“Not only didn’t I see him, I didn’t sense him. Not then, not during the attack, not after, when I bled him.”
“He was shielding himself from you,” Lance says. He holds out my mug.
“Right to the end,” I reply, taking it.
Lance releases a breath. “You and David have any jobs lined up the next couple of days?”
I shake my head.
The sun is beginning to tint the sky. He squints up at it.
“Let’s take a drive,” he says.
“Where?”
“To my place in Palm Springs. We can bury the mummy in the desert along the way. We’ll spend the weekend.”
“I’ll get a sheet.”
Lance follows me inside. “And we’re taking your car.”
When I raise a questioning eyebrow, he replies, “The Jag has a bigger trunk.”
But his thoughts say,
No way am I putting a rotting corpse in the Aston Martin.
THE RIDE THROUGH THE DESERT ON AN EARLY JULY morning is lonely and quiet. Not many souls willing to brave temperatures already into the eighties. Having a vampire’s constitution, however, allows Lance and me to put the top down on the Jag and let the warmth of the sun bake our bones.
I’m driving. We take the 15 to 74—the scenic route on a road that hairpins back and forth as it gains elevation through the Santa Rosa Mountains. This is rattlesnake and coyote terrain. Desolate in a beautiful way.
We choose a place to turn off at a junction between the highway and an unmarked dirt road. In the fall and winter, this is a popular ATV playground. In the summer, the only visitors slither or scurry away at the sound of the car’s approach.
We drive miles into the desert, the road so well traveled the Jag has no trouble on the hardscrabble surface. Ten miles from the highway, we park. We’ll have to go on foot from this point if we want to bury our mummy friend where he’s not likely to be found when the change of season turns the desert back into a four-wheeling playground.
Lance hoists the sheet-shrouded body over his shoulder. I grab a pick and shovel, and we start toward an outcropping of rock in the distance. Up until this time, we’ve traveled in silence, enjoying the sound of the desert wind, the feel and smell of it in our faces, the guttural purr of the Jag’s engine. But after a few minutes, I feel Lance’s gentle intrusion into my head.
What should we do about this guy?
I frown.
Besides bury him? I don’t know. What do you think? After all, we can’t be sure he wasn’t after your car. Maybe he’s just a thief.
A snort.
If he’s been watching the house at all, he knows we’re vampire. Not too smart to try to steal from one of your own.
Maybe he was down on his luck. Saw this as an opportunity to make some real money.
Lance shakes his head.
He was an old soul. Even if he hadn’t understood the concept of compound interest, he would never have gotten so desperate he’d resort to stealing. He’d seduce a human into supporting him first.
I’ve run out of excuses. Lance doesn’t follow with the logical conclusion, just lets the idea drop between us where it lays until I pick it up and put into words what we’re both thinking.
“Which means, he wasn’t a car thief at all. He was after me.”
CHAPTER 6
S
AYING THE WORDS OUT LOUD PLUNGES ME RIGHT back into the nightmare of Ortiz’ death and Williams’ threat. Williams is the only one I know who hates me enough to want me dead. Was this an attempt to make good on that threat?
Lance reads my thoughts.
Why now? It’s been three months since the fire. And why would he send someone to do a job he’d want to do himself?
Both good questions, and ones to which I have no answers. I shrug them off and look around for a gravesite. We’re at least ten miles from the car. The wind whistles in my ears and whips my hair into my face. I want to get this over with.
“Let’s bury him here.”
Lance drops the body onto the ground and reaches for the pick.
Despite vampire strength, the rock beneath our feet doesn’t yield easily. It takes Lance and me fifteen minutes to gouge out a hole long enough and deep enough to make sure this vampire jerky treat doesn’t become some scavenger’s late night snack. No wonder the bikers wanted David and me to take care of Curly Tom. They knew it’s not easy to dispose of a body in the desert.
The effort is enough, however, to distract us from the puzzle of why I was the target.
When we’ve finished filling the hole, we top it with rocks, a subtle pyramid for our mummy. We’re covered in dust. We brush ourselves off the best we can and jog back to the car. I’d thrown a towel and a couple of bottles of water in the trunk. We sponge most of the dust off our faces and hands.
Then Lance holds his hand out for the keys. “Want me to drive?”
I toss them to him and he slips behind the wheel. “We’ll be at the house in about an hour.”
I rest my head against the seat and take in the view. It’s been three hours since we left Mission Beach. We’re about halfway to Palm Springs, winding our way through the San Bernardino National Forest. The sun is high in the sky and its heat is a salve to my spirit. I realize the attack took my mind off the subject I intended to bring up with Lance last night—the curious reaction I had to Black.
I glance over at Lance, gently probe to see what’s on his mind. He’s thinking of where he wants to take me tonight. A bar he thinks I’ll find interesting. And of friends he wants to introduce me to.
Pleasant, everyday, normal things.
I decide to wait.
IN THE SHORT TIME I’VE KNOWN LANCE, I’VE TAKEN some things for granted. How he made his money, for instance. He’s a model. Those cheekbones and a hard body make him a natural for both print and runway work, and since the advent of the digital camera, no worries about a distorted (or nonexistent) vampire film image. He’s constantly flying off somewhere for a shoot or a show. I know enough about the fashion world to know a top model makes big bucks. Hence, the house in Malibu and this, a second home he’s often talked about but one that I’ve never seen.
We’ve taken the turn off Highway 74 onto 111—known to the locals as East Palm Canyon Drive. It’s the long, well-traveled artery that connects the various communities that make up the Palm Springs area. High-end boutiques, restaurants, resorts and country clubs pass in a seamless array on a wide highway lined with palms and oaks. A stark mountain range known as the Little San Bernardino Mountains forms a backdrop.
Even under the shimmer of a brilliant summer sun, there’s an exotic beauty to the place.
Ours is the only car we pass with the top down. Most people hunker down behind windows rolled tight and air conditioners on high, protection from the blast-oven desert heat.
Lance slows the Jag at the entrance to a gated community with a simple brick sign. Thunderbird Cove. A uniformed guard steps from his air-conditioned perch inside a stone gatehouse and approaches the Jag. He tips his hat and smiles when he recognizes Lance, and the gates swing open like the parting of the seas.
The road sign says Evening Star Drive.
This is when I begin to think there is more to Lance’s story than a good life forged by great cheekbones.
Evening Star Drive meanders back toward the mountains. Only the discreet signs on mailboxes identify private residences the size of hotels. I count twelve homes before we stop at the last—a castle that looks like it might have been transported from medieval Europe brick by brick. It climbs four stories into the sky, is topped with turrets and a widow’s walk. The only thing missing is the moat.
Lance pulls up into the driveway, fishes keys from his pocket and hits a remote. One section of a wall slides up to reveal a garage. He pulls the Jag inside and kills the engine.
“Honey,” he says, “we’re home.”
Lance leads the way toward a door at the end of a three-car bay. Beside my Jag, there’s a small vintage MG convertible in the garage. It gleams under a dust cover made of gauzy muslin.
Another boy toy.
And a lime green Prius. A hybrid? Not exactly Lance’s typical mode of transportation.
The door to the house opens before we get to it. A woman no bigger than a minute bursts through. She’s dressed in long paisley skirt and white cotton blouse knotted at the waist. Her honey-colored hair is tied back from her face with a comb. She’s barefoot and gives off a serious earth-mother vibe.
The Prius.
She squeals and envelops Lance in a hug, dancing on tiptoes to do it. “It’s so good to see you, Rick. I’ve missed you.”
Rick?
Lance is laughing and hugging back. “I’ve missed you, too, Adele.” He pushes her gently away and reaches for me. “This is Anna, my houseguest for the next few days. Anna, this is Adele. My very good friend.”
Adele blushes. Physically, she looks like she might be fortysomething. Laugh lines crinkle her eyes and frame her mouth. The vibe she gives off, however, is
older
. I scan but detect no otherworldly presence. Doesn’t mean she’s human, though. My senses automatically spring to alert.
“Rick is too kind,” she says. “I’m the housekeeper. Anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She’s looking at me with keen eyes. Before I can react, she’s raised a hand to touch my face. “Very good bone structure. Are you a model, too?”
“She could be,” Lance answers, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But what she does is much more exciting. She’s a bounty hunter.”
Adele’s eyes widen. “Like Dog? I watch his program all the time on TV.”
Lance moves us toward the door. “Yep. She catches the bad guys just like Dog.”
“Uh—not exactly.” The image of Adele thinking me a female Dog spouting Jesus and counseling skips on clean living is too bizarre. And what would that make David? His tart-tongued, bleach-blond wife?
Now
that’s
an image.
The current passing between Lance (or is it Rick?) and this tiny woman has my head swimming. She’s emitting a fiercely protective air toward him. There’s a story here, and I can’t wait to hear it.
Lance smiles down at me.
You will.
Adele shepherds us through the entryway and into a kitchen the size of Rhode Island. We keep walking—through a dining room bigger than the entire first floor of my cottage and a living room with glass walls that look out over a swimming pool, and finally, she opens another door and gestures us inside.
“I know you must be tired from the drive. I have drinks waiting for you on the side bar. Rick, you have several messages on the desk. The boys are in town for the weekend. They’re having a party tonight at Melvyn’s.” She cocks her head to the side and looks me up and down. “I do hope you brought evening clothes, Anna.”
Another abrupt change of subject that knocks me offkilter. She’s like a train leaving a station and I have to run alongside to keep up. “Evening clothes?” Except for the jeans I have on, all I brought were two pairs of shorts and a couple of T-shirts.
Adele plunges ahead with an airy wave of a hand. “No matter. You’re what—a size four? I’ll call Stephen. Luckily, you look like an Armani type—nice shoulders, narrow waist. I’ll have him bring some things for you to try. Now, what’s your shoe size? Seven and a half? Eight? I’ll have him bring an assortment of Jimmy Choos—or would you prefer Blahnik?”
Lance moves to Adele’s side, taking her arm and turning her toward the door. “You choose. Anna and I are going to wash the road dust out of our throats and relax a while before I return any calls. See that we’re not disturbed, will you?”
Adele smiles and nods and leaves us with a bemused parting glance. Lance closes the door, turns an imaginary lock and nails an imaginary board over it before turning to me, swiping a hand across his forehead. “Whew. Alone at last.”
I hardly know which question to ask first. I settle on, “Who the hell is Rick?”
Lance smiles and moves to stand in front of a mahogany-framed fireplace. He looks at me, arms crossed over his chest. With hurricane Adele gone, I have my first opportunity to look around the room. It’s dark-paneled, full of heavy, overstuffed leather furniture, one huge desk and a fireplace with a coat of arms over the mantel.
Lance hasn’t moved. Since he seems to be making a point of
something
, and that something must be near or on the fireplace, I step forward for a closer look. He glances over and up.
The coat of arms?
I’m about to remind him how much I hate games when I’m rewarded with a thumb jab.
Okay, the coat of arms.
It’s a huge crest, a gryphon or phoenix in the center surrounded by three arrows and a Latin inscription. The only word I recognize is a name—DeFontaine.
“I don’t understand. Whose house is this?”
“It’s mine.”
“DeFontaine? That’s not your name.” I frown. “Is it?”
Lance laughs. “You didn’t really think my name was Lance Turner, did you?”
His laughter ignites a spark of irritation. “Why the hell wouldn’t I believe your name was Lance Turner?”
The tone of my voice squelches his amusement. He backtracks with a quick, “That was stupid. You wouldn’t have any way of knowing Lance is a professional name. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.” He winces. “My real name is Broderick Phillipe DeFontaine. Any doubt now why I don’t use it professionally?”
He lets his voice drop, waiting for the recognition to hit.
It does. It would to anyone who has been around for the last hundred years or so. “DeFontaine? The South African diamond people?”
A nod.
“You’re a member of the DeFontaine family.” Now I’m not only startled, I’m shocked.
Another nod.
I take a closer look around the room—at the sumptuous appointments, the art in gilded frames, the leather-bound books lining the walls. Even the smell of the room is subtle but rich. A blend of citrus potpourri and old money.