Out of the Light, Into the Shadows

by Lori Foster

  “I don’t mind not eating.” Since he didn’t eat anyway. “We can walk to the movie theater. And it’s ladies’ choice—we can see whatever you want.”

  They talked as they walked, chatting about the usual things—career, family, likes and dislikes—that you did when you were getting to know someone. Nick was intrigued listening to her, and startled at how much they actually had in common, their taste in music, movies, and books.

  She was just as voracious a reader as he was and listing obscure titles to each other kept resulting in him saying, “Read that,” and her exclaiming, “Oh, my God, no way.”

  They discussed a couple of books in depth, and then Jordan asked, “Do you have any other hobbies?”

  “Not really,” he told her as they approached the movie theater. “I like to work out, but other than that I don’t really get out of the house much.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, with a knowing look.

  He shrugged. “It is what it is. I love Peter, you know, and that makes it easier.”

  “Of course you do. I can see that. I had a brother who was schizophrenic, and it’s love that gets you through those days when they’re so irrational you just want to cry.”

  “I’m sorry, that must have been hard on your family.”

  “It was. Lots of tears of frustration and sadness.”

  Nick smiled. “I’m not a big crier.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Of course you’re not, Macho Man.”

  Giving a short laugh, he shot her a side glance. “But seriously, thank you for understanding. There are rough days, especially now that my niece is gone. I raised her as well, and she’s getting married in a few days and I miss her. She kind of balanced out our odd little household.”

  “You raised your niece, too, and she’s old enough to get married? Wow. How old are you?” Then Jordan wrinkled her nose as they got into line to buy tickets. “God, that was rude. Sorry. I think my social skills have gotten rusty.”

  “It’s okay. I’m a guy, we don’t worry about our age as much as women do.” Plus he was a hundred and twenty years old and still looked the way he had the day he’d been turned. He wasn’t overly concerned about a number at this point. “I’m thirty-eight.” It was a reasonable age to explain his guardianship of Katie in earlier years, and was close to the thirty-three he’d been when he’d been turned back at the beginning of World War I.

  “Really?” She looked surprised. “You look like you’re barely thirty to me.”

  “Hardly,” he told her, enjoying teasing her. “Look at these crow’s-feet.” He pointed to his undereye. “And I’m going gray at the temples.”

  Jordan scrutinized both his skin and his hair and then smacked his arm. “Oh, please. You don’t have a single wrinkle, and if you are going gray it’s one random hair. You look better than me and you’re ten years older than me.”

  “You look amazing,” he said, dropping his eyes to her soft, plump lips.

  She sucked in her breath, her eyes darkening. Her voice grew husky. “That’s because I’m wearing makeup. And clothes. It all goes to hell when the concealer and the ‘suck it all in and push it all up’ bra and panties come off.”

  Nick gave in to temptation and brushed her hair back off her face. “I have no doubt you’re being ridiculously hard on yourself. You’re gorgeous, with a great figure.”

  “I’m not fishing for compliments, I swear. And I also swear to you that I have muffin top.”

  “What’s a muffin top?” he asked in bewilderment.

  “It’s when your fat hangs over the top of your jeans. I have that because my only other hobby besides reading is baking. I probably eat my body weight in baked goods in a month. Hell, a week.”

  Nick had moved his hand to the small of her back, and she hadn’t protested. He felt nothing but smoothness below her shirt, nothing like what she was describing at all. “If you’re trying to scare me off from touching you by fabricating horror stories of what I might find, it’s not going to work. Unless you don’t want me to touch you, then you just need to tell me you’re not interested, and I’ll respect that.”

  “Oh, I want you to touch me, I’m just warning you,” she said with an honesty he found incredibly refreshing. “You work out, I don’t. You’ve got a six-pack and I just drink a six-pack.”

  “I think you worry too much.”

  Jordan laughed. “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “And I wish we weren’t still standing in this damn line, because I really want to kiss you, and I’d prefer not to do so with twenty people watching us.”

  “Wait until we get inside,” she told him. “It’s nice and dark.”

  He sincerely loved the way this woman thought.

  JORDAN was being super forward, and she didn’t even care. There was something just so hot about Nick Stolin. The man was ripped, so tall and brawny that he made her feel tiny and very feminine when he was standing next to her. He had a sly, closed-mouth smile that did interesting things to her inner thighs, and he looked like he wanted to eat her one bite at a time. Plus he was an avid reader, had raised his niece and his autistic son alone, and he wanted to kiss her.

  Sold.

  She knew herself, and when she made up her mind nothing could stop her, and she wanted to sleep with Nick. A fling was just what she needed, a passionate, pleasant distraction. It was unbelievable to her that she had managed to suppress her physical urges for an entire year, because they were exploding at the moment.

  They had been in the theater only five minutes when Nick put his hand on her knee, stroking with his thumb, distracting her from the previews that were playing.

  Another three minutes and he whispered in her ear, “Jordan.”

  “Yeah?” She turned to see what he wanted and barely had time to catch a breath before his mouth was on hers.

  Oh, my. It took a second to recover, but then Jordan sank into the kiss. In the dark theater, his shoulder brushing hers, it was perfect. Sexy, skilled, the kind of first kiss that confirms the attraction you’re feeling is legitimate and is going to go to good, happy places. He had a firm, demanding mouth, but with a strange, unexpected tenderness that left her breathless.

  Nick pulled back and she stared into his brown eyes in the dark theater, and everything feminine and emotional and romantic in her just melted. It stunned her, the way want and need and the desire to be touched just rolled over her, and when he bent his head again, she met him eagerly and with passion. She kissed him with all her pent-up frustration and need, and he took her lips in kind, his arm pulling her tightly against him.

  God, he was so big and hard and masculine, and if Jordan hadn’t been in public, she would have crawled right onto his lap. Which further shocked her. She wasn’t a lap percher; she was a detective, one of the guys, and there was nothing Barbie about her. But while she was still tough and independent, this man tugged on her softer side.

  It was with both regret and relief that she pulled back, breathing hard. He looked the way she felt—drowning in passion and overwhelmed by it.

  Nick squeezed her lower back, then turned to the screen.

  Jordan did the same, staring at the images flickering in front of her with no idea what the hell she was looking at.

  She should walk away. She should get up out of the theater and just leave, to shake this feeling of vulnerability that had suddenly stolen over her. It would be smart, logical.

  But her butt stayed stuck to the seat, and she knew she wasn’t going to do it.

  FIVE

  ANGIE Martin paused at the traffic light, wishing she had skipped that last glass of wine at dinner. She wasn’t exactly drunk, but she had a healthy buzz and had a feeling she shouldn’t be driving. Contemplating turning back into the parking lot of the casino and calling a cab, she saw movement to her right.

  Doing a double take, it took her a second to process what she was seeing. Then she realized it was a kid, running at breakneck speed, shirtless. He stumbled over the curb, weaving errat
ically toward her car.

  What the hell?

  She idled, suddenly sober. He looked like he was barely in double digits and she knew it was past ten o’clock. Why was he running around the streets of Vegas by himself?

  He came right up to her car and knocked on the passenger window. Worried, maternal instinct kicking in, Angie rolled down the window.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” she asked.

  His eyes were panicked, and he was breathing hard. “Please help me,” he said. “I got away, but he’s coming after me!”

  The words collapsed into a sob and Angie didn’t hesitate. “Get in, I’ll help you. Who’s after you?”

  Opening the door, the boy climbed in, and Angie could see that he wasn’t wearing shoes and his cargo shorts were sliding down off his hips, unbuttoned, revealing the waistband of his underwear. He had dark circles under his eyes and dried blood on his chin and chest.

  Oh, my God. “What happened?” she asked, appalled.

  “Go!” he begged, locking the door.

  Shock wore off, and she pulled her foot off the brake and hit the gas. “I’m taking you to the police station.”

  “We have to get my mom,” he pleaded. “He left her there.”

  “Who?” Not sure what to do, Angie pulled over to the side of the street and tried not to panic.

  “My stepdad. Please, she’s in that parking lot over there, and I think … I think she’s dead.” The boy burst into tears.

  Oh, Lord. Angie’s heart started to pound and she reached for her cell phone, only to find it wasn’t sitting in its usual spot by the gearshift. Damn it. “We need help. We need to go in the casino and call for help.”

  “Can’t we just check on her first? I can’t just leave her there! What if he comes back?”

  Angie pulled the car into the parking lot he was pointing to. “Show me where.” She wasn’t about to leave the kid alone with his mother in case the stepfather did come back, but neither did she want to be standing there if he showed up. She would position her car in front of the woman as some kind of protection, and she would find her stupid cell phone and call the cops.

  “Right here.” He pointed to the shadowy end of the lot, by the garbage Dumpster.

  Great. Sick to her stomach, Angie slowed her car, cautiously scanning the ground, and felt around the backseat for her purse. Her phone had to be in there.

  “She’s not there!” he wailed. “He must have come back.”

  And before Angie could even react, the kid had opened the door and jumped out of the still-moving car, stumbling to the blacktop.

  Jesus. She slammed on the brakes and parked the car. “Get back in here!”

  Her fingers found her purse and she grabbed it, got out of the car, and ran after the kid, who had disappeared behind the Dumpster. “We need to go get help!”

  The blow to the back of her head sent her pitching forward, the pain exploding behind her eyes, in her hands, and on her bare knees under her skirt as they made contact with the asphalt, and she lost her hold on her purse.

  The stepfather was back, was her stunned thought as she struggled to focus her eyes and make her body move.

  She tried to stand up, nausea climbing up her throat, but she was yanked backward onto her butt by a strong grip in her hair, pulling it so hard her head tilted up and she had a clear view of the Dumpster. A woman was in front of Angie, thin and pale in the murky glow of the streetlight. She wore a short pink cocktail dress, her long black hair sliding over bare shoulders.

  “What … ?” Angie asked, confused. This woman didn’t look injured in any way. Fear for the boy began to shift to fear for herself, the hairs on the back of her neck rising, a cold shiver sliding over her, a hot anxiety flooding her mouth.

  The pressure on her hair roots was causing her eyes to water, blurring the figure in front of her, but she didn’t need to see anymore when the woman said in a reassuring, high-pitched voice, “Don’t worry, it will only hurt for a second, then you won’t remember anything.”

  Oh, God. Angie went wild, trying to escape the hand holding her, not caring if she lost every hair on her head or the layer of skin off the backs of her legs. She had to get away. Every instinct in her said to run, that she was in danger, and she swatted at the person behind her, trying to rise to her feet. An arm whipped around her middle, the skin cool and clammy, the hold so tight that she wheezed, trying to suck in air.

  “This is boring,” the woman said. “I was winning at blackjack and I want to get back. Text me when you’re done.”

  Then the woman disappeared. A sharp sting on Angie’s neck made her scream, and as she felt pain infiltrate every inch of her body, the sensation of having all her insides drawn up and pulled out of her, she started to pray.

  NICK shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t even suggest it. He didn’t know if Peter and Kelsey were in the suite, and he had to be at work in thirty minutes. It was too much, too soon, and he was going to offend Jordan.

  But he still heard himself say to her as they lingered in the lobby of the Venetian after the movie, “Do you want to come up to my place for a drink?”

  Jordan hesitated and Nick was about to retract the offer, when she said, “Well, I want to.”

  The look on her face, the way her eyes bore into him, made it clear what she was referring to, and Nick felt his body respond.

  Then she added, “But is it really such a good idea?”

  If she could be honest and direct, so could he. “I don’t know. It is certainly what I want.”

  “Oh, trust me, I want it to. But I’m a cop, Nick. I know there is nothing smart about going up to the room of a man I just met, especially one who is huge and trained as a bodyguard.”

  Ah, so that was what was bothering her. Personal safety. Being smart. Funny enough, she didn’t look the least bit afraid of him. “I can assure you that I’m not going to hurt you, but words are meaningless I know. Do you think I’m dangerous?”

  She shook her head slowly, swinging her purse gently back and forth between her hands. “No. I don’t. I have a radar, you know, from all my experience. I can spot a weirdo at twenty feet. A pedophile at five. That still doesn’t mean I should trust you. It’s possible I could be wrong.”

  Nick brushed that gorgeous auburn hair off her cheek and met her steady gaze. “I guess we have two options then. We’ll make plans to meet in public again and you leave, or I can help you feel comfortable and you can stay.”

  “How are you going to do that?” she asked, the corner of her mouth going up in a sly smile, her eyes sparkling.

  God, she was sexy. Even as she was telling him she shouldn’t sleep with him, she was flirting with him. “We could go to your place instead, so you’re on your own turf. Would that make you feel better?”

  She paused, then shook her head. “No. Because then I would be isolated from others, unlike here in the casino, and then you would also know where I live.”

  Logical, he’d give her that. But he wanted her badly enough that he wasn’t about to give up without exhausting all their options. “Okay. We could stay here then and you can have total control over me.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, yeah? And how exactly would I do that?”

  The idea had just popped into his head, and now it had a strange appeal to it. Nick wanted Jordan to stay, and he wanted her to trust him. “You’re a cop. You can cuff me.”

  Now her jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You would let me put you in handcuffs … for real?”

  “Yes. Then you can do as much or as little as you want. Leave after a few minutes or stay all night. It’s up to you. Everything will be yours to control.”

  “Oh, really?” Her shock shifted to intrigue and she gave him a curious look. “Do you do this frequently? Let women handcuff you?”

  “I’ve never done it. It’s never even occurred to me before. But the truth is, we can spend months getting to know each other before you’re comfortable being alone with me, and I don’t have t
hat kind of patience at this point in my life.”

  “That I definitely understand. I’m fresh out of patience myself. So say I come upstairs with you … are you going to call me tomorrow?”

  She was definitely direct and the question had curiosity in it, nothing more. “Yes, I will call you. I have a ton of baggage, a kid, and a lousy job, and I should probably spare you the horror of getting involved with me, but I am feeling just selfish enough that I will call you. I want to see you again.”

  “Everyone has baggage. It’s unavoidable. I’m not exactly quality relationship material myself.”

  “So what do you say we don’t worry about that and just enjoy the moment?” Nick could learn to do that. He worried too much, was weighted down by responsibility, by concern for what the rest of his long, immortal life was going to be like. He just wanted a little bit of pleasure, physical and emotional, no matter how brief.

  “I think that’s a damn fine idea,” Jordan said. Then she grinned. “I’ll cuff you before we get on the elevator. Good thing I still have them in my bag from work. I don’t usually go out on dates with them.”

  “Given my job, it would have never struck me as odd, trust me.” Nick gestured in the direction of the elevator and followed Jordan when she started walking.

  “You’re a personal bodyguard?” she asked. “What does the guy you work for do?”

  “He’s an Italian businessman.” And vice president of the Vampire Nation, but he couldn’t tell Jordan that. “He owns a lot of real estate.”

  “I thought you said you came from Odessa with your employer. What was an Italian doing in Odessa?”

  It pleased Nick that she had clearly had paid attention when he spoke. “That was my former employer—a Russian businessman. I came here with him, and then unfortunately he was killed.”

  “Really? That’s awful.”

  “Yes, it was. He was a horrible human being, but I suppose even he didn’t deserve to die. At least it wasn’t on my shift. That would have been embarrassing.”

  Jordan laughed. “Nice. Hey, don’t you have to work tonight?”