at full pelt down the road and into the woods, racing as fast as his vampire speed could carry him. Dodging trees and jumping undergrowth, scaring every nocturnal animal for miles around. Clever move, that! Now there wasn't a deer within a couple of miles. He might find a slow-moving possum. The prospect did not appeal.
He leaned against a tree, threw his head back and howled long and loud. It felt better and eased his raging erection, but now even the possums and field mice had fled. He leaned his head back against the rough bark and shut his eyes. He wasn't going to feed tonight unless he was very, very lucky. There was old Mrs. Burrows down at the grocery and gas. He let out a weak chuckle. Plump, chain smoking, and great source of local gossip, Mrs. Burrows and her sagging neck held no appeal.
Hell, he didn't want to feed, except from Vickie. And come to think about it, he wanted more than feeding. Whoa there, boy! Better actually get invited into her house first before he let his horny thoughts get him hard again.
Might as well spend what was left of the night doing what they paid him for.
He was not far from a cleared hollow, so he went in that direction. A nice stand of tobacco in the lower fields, and knee-high meadow grass on the hillsides. Nothing illegal there. Shame. He'd have been delighted to uproot a couple of acres of thriving pot.
He stepped back into the woods, climbed the first sturdy tree he found and peered around. The countryside could be amazingly boring at times. He descended, jumping the last few feet just for the hell of it. Gauging his position by the stars, he started back, coming out of the woods a couple of hundred yards up the old logging road he'd agreed to check. He stood in the shadow of the trees and looked around. There were unmistakable tire tracks in the dirt. Who, in the name of creation, went driv
ing up a disused road that led nowhere?
Definitely worth investigating. A bit of tracking might take his mind off his only slightly abated physical condition. Keeping to the trees, he followed the road half a mile or so, and reluctantly turned back. Dawn came too damn early in summer. But yes, without a doubt, tracks in both directions showed someone was going up and down the road. Regularly.
So, the night hadn't been entirely useless. He'd only failed in the most important part.
Once home, he settled in his day haven. As the sun rose over the mountains, he thought of Vickie, and the way her full lips smiled in the moonlight. In seconds, he was dead to the morning.
Vickie was on her second cup of coffee, looking out across her grandfather's now-overgrown garden, and listening to a woodpecker tapping the walnut tree. The steady rhythm of the bird searching for insects took her back years. She remembered her grandmother sitting beside her, shelling peas or snapping beans, and her grandfather hoeing between the rows and singing to himself. She was so glad they'd decided not to sell when they retired to Hilton Head. The house needed a bit of work, yes, but that she could afford. She'd rather spend money here than on overpriced real estate in the District. Invest a few thousand, and she'd have a retreat waiting whenever she needed one. And given the stress of her job, she needed a bolt hole.
Sitting in the morning warmth, sipping coffee, lost in the quiet of the countryside was the closest to calm she'd known in months. She took another sip of the fragrant coffee, wondering if a week was really going to be long enough. A shot rang across the woods and with a flash of green, the woodpecker fell to earth among the neglected grass.
Vickie was out of her seat before she stopped to think, and saw two men come though the woods from the left.
They were laughing together and didn't even notice her until they were a few yards away.
"Well, hello, little lady," the younger one said.
The sight of his oily smirk brought back nasty memories. "Good morning, Sonny. Mr. Adams," she added, nodding at the older man. Sonny was glaring and Lucas Adams just gaped, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. "Are you in the habit of shooting on my land? If so, I'm going to ask you to stop."
Lucas Adams's weasly eyes narrowed. "It were a woodpecker," he said, as if that explained everything.
"So I noticed."
"Lookee here," Sonny said. "You just can't let them birds take over. Next thing you know, they start on the house, and before you know it, the place collapses round your ears." He paused. "And I remember you, you're the Andersons' granddaughter, the one what went off to some preppy school."
Seemed pointless to point out that the house had aluminum siding. "If anything needs shooting, I'll take care of it."
Sonny closed his mouth before asking, "You shoot?"
She crossed over to the tree and looked down at the corpse and the few stray feathers the bird had shed as it fell. "Yes," she replied, fighting back tears at the sight of such destroyed beauty. "And I'm the only one who shoots on my land." Now she would have to dig out her grandfather's shotgun. And by the way the pair of them scowled at her, might as well be prepared to use it.
They walked away, taking the longest way through the grass. Vickie hoped it was full of chiggers.
She buried the woodpecker at the end of an abandoned row of blueberry bushes. Something inside her snapped while throwing the red earth on the still-warm body. What senseless killing! And what the hell were the Adamses doing shooting on her land?
The bird suitably interred, she strode back into the house, leaving her coffee cooling outside and hauled the gun from the closet. It hadn't been used in yonks. She could take care of that. She could get gun oil and shotgun shells at the grocery and gas. It wouldn't hurt to have the word spread around that she was armed and ready. Just in case the Adamses weren't the only ones shooting up the wildlife.
The front door stopped her in her tracks. She knew she'd locked it last night and latched the screen too, but now the front door was open a chink. Must be the old locks no longer held. She'd fix that. A couple of sturdy bolts would do the trick. For those she'd have to drive into Roanoke.
She stopped at the grocery and gas, certain Mrs. Burrows would let the entire county know the Andersons' granddaughter up from DC was buying up gun oil and shells. Locking the bag in the trunk, Vickie headed down the mountain, noticing more than she had yesterday, how things had changed in the past few years: new subdevelopments, a shopping center, even an all-night gas and convenience store on 220.
In a large hardware store on the outskirts of Roanoke, she found what she needed: heavy bolts, for the front and back doors, and latches for the screens. While she was here, she might as well take care of the windows, so added a dozen window locks, and for good measure a new screwdriver, to save scouring the house for Gramp's toolbox. That done, she headed for the checkout and turning the corner, all but bumped buggies with Sonny Adams.
"Why if it isn't Vickie Anderson, again!" His grin gave her an unwelcome closeup of two broken teeth. He looked as if he was economizing with razor blades too. On models in Vogue, stubble looked sexy—on Sonny it looked scuzzy. "No hard feelings about this morning?" he asked, a greasy lock falling over his forehead.
Vickie looked him over from his straggly hair, to the broken nails and calluses on his hands. He had a buggy loaded with lighter fuel and packets of lye. What on earth was he doing with enough fuel to set fire to half the Blue Ridge? Did she really want to know? If this were back in DC, she'd suspect…"Okay then?" he asked, taking her hesitation as agreement.
"Sonny," she replied, her voice calm and cold. "If you, your father, or any one of your brothers, cousins, or uncles, step on my land again, you'll leave with buckshot in your hide. Remember that!" Her anger soared as she thought of the beautiful bird now dead under the dirt. Shoving her buggy around Sonny's, she made a beeline for the nearest checkout.
She was still fuming as she drove out of the parking lot.
Why was she so upset?
Accumulated stress, no doubt. And, she had to admit to herself, a touch of fear. The Adamses were bad, and now she'd pissed them off. What the hell! She was armed, and by the time she went to bed tonight, she'd have the house locked up like a fortress.
So much for coming here to forget about felons and crime for a few days.
Cup of coffee at her elbow, Vickie dismantled and cleaned the shotgun. For old times' sake, she filled a Mason jar with shells, putting the rest in the drawer in the kitchen table. The cleaned gun she propped behind the pantry door. She'd sleep with it beside her bed.
She was armed. Now to fortify her house.
A screwdriver was woefully inadequate against age-hardened wood. She spent over an hour searching for her grandfather's toolbox, running it to earth in the basement.
The old electric drill still worked, and made the job much easier. The light was failing. She'd better get a move on. She had a new bolt on the screen door and was fixing the first one on the front door, when she heard Pete's motorcycle. When he stopped in front of the house, she smiled. Seconds later, she asked herself why that pleased her. A minute later she knew exactly why. Pete had a killer smile, gleaming dark eyes, long, silky lashes that gave new meaning to "bedroom eyes," and an aura of power that made her feel safe.
Nutty really, but there it was.
"Come in," she said, stepping back from the already open door.
He looked as if she'd given him the moon, the stars, and a couple of universes.
"Thanks, are you busy?" He glanced at the drill in her hand.
"Just fitting new locks."
He stopped almost in mid-stride. "Something happened?"
"I noticed this old lock doesn't hold. So I'm taking care of it. If you can wait a couple of minutes, I'll get you something to drink." Her grandmother's notions of courtesy dictated she leave this and sit with him on the porch, but darn it, she wanted the job done.
He lay his cool hand over hers. "Why not let me do them? Just th
is one bolt, right?"
"Two here and another couple on the back door. Won't take me long."
"I'll be faster." His hand closed over hers with cool strength. "Let me do them for you."
It was a temptation to accept his offer. She was perfectly capable of doing it herself, but… "Thanks." She released her hold on the drill. "Sure you don't mind?"
His night-dark eyelashes flickered as his wide mouth curled at the corners. "Certain. Won't take me more than a couple of minutes."
She couldn't hold back the grin at his macho exaggeration. "Need any help?" She resisted the urge to smooth back the dark curl that fell over his brow as he shook his head.
"I'll manage. A few screws are a piece of cake. Won't even need the drill."
Playing big strong he-man, was he? The role fit him perfectly. "Okay. Want something to drink?"
"Got some of that sweet tea?"
"Would lemonade do instead?"
His eyes creased at the corners when he smiled. "Sure." He reached for a screw from the open packet on the floor. "You get the drinks. I'll take care of the hardware."
She forced herself to walk away as he unzipped his leather jacket. She was not going to stand there and ogle him—no matter how tempted.
The lemonade wasn't exactly fresh squeezed, but not bad considering it came out of a can. She filled two glasses with ice and added a slice of lemon to each before reaching for the pitcher. Picking up both misted glasses, she made her way back into the living room.
Pete had just finished. The man worked fast! "That didn't take you long," she said, holding out the glass.
His forehead creased as he looked up at her. "I don't mess around," he replied. "If it needs doing," he paused, reaching for the glass, "I get it done." He took a long drink and handed the glass back. His lips left a little semicircle in the condensation. "Why not have a seat on the porch and put your feet up and I'll take care of the back door."
She was in the rocker with her feet up before she realized she'd been bulldozed out of her own house. So what? If he was out to steal, he'd be disappointed. She trusted her cop's instincts here. Vickie leaned back as the rocker tilted with her weight, and closed her eyes.
Immortal Bad Boys Page 9
