Spencer knew he’d be back. Alan was his friend, and he wanted answers about his death. He deserved them, but he wouldn’t just be back because of Alan. He’d be back because he was determined to figure out how he was hearing her thoughts.
Hopefully before the drool-worthy detective returned, she’d have a little prep time to empty her mind and beat her libido into submission.
Because after that encounter, Spencer Polanski realized she was hot for a guy for the first time in centuries and it was for a guy who—in his line of work—and with the kind of honor and duty she sensed in him—would probably personally handcuff her to a cross at dawn, and swallow the key.
While there was plenty of sensationalized fictional facts about vampires made famous in movies like the ridiculous notion she sparkled in the sunlight (if only), there was a hint of truth to some of it.
The truth was she really would burn to death and turn to ash after prolonged exposure to sunlight.
But that wasn’t what petrified her the most. Not by a long shot.
What left her almost immobile with fear was something far more menacing.
There was a murderer on the loose in Easton, and the only place to begin the hunt for this killer began by investigating the obvious.
The obvious being the members of her very own clan…
Chapter 4
Larkin sat hunched over the steering wheel in his car, sipping a scalding cup of shitty coffee and let his brain rest from Spencer Polanski’s constant intrusion. He was doing a pretty good job of playing it cool with her and this mind reading thing, but after a night spent thinking about it too much, he was damn well freaked.
He didn’t like freaked. It wasn’t what he did.
But he’d heard every damn thought she had and then some and it not only intrigued him, but made him more than a little uncomfortable. Why had this happened so suddenly?
And why him? And why was it only Spencer’s thoughts he could hear? Because he’d tried to intrude on other people’s thoughts since last night—listened so intently to the guy at the convenience store he thought he’d burst a blood vessel.
Nothing. Not a solitary peep.
His natural instinct as a cop to set aside his moments of “what the fuck” and investigate were front and center. His love of a good mystery would have to take precedence over how screwed up this was for now. If he lingered too long on how fucked up reading someone’s thoughts was, he’d end up exactly where Spencer offered to put a call in for him.
The psyche ward—drooling and waiting on his next shot of fucking valium and a daily trip to the dayroom where he’d be allowed to draw with crayons.
Sticking a finger in his ear, Larkin twisted it violently as if it might alleviate some of the muddled muck in his head. It had happened so suddenly, so out of the damn blue, that he thought Spencer had spoken to him and when he realized those gorgeous raspberry-colored lips of hers weren’t moving, he’d been hell bent on understanding why this was happening. It wasn’t like he possessed any special abilities other than a cop’s instinct for bullshit.
That he was pretty good at. Which was why he wasn’t falling for the notion Alan had killed himself or that Spencer thought he was crazy.
Because she’d tried hard to convince him he was—too hard. She knew what was going on. He sensed it deep in his gut.
But of all her thoughts, Spencer’s thoughts of vampires disturbed him the most. He didn’t understand the references, or maybe he just didn’t want to, because that made this scenario freakier than it already was.
But she had more than just vampires on her mind. He’d had brief, fleeting glimpses into Spencer’s thoughts of him before she was successfully shut it down and was managing to keep most of her musings to herself.
Larkin shifted in his seat because in truth, his thoughts of Spencer were anything but pure, and seeing as he considered her a possible, if not improbable suspect, he knew he shouldn’t be having them.
He’d never had such a visceral reaction to a woman before. From the second he’d laid eyes on her—even before her words were in his head. Christ she was hot. Ivory skinned, rounded in all the right places, and sharp tongued.
And hiding something.
Her pouty lips said one thing, but they meant something entirely different.
When his cell phone chirped, he grabbed it, hoping what he needed was on the other end of the line. “McBride,” he answered roughly, slouching down in his seat.
“God damnit, McBride, how the fuck do you get me involved in this bullshit? You’re on suspension and all of a sudden the coroner’s office in Easton is throwing your name around this precinct like you’re GD Castle. You’d better be grateful I was the one who caught that call, asshole. You’re fucking suspended, for Christ sake!”
Larkin smiled into the phone. Had to love Sweeney, always reminding him of his faults. “It’s temporary and it’s only because I won’t go see a fucking counselor. I don’t need a counselor to tell me I have trouble seeing kids die needlessly. Okay? So skip the lecture and gimme what ya got.”
Sweeney sighed in exasperation, a longwinded puff of air. Larkin could picture him back at the house arranging the pencils on his desk. “Look, this is the last time I do this shit for you. It’s my ass on the line. Yours is off in Easton investigating bullshit just for the sake of causing trouble. Alan Perkins didn’t have a lot going on in his life. His mother was right, his life was solid financially and the money he spent was mostly on his house and the clubs he went to sometimes. He paid his bills on time and he had no debt. As for the Polanski chick, pretty much the same thing. Polanski Brothers has been in operation five years. Clean as a whistle. They run a nice, above board operation. This Spencer Polanski has clean credit and no priors.”
Well, fuck. Of course she didn’t, that would be too damn easy. “Clubs Alan went to?”
“Yeah, he went to some clubs about fifty miles away from you in some place called Gordonville. Not much goin’ on in that Easton, huh?”
Larkin snorted. Not much goin’ on was an understatement. “Gimme the names of the clubs, would you?” He set his coffee in the holder and fished for a pen on his dashboard, scribbling on a napkin as Sweeney gave him two names.
“McBride? What’s the beef here? What does the Polanski lady have to do with your friend Alan and what makes you think Alan didn’t kill himself?”
Larkin ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He sure as hell couldn’t tell Sweeney he could read Spencer’s mind, now could he? “I dunno, buddy. It’s just really bugging the shit outta me. Something isn’t right. Alan had no reason to take himself out. He had it all.”
Sweeney’s laugh was gruff in his ear. “Money ain’t everything, McBride. Quit making shit up in that head of yours—do what the boss says you have to do to get reinstated and get the fuck back home. Stop chasing shit just to chase shit, because there’s nothing to chase.”
He’d heard that before from a pair of full, raspberry lips. Money isn’t everything…”I’m not going to see some shrink, Sweeney. Look, I appreciate what you’ve done to help me out. If I need more I’ll let you know.”
Sweeney whistled into the phone. “Wait a redneck second. I’m not helping you out anymore, McBride—”
He clicked the phone off before Sweeney could finish his sentence. Larkin McBride didn’t need a fucking shrink and he didn’t want to go home to his bare apartment.
And the seedy motel you’re shacking up in is better?
All right, so it sucked, but it was a place to rest his head while he figured this shit out and thought about Spencer Polanski.
Raven-haired, green-eyed and hot. Not quite the way he normally liked them, but doing it for him in a way no woman had for a long time. She was a smart ass, too, but he found he liked the hell out of that. It kept him on his toes. Usually he didn’t like the women he was involved with to talk at all.
Because he didn’t get involved.
Larkin looked at the clock on his dashboar
d and decided he’d better get his ass in gear. He had a date at the Hole. He hoped the club’s name wasn’t a representation of its atmosphere. He’d been in enough dark holes already.
Now he wanted out.
* * * *
Music, heavily laden with a throbbing beat, pounded inside the club, making Spencer’s body vibrate in time with it.
She so didn’t want to be here, but Cathy had insisted. Her cousin loved a good techno club and she didn’t get out much with the new baby.
Spencer didn’t get out much either, as her father had so bluntly pointed out. So here she was. Out. With real live people.
Her hair was curled in beachy waves that fell down to the middle of her back, she’d managed a smoky eye that had taken far too many tries to get right, added glossy, cherry-red lips, a cute pair of way-too-high red heels to match, and an adorable sleeveless, black slip dress. All because it made Cathy happy.
And when Spencer wiggled her fingers at her cousin from across the bar, she looked happy. Cathy gyrated to the music, her silver dress sparkling against her thighs as she moved, her head thrown back and laughing at something their friend Sara said.
Spencer’s thoughts softened as she pictured Cathy and husband Joel’s baby boy. He was such a rare vampire occurrence no one in her family could explain. Yet they cared little how he had come to be because he was so perfect. Vampires so rarely were able to reproduce and that meant little Joel Junior was quite the miracle.
But tonight, she was tired after embalming Brian Reynolds and sick with guilt because someone was biting humans and she didn’t know who to tell. Or if she should tell anyone at all.
And she couldn’t stop worrying that Detective McYummy was going to put two and two together and start poking around her family. She’d been thinking vampire thoughts. All he needed to discover were the incisor marks on both Alan and Brian’s necks and it wouldn’t be long before he was sounding the alarms.
She tried to focus on anything other than the delicious detective, smiling as she watched Cathy dance with their friend Sara. At least someone was having a good time. Swirling the glass of red wine, she took a sip and hoped against hope she might taste something.
It was, of course, pointless, but she hoped anyway. Tying one on just might be the answer to setting her fears aside for the moment.
But vampires didn’t get drunk. They could ingest things, sure, which made blending in with humans much easier, but they had no taste buds which made booze absolutely no fun.
Twirling her chair around to face the crowd of dancers on the floor, she bumped into a pair of thighs.
Lean thighs in silk trousers.
“We meet again.”
Yeah, look at that—must have eaten my Lucky Charms today. Ugh. It was the guy from Alan’s wake. Tall and blond, strikingly pretty. His thick hair was pulled back in a ponytail, sleek and tight. A black suit jacket covered his casual but stylish shirt and made his bluish-white skin pasty under the lights of the bar.
And he felt all wrong. She couldn’t explain why dread was the first emotion she experienced when realizing who he was, but it was crystal clear.
“From Alan’s wake, right?” she yelled over the music, leaning back in her chair.
He nodded as his thin hands bracketed the arms of the barstool and he leaned into her. His nostrils did that funny thing again before he commented, “You don’t have to yell. I can hear you just fine.”
A chill raced up Spencer’s spine, leaving her strangely skittish. She redirected her thoughts, trying to keep their interaction light. “I’m sorry about Alan. Was he a family member or a friend?”
His smile was slow, practiced and subtle, and just this side of eerie. “A friend. A very good friend, in fact.”
Another shiver ran the length of her body when he placed a hand on her arm. She couldn’t pinpoint any particular reason for her discomfort. It just was.
Creepy. That’s what it was. He felt creepy. As thought just by being near him, he’d taint her; leave her feeling dirty long after he was gone.
Okay. Ixnay on the eepycray. Time to ditch the pasty goon. “I’m Spencer Polanski. Pleasure.”
He suddenly seemed to become aware of his surroundings as his eyes focused back in on her and he smiled again. “Joffrey.”
Of course it was Joffrey. Weren’t all men who wore a look of perpetual haughty disdain and looked like Calvin Klein models named Joffrey? Spencer pushed her hand through the small space between them and shoved it under his nose. “Nice to meet you.”
Joffrey took her hand in his and held it for a long moment. His fingers were cold and bordered on clammy. “Nice to meet you, too. Do you enjoy this music?”
Only if a lobotomy was on tap afterward. “Not particularly. It’s a bit loud for me. I guess I have sensitive ears.” Spencer grimaced with her statement as a new, yet monotonous beat struck up again.
Joffrey clucked his too-pink tongue—one that occasionally slithered out to skim across his too-red lips. “I think it has a rather sensuous quality, myself.”
Yeah, I always feel like a good sensuous head banging every so often. Spencer shrugged her shoulders and smiled vaguely, hoping her disinterest would discourage any further conversation. “To each his own, I guess.”
Joffrey sniffed again, moving closer to her cheek. “It’s what makes the world go ’round.” His words hissed against her ear, making her writhe, and it wasn’t because her panties were wadding up over him.
If he got any closer to her he’d be obliged to submit an insurance form for an oral exam. Spencer leaned back and looked into his black eyes. “Why don’t you have a seat, Joffrey?”
Oh, God, she groaned mentally. Manners were her downfall. She couldn’t be rude to anyone, not even smarmy men who were prettier than she was.
And he was definitely too pretty for her taste. Nothing like Larki…
Okay, stop right there, missy.
No Larkin McBride thoughts. She might be fifty miles away from Easton, but his bionic mind reading range may have widened. Or not, considering she’d thought of horrifying ways to slice him up after he’d left her today and she hadn’t heard a word since then.
Not a peep.
Jerk.
“What are you drinking, Spencer?” Joffrey asked as he took the stool next to hers and settled in.
Why did his question seem too personal? He wanted to know what she was drinking, not her bra cup size. Nonetheless, when he spoke, it was like he was prying, prodding in a place he shouldn’t be. “Red wine.”
“Red wine it is,” he said as he called the bartender over and held up her glass to suggest a refill. His long tapered fingers wound around the stem and Spencer shuddered, but she had no idea why.
Larkin’s hands made her think of—Ding-ding-ding! This is officially a Larkin warning. No Larkin McBride. He was dangerous and rugged and brash and—and. Well, and.
“And what?” a low, sinfully husky voice asked against her ear.
Spencer rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose, tilting her head back to look up at the hulking form that was all Larkin. He wore jeans and a tight T-shirt that accentuated all his hard planes in all the right places. His hair, unusually long for someone in law enforcement, was slicked back from his face tonight, making the granite-hard features of his face somehow sleeker.
He smiled down at her, flashing his white teeth.
She, in turn, fought the excited butterflies in her stomach, and a hot rush of adrenaline. “Oh, yay. It’s the caped crusader. What brings you to Gordonville, Detective?”
Larkin chuckled low near her ear before he settled in on the other side of her. “You, my little mistress of the night. Who else would bring me out this late to listen to crap like this?”
Spencer fought a grin mingled with relief at his appearing out of nowhere. For some reason the pushy detective seemed a far better bet than pasty-white Joffrey.
“A detective?” Joffrey asked with sudden interest as his coal eyes shifted from Spencer to
Larkin.
Larkin popped a peanut in his mouth from the bowl on the bar. “Yep. A detective.” He reached over Spencer and stuck his hand out to Joffrey, his smaller, finely boned hand swallowed whole by Larkin’s large bronzed one.
Joffrey stared at him. “What brings a detective to this neck of the woods?”
Larkin stared back. “A funeral.”
She sensed the instant dislike between the two men, and while she understood her own discomfort with Joffrey, she wasn’t sure about Larkin’s—or Joffrey’s, for that matter.
Spencer, ever the peacemaker, smiled at them both. “Detective McBride was one of Alan’s friends too, Joffrey. Maybe you two know each other? Although I don’t really know how either of you knew Alan.”
Larkin ordered a draft and drummed his thumbs on the bar top. “We were in the Army together. He used to bring me home to Easton for holidays. Adelaide makes the best pumpkin pie ever. He was like family to me.”
Spencer watched as Larkin chewed the peanuts and licked his fingers free of salt. She forced herself to look away and turned to Joffrey to distract her from “thinking” anything. “How did you know Alan, Joffrey?”
Joffrey’s eyes shifted back to Spencer’s face. Yet again he had that strange unfocused look in his gaze, leaving her uneasy. “We traveled in the same social circles due to business.”
Larkin slugged back his beer with a hearty chug and nodded. “So you’re a day trader?”
Joffrey’s answer was vague. “Sometimes.”
How were you a day trader sometimes? What was this guy’s deal anyway, Spencer wondered.
Larkin nudged her with his forearm, the hairs on it brushing against her skin and whispered in her ear, “I was wondering the same thing.”
Christ. Get the hell out of my head, McBride.
Larkin chuckled before tipping his mug to motion at the crowd of people. “You come here often, Twilight?”
Joffrey bristled and Spencer had to fight back a snicker by biting her lip. She didn’t know what game Larkin was playing, but he was toying with Joffrey.
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