She squealed when cold arms wrapped around her from behind and dragged her underwater. She came up sputtering with her back against his chest. She smacked at the water while he laughed.
“You’re still an immature immortal,” she snorted as she pushed wet hair from her face.
He didn’t let go. Instead, his hands held her tighter, one on her stomach, the other on the edge of her ribs. The tip of his nose tickled the vertebrae on the back of her neck. “You have a scent, too, you know.”
She didn’t know where to put her hands, so she let them float at her sides. “I do?”
“Mm-hmm. Like strawberries and snow.”
He kept tickling her neck with his nose but didn’t say anything else. Imogene’s arms and legs floated in the current, but he held tight to her torso. She closed her eyes.
Just open your mouth. Just a little. Use that smart-ass tongue of yours and lick my neck, you freaking tease.
When he didn’t, she groaned and tugged his hands off her body. She swam away from him and stomped up the uneven beach, almost biting it when she hit the downward curve where the waves crushed the sand at high tide.
She heard his voice as she collected her clothes.
“Imogene!”
“I’m going to bed,” she shouted.
The sound of running feet on sand chased her as she reached her side door. He grabbed her wrist, which she twisted out of his grasp.
“Don’t,” she said, and she really should not have turned to face him because he was in nothing but a pair of sea-soaked black boxer briefs and skin—lots of flawless, pale skin.
He wasn’t all muscle like Ian. He wasn’t very muscly at all. He was just thin and trim with no body hair whatsoever except for a bit of light shadow on his forearms and lower legs. Without a shirt to hide it, his neck was long and lovely as were his hands, his arms, his legs… he was long everywhere, which made her wonder what was under those boxer briefs—which made her blink and rattle her brain with a violent head shake.
“I’m going inside, and you’re staying out here until I get to my room.”
“I’m sorry.” He nodded toward the ocean. “Old habits.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fuck you, Nicky.” She opened the door and slammed it in his face, which still didn’t make her feel better. Her skin was scalded where he’d touched her, and the way he purred—actually purred “strawberries and snow” made her stomp her foot with a wet squelch against the tile. “Damn it,” she muttered and hurried upstairs.
It wasn’t until she lay in bed, dry, with blankets over her head that she said, “Who the fuck is Amora?”
Chapter Seven
Oh, God, the smell. Imogene knew that smell. It was the way Celia used to smell after her bi-weekly visits to see her ex-therapist, Dr. Rayna Savage—like she’d been to a massage parlor where the air was pumped full of flower petals, incense, and hoodoo vibes. It gave Imogene the creeps.
Still, dire circumstances called for necessary visits to annoying quacks.
She sat on Dr. Savage’s leather couch and grimaced, hidden behind her red plastic sunglasses with her arms crossed like a protective shield across her chest. Dr. Savage, however, looked ready to pop with joy—like her head might literally spin right off her skinny neck.
“Imogene, I must say, I am so pleased you have decided to seek therapy.” She had on some top of the line wire rims that matched her shiny, silver business suit. Her hair was in a severe bun that tugged at her forehead skin. Imogene had to admire the pumps, though: swanky Louboutins. “Tea?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? It’s quite soothing.” Dr. Savage took a sip from a delicate china cup.
Imogene shifted on the couch, and it farted. The couch actually farted. What the hell kind of wahoo whack job office is this anyway? “I’m not here for therapy, doc.” She lifted her sunglasses. “Who’s Amora?”
Dr. Savage spit tea and leaned over, choking.
Imogene smirked.
She wiped a trail of drool from her chin. “Where did you… I mean to say… What?”
“Amora. Who is she?”
Dr. Savage’s dark eyes looked toward the window as if she might make a running dive.
“Raynaaaa,” Imogene sang. She got off the farting couch and pulled a chair from the corner of the office, then sat down right in front of the therapist. “Let’s have a friendly chat. Hmm?”
Dr. Savage leaned back in her seat, and like a windshield washed clean, regained her cool, calm demeanor. “You’re never friendly, Imogene.”
“Sure, I am. When people make me happy.” She grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. “So Nicholas might have mentioned burning half of London with some girl named Amora.”
“He told you… that?”
“I got him drunk.” She shrugged. “Why do I feel like Amora is someone who makes you sort of nervous, doc?”
“She’s not…” The doc lifted her chin and stared at Imogene down the length of her thin, straight nose. “She’s dead.”
“Oh. Well, that cuts down on competition. Did she make Nicholas?”
“This is a place where people come to seek mental health advice, Imogene.”
“This is for my mental health. I’ll feel more at peace when I know a little about the guy who’s here to deliver my best friend’s baby.”
“Then talk to Nicholas.”
Imogene leaned forward in her chair. “I want to talk to you. You obviously used to be in love with him, maybe still are. Is that why Dean kicked him out?”
Dr. Savage clicked her tongue. “Of course not. I’m in love with Dean. He just wasn’t comfortable with one of my ex-lovers being in such close proximity. Not that it’s any of your business.” She moved to stand, but Imogene wrapped her hands like claws around the arms of the doctor’s chair and kept her trapped on her ass.
“Tell me about Amora or I’ll tell Dean you slept with Nicholas last night at my place.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You know I would. My conscience is the size of a palmetto bug. Even you think I’m a psychopath. So talk.”
Dr. Savage crossed her arms. Imogene mimicked the gesture and waited.
The therapist pressed her lips into a tight, white line and finally spouted, “Amora Savoy is Nicholas’s maker, yes.”
“Okay, what’s her deal? Why did you flip when I said her name?”
“Nicholas doesn’t talk about Amora. Ever. She was a monster.”
“How so?”
Dr. Savage sighed. “She killed a lot of people.”
“So did you.” Imogene remembered the stories about how Dr. Savage had been a bad apple when she’d first turned.
“Well, Amora killed a lot more.”
“With Nicholas.”
Dr. Savage closed her eyes. “We all have a past, Imogene.”
“Yeah, well, what’s his? Because I can’t seem to figure it out. One minute, he’s a bookworm with a stick up his ass. Last night in the ocean, he had his hands all over me after already telling me I didn’t have a chance in pig heaven of getting him into bed. A hundred years ago, he was known as The Great Lover. Then, he’s a historian for some vampire society. Or is he a doctor? Wait, or maybe a painter. I don’t know, Rain, why don’t you tell me all about Lord Nicholas What’s-His-Nuts?”
Dr. Savage’s face was pinched and red.
“Breathe, bitch!”
She sucked in a gust of air.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Dr. Savage continued breathing in big, desperate gulps of air.
Imogene groaned. “You can’t avoid talking to me by holding your breath.”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“Tell me about Nicholas.”
Dr. Savage gripped tightly to the sides of her chair. “Over the course of three centuries, don’t you think people go through changes?”
“Yeah. So who is he now?”
For the first time since Imogene started her inquisition, Dr. Savage ac
tually looked less panicked and more concerned. “I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean, you’re not sure?”
Dr. Savage shoved past Imogene so she could stand. She stared out the office window at St. Arthur’s Circle below. “He’s different than I remember—sadder, I suppose. You should have seen him in Paris. Charming, gorgeous, funny: he could have had anyone.” She smiled. “He did have anyone. He brought me a glass of champagne at a party in Montmartre. He didn’t tell me I was beautiful like all the other men. He told me he was terribly bored and thought I might have something interesting to say.”
Imogene leaned her elbows on her knees. “Did you?”
“No. I turned and looked into those eyes of his and…” She shrugged. “I couldn’t think of a thing to say. It took me three minutes to fall in love with him.”
“And now?”
Dr. Savage turned away from the window. “Like I said, he just seems so serious, so sad. Also, I was a bit shocked to find he’d joined up with the Stadium Lamia.”
“Why? What’s their deal?”
“They’re the vampire watch dogs. Have been for centuries. They do good work. They keep the historical record—where we’ve been, where we’re going, which is why Celia and Ian are of such interest. They’re changing history.”
“But?”
Dr. Savage chewed her bottom lip. “The head of the SL is a vampire named Olivier Winsome. He’s older than Nicholas. I’ve met him a few times in passing, and he seems power hungry, conniving. I’ve never trusted him.”
“Male inadequacy issues?”
The doctor nodded. “Possibly.”
“Small dick?”
“Imogene!”
“What? That’s why most pompous pricks are pompous pricks. Because they don’t have… pricks.”
Dr. Savage rolled her eyes. “And I thought you were making progress.”
“Me? At least I’m not an ex-stripper psycho killer like your protégée.”
“Vixen is doing quite well with her development, thank you.”
“Yeah, well, at your little dinner party, she looked about ready to disappear under the table and give Nicholas a—” She made an offensive gesture with her mouth.
“Imogene!”
“What? I don’t blame her. Not with the way that boy smells.”
Dr. Savage nodded. “I do need to keep Vixen away from Nicholas after he’s fed. It’s too much of a temptation.”
“You’re telling me, sister. He’s under my fucking roof.” She stood and wiped her hands together like dusting off flour. “Do you trust Nicholas?”
“Yes. That’s why I asked him to be here.”
“And he has delivered babies before?”
“He was a very successful Victorian doctor.”
“Doctor. Painter. Dancer.” Imogene tugged on purple curls. “What the hell doesn’t the guy do?”
“Sing. He’s completely tone deaf.”
“Just like Ian. Must be a hot guy thing.” She turned for the door. “Been a pleasure.”
“Imogene.”
She stayed at the sound of the doc’s voice.
“If you do suspect anything strange is going on—with Nicholas—you’ll tell me.”
Imogene saluted as she left the office and tried to wipe the smell of lavender from her pleather vest lapels to no avail.
She booted the door open to Ian and Celia’s place to find Ian and Ralph, Celia’s coworker and all-around Ian fan, sitting on the living room floor playing a video game in which they killed zombies. Nearby, she smelled pine and figured the boys had just smoked outside. Despite that, Ian still glanced back at her and said, “You smell different.”
“Huh?”
“Like Dr. Savage’s office.”
“For your information, I smell like strawberries and snow.”
He paused the game and turned to look at her. “You’ve always smelled like fruit. I just thought it was the rum punches.”
“Hey, Ralph,” she said.
“Hey, Imogene.” The barely legal surfer boy stood and ran his hands through his highlighted hair. “You look, like, really hot and stuff.” He put one hand on his hip and posed.
She rolled her eyes. “Where’s your wife, Ian?”
“Bedroom.” He turned the game back on, which resulted in a squeal from Ralph when he started getting his ass kicked.
Imogene found Celia standing in front of a full-length mirror, turning from side to side. “Do I look fat?”
Imogene stared at Celia’s big belly. “Uh…”
She put her hands on her hips, swathed in a gray jersey maternity dress that resembled the mumu she used to wear when they first met. “Tell me the truth.”
“Merk.” Imogene face-planted into the center of Ian and Celia’s bed and didn’t move. The bed shifted, sinking on one side as Celia joined her.
Celia sniffed. “You smell like… Did you go see Dr. Savage?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to therapy?”
Imogene turned her head enough to see the hopeful slash horrified look on her best friend’s face. “No. Fuck no. I was nosing around about Nicholas.”
“Oh.” She gingerly laid down on her back with her hands folded over her massive abdominal protrusion. “Ian said you guys had a lot of fun last night.”
She sighed and buried her face back in the comforter.
“You didn’t have fun last night?”
“It was magical.” Her voice came out muffled.
“It was?”
“No, Merk. When have I ever called anything magical?”
“You think David Bowie’s magical.”
“Okay, outside of Bowie.” She shoved herself up on her elbows and buried her hands in her hair.
They remained there in silence, the only sound that of a low gurgling coming from Celia’s stomach.
Imogene pointed. “Is that thing trying to talk?”
“It’s not a thing. It’s a baby. Why were you asking about Nicholas?”
She balanced her chin on upturned hands. “I don’t know, dude. Something’s up with the guy.”
“Like how?”
“I can’t figure out who he is. I’m good with people. Like, I got a sense, which is why I’m such a good blood dealer. I know if someone’s up to no good. I can just tell, and I show ‘em the door. Like when I met you, I knew you were an insecure little dork. I knew Ian was the nicest guy on Earth. I even knew when you two fell in love with each other.”
Celia tossed her red ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, how did you know that? Have you ever even been in love?”
She groaned. “I’m not doing this right now. I’m talking about Nicholas. I can’t get a clear picture of the guy, and I need to because he’s delivering your baby and I don’t want anything to happen to it, okay?”
Celia poked her in the shoulder. “I know.”
“If he does anything to hurt you, I’ll go garden shears on the guy.”
Celia laughed. “Honestly, Ian said you didn’t just have fun. He said you and Nicholas were cozy last night.”
Imogene picked at a frayed thread on the blanket. “We were.”
“You’d make a cute couple.”
“Girl.” She put on her sunglasses. “I’m cute enough by myself.”
With no warning, Celia screeched—not in the wow, Imogene, you’re so funny way but in a sort of excited, sort of freaked out way, which brought Ian running. He stood in the doorway, panting.
“Again?” he said.
Celia nodded and pointed.
“Again what?” Imogene sat up on their bed.
Ian knelt next to his wife and put his hands on her stomach.
“What’s going on?” Imogene asked.
“The baby’s kicking,” Celia whispered, as if the sound of her voice might scare it back to sleep.
“Oh, gross, no.” She held up her hand and scuttled backwards on her knees to get away.
Ian giggled. “She’s got strong legs! Imogene,
come here.”
She backed away from the bed. “No.”
“Dude, what’s up?” Ralph stood in the doorway, eyes red, and stared at his surf idol.
“Come here, man. The baby’s kicking.”
“Tight!” The teenage idiot boy wandered over, which made Imogene move ever closer to the door. Maybe this baby worship thing was something you could catch, like the plague. She had to get out of there, and she would have, if she hadn’t run smack into Nicholas.
“Shit,” she hissed.
“Apologies.” His gaze swallowed the room. “We had an appointment?”
“Nicholas!” Celia waved at him. “The baby’s kicking!”
He moved past Imogene and set his medical bag on the floor near the bed. Ralph and Ian backed away out of respect, and Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed in another impeccable suit. Celia grabbed his pale hands and pushed them against her abdomen. He waited, his gaze planted on the ground, and then, suddenly, his eyes crinkled.
He smiled up at Celia. “Strong kid.” For some reason, he felt the need to look at Imogene, who stood cowering in the bedroom door. “Come here.”
She shook her head.
“She’s going to be your godchild. Come meet her.”
“No, man, this is too much out of Alien.”
Nicholas tilted his chin down and looked up at her through light eyelashes. “Imogene.”
She stomped her big booted foot and then stomped over to the bed. Once close enough, Nicholas grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. She put one knee on the bed next to him and allowed him to guide her hand, palm down, toward Celia’s bun in the oven. She was surprised how warm Celia’s stomach felt, being a vampire and all, but maybe it was the baby—half Ian—doing that. The guy was a space heater.
Nicholas held her palm down with his and didn’t move his hand away. Together, they stared at Celia’s belly until, there it was, a little push against her hand. Imogene tried to spring backwards, but she hadn’t noticed Nicholas’s hand on her lower back. If she’d doubted his age or strength, she didn’t anymore. The guy’s grip felt like iron. She wanted to shout at him, tell him to get the hell off her, but then, he rubbed his thumb against the base of her spine. She felt like a cat getting its stomach rubbed and kept her hand on Celia’s stomach until the weird pushing happened again—maybe a little baby knee or elbow. She smiled down at Nicholas and then at Celia, whose eyes were wet.
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