"We made the date last Saturday." He strolled to the door, frowning. "I hope she hasn't forgotten."
"Aren't you worried about making Simone and Inga mad?" Heather winced. She shouldn't have asked. It wasn't her business if Alberto was juggling three women. But when one of them was her old high school buddy and the other two were psycho bitches, it could get messy in a hurry.
"They won't know." Alberto paused by the door. "I have no chance with them, really. I should let it go, but they have some kind of hold on me."
Heather lifted her brows. "A hold? Like a spell?" Were the psycho bitches actually psycho witches?
He sighed. "They are…different. Nothing good can come from my infatuation."
"That's probably true."
He gave her a worried look. "You should be careful, too. I owe Jean-Luc a great deal. He's a kind and talented man, but…you should stay away from him. If you can." Alberto hurried from the room before she could respond or even recover from shock.
Heather spent the afternoon sewing while Pierre and Phil installed two surveillance cameras in the studio. Alberto's strange warning kept echoing in her mind. If he admired Jean-Luc, why would he warn her away? What did he know that she didn't? And what was the significance of fourteen eighty-five? A birth date?
She shuddered. Surely not. Her creative mind was working overtime.
Phil and Pierre joined them in the kitchen for supper. Food supplies were running low, so Pierre offered to run to the store. Since Alberto had taken the BMW for his long date with Sasha, Heather gave Pierre the keys to her truck, along with a shopping list.
Fidelia was clearing the table when she halted suddenly. A plate tumbled from her hand and crashed onto the floor.
"What?" Heather jumped to her feet.
Fidelia shot Phil a panicked look. "Stop him! Now!"
Phil charged down the hallway and out the front door. Heather ran after him and had just reached the doorway when a loud explosion knocked her back. Her heart lunged up her throat. With her ears ringing, she regained her balance and stumbled outside. She halted.
Her truck was engulfed in a huge fire. The flames shot upward. Pierre. A wave of nausea doubled her over.
Phil stood in the driveway, his fists clenched. He dropped to his knees, tilted his head back, and roared. It sounded strange through the buzz in her ears. Intense heat from the fire slapped her back, and she stumbled against the doorframe.
"Mama?"
She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. Black dots flickered before her eyes, and she couldn't think of anything to say.
Bethany skipped toward the front door. "Where's everybody going? Can I go?"
Heather swallowed down a wave of bile and shook her head.
Fidelia entered the showroom, hugging her purse to her chest. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. "I was too late?"
Heather's own vision blurred with tears. "It was just like you dreamed. Infierno."
CHAPTER 19
Jean-Luc sat behind the desk in his office, staring into space. Every now and then, Robby strode across his line of vision, but he hardly noticed. The voices in the room droned like an annoying swarm of bees. He must be in shock. He never felt like this during battle. It was always afterward when he went numb.
Robby plunked a bottle of Blissky on his desk and suggested he have a wee dram. Jean-Luc regarded the bottle silently. The mixture of synthetic blood and Scotch whisky wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't bring Pierre back to life. It wouldn't take away the grief or the guilt.
All the men in the room were agitated, their voices loud, their arms waving. He blinked when Robby's fist slammed onto his desk. The bottle of Blissky jumped.
"How could he forget to check the truck?" Robby yelled. "I thought I trained him better than that."
"I'm sure ye did." Ian took a gulp from his glass of Blissky. "Ye shouldna blame yerself."
"I should have checked it myself." Phil collapsed into a chair and pressed the heel of his palms to his temples. "'I can smell explosives. I should have checked the damned truck."
That pricked the fog in Jean-Luc's head. Phil could smell a bomb?
"Pierre should have known better," Robby muttered as he paced across the room. "Bugger!" He pounded his fist on the desk again. The Blissky teetered close to the edge.
Ian grabbed the bottle and refilled his glass. "Where was the BMW?"
"Alberto had it," Phil explained. "He came back about seven o'clock. He had a date with that model, Sasha, but she stood him up. He was upset, so he went shopping in San Antonio."
Jean-Luc leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He didn't want to listen to this. He wanted to be with Heather. How was she doing? Did she realize the bomb had been meant for her? Was she battling fear all alone?
As soon as he'd heard the news, he'd tried to see her. He needed to know if she was all right. He needed to see if Bethany was all right. He needed to reassure Heather that they would be protected, that Lui would die for his crime.
Two steps into the kitchen, and he'd been greeted with a Glock pointed at his face. Fidelia had politely asked him to leave. They weren't accepting visitors. He'd only caught a glimpse of Heather, sitting on the couch with her daughter. She'd refused to even look at him.
She blamed him, no doubt. She and her family were in terrible danger because of him. And she was probably angry that he'd shown up three hours after the explosion. In her time of need, he'd been dead to the world. The dreaded feeling of being powerless crept back. It was the worst part of being a vampire, being completely powerless during the day. If Heather needed him then, he would fail her.
He opened his eyes. "How is Heather doing?"
"She kept asking why none of you were there," Phil replied. "I said you were all away on business, but she looked suspicious. She insisted I call the fire department and sheriff. After the fire was put out, the sheriff insisted she go with him, but she refused."
Thank God. Jean-Luc took a deep breath. Hopefully, this meant she still trusted him. Or maybe she was trusting in Fidelia's guns. He stood and moved to the window overlooking the showroom.
"I'm sick of people dying because of me."
"Lui does the killing, no' you," Robby grumbled. "I'll call Pierre's mother and—"
"No," Jean-Luc said. "I'll do it." And he would make sure Pierre's family never lacked for anything. "Why are we here? We should be guarding Heather."
"She's fine," Robby said. "Phineas is watching her. And you know if Lui teleports into the building, he'll trigger an alarm. We would be all over him."
Jean-Luc paced across the room. "We need a plan. We need more guards."
"I've asked for more," Robby assured him. "Unfortunately, Angus is using every spare man in the hunt for Casimir."
"I'm alone now during the day." Phil sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. "Unless you count Fidelia and her guns."
"I can help with that." Ian retrieved a vial from his sporran. "Roman gave me a bunch of these. 'Tis the formula that keeps a Vamp awake during the day."
Robby moved closer to look at the greenish liquid. "I thought Roman banned that stuff."
"I thought so, too," Jean-Luc said. "For every day he used it, he aged an entire year."
"Aye, he did." Ian lifted his chin. "But I volunteered to test it for him."
Jean-Luc frowned. "I appreciate you wanting to look older, but I don't want you experimenting with yourself."
"I doona need a guardian, Jean-Luc." Ian dropped the vial back into his sporran. "I'm four hundred and eighty years old. I can make a bloody decision for myself."
Jean-Luc sighed. He couldn't forbid Ian's use of this drug, but he still didn't like it. "Were there any side effects?"
"Roman's hair turned gray at the temples, that's all," Ian muttered. "I'm doing it. Ye canna stop me."
"All right." Jean-Luc sat on the corner of his desk. "We have to lock the place down completely."
"I agree." Robby resumed his pacing. "We should
always keep them together. They'll be easier to guard that way."
Jean-Luc nodded. "We'll cancel the charity show." He knew that would upset Alberto and Heather, but better safe than sorry. "Lui would definitely make a move then."
Robby stopped. "Perhaps we should let him."
Jean-Luc shook his head. "I don't want to use Heather as bait."
"We'll keep her surrounded and safe," Robby insisted. "Do ye prefer the alternative? That we stay locked up here like a flock of frightened sheep?"
"We'll keep looking for him," Jean-Luc said. "Fidelia figured out he was hiding at the Chicken Ranch. Maybe she can find him again."
"She tried that earlier," Phil said. "Before you guys woke up. She was so upset about Pierre, she swore she would find Lui herself and fill him with bullets. I gave her his sword and cane."
"What did she see?" Jean-Luc asked.
"Nothing." Phil shrugged. "She said he was gone. He was too far away for her to reach."
Jean-Luc paced across the floor, digesting this information. Could Lui really be gone? Was killing the museum curator and Pierre enough to satisfy his need for vengeance? But Lui had threatened Heather and him. In fact, Lui had claimed that Casimir would pay him a small fortune to kill Jean-Luc. "He can't be gone. He's not finished."
"I agree." Robby sat, frowning. "He might retreat for a few days, but only to lull us into a false sense of security."
Jean-Luc nodded. "He'll be back. Just like the message he wrote in blood. He'll meet us at a time of his own choosing."
"We should stay here," Phil suggested. "That would force him to come here."
"And we would be ready for him." Ian's eyes narrowed. "I bet he'll come the night of the runway show."
"We don't even know what he looks like," Jean-Luc reminded them. "And he could use mind control on anyone involved with the show or even attending the show. Anyone there could be an assassin."
"Then we'll limit the attendance to just a few," Ian suggested.
Jean-Luc paced across the room. The only way to be rid of Lui was to confront him. He could keep Heather safe. He'd never leave her side. "All right. We'll plan to kill him on the night of the runway show."
Heather lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she didn't want to shut them. Every time she did, her mind flashed the same horrible picture—her truck ablaze with Pierre inside.
She wished she could erase the image from her memory. Or turn back time, so Pierre could still be alive. Or turn it back further, so Mrs. Bolton could be alive. How different everything would be if last Friday, she had done as Jean-Luc had asked and run away. But she had tried to be brave and rescue Jean-Luc. Now she had no choice but to be brave. The bomb had been intended for her.
She had to make sure no one else died. She needed to be brave, cautious, and smart. Why should she rely solely on Jean-Luc and his guards to keep her and Bethany safe? Obviously they were not infallible.
Fidelia had her guns, and she was prepared to use them. Heather needed to be just as tough. She would arm herself with knowledge. That's what professionals did when they were at war. They gathered intelligence.
She sat up in bed. It was time to uncover some of the secrets in this place. After all, it was her life on the line. They had no right to keep her in the dark. Fourteen eighty-five. Would those numbers get her into the cellar?
She checked the bedside clock. Three twenty-three A.M. She slipped out of bed and wondered if she should change clothes. No, it would take too long, and the noise might wake Fidelia or Bethany. She'd stay in her blue and yellow Tweety Bird pajamas from the discount store.
She peeked into the hallway. It was empty. Earlier in the evening, Phineas had stayed outside their door, and she'd heard traffic coming and going from Jean-Luc's office. Now everything was quiet.
She noted the camera over the office door. If she went past it to the backstairs, the guards might see her. They'd stop her before she could venture close to the cellar.
She squeezed through the door and tiptoed in the opposite direction. Her bare feet were silent on the thick carpet. The hallway took a sharp turn to the right, where it opened onto the catwalk across the back of the showroom.
Moonlight filtered through the tall back windows, casting long gray shadows across the showroom's marble floor. The mannequins posed, their bare arms gleaming white and stark. There were two cameras high on the walls, but they were aimed at the room below. The catwalk was bracketed on each side with a waist-high wall.
She crouched down so she wouldn't be seen and dashed across the catwalk. It ended by the back door to the design studio. She punched fourteen eighty-five on the keypad and felt a small rush when the door opened. She slipped inside.
The studio was dark except for the slashes of moonlight spilling through the French doors. She carefully descended the spiral staircase. The metal steps were icy cold against her bare feet. She crept across the studio, hugging the dark shadows along the walls and hoping she didn't show up on the cameras.
She cracked open the door and peered into the hallway. The cellar door was at the end of the hall. And at the other end, close to the showroom, there was a camera.
Damn. There was no way to avoid it. But she'd come too far to give up now. If she ran, she could be at the cellar door in six seconds.
She took a deep breath and charged. With trembling fingers, she punched in fourteen eighty-five. The door opened. Her heart lurched.
She stepped inside, shut the door, and leaned against it. A dim light overhead illuminated a plain stairwell. Bare walls, a cement landing, a metal railing in front of her. The faint sound of music echoed eerily. She breathed deeply to calm her pounding heart.
So far, so good. No bogeyman was here, brandishing his Texan chainsaw. She moved forward to the railing and saw the stairs going down. Each step was lit by a red light. She descended the cement steps to a landing, then turned to go down another short flight of stairs. The concrete was cold and gritty beneath her feet. She reached a plain wooden door. It inched open easily, and the volume of the music increased.
It was the piano and harpsichord again. The melody was slow, beautiful, and terribly sad. They were mourning, she realized. Mourning for Pierre.
She suddenly felt too intrusive. Of course they were mourning for Pierre. They'd known him for years. She'd known him only a few days. She considered going back, but caught a glimpse of the hallway and stopped.
She opened the door further, and her mouth fell open. After the bare stairwell, she'd expected a more spartan environment, but this was…opulent. The hallway was wide enough for five people to walk down at once, and the floor was covered with a beautiful hand-carved rug. It felt thick and woolen to her feet. It was a rich ruby-red with golden fleur-de-lis scattered across it in a trellis pattern. Another pattern of gold and ivory roses formed a wide border around the rug.
The hall was illuminated with golden sconces along the walls, each sconce dripping lead crystal teardrops. Even the ceiling was beautiful—ivory with fancy moldings painted gold. The doors were also ivory with gilt woodwork. Interspersed between the doors were bombe chests and ornate armoires. Antiques, Heather guessed, and incredibly expensive.
She padded silently down the hall, past oil paintings that looked like they belonged in a castle. The music grew louder. It emanated from a room where the double doors were ajar, jutting into the hallway.
She eased behind a door and peered through the crack by the doorframe. She saw the piano. It was an old baby grand decorated with gold scrollwork. A woman was playing, her long blond hair loose down her back. Inga.
A woman moved across the room, blocking Heather's view. It was Simone, doing some sort of dance. A minuet? She glided out of the way, and Heather glimpsed the harpsichord. Jean-Luc?
She caught her breath and turned away, pressing her back against the wall.
Jean-Luc was the one playing the harpsichord! She stood there, listening to the melancholy music.
&
nbsp; He was quite good, actually. But why would a modern man play such an old instrument? The more she learned about him, the more the immortal theory made sense.
He was hurting, she realized, as the sad strains tugged at her heart. She should have talked to him earlier. She should have comforted him. She knew him well enough to know he would blame himself. He was an honorable man with a deep sense of responsibility. An old-fashioned guy. And he might have a very good reason for being old-fashioned.
But she'd refused to see him. She'd reached a point where one more emotional stimulus would have sent her over the edge. She had to withdraw and be alone for a while.
The music brought tears to her eyes. He was such an amazing man. How could she not fall in love with him? Fencing champion, fashion designer, musician. One hell of a kisser. Of course, if he was immortal, he'd had centuries to develop his talents.
She tiptoed down the hall, wondering what to do next. Should she confront him? Maybe. But not with Simone and Inga around.
The music stopped. She turned, suddenly afraid that she'd been spotted. But no, the hallway was still empty. She heard a clicking sound at the other end of the hallway. The door was opening.
She dashed behind a tall armoire and plastered herself against the wall. Footsteps approached, muffled by the thick carpet.
"Robby!" the ladies exclaimed. "You must stay and dance with us."
He was in the music room, Heather realized. Could she make it to the other exit before he came out? He was talking so softly, she couldn't make out his words.
Her attention was snagged by the oil painting right across from her. Definitely an antique. The guy was wearing black leather bucket boots, maroon knee breeches and waistcoat, and a white shirt with a wide lace collar. A short velvet cape was slung nonchalantly over one shoulder. His foil was by his side, the tip planted on the floor, his hand resting lightly on the ornate hilt.
Heather smiled. He looked like one of the Three Musketeers. Or a pirate, except that he was too clean and well dressed. His long black hair curled to his shoulders, and his wide-brimmed hat boasted two plumes—white and maroon. A sharp dresser. Pretty blue eyes.
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