He parted his lips, met her tongue with his when she boldly thrust hers forward.
Pure heat.
She leaned into him, clutched him tighter.
His body hardened. His breath shortened. His arms tightened around her.
Her knees went limp. Her lips tore away from his as her head fell back. Her eyes closed. Her mouth hung open, lips pink from kissing him.
Richart stared down at her as his pulse pounded in his ears.
Yeah. She was out.
Damn it. That had been the best kiss he’d had in at least a century.
And damn him for enjoying it. She was drugged, out of her senses. She wouldn’t even remember any of this when she woke up.
Sighing, he examined her neck to make sure she wasn’t bleeding from the vampire’s bite, which would soon heal and fade. He checked her pulse to ensure she hadn’t lost too much blood, then gently folded her over his shoulder.
Since he was finished hunting for the night, he would see if he couldn’t clean up this mess himself instead of calling in the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.
Opening the purse she had dropped, he drew out her keys and wallet. Her driver’s license yielded a name and address. He smiled. Jenna McBride. With her red hair and freckles, it suited her.
Thirty-seven years old.
Really? He would’ve guessed mid-to-late twenties.
Tucking the wallet away, he studied the keys. There weren’t many. Just a generic car key with no alarm to guide him to the right car in the parking lot, two door keys, and a worn Shrinky Dinks keychain that looked as if it had been fashioned by a child.
Was she married?
No. There had been no ring on her finger when she had clasped his face. And the vampires hadn’t stolen it. The only things they had desired were her blood and fear.
It doesn’t matter if she’s single. She’s human. You’re immortal.
No shopping bags littered the ground. The two employees taking a smoking break outside the superstore had worn the same color shirt and pants the woman did, so she must work there.
“Let’s get you home,” he murmured and raced around to the front of the building. So swift the surveillance cameras would only catch hazy movement that would likely be mistaken for a dust devil, Richart sped up and down the rows of vehicles until he came to an ’80s economy car that bore Jenna’s scent on the door handle.
Getting an unconscious woman into the passenger seat of such a small vehicle at preternatural speeds was awkward as hell, but he managed to do it. He slid behind the wheel, his knees practically impaling his chest. A quick seat adjustment and he started the car.
Minutes later, Richart pulled into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex and brought the car to a halt beneath a second-floor door that bore the number on her license. Exiting, he readjusted the seat in hopes Jenna would think she had driven herself home and just been so tired she couldn’t remember it. He experienced a moment of unease when he opened the apartment door and immediately scented a male. Pausing just inside, he listened carefully.
Down the hall, someone slept. A lover, perhaps?
Richart carried Jenna, cradled peacefully in his arms, down the hallway and paused outside the first door.
Not a lover. Most likely a son. Though the bedroom door was closed, a male’s scent dominated the room. Jenna’s delightful scent, on the other hand, led him past a small bathroom to a bedroom at the end of the hallway.
He placed her on the unmade bed and gently removed her shoes. Drawing the covers up to her shoulders, he stared down at her.
He had done this so many times over the years, seeing vampire victims safely to their homes. But, for once, he found himself oddly reluctant to leave.
Listening to the soothing thump of her heartbeat, he glanced around the room. A full-sized bed. A less-than-stable-looking desk supporting an outdated computer. A closet with not many clothes. And a battered dresser upon which rested a small TV and a handful of photos.
Four of the pictures depicted a boy ranging in age from infancy to high school graduation. A fifth showed a very young Jenna holding a baby while a grinning teenaged boy stood with his arms around them both.
Richart’s gaze returned to Jenna.
And still his feet refused to move.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Removing it, he glanced down at the text sent by Sheldon, his Second or human guard:
Sunrise in 15. Where the hell R U?
Richart tucked away the phone. Leaning down, he brushed the hair back from Jenna’s face and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Have a nice life,” he whispered.
He straightened. The world around him went black as a familiar feeling of weightlessness claimed him. A split second later he stood in the living room of his home.
Richart let out a piercing whistle.
A thud sounded in the study. “Ow!” a male voice complained. “Damn it! Don’t do that! You scared the crap out of me!”
Though such usually sparked a smile, this morning Richart felt only . . .
He frowned. What was it he felt? Regret? Sadness?
Yes, as though he had just lost something.
Sheldon entered the room. “You cut it kinda close tonight. What happened?”
Richart shook his head, baffled by the uncharacteristic emotions buffeting him. “Nothing out of the norm.” Determined to shake it off, he strode toward his young Second. “What’s the news on the vampire king?”
“You should try to eat something.”
Jenna’s stomach turned over at just the thought of putting food in it. “No way.”
“Come on. You said you didn’t eat before you came in tonight.”
“That’s because everything I ate this afternoon came right back up.”
Debbie grimaced. “Food poisoning sucks.”
“Yes, it does.” Jenna smiled at a customer who walked past, then followed as Debbie wheeled her cart to the end of the aisle and continued to restock the makeup shelves.
The store was fairly quiet, though somewhere in the distance a child threw what sounded like a doozy of a temper tantrum.
Leaning into the basket, Jenna opened a box, drew out a handful of lipsticks, and started arranging them on the display.
“You’re the manager. You don’t have to do that anymore,” Debbie pointed out. “Why don’t you take it easy tonight? No one will fault you for it.”
She shook her head. “I get antsy when I’m idle.”
Debbie’s eyes suddenly widened. Her face lit up with a wide smile. “Don’t look now, but . . . guess who just entered!”
Jenna felt a sinking sensation in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chicken sandwich that had made her so sick. “Who?”
“Prince Charming!” Debbie blurted, looking over Jenna’s shoulder toward the store’s only entrance open at four o’clock in the morning. “Mr. Tall, Dark, and Yyyyyyyyyyyummy!” The last was said in a growl that reminded Jenna of the Cookie Monster. “And he’s headed this way!”
She groaned. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
The Prince Charming currently making Debbie drool was an incredibly handsome Frenchman who had been frequenting the store for the past month or so. Every time he came in, he made a point of seeking out Jenna wherever she might be and speaking to her. First it had been to ask where he might find Krazy Glue. Then it had been to ask if she knew what houseplants fared well in low light. Then it had become friendly chatting with a hint of flirtation.
And this man didn’t need to flirt to get a woman’s attention. He was gorgeous. At least six feet tall. Broad shouldered and leanly muscled like an NBA player with short black hair and expressive light brown eyes. Always dressed in black with a dark coat that Debbie referred to as his Blade outfit, hold the leather.
Debbie frowned. “That’s weird. He was all smiles a second ago and now he’s frowning. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he heard you.”
“He’s sixty yards away. He ca
n’t hear us. Trust me.”
“True. So what’s the deal? Why don’t you want to see him? I thought you liked him.”
“I do like him,” Jenna said as she grabbed some nail polish and slipped into the next aisle, out of Richart’s sight. She really did. They had had coffee together a few times on her breaks, and she couldn’t remember the last time a man had captivated her so much or made her laugh so often. “It’s just . . .” She set the containers down in a pile on the bottom shelf and motioned to herself. “Look at me.”
“Yeah. You do sorta look like death warmed over.”
“Exactly. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Debbie’s eyes darted to Richart. “He’s smiling again. Are you sure he can’t hear us?”
“Debbie! Focus!”
“All right—all right. Here.” Leaning in, she pinched Jenna’s cheeks.
“Ouch!”
“Oh quit complaining, you need a little color. And smooth your hair back. It’s all straggly.”
Jenna hastily smoothed back the hair that had escaped her ponytail and made sure her shirt was neatly tucked in. “How do I look?”
“About as good as you feel.”
“Great.”
“The circles under your eyes have a lovely purplish hue.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Shh-shh. Here he comes.” Debbie leaned over the cart and pretended to search the various boxes.
Jenna grabbed the discarded nail polish and started distributing them to their proper places on the shelves.
“I don’t see it,” Debbie said. “Nancy may have forgotten to order it. You want me to go check?” Convinced that Richart had a thing for Jenna, Debbie always found an excuse to leave the two alone.
Or as alone as they could be in a massive superstore.
“Good evening, ladies,” Richart greeted them, stopping beside Debbie’s cart and giving them both a smile. His eyes met and held Jenna’s.
Her heart, as usual, began to slam against her ribs with all of the enthusiasm of a crushing teenager’s. And her stomach filled with butterflies that really didn’t mingle well with the nausea plaguing her.
“Hi,” she said. The moment she had first seen Richart, a sense of familiarity had overwhelmed her. But she was certain she had never met him before. She would have remembered his good looks, his warm, friendly demeanor, and that smooth French accent. It was a puzzle.
“Hi,” Debbie chirped. “How’s it goin’?”
Still smiling, he drew the sides of his coat back a bit and tucked his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s been a quiet night.”
“For us, too,” Debbie replied, then looked at Jenna. “I’m gonna go see if it’s in the other basket. If it isn’t there, I’ll check the back.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Debbie gave Richart a little wave.
He bowed slightly, watched her leave, then turned a discerning gaze on Jenna.
“So.” She mentally told the butterflies to simmer the hell down so she wouldn’t start dry heaving in front of the first man to interest her in years. “I assume in the private security business a quiet night is a good night?”
He nodded. “Very much so.”
Though young (a good seven or eight years younger than she was by her guess), he was a partner in what sounded like a very successful and very elite private security company.
“Never a dull moment?” she asked with a smile.
“Rarely,” he admitted. His brow furrowed. “Are you feeling all right tonight?”
She winced. “I look that bad, huh?”
“You’re as beautiful as ever, just a bit peaked.”
Seriously, who wouldn’t like this man?
“I ate some bad fast food earlier and am paying for it big-time.”
“Why aren’t you home in bed?”
Because I have a son on his way to medical school and need every penny of every paycheck to supplement his scholarship and keep the student loan debt he racks up to a minimum.
She shrugged. “For food poisoning? Nah. I’ll be fine.”
Richart wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t press it. Her pale, freckled skin, which usually held a faint hint of pink, had acquired a yellowish cast. Her pretty eyes, more brown than green tonight, were shadowed.
If she had looked this pallid after being bitten by the vampire from whom he had rescued her, Richart would have been worried that she might be transforming, but that had taken place weeks ago. And he had kept an eye on her ever since, watching to ensure the vampire who had fled would not return to harm her.
Of course, keeping an eye on her had only enhanced his interest. He couldn’t forget that kiss. Or the feel of her slender body pressed against his. He liked her smile. He liked her laugh. The camaraderie she shared with Debbie.
His Second had caught on—Richart still didn’t know how, because Sheldon wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer—and had told him to stop stalking her.
Dude, just talk to her already. It’s getting kinda creepy.
Richart had only been looking for an excuse, so . . . he had followed Sheldon’s advice and asked her where to find the Krazy Glue. Soon they had worked up to chatting like old friends and having coffee together whenever he managed to time his visits with her breaks.
“How’s John?” he asked.
As expected, her face lit with pride at the mention of her son. “He just aced another exam.”
“Excellent.”
She clearly adored John, whom she had borne when she was a mere seventeen years old.
An employee walked past and waved. “I’m out, Jenna.”
“’Night, Tracy.”
“Enjoy your night off tomorrow,” Tracy called over her shoulder.
Richart turned back to Jenna and arched a brow. “You have tomorrow night off?”
She nodded. “I’m glad it wasn’t tonight. Being sick on my night off would have really sucked.”
Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Just tell her to have fun and get some rest. Keep it casual. “Would it be too presumptuous of me to ask if I might cook dinner for you tomorrow night? Something mild that won’t upset your stomach further?” Imbécile.
She blinked. “Really?”
“Yes. I could pick up the ingredients and cook them at your place so, if you still aren’t feeling well, you won’t have to go out or dress up and can lounge around in . . .” Hell. What did women wear when they were just hanging around the house? His sister always sported combat gear and weapons.
“Yoga pants and a tank top?” she suggested.
He had no idea what yoga pants were, but had to struggle to keep his body from responding to the mental image of Jenna in a tank top. “Perfect.”
She bit her lip.
“Not perfect?”
“There’s just one thing,” she broached with reluctance. “John works until nine tomorrow night and I don’t think he’s planning to meet with his study group, so he’ll probably be home by ten. I’m not sure what you have in mind, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . . pursuing anything”—her cheeks filled with a pretty pink—“amorous with him home or expected home any minute.”
He smiled. “I assure you such was not my intention.”
“Oh.” The pink deepened. “Embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was the one being presumptuous. I didn’t—”
He touched her shoulder. “I meant such was not my intention while you feel unwell.”
“Oh,” she repeated, then sent him a shy smile.
“I have a confession to make, Jenna,” he said, defying caution. “Normally, I rarely patronize this store.”
“You’ve been in here at least every other night for the past month.”
He nodded. “Yes. Because, once I met you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
She smiled, all awkwardness falling away. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Me, too,” she admitted. “It’s funny. The first night you came in, I had the stranges
t feeling that I knew you.”
Chier. Somewhere in her subconscious she must remember the night he had rescued her. But that time should be nothing but a black void. She should have no memory of it at all, not even enough to make her think she had seen him before.
“You did?” he asked as casually as he could.
She nodded. “I wanted to ask you if we’d met, but was afraid you might think it was a pickup line or something.”
“Ah.” Smooth.
“Have we met?” she persisted, face curious. “The feeling was so strong.”
“I’m sure I would remember if we had.” Not a lie, but misleading.
She nodded, brow faintly furrowed. “Yeah, me too.”
Richart’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing it out, he glanced down to note the caller: Chris Reordon, the mortal in charge of the East Coast division of the human network that aided Immortal Guardians.
Richart gave Jenna’s shoulder another light touch. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
She nodded.
“Yes?” Richart answered.
“I just received a call from a woman in distress,” Chris said without preamble. “All she had time to do is say, ‘Oh, crap’ and drop the phone before vampires attacked and gunshots sounded.”
“Could you tell how many there were?”
“No. But, judging by the sounds of it, a hell of a lot. Étienne is at UNC Chapel Hill near Kenan Stadium. I need you to teleport to him and be ready to go as soon as I track down where she is.”
Richart walked a couple of paces away. “Could it be Tracy?” Tracy was his sister Lisette’s Second, and 9mms were her weapons of choice.
“It isn’t Tracy. I would have recognized her voice.”
Relief rushed through him.
“We’re tracing the call now,” Chris continued, “and should have a location by the time you rendezvous with Étienne. If it’s a place you know, teleport directly to the location and join the fight. If it isn’t, Étienne has his car with him and will get the two of you there as fast as he can.”
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