Vincent (Vampires in America Book 8)

by D. B. Reynolds

  He turned on the water in the shower and waited until it ran hot. Marisol’s cabins were fairly primitive, with one exception. She had excellent water pressure and wasn’t afraid to use it. He stepped under the spray and let the pounding heat wash away the long night.

  THE SHOWER WAS still running when Lana ventured back to the cottage. She cursed under her breath. What was he doing in there? She’d intentionally taken her time, strolling around the grounds, lingering outside the cantina, listening to the sounds of revelry inside. There’d been music, but it hadn’t been the classical guitar player that Vincent had talked about. Either he’d played earlier in the night, which seemed likely, or he wasn’t here yet. She’d heard Vincent say something about staying long enough tomorrow night to hear Chencho play. That must be the guitarist.

  But now she’d seen everything there was to see without venturing out into the desert. And Vincent was still in the shower, leaving his discarded clothes scattered all over the floor on the other side of the bed.

  The bed. One bed.

  She looked around, trying to figure out where she could sleep. Obviously, Vincent would take the bed, because typical male, he had no shame. He would have stripped naked right in front of her if she hadn’t left. He clearly expected her to share the bed with him. In fact, he’d no doubt take pleasure in knowing that it made her uncomfortable. Granted, it was a very big bed, with plenty of room for two people to sleep well apart. Marisol didn’t stint on her cottages. Colorful rugs had been scattered over tiled floors, and heavy drapes covered the lone window, so there’d be no problem with sunlight. The king-sized bed took up much of the room, but there was a tiny round table and two chairs by the window, and small, square bedside tables on either side of the bed that were just big enough to hold some personal items along with the compact lamp that stood on each of them.

  Lana rounded to the far side of the bed and turned on the second lamp. There was enough room between the bed and the round dining table for her to sleep on the floor. It wasn’t the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but she’d had worse. She eyed the bed’s fluffy down comforter. That’d help with the hard tile floor. She wondered if vampires needed comforters when they slept.

  “We can both sleep on the bed.”

  Lana squelched the urge to jump at the unexpected sound of Vincent’s voice. She hadn’t even heard the shower turn off. Some bounty hunter she was.

  She turned . . . and immediately lowered her gaze to avoid seeing Vincent in a towel and nothing else. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she said, pretending to study the floor. “I can—”

  “Lana.”

  He didn’t say anything else until she finally looked up and met his eyes. And only his eyes!

  “Once I’m asleep, I don’t move, querida. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not worried about safety,” she protested. “It just doesn’t seem—”

  “I thought I was the nineteenth century person here. What happened to women’s lib and all that?”

  “Fine. I’ll sleep on the damn bed. Happy now?”

  He grinned at her. “I am. Are you hungry?”

  Her gaze dropped briefly downward before snapping back to his face. “Yes,” she said almost defiantly. And for the first time since she’d met him, Vincent seemed somewhat taken aback by her one word response. Not rattled, but definitely off his game . . . for all of a few seconds.

  But then his grin widened slowly and his eyes went lazy. “You can eat anything you want, querida,” he murmured, his voice a deep, sexy purr.

  Lana’s breath caught in her lungs. Vincent Kuxim was too sexy by half and she was crazy to be alone with him in this tiny room with its big bed. She managed to give him a cool look, raising a single, skeptical eyebrow.

  “Dinner,” she told him dryly. “Is Marisol still serving food?”

  Vincent winked at her, not at all put off by her indifferent response. “She’ll have something ready for us by now. She likes to feed me.”

  “Will she mind—?”

  “You’re my bodyguard. You have to eat. Are you going to shower?”

  Lana felt gritty and sweaty, as if she’d walked those 300 plus miles through the desert instead of traveling in air-conditioned comfort. But she was not going to get undressed with a half-naked Vincent in the room.

  “I’ll shower later,” she told him. “I’ll wash my face and hands before we go over, but I can wait until you’re finished.”

  “I’m done with the bathroom. Why don’t you go ahead, and I’ll be dressed by the time you’re finished.”

  Lana nodded. That sounded like the perfect arrangement. She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of a chair, then unzipped her duffel and retrieved the smaller case that held her toiletries. Stepping over the pile of Vincent’s clothes, she started for the bathroom before realizing that Vincent, still half-naked, was blocking the bathroom doorway. Not wanting to seem like a fainting virgin, she was prepared to scoot past him when he suddenly stepped out of her way.

  She still had to get too close to him, close enough that she could smell the clean scent of his skin, could feel the heat rolling off his big, shower-warmed body. Was it the shower, she wondered. Or was he simply as warm as a regular human man would be? Weren’t vampires supposed to be cold? She was tempted to ask him, but remembered abruptly that he was standing there in a towel. Deciding that now was definitely not the time for a vampire tutorial, she kept her eyes elsewhere until she was safely inside, then pushed the door closed and finally let out the breath she’d been holding.

  Setting her toiletry case on the sink, she grabbed a clean hand towel and wiped down the mirror so she could see the damage the day had done. She nearly groaned out loud. No wonder that teenager had dismissed her. She looked awful. Her eyes had dark circles and she was sweaty and disheveled, with flyaway strands of her hair tangled around her face and falling out of her once-neat braid. That explained Marisol’s doubtful look, too. She seemed like the kind of woman who always looked her best, even if just stepping out for a gallon of milk. One look at Lana, and she’d probably decided that, bodyguard or not, Lana wasn’t worthy of her precious Vincent.

  Lana smiled at her own reflection, vain enough to feel a spark of smug satisfaction that she and Vincent were sleeping together, at least as far as Marisol knew.

  She straightened and turned on the hot water at the sink. If they were going to have dinner with Marisol, then she’d have to make some effort, for her own pride if nothing else. She might not scream sensuality the way the other woman did, but she wasn’t that bad either. Vincent had said she was beautiful, although she didn’t believe him. She’d make an effort tonight, though. Not for Marisol, and not for Vincent. But for herself. And for Gretchen.

  The room was empty when she emerged from the bathroom, and her first thought was that if she’d known Vincent was going to leave, she’d have taken a damn shower and felt a hell of a lot better. Too late now. She’d washed her face and arms, brushed her teeth and put on deodorant. That, plus a clean shirt and Levis, instead of her combats, would have to do. She’d also freed her heavy hair from its long braid and brushed it out. She was still re-braiding it when she opened the outside door and found Vincent sitting in perfect stillness on a slatted wooden chair to one side of the walkway.

  It was a beautiful night, a fact that she’d missed while zooming across the desert in the blacked-out Suburban. The moon was at three-quarters and waxing, its silver light painting the desert in hues of black and gray. This far out from the city lights, the sky was perfectly clear, and there were plenty of stars to be seen. It was the kind of night that tempted one to find someplace to lie back and simply stare up at the universe. She shivered slightly, the air cool after the warmth of the room. It wasn’t cold enough to break out the puffy coats, but there was enough of a chill in the air that she was g
rateful for the tank top she’d pulled on under her long-sleeved T-shirt and combat jacket.

  Vincent looked over when she approached him, her braid over her shoulder as she finished tying it off with a completely unsexy coated rubber band.

  “Do you ever wear your hair down?” he asked, his deep voice an unexpected caress of velvet in the moonlight.

  Lana felt an odd tug in her chest at the question, implying as it did an awareness of her as a woman, not simply a bounty hunter.

  “Not when I’m working,” she told him, careful to keep her voice casual. “It gets in the way.”

  Vincent studied her for a moment, long enough that she began to feel uncomfortable and had to fight the urge to twist the long braid in her hands.

  “Are you ever not working, Lana?”

  “Of course. When I’m home and stuff.”

  “And stuff,” he repeated with a slight smile. He waited a moment, then said, “Well, even working women need food. Are you ready?”

  “Yep. Do you have the key?”

  He stood, then pulled the key out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was still warm from his body, and she was tempted yet again to ask him about vampire body temperatures. But something about the night didn’t invite intimate questions like that. Or maybe the opposite was true—the night was already far too intimate and she didn’t want to go there.

  She walked back to lock the door, then returned and held the key out to him.

  “You keep it,” he said. “In a little over an hour, you and that door will be the only things standing between me and sudden death. I’d rather you have the key.”

  Lana blinked in surprise as she digested what he was saying. She’d known all along that he would sleep during the daylight hours, but now that the time was upon them, it frightened her a little. She really would be his only line of defense.

  “Don’t worry, querida,” he said, tugging at the braid that still lay across her breast. “I’ve stayed with Marisol many times over the years. We’re among friends.”

  “How long’s it been?” she asked suddenly.

  “How long’s what been?”

  “Since you’ve stayed here,” she said, then felt her face heat as she rushed to explain. “I only mean that things have changed in Mexico over the last few years. Places that were once safe might not be anymore.”

  “You’re right. But Marisol is well connected and, frankly, so am I. The forces behind the recent violence, what your government calls TCOs—”

  “TransNational Criminal Organizations,” Lana provided, her brain already conjuring up conspiracies between vampires and the cartels who controlled most of Mexico.

  “Yes, exactly. They enjoy what you might call a detente with the vampire community. They don’t touch what’s ours—people or businesses—and we don’t rip the beating hearts from their chests.”

  Lana frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not a bit,” he assured her.

  “So, you do business with the narcos?”

  “Not me personally, and none of my people either. But I can’t account for everyone else. That’s Enrique’s job.”

  Lana found that barely reassuring. But since she wasn’t here to go into business with Enrique or even Vincent, she let it go. Once this job was over, she’d go back to Arizona and probably never see Vincent again. That should have made her happy, but it didn’t. And since she didn’t want to examine why it didn’t, she let that go, too.

  “If we only have an hour until sunrise,” she said, changing the subject, “we should get going.”

  “By all means.” He gestured down the curving walkway, then fell into step beside her. As they came around the low building separating them from the main cantina, the mellow sound of guitar music began to drift around them.

  “Is that the guitarist you talked about?” she asked in surprise. “Is he still playing?”

  “His name’s Chencho, and that is his music, but it’s a recording.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “For one thing, he never plays this late. For another, the sound is too cold. That’s a CD. An LP would sound better.”

  “LP. You mean an actual vinyl record? They were all scratchy and stuff. Digital sound is cleaner, it’s supposed to be nearly perfect.”

  “It is, and some people prefer that. But art is human expression, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that humans are far from perfect.”

  “But vampires are?”

  “Are what? Perfect? Hell, no. Perfection is boring, Lana. Perfection is death.”

  “You know, you never answered my second question,” she said thoughtfully, struck by his philosophical musings on the human condition.

  “Which one’s that?” he asked, even though she was certain he remembered.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll save that for the next leg of our journey together,” he told her, stepping up and opening the cantina door with a grand gesture.

  “That’s not until tomorrow night,” she reminded him.

  “I’m aware, querida. Let’s have dinner.”

  Lana was already walking through the open door when his words registered. “Are you eating, too?” she asked in surprise.

  “Vicentillo, mi amor!” Marisol appeared like magic from the next room, a hand held out in greeting, which Vincent promptly grasped and brought up to his lips for a lingering kiss.

  As he straightened, he looked right at Lana and said, “Dinner is served.”

  Chapter Seven

  LANA CRACKED OPEN the bathroom door after her shower. Cool air rushed in as she peeked at the bed where Vincent lay sound asleep. Or whatever. What did you call a vampire’s daytime sleep? Did he dream? Maybe she’d use one of her questions tonight to ask him that. But right now, she was mostly concerned with ascertaining that he was, in fact, truly out of it and that he wasn’t going to witness her naked walk into their shared room.

  She’d considered taking her clothes with her into the bathroom, but one, they’d get wet from the shower’s steam, and two, the idea had seemed a little too maiden-auntish, even for her.

  The room was dark, with only one lamp burning on her side of the bed. The drapes were pulled tight over the windows in the bedroom, but the narrow window high up on the bathroom wall wasn’t covered, and sunlight escaped the cracked-open door to cast a narrow ray over the end of the bed.

  Lana stared at it for a long moment, then gasped in horror and slammed the door shut. Leaning against the closed door, she tried to picture the bed with Vincent in it. Had he been completely covered? Had the light fallen on him directly? Surely, he would have grunted in pain or something, wouldn’t he?

  Damn.

  Standing on the closed toilet seat, she did her best to cover the window. It was a single pane, opening downward from the top. She opened it enough to jam a towel in there, then cranked it shut so that most of the light was blocked.

  She opened the door again, her gaze riveted to the foot of the bed where the narrow strip had appeared before. There was a little light from the top of the window, but it didn’t touch the bed. Good. She wrapped the towel more securely around her chest and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. A glance at Vincent told her he wasn’t moving. He was lying on his stomach, fast asleep, his face turned away from her, both arms tucked under a pillow and the covers down around his waist.

  “Don’t look,” she whispered to herself, deliberately turning her gaze away. “Don’t look, don’t look,” she repeated, then caught a flash of color on smooth golden skin and turned to stare. Damn, but he was pretty. All broad back and sleek muscles. The color she’d seen was the tattoo she’d caught sight of earlier on his left bicep. She wanted to get closer to check out the detail, but didn’t want to ogle. Actually, she did
want to ogle, she just didn’t want to get caught. He was completely naked under those covers. He’d stripped down to nothing right in front of her, with absolutely no sense of modesty, and fallen into bed only moments after they’d returned from the cantina early this morning.

  She’d half-expected the place would be empty when they’d gone over for dinner, but the party had been going as wild as if it had been midnight instead of nearly sunrise. At first, Lana thought Vincent had called ahead and thus the big party. But Marisol’s surprise on seeing him had seemed genuine, so maybe they partied like that every night around here. It made her wonder what they did with the rest of their time. Then she decided she didn’t want to know. This area was home to one of the major drug cartels, and Vincent had said Marisol was well connected. Maybe that’s what she was well connected to.

  But whatever the reason for the late night revelry, it had certainly suited Vincent’s needs nicely. Every woman in the place had made her way over to their table during the course of the meal—Lana’s meal, that was. Vincent didn’t eat. But he did manage to greet every single female in the room as if they were each the last woman on earth—flattering, kissing, stroking. And he’d disappeared more than once, ostensibly to dance, but there wasn’t enough of a crowd to get lost in. It had been obvious to Lana that Vincent and his partners had done more than dance, and they’d done it somewhere other than the dance floor. The only exception to Vincent’s sensual charm offensive had been a young girl who didn’t look much older than sixteen. He’d been sweet to her, had kissed her hand in a courtly gesture, and then sent her on her way with a smile.

  Lana had thought Marisol might be jealous of all the attention Vincent was getting from the others. But she’d seemed perversely delighted, gazing proudly at Vincent every time he came back from one of his little excursions, as though he’d been paying her a compliment by sucking down on her customers and friends. Lana didn’t know exactly what their relationship was. She only knew that every time Vincent disappeared with another dark-haired lovely, she’d felt like an idiot, sitting there watching them walk away. But then, she was only a bodyguard, right?