Even Vampires Get the Blues: A Deadly Angels Book

by Sandra Hill

  “We met earlier,” Harek blurted out, fool that he was, “but Camille is right. We don’t really know . . .”

  But MacLean was already nodding. “Good, good! Not ideal, but that could work. Mostly we’ll just be going over and over the data presented today, and engaging in physical training. The real work begins Monday with a trip a few days later down to San Clemente Island for jungle survival training. And, actually, Camo, you’ll probably learn more from Harek than you would here in a boring classroom.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he heard her mutter.

  Hey, he was the one being inconvenienced here. She should be thankful. Instead, once excused, she said, rather ungraciously, “I’ll give you the details about the wedding later.” And a piece of her mind, Harek was sure. “Do you own a tux?” she added.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Once she stomped off, Trond stepped up. “That was nice of you.”

  “Bullshit!” Harek replied.

  “Still smelling roses?”

  “Bite me.”

  “Nah. I think I’ll leave that to your weekend date.”

  “It is not a date.”

  “Seriously, Harek, what were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  They both frowned at each other, and said as one, “Mike!”

  It had to be Michael, their celestial pain in the arse, who’d planted the idea in his head. Why, he hadn’t a clue, but it was exactly the way the archangel worked. Putting them in inexplicable situations, and leaving it to them to figure out why. Like they were puppets and he pulled their strings, giving them just enough leeway to fall on their faces.

  “Are you coming to the chow hall with me?” Trond asked. There were only a few people left in the room now.

  “No, I’m not hungry. Besides, I have to find someplace to rent a tux.”

  Chapter 4

  Some folks get their chocolate fix with candy, others . . .

  The first chance Camille had to talk with Harek, who was obviously avoiding her since putting her in an uncomfortable situation with the commander yesterday, was mile four of their six-mile warm-up exercise the next morning, just after dawn. He was trailing at the end of the twenty members of the Deadly Wind team jogging along the sandy beach of the Pacific Ocean. She had to slow herself down to keep pace with the idiot.

  Active participation in the SEAL physical training during this two-week pre-op period was considered optional for the outside folks, though highly recommended. The Justice Department reps were certainly not about to exert themselves in this way. And she’d noticed the CIA guys showed up only midway through the run, having probably had a leisurely breakfast at the Hotel Del beforehand. A logical deduction since they were soon hurling the contents of their stomach along the way. Everyone knew you should eat after a long run, not before. Jeesh!

  Harek was wearing only running shorts and boots with white socks rolled over the top, like many of the men. She and the other five women out this morning wore the same, except covered on top with WEALS T-shirts.

  Despite being in seemingly good physical condition—in fact, really good physical condition, as evidenced by the striated six-pack in his abdomen and long, extended muscles in his legs—Harek was huffing away like a locomotive. Visitors to Coronado were always asking to run with the SEALs—congressmen, celebrities, even presidents—not realizing just how difficult a workout it would be. They rarely finished any particular rotation.

  Rivulets of sweat soaked Harek’s hair, which had lost its mousse about mile two, and ran down his face and over his chest. His face was flushed as he concentrated on placing one foot after another.

  “Why don’t you quit before you have a heart attack?” she suggested. “You have nothing to prove here.”

  “Go. Away,” he gasped out, and didn’t even look at her.

  “Only trying to help.”

  He grunted.

  “Like you helped me. Yesterday.”

  Nothing.

  “You know, with the commander. Intruding into my personal life by inviting yourself to my brother’s wedding.”

  Nothing.

  “What’s with that anyhow? Most men have to be dragged kicking and screaming to a wedding. Are you gay or something? Like Julia Roberts’s gay friend Rupert Everett in My Best Friend’s Wedding.”

  That at least drew a killing glance that pretty much said, Not fucking gay!

  “I don’t even know you. Why would you pull that kind of crap?”

  He increased his stride. Since he had about eight inches in height on her, she had to zip up her own pace to catch up.

  “What’s your game anyhow?”

  He turned her way without breaking stride. Maybe he wasn’t as out of shape as she’d first thought. “Can’t a guy”—pant, pant—“just be nice”—pant, pant—“without ulterior”—pant, pant—“motives?”

  “Mr. Nice Guy, huh? Nope. Not buyin’ it. And forget that life mate crap. Not buyin’ that, either. There’s something really weird about you, and I’m gonna find out—”

  “Spare me.” Pant, pant. “If you don’t want me”—pant, pant—“to go with you”—pant, pant—“I won’t.” The hopeful expression on his face was almost funny. The jerk was regretting his impulsive offer.

  “Like that’ll work after you planted the idea in the CO’s head.”

  “Unplant it.”

  Definitely having second thoughts. Big deal! “Oh no! You’re not getting out of this now.”

  He rolled his eyes, which were probably burning from the salty perspiration dripping into them, along with the mousse. “A perfect example”—pant, pant—“of female illogic.” Pant, pant. “Do you want me”—pant, pant—“to accompany you”—pant, pant—“or not?”

  Actually, though she hated the intrusion by a virtual stranger into her personal space, after she’d had a chance to think about it, having a date for the wedding was a good idea. Harek would be a buffer between her and her parents, who were constantly nagging her about doing something important with her life—translated: formal education, preferably with a doctorate degree in academia. They were purebred intellectual snobs. The most recent idea was a fast track to a doctorate in theoretic behavioral science recently developed by Tulane University. Not that she even had a clue what theoretic behavioral science was. But everyone in the Dumaine family had a doctorate, even her aunts and uncles and cousins. Her lack of even a bachelor’s was a huge embarrassment.

  And there was another reason why having Harek for a “date” wouldn’t be so bad. Her third ex-fiancé, Dr. Julian Breaux, a heart surgeon and brother to the bride, Inez Breaux, would be there with his highly pregnant wife, Justine, Camille’s once-upon-a-time best friend. And isn’t that just the cutest thing in the world. Julian and Justine. Gag me with a stethoscope. Camille had broken up with Julian six months ago. Justine was eight months’ pregnant. You do the math!

  Chalk up another disappointment to Camille’s parents, that she hadn’t been able to hold on to the most eligible bachelor in the Crescent City. A doctor, for heaven’s sake! Even if I never got a doctorate myself, maybe marriage to a doctor would satisfy them. At least that’s what I must have been thinking. Why else would I have put up with Julian’s egotistical crap? The douche bag!

  “Yes, I want you to come with me to Nawleans,” she finally replied to his question, “now that it’s been forced on me.”

  They had finished the run and someone handed both of them chilled bottles of water. Harek chugged his down, then bent over at the waist, trying to get his breathing back to normal.

  “You should walk around, to slow your heart rate gradually,” she suggested.

  He cut her another go-away scowl.

  Not a chance! She had things to say. “We can hop a military flight from the base to Fort Polk on Friday at five. I’ve arranged for a rental car to be there for the drive to Nawleans. We might be able to hit the tail end of the rehearsal dinner at Alcide’s. I should be there since I’m a brid
esmaid. You can stay with me at my parents’ house in the city. Don’t give me that look. In a guest room. I’ll fill you in on other details later.”

  “Is that all?” he asked, his voice reeking with sarcasm, or maybe it was amusement.

  “One more thing. No hitting on me. If you lay one hand on me, I’ll cut off your balls with a sharp blade, and, believe me, we have tons of those around my parents’ house. My father collects Civil War swords.” She paused. “Am I clear?”

  He laughed. “For a woman who’s being dealt a huge favor, you sure know how to lay down the rules. Here’s a news flash, sweetling—”

  She noticed that he was no longer panting. That was some quick recovery, or maybe he’d been pretending to be overwinded for some crazy reason. Hmm. “And no phony baloney endearments, either. No sweetheart, darling, sugar, cupcake, honey, lover, and especially not babe. I hate that word.”

  He arched a brow. “As I was saying . . . here’s a news flash, babe. I don’t do rules well, as evidenced by my long, long walk on this earth. No, I am not going to explain that comment. As for hitting on you, don’t you think you should wait until I show even a spark of interest? I can stay in a hotel. In fact, I prefer the privacy. And if you dare to put your hands on my balls, it better be for carnal purposes.” He paused. “Am I clear?”

  She could feel herself blush. “I was just trying to—”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “I know what you were trying to say. Believe me, I have no designs on your virtue.”

  Her face heated even more. “You don’t have to be insulting.”

  The expression on his face immediately changed to one of regret. “Did I give offense? I did not mean to. Oh, I really am a pitiful lackwit these days. I did not even apologize for my other bad behavior with you yet.”

  “Huh?” This was a reversal. But she had no idea what he was talking about. “What other bad behavior?”

  “The day we met. Outside the command center. What I said about your being unsuitable life mate material.”

  Oh, that.

  “Forgive me, m’lady. I have not had good woman luck in the past, as evidenced by three bad marriages, and the last thing I need is another.”

  Whoa! Who said anything about marriage?

  As if reading her mind, he continued, “Not that you were referring to marriage, but everyone knows that bedplay leads to wedlock, if a man is not careful. Not that you offered bedplay, but you did mention touching body parts. I mean . . .”

  She laughed. “Did you ever hear the expression: ‘When you’re in a hole, stop digging’?”

  “We had a similar saying back in my . . . uh, country. ‘When you find yourself buried in a pile of shit, keep your mouth shut.’ ”

  “Exactly. So, you’ve been married three times, huh? How old are you?”

  “Twenty and nine years . . . or so.”

  “Same as me. And I’ve had three bad near-marriages. What a coincidence!”

  “Near-marriages?”

  “Engagements.”

  “Ah, that makes as much sense of Trond’s famous near-sex.”

  She wasn’t about to ask what he meant by that. “You talk really funny. I mean, you use archaic words like sweetling, lackwit, m’lady, woman luck.”

  He shrugged. “I am a Viking. Even after all these centuries, a Viking is a Viking.”

  They were almost back at the command center, their run having involved three miles in one direction down the beach, then a hairpin loop back. A BUD/S class sat, arms linked, along the water’s edge engaged in an exercise called “surf appreciation.” Every time a wave came in, they got soaked. Every time a wave went out, their shorts, and underwear, in fact, every bodily crevice, was filled with rough, wet sand. Despite the already warm sun, the water was icy cold. The sand abraded the skin. Torture, Navy SEAL style.

  “Are we good now?” she asked Harek. “I mean, no hard feelings or anything? We’re just teammates for this mission. You’re doing me a favor. I’m grateful. Yada, yada.”

  “If you say so.”

  She reached out to shake his hand.

  His warning of “No, no, no!” came too late.

  Later, she wondered if it was she who grasped his hand or Harek who locked on hers, palm to palm, or some weird magical force, but locked they were. For a brief second that felt like hours, incredible sensations rippled out from their joined hands. A combination of electric shock and tickles that flowed in soft waves out to all her extremities and lodged in every erotic spot in between, and, whoo boy, there were lots of those. Despite her heightened arousal, she tried to yank her hand free, to no avail. If she didn’t stop this madness now, she was going to have an orgasm, right here on the Coronado beach, with a bunch of horny Navy SEALs watching.

  “Harek,” she pleaded.

  His head was thrown back, and he was breathing through his open mouth, where she could see slightly extended incisors. The fool was about to get his rocks off, just holding her hand. So was she.

  “Harek!” she said, louder now.

  His blue eyes opened slowly, and they were more silver than blue now. He licked his lips and looked at her, jerking to attention as he recognized immediately what the problem was. “Bloody damn hell!” he muttered, and managed to disengage himself from her.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she asked, once they had both gotten themselves back under control.

  “You do not want to know,” he grumbled.

  “By the way, you smell like chocolate. Did you have some sickeningly sweet cereal for breakfast? No wonder you—”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about. I do not smell like anything other than sweat. And, no, I did not eat breakfast. Do you take me for a total fool? No, do not answer that.”

  He stomped away then, as if she was to blame for everything. His grueling morning run, the weekend wedding, the erotic handshake, his Godiva chocolate body odor.

  “Just so you know, bozo,” she said to his back, in a voice too low for him to hear, “I’m a chocoholic.”

  Chapter 5

  Julia Roberts had nothing on her . . .

  Harek was cooling his heels in a tavern on the outskirts of New Orleans, wondering what the hell he was doing there, for about the fiftieth time. It was already eight p.m., and the rehearsal dinner had presumably started a half hour ago.

  He was wearing a gray Hugo Boss suit with a pale blue dress shirt and silver angel wing cuff links. Black Gucci loafers and a black and gray striped, silk Armani tie completed his outfit. His hair was slicked back off his face in a sophisticated style, not the usual deliberate disarray. He looked good, if he did say so himself, and definitely out of place in this blue-collar neighborhood bar reeking of stale beer and greasy hamburgers.

  To his chagrin and embarrassment, Camille had been wearing jeans, a denim jacket, and a baseball cap when they’d boarded the military plane in Coronado. His attire stood out like a wart on a witch’s nose, compared to his date’s. He’d felt like the dork his brothers were always saying he was.

  He knew it was only a rehearsal dinner, not the wedding itself, but it was being held in that famous Alcide’s Restaurant, and he’d assumed it would require more than casual attire. When he’d hissed his irritation to the woman, “I thought this was a formal affair,” she’d replied, “It is. You look fine.”

  Fine? What kind of half-arsed compliment was that? I look better than fine, he’d thought. “Then why are you wearing that.” He’d given her clothing a scornful glance. “Oh, is this a rebellious statement of some kind to your family? Weddings bring that out in some folks. I sensed discord when—”

  “Sit down and shut up.”

  Whoa! I hit a sore spot there. Definite family issues. But more important to him, she’d been ordering him around already, and he was not pleased, especially when she’d added, “Do you buy mousse by the gallon?”

  “Huh?”

  “Hair mousse.”

  He’d put a hand to his head. “Gel, not mousse.”r />
  She’d shrugged. “Big difference.”

  He’d bristled. If there was one thing Viking men were vain about, it was their hair. Well, there were many things they were vain about, but hair was one of them. And even though Harek did not wear his hair long in the Viking style, he still took special care with it. “What is wrong with my hair?” he’d asked.

  “Nothing. Just that you seem to take more time with it than most women I know. What do you do when you are out on an op? Go into mousse withdrawal?”

  “Very funny. And it is gel, not mousse. A men’s hair product.”

  She’d shaken her head, failing to see the distinction.

  He and Camille hadn’t talked much on the short flight or since then in the rental car, which she’d insisted on driving, until she told him she needed to stop at this tavern and suggested he have a beer while she visited the ladies’ facility. Why she needed to take her overnight bag with her defied explanation, but then women were often strange about their bathroom visits. Unlike men, who just said, “I have to piss.” Much simpler.

  That had been fifteen minutes ago. And now he sat here, sipping at a bottle of Dixie beer, fuming. Already, he’d had to fend off the overtures of two women and one man: the waitress with the impressive bosom; a harlot who walked the streets of New Orleans selling her wares, although she’d offered him a discount; and a man whose braies were so tight his cock stuck out like the figurehead on the bow of a longship.

  He was about to raise his hand for another beer when his attention was caught by a woman emerging from the ladies’ room. She wore a tight red dress held up by two thin straps and ending just above her knees. Her shoulders and arms were deliciously bare, as were her long legs, which led to black, strappy shoes with four-inch heels. Her light brown hair was a mass of curls reminiscent of the bed muss after energetic bedplay. Her pouty lips were scarlet red. From her ears dangled long, filigreed silver chains that swayed as she walked. Her neck bore no adornment, and he felt a lurch of excitement when he imagined he could see the deep vein at its curve, the most enticing temptation to a vampire, even a vampire angel.