Trick laughed. “He did get kind of carried away, didn’t he?”
She took the stairs two at a time. “Why don’t you come inside?” she said, leading the way. “Have a seat.” She waved him toward the lumpy couch, but he ignored her. Once burned, twice shy. Last time he’d risked that sofa, he’d damned near emasculated himself on a loose spring. He chose the wooden chair instead, figuring the worst that could happen to him there was to collect a few splinters in his backside.
Nevada leaned against one arm of the sofa, arms crossed, legs extended casually. He was no expert at body language, but even he could read the mixed messages there. “So,” she said. “What’s up?”
He shot a quick glance her way. Her expression assured him the double entendre had been unintentional, and he felt like a jerk for suspecting otherwise. “I sent the ring and an enlarged photo of Blanche’s amulet down to Carson with Marcello. He showed them to a jeweler there who specializes in antiques. According to him, the riƒ tolarng likely dates back to the early-to-mid-nineteenth century—”
“Which we knew already,” she said.
“Which we suspected,” he corrected her. “He was even able to identify the goldsmith who made it, Thaddeus McKelvey of San Francisco.”
“And the amulet?”
“The jeweler couldn’t say for sure just from studying a photograph, but he suspected the amulet was even older.”
“But the ring definitely came from San Francisco?”
Trick nodded. “The markings we saw on the inside of the band? That was the goldsmith’s ‘signature.’ Of course, Thaddeus McKelvey’s long dead, but McKelvey Fine Jewelry is still in business.”
“So there should be records.”
Trick hated to be a wet blanket, but…“Unless they were destroyed in the earthquake of 1906.”
“But it’s still a solid lead,” she insisted. “Finding McKelvey Fine Jewelry is bound to be easier than tracking down relatives of a girl named Smith who’s been dead over a century and a half.”
“Just don’t get your hopes up,” he warned.
Nevada’s gaze slid away from his. She frowned at the threadbare carpet for a moment or two, then suddenly shoved herself upright. “I’m a terrible hostess. Sorry. May I get you something to drink?” She nodded toward the minifridge that did double duty as an end table.
“No, thanks,” he said. “I don’t mean to discourage you. It’s just—”
“You’re a pessimist by nature,” she said.
“No,” he corrected her. “Not a pessimist. A realist. And not by nature, either. It was a lesson I learned the hard way.” He stood up. “I really should be going.”
“And now you’re offended.”
“I’m not offended.” Though he was.
“Then why are you in such a hurry to leave?” Her mouth did that twitchy almost-smile thing. “Hot date with ESPN?”
“Lukewarm,” he said. “Why? You got a better idea?”
“Britt told me it’s karaoke night at the lodge.”
Oh, God. Well, he had asked. “You sing?”
“Not really,” she said. “But I’ve never been to a karaoke night. How about you?”
“Sad to say, I’ve not been as fortunate as you have in avoiding them. Marcello’s dragged me into karaoke bars on three continents.”
She shot him a startled look. “Seriously? I thought karaoke was strictly an American phenomenon.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it started in Japan.”
“That’s not really what I was asking, though,” she said. “What I meant was, can you sing?”
“Lord, no.” He gave a snort of laughter. “Can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Britt is an amazing woman,” Nevada said as she and Trick headed back toward the Granger mansion on foot. “Not only a former Olympic champion skier but a fantastic singer as well.”
“Plus as gorgeous as a movie star and built like a goddess,” Trick added.
“True.” Nevada shot him a quick sideways glance. Was he more interested in his neighbor than she’d realized? Here she’d thought Marcello was the one who…
“But not really my type,” Trick said. “I prefer brunettes to blondes, green eyes to blue.”
Nevada stopped in her tracks, halfway across the parking lot. Was he coming on to her?
Trick stopped, too. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Are you flirting with me?”
Trick laughed softly. “All night long. Hell, don’t tell me this is the first time you noticed.” He shook his head sadly. “I really must be losing my touch.”
“Trick, I…”
“I know.” He gave her a quick hug. “No pressure.”
No pressure. Easy for him to say. He obviously didn’t have a full-fledged war raging inside his body—hormones versus good sense. His touch—even a casual touch like that arm he had wrapped around her shoulders—was enough to weaken her knees and set her heart racing. Damn it, she was such a fool.
Nevada started walking again, dislodging his arm in the process.
“Hey!” Trick protested. “Slow down. My knee’s still not limber enough for a four-minute mile.”
“It’s not a mile back to the mansion.”
“Okay, a two-minute half mile then,” he called after her.
She slowed, then stopped to wait for him to catch up. “Jackrabbit,” he said.
She shot him a quizzical smile. “Okay, that was random.”
“Not really.” A wicked grin curved his lips. “As fast as you move, you should have called yourself Jackrabbit instead of Nevada.”
“I know how to run,” she admitted. “It’s what I’m good at.” She didn’t smile, though, because it wasn’t a joke.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said, his voice gentle, his face serious.
She didn’t respond. What could she say? Instead, she started walking again.
“When we get back, you’re not going to invite me in, are you?”
She tƒidt="0ook a deep breath, held it a second or two, then exhaled slowly. “No,” she said. Though God knew she wanted to so badly she was trembling with the effort not to voice her need.
“Just as well,” he said. “Because if you did ask me in, I wouldn’t say no, even though I know I should. You’re not ready. I’m not ready. We’re not ready. But…”
Yeah, but…
They completed the rest of the walk in silence. Trick didn’t climb the stairs to her apartment with her or try to kiss her before she started up, but when she glanced back over her shoulder just before slipping inside, he was still standing there at the bottom of the staircase, still watching her. When he realized she’d seen him, he smiled and blew her a kiss. Very Romeo and Juliet. Then he turned and walked toward the mansion.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath as she let herself into her apartment, though, to be perfectly honest, she wasn’t sure if she was talking about Trick or herself.
She turned on the floor lamp, then collapsed on the sofa with a sigh.
Only gradually did all the disturbing little anomalies impinge upon her consciousness. She hadn’t left two beer bottles on the coffee table. She didn’t have any beer, didn’t like it, never drank it.
She was pretty sure she hadn’t bunched all the throw pillows up at one end of the sofa, either.
And she was absolutely positive she hadn’t tossed hamburger wrappers and leftover fries on the floor at the end of the couch.
Somebody had been here while she was gone.
Correction, she thought as she heard the toilet flush, somebody was here now.
She bolted out of her seat and across the apartment to the door. One of the men who’d been following her, the big African American with the shaved head, emerged from the bathroom just as she jerked the outside door open. For once, he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses, and his eyes seemed to glow red in the instant he spotted her.
“Don’t run away,” he said, his voice a deep, rumbly bass that sent ch
ills down her spine. “Party’s just about to get started.”
“Not much of a party girl,” she said. She ducked out the door and raced down the steps.
He lunged after her, but she didn’t look back. Instead, she focused all her energy on getting away.
“Stop her!” Rumbly voice shouted from behind her.
“I’m planning to.” The second man loomed up out of the darkness, blocking her escape. A self-satisfied smirk twisted his lips. “Looks like we’ve got you sandwiched in, sweetheart.”
Nevada didn’t think. She just reacted, running scared, hyped on adrenaline. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she flung herself over the railing, a six-foot drop into a hedge of rose bushes that scratched at her skin and snagged at her clothes.
Trick let himself in the back door, expectingƒdoo%"> to find Marcello either playing solitaire on his laptop or watching an old B movie on TV. Instead the house was dark. Dark and silent. Dark and silent and cold. As if there were a window open somewhere. Only why would Marcello leave a window open when the temperature outside was in the forties?
Trick stood there with his hand poised above the light switch, listening hard, but the only sounds were the predictable ones, a dripping faucet, the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall.
He turned on the light, half-prepared for chaos, but the kitchen looked the way it always did at this time of night, tidy and undisturbed, the dinner dishes drying in the dish drainer, the counters and stove wiped down, the table empty.
“Marcello?” he called.
No answer, which didn’t mean anything. If Marcello had already gone to bed, he wouldn’t have heard a thing from up on the third floor.
Trick moved into the hall, switching on lights as he went. It was colder here.
He checked the dining room next, then the room that had once been the brothel office, but again, like the kitchen, both rooms were in order.
He headed next for the big living room, the room that had once been the parlor. Much colder here, he noted, then quickly realized why. One of the front windows had been broken out. Glass littered the polished wood floor. Smaller fragments sparkled like glitter across the deep red and blue pattern of the Turkish rug. “Marcello?” he tried again, louder this time.
The broken window wasn’t the only sign of damage, either, he realized as he took a good look around. There’d been a fight here. Furniture was shoved out of place, one antique table crushed, as if something heavy had landed on it, a lamp overturned, a glass-fronted knickknack cupboard lying on its side, the collection of china teapots scattered across the room, many of them ruined. And holy shit, was that blood smeared across the floor and spattered on the wall beside the fireplace?
Frightened now at what else he might find, Trick turned a slow three-sixty. “Marcello? Where the hell are you?”
This time he was rewarded with a groan that seemed to come from behind the sofa. Trick crossed the room in three long steps. Marcello lay there, his hands bound behind his back, his bare chest covered with what looked like a dozen or more cigarette burns. The worst of his injuries, though, appeared to be a gaping gash in his forehead. He looked as if someone had painted half his face red, but it wasn’t paint. It was blood. With a grunt, he managed to shove himself to a sitting position. “What happened?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing.” Trick knelt next to Marcello, cutting him free with a pocketknife. “Looks to me as if someone tortured the hell out of you.”
“Tortured?” Marcello frowned, his face a mask of confusion. Then his eyes narrowed, and he swore a blue streak, a creative blend of Italian and English. “Two men,” he said. “The same two men who were looking for Nevada before.”
“They were here?”
Nevada!
ƒiv ey
Trick tossed Marcello his cell phone, then headed out the back at a dead run. “Call 911,” he shouted.
He raced toward Nevada’s apartment as fast as his stiff knee would take him, grabbing up a shovel Marcello had left leaning against the house. As weapons went, it wasn’t much but better than nothing.
Nevada screamed then, and he realized she wasn’t upstairs in her apartment as he’d assumed. She was in the rose garden. He changed direction, spotting her the second he passed the sundial. One of the men had pinned her to the grass with the weight of his body. At first, Trick assumed he’d interrupted a rape. Then he realized what was really happening. The intruder reared back and the moonlight gleamed off his fangs in the second before he lunged forward and sank them into Nevada’s throat.
Too angry for fear, too angry for caution, Trick charged. The second man appeared out of nowhere, though the truth was, Trick didn’t see him until after the bastard had kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a jolt, losing his grip on the shovel. The ebony-skinned giant aimed a second kick at Trick’s head, but Trick saw the blow coming and rolled out of the way. He grabbed the shovel by the handle and staggered to his feet.
“We’ve got company, Sarge,” the giant warned.
“You sure do,” someone shouted from the pines that bordered the far side of the rose garden.
The giant turned toward the voice, but it was already too late for him. A bolt from a crossbow buried itself in his chest. He made a sound, a grunt of surprise, and the next instant he exploded in a shower of dust. There one second, gone the next. Trick would have been flabbergasted if he’d given himself time to think about it, but he didn’t have time.
The monster called Sarge still had his fangs buried in Nevada’s throat. She was fighting, thrashing in a vain effort to throw him off.
Trick lurched forward, planning to slam the shovel into the back of the bastard’s head, but the hidden crossbow shooter’s blood-chilling whoop of triumph broke Sarge’s concentration. He glanced up to see what all the noise was about.
Realizing he was about to be brained, he rolled sideways to avoid the blow. In desperation, Trick tossed the shovel like an ungainly javelin. It caught Sarge edgeways across the side of his head. He let out a howl, but before Trick could follow up with his fists, Sarge scrambled to his feet and raced toward the trees.
Screaming invective-laced threats, Trick grabbed the shovel again and lobbed it at the cowardly bastard.
This time the handle caught the vampire across the back of his knees. He stumbled but recovered quickly. A second crossbow bolt missed him by inches, thumping into the stable wall. But Sarge didn’t hesitate. He kept running, and within seconds, he had disappeared.
TEN
Nevada! Nevada!” Someone was shaking her and shouting her name.
She †nt>pried her eyelids open with an effort. Why did she feel so weak? “Where am I?” she asked. “What happened?” But no sooner had she gotten the questions out than her memory returned, providing more information than she could process.
Her gaze locked on Trick’s worried face. “The men who’re chasing me,” she said. “They came back.” She fumbled for her neck, trying to find out how badly she was hurt.
Trick grabbed her hand. “Don’t touch the wounds,” he said. “You’ll start them bleeding again. Marcello called 911. The paramedics are on the way.”
A second face moved into her line of sight. “Faraday?” she said. “I thought you’d left Midas Lake.”
“I did. I’m only back because the vampires are back.”
“You could have given us a heads-up,” Trick said bitterly. “It’s a damned miracle Nevada wasn’t killed. Marcello, too.”
Nevada’s stomach clenched. “Marcello’s hurt?”
“They tortured him, burned him with cigarettes among other things.”
“To get him to tell them where to find me.” Guilt sickened her. A man had been tortured because of her.
“It’s not your fault,” Trick told her.
“Then whose fault is it?” she demanded.
“Sarge’s would be my guess.” Faraday set his crossbow down. “Cigaret
te burns are kind of his signature.”
“At least he’s the only one left to worry about. You nailed the other guy,” Trick said.
“Dusted,” Faraday corrected him.
Nevada wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she felt way too rotten to worry about it.
“We need to get our stories straight,” Faraday said. “You start spouting off about vampires, and you’ll end up at the funny farm.”
Panic gripped Nevada. She shot a look of wordless entreaty toward Trick, who squeezed her hand tightly, then shook his head, as if to say, “Relax. Faraday’s choice of words was sheer coincidence. He doesn’t suspect a thing.” But she wasn’t as convinced of that as Trick seemed to be.
“Wild animal attack?” Trick suggested.
“Dog, I think.” Faraday crossed to the rear wall of the stable, leaned across the low hedge of roses, and yanked the bolt from the wooden siding. “Pit bull or German shepherd. Make it plausible. You don’t want anyone asking too many questions or examining those bite marks too closely.”
The wail of a siren announced the imminent arrival of the EMTs. Nevada tried to sit up, but Trick pushed her back down again. “Stay put,” he said. “We don’t know how much blood you’ve lost.”
“I’m out of here.” Faraday flipped a business card in Trick’s direction. “If you spot Sarge again, give me a call. ‹ivewidAnytime. Day or night.” He took off at a lope, headed for the trees. By the time the ambulance pulled in, he was only a memory.
Trick studied Nevada’s reflection in the rearview mirror. She didn’t meet his gaze with a reassuring smile. She didn’t even seem to realize he was watching her.
“She will be all right,” Marcello said softly, not that it mattered whether or not he was overheard since he was speaking Italian. “The doctor said her injuries are superficial. As are mine.”
“A splinter is superficial. A scratch is superficial. That psycho bastard burned holes in your chest and sank his teeth in her throat, and neither of those injuries qualifies as superficial in my book.”
“Non-life-threatening then,” Marcello said. He’d tried to get Nevada to ride in the passenger’s seat, but she’d insisted on taking the back.
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