by Mary Hughes
But how, when he was having a helluva hard time trying to put a certain delicious doctor out of it?
All right, so what if he followed up on that incendiary kiss and took her to bed? It wasn’t as though he could “finish the mission”, as it were. Oh, he could rock her world if he chose. But for himself, he hadn’t been able to function as a male since he’d lost his wife, despite evidence earlier tonight.
He’d lost his sex drive; she’d lost her life. For the first hundred years, he thought she’d gotten the worse end of the bargain. Now, after centuries of guilt, he wasn’t so sure.
He stepped into the corridor. The panel slid silently shut behind him, cutting off all illumination. Pitch black for a human, but vampire eyes made their own light.
As his world took on a red glow, he glided forward two steps, paused for the flurry of tranquilizer darts, then immediately executed a flat leap over several tripwires. Behind him, ultra-fast laser beams sliced the passage like a food processor.
Luke found himself before a metal door guarded by a retinal scanner. He crouched slightly to level his eye with the peephole. The setup was specially designed by Logan and his mate, but Luke had helped test it, so he was in the system. When a discreet LED turned green, he knocked on the door a precise three times.
The panel slid open to six-foot-plus of black-haired, blue-eyed vampire lawyer—his host, Julian Emerson.
“Steel.” Julian nodded him in.
Behind the lawyer was a boardroom, if executives’ walls were normally festooned with M16s and crossbows. A central heavy wood table was empty except for Luke’s brother and Thorvald Thorsson, a tall Viking of a male with leather vest, pierced ear and array of rings like brass knuckles, modernized by blue jeans over soft leather boots.
The diabolical pastel preparations upstairs were in honor of Thor’s upcoming wedding.
“Hold the door, Julian.” Nixie came steaming in after Luke. She waved at Thor. “Hey, Viking Two. Howzit hangin’?”
Luke smiled slightly. The tiny punk rock musician had a vocabulary all her own that took colorful from infrared to ultraviolet.
“We’re good, thanks.” The male had a smoky baritone, like a fine old whiskey.
It struck Luke that Alexis’s alto was as rich and vibrant.
No. Not thinking of her.
Nixie latched on to her mate’s arm and dragged him toward the vested Viking. As improbable as a puppy dragging a Husky, and just as sweet.
Julian, with a surreptitious smile, surrendered to the inevitable with, “Shall we sit?” He and his mate took the head of the table. Logan sat on Julian’s right and Thor on Nixie’s left.
Luke sat next to his brother and prepared a fist.
Logan raised a teasing brow. “Sitting within punching range of me?”
“You and your terrible jokes? I have to.”
“I object. My jokes are quite punny.”
“Hah. That’s one.” Luke jabbed his twin in the triceps.
“Ow.” Logan rubbed his upper arm. “You’ve been practicing.”
“I’m always practicing.”
“Great, you’re in one of those moods. Then before Thor delivers his message…” Logan glanced around the table. “If it’s all right with everyone, I want to ask my favor.”
Luke didn’t like that. It meant Logan thought whatever Thor had to say wouldn’t put Luke in a good, favor-granting mood.
Logan turned in his chair toward Luke, another bad sign—he was getting ready to block any more punches. His brother said, “You know that Liese originally insisted the girls and I come with her for the wedding shower?”
Luke’s frown deepened. It was really a bad sign when Logan started recapping. Luke had arrived two days ago at Logan’s compound in Redfox Village to help with the new babies’ birth, only to find Logan’s mate packing, not for the hospital, but for a visit to Meiers Corners.
“And you know the boys came early.”
“Logan, I was there when her water broke.” An hour fifteen from start to finish. It was a miracle they’d gotten her to the hospital in time, especially when Sarah Jane had run home from the park with her cut arm.
If it had been up to Luke, none of it would’ve happened because neither female would have left the safety of the Steel home fortress.
“Did the births go okay?” Nixie asked.
“Everyone is fine and resting.” Logan grinned.
“No thanks to you.” Luke threw a left jab, and when Logan blocked as expected, shot a lightning cross punch to his twin’s deltoid, so fast even Logan could only partially deflect it. “You should never have risked her coming here. You know twins are often early.”
Logan raised palms. “Pax. I convinced her to return home with me.”
“Finally, she acts sensibly. It’s really for the best, brother mine. The babies will be in a safe home, and you and your mate can rest.”
“As much as new rugrats let you.” Nixie shook her head. “I’ve got my hands full with one. Can’t imagine riding herd on a quartet.”
“Which is why I’m asking for this favor.” Logan leaned toward Luke, the picture of an earnest young husband.
Luke whistled. If recapping was a yellow warning, earnest was downright red-alert. “You want me to maim someone?”
“Um…”
“Kill them?”
“Well…”
“What’s worse than killing?”
“Not worse, not really.” From the pleading in his brother’s eyes, yes really. “It’s just that Ellen Ripley and Sarah Jane asked to stay here for a sleepover. Liese will go home with me and the new babies—but only if you stay to babysit…I mean, protect the girls.”
“What?”
“Only for a few nights,” his about-to-die brother said quickly. “You’ll hardly have to do a thing. The kids will keep each other occupied.”
“Kids.” Luke really didn’t like the sound of that. Logan had twin girls but that sounded like more than two. “How many kids?”
“You don’t have to watch them all—”
“They won’t wind each other up? Triple the noise and chaos? How many?”
Logan shrugged helplessly. “How many are there?”
“Our daughter.” Nixie held up a thumb. “Your two.” Index and middle fingers popped out. “Rorik Strongwell, Steve Johnson Junior and Tyge Sparta.” Her ring finger, little finger and another thumb extended as she named more children, all under the age of seven.
Luke felt himself pale a shade with each name.
She grinned. “I won’t leave you to ride herd on them alone…at least, not too often.”
“Me.” Luke shook his head, his own voice barely audible over the buzzing in his ears. “A bachelor, in loco parentis for two kindergarteners is bad enough. But you’re telling me I’ll have to deal with six?” He was pretty sure the punk rocker was teasing him, but the idea of being solo-responsible for that many small lives, even for a moment, made him break out in a sweat.
“It’ll be good practice.” Nixie rose and stretched out her back. For the first time Luke could see the baby bump—she was pregnant again, but that was par for the course for vampire mates. “Since you’re getting your own household soon, right?”
“What?” Luke could only stare. Every time he had dealings with the tiny punk rocker, he felt as if he’d been blown around by a hurricane. “I’m not starting—”
“Sure you are. I heard Big, Bad and Fangy is making you plant a new household on the DEW line.”
Luke chuffed out his stupefaction. “DEW line” was her slang for the households standing as a shield between vampire factions. “Big, Bad and Fangy” was one of her terms for his master, the ancient vampire Kai Elias. The discussions between himself and Elias had been private, but somehow the small female knew. “Elias is only encouraging me to do so.”
“Well, I haven’t said yes.” And he never would. Luke wasn’t master vampire material. “Besides, Meiers Corners already has four households. Ten vampires trying to blend in with seven thousand humans. Adding three more? The masquerade’s already wearing a little thin.”
“So what?” She sat. “If humans stumble onto the secret, you just woo-woo them into forgetting.”
“Not all humans ‘woo-woo’ as you put it.” Especially in this little city, for some reason.
“Then you get the ancient fucker on the line. He can zap anybody.”
“He’s not always available to zap…oh hell.” This was not a battle he could win. Dozens of raging rogues, yes. Vampire wives, not so much. He was going to have to stay as far as possible from the actual bridal shower. He shot his twin a “rescue me” look.
Logan simply grinned, until Luke narrowed his eyes. If you want me to watch over your two terrors…
“Speaking of households.” Logan turned to Julian. “I heard Old Man Crahn is finally selling.”
“Just in time,” the lawyer said. “My household is bursting at the seams. I must have the space those extra townhouses will give me.”
There were two pairs of townhouses on the block, like two sets of I’s on the dashed line of Walnut Street. Each pair faced together, originally with a driveway between. Julian had grassed over his and put parking in the basement.
“You seem awfully sure he’ll sell to you,” Logan said.
“We discussed it when I bought these two buildings,” Julian said. “We negotiated an oral contract.”
“My Suitguy.” Nixie affectionately squeezed his biceps, a maneuver that took both hands for her. “Why make a handshake deal when you can have an ‘oral contract’?”
For some reason, the word oral bumped Luke’s wandering mind to Alexis’s kiss, and other things he and Alexis could do with their mouths…
He jumped back into the conversation with both feet. “Yes, all right, I’ll watch the twins. Now Thor, what’s so secret that you couldn’t pick up a secure phone?”
“My systems are secure,” Logan said. “They’re not infallible. No matter how careful any of us are, satellite imaging, computer hacks and parabolic microphones make the days of complete secrecy past.”
“This information isn’t secret so much as private.” Thor glanced at each of the room’s occupants, his ash blond hair gleaming in the electric light. “It’s about Adelaide’s murder. Or rather, about her murderer.”
Luke stilled. Four hundred years ago, he’d been made a vampire. Three hundred years ago, he met and married Adelaide. Shortly thereafter, his wife had been slaughtered by a vampire.
Feelings cut through him like a winter wind. Helplessness as she died. Failing to protect her. His fault. His heart whooshed in his ears, the lights dimmed and the room seemed colder, everyone receding until he felt old and alone.
He hadn’t even had the satisfaction of revenge. His twin had come across the bastard first and had done what needed to be done. “Logan destroyed him years ago. It’s over.”
“Not quite,” Thor said. “My boss’s intel says your wife’s killer is moving again.”
“Impossible. Ruthven is dead.”
“Ruthven’s dead, yes. But he isn’t Adelaide’s killer.”
Chapter Three
“Dr. Byornsson? Did you hear what I said?”
I hastily dropped my hand from lips still vibrating from Luke Steel’s kiss to concentrate on my patient.
Work. Emotions got in the way. Focus.
Gelb’s medical information glowed on the screen before me. Vitals ticked themselves off—five-four, hundred-thirty pounds, fifty-seven years, BP borderline high. “You’re suffering an allergic reaction to your nicotine patches.”
“No, that’s not the problem. You listen as well as my husband. Love him to pieces, but he’s dumber than a sack of cue balls.” She tsked a combination of severe disappointment and fondness, as only a Meiers Corners matron could do. “The directions say to apply one new patch every twenty-four hours, to dry, clean, hairless skin. Honestly, these patches are supposed to be the easy way to quit smoking?”
I mentally thumbed through known side effects of nicotine replacement therapy. Besides skin irritation, there was the potential for palpitations, abnormal heart rate, headache, nausea and sleep problems. Not determined safe for pregnancy and nursing mothers, but Ms. Gelb was well beyond that. Allergies to the adhesive? Drug interaction issues?
“Is irritation an issue?” I asked.
“Only with people not listening.” She was clearly becoming exasperated with me.
“Well then, what’s the problem?”
“I’m running out of room.”
As I spun my chair to meet her eyes, I nodded. “Room? I see.” I kept nodding. It was important for a patient to feel her doctor was competent, and nodding signaled both knowledge and empathy. While I had no clue what she meant, I was a damned good doctor, and I would eventually catch on. Nodding got me through the interim without loss of patient confidence. “Room for…?”
“You’re the one with the schooling. What do you think?” She opened her gown.
Well, yes, I’d thought of one possibility but rejected it. Surely a responsible, rational adult would be able to read and follow simple directions…but no.
Her entire torso was tiled in patches.
I barely held back a laugh and hiccuped a snort instead.
“You see now?”
“Y-yes.” I kept nodding, trying to look competent and sober and not like I was about to pee my pants. My eyes started to water, so I nodded harder.
“Tomorrow’s supposed to hit eighty. It’s getting too warm to wear long sleeves.”
My head was going up and down like a jackhammer now. “Yes, I see. Definitely. Problem.” Yikes. “Ms. Gelb, generally each patch should be removed after sixteen to twenty-four hours, or you risk skin irritation and loss of effectiveness of the patch.”
She stared at me. “What?”
“One patch at a time, Ms. Gelb.”
“Why didn’t you just say that? What’s wrong with your head?”
“Um…nothing.” I stopped nodding and shouted, “Nurse Battle, could you come in please? My nurse will help you.” Because if I didn’t get out of there, pronto, I was going to bust a gut, which definitely wouldn’t go well on my patient-relationship survey.
The moment my big nurse came in I sketched the diagnosis—she’d have a field day writing that up for the charts but that was her problem—and skedaddled. The instant the door was shut I fell against the wall, buried my face and burst out laughing.
A single scuff of hard-soled shoes presaged the acerbic voice. “Dr. Byornsson, pull yourself together.”
My laugh froze. I turned.
Screamingly blue eyes peered at me out of an ascetic, creased face—the frowning visage of Dr. Gregor Haus.
Yes, like a German version of Gregory House. A weird coincidence, but Meiers Corners was a sinkhole for sanity that way.
I arranged my face into the epitome of sober professionalism. “Dr. Haus, how can I help you?”
“What is this?”
He shoved a paper in my face, so close I couldn’t focus, but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t actually looking for my input.
“Sarah Jane Steel,” he said. “Discharge status—alive without permission?”
“Um…typo?” In point of fact, the computer record system only had two buttons under discharge, alive and dead, and I’d had to get creative to cram in the “without permission”, meaning her father had removed her forcibly from my care. In trying to dot my i’s I’d apparently punctured the t’s instead.
“Dr. Byornsson, I brought you in because you were reputed to be one
of the best emergency room physicians in the Midwest. But if you’re not up to the job, I’ll find someone else.”
My chest froze. “Someone else? But there isn’t anyone half as good—”
“Half a doctor is better than one who isn’t here at all.”
The words hit like a physical blow, shattering the ice in my chest into shards that cut as I sucked in a breath. He was right. I’d let attraction and roiling emotions eat into my concentration.
Rationality saved me. I had a plan, and I would fight to the bitter death to see it through.
“I’ll do better, Dr. Haus. May I get back to work?”
He nodded grudging permission, but I was already hot-footing it away.
Before I saw another patient, I had to get myself under control. I headed toward the cafeteria, closed at this time of night except for vending, but empty calories were exactly what I was after. I was angry at Dr. Haus but more at myself. Sure, part of what happened was just bad timing. But part of it was because I let my blood get fizzed kissing Luke Steel.
I slotted quarters into the candy machine, trying to get it to cough up a chocolate bar. The paper wrapper clung like snot to the turning metal spiral through a dozen tries. A frustrated kick slammed into the machine only rewarded me with smarting stubbed toes and, hopping back, I thought I’d hit bottom.
Proof positive that when Fate hands you a bad day, it’s fully prepared to put a satin bow on it in the form of a fist.
“My dear! There you are.”
A shudder swept my frame milliseconds before recognition set in. Giuseppe Marrone. I turned.
Hurrying toward me was a tall, slightly stooped man in old-fashioned knee-length coat, scooped vest and pinned ascot totally out of keeping with the warm weather. His long wavy hair and mustache were dark blond and fake. Blue granny glasses completed a nineties Dracula look ala Gary Oldman, though not as cool as Oldman. Probably on purpose—I hadn’t known him long, but Marrone seemed to do nothing on a whim, although sometimes the purpose seemed very overblown. Take the name. Giuseppe Marrone sounded deliciously foreign, until you realized it was Italian for Joe Brown.
