“Okay, looks like it’s going to be a lot of coffee for us.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said as Cookie headed for the maker. Well, not
She and Uncle Bob eyed each other doubtfully.
“How about I take the first watch?” he said to her. “You get some rest, and I’ll wake you in a few.”
She pressed her lips together then headed to the pot anyway. “Okay, but I’ll put some coffee on to brew. It’ll help. And you have to promise to wake me up in two hours.”
He grinned at her. Like grinned. Like flirty-grinned. Ew. I had a concussion, for heaven’s sake. I was already a bit queasy.
And she grinned back! Calgon!
“What is this?” Cookie asked, her voice suddenly razor sharp.
“What?”
“This note. Where did this come from?”
Oh, it was the threatening note from that morning. “I totally told you about that,” I said, my face a picture of innocence.
She gritted her teeth and strode toward me, note in hand. “You asked me if I left you a note. You never said anything about it being a death threat.”
“What?” Uncle Bob jumped up from the sofa he’d just sat on and took the note from her. After reading it, he cast me an admonishing scowl. “Charley, I swear if you weren’t my niece, I’d arrest you for obstruction of justice.”
“What?” I sputtered a little to make it look good. “On what freaking grounds?”
“This is evidence. You should have told me about this the moment it arrived.”
“Ha,” I said. I had them now. “I have no idea when it arrived. It was on my coffeepot when I woke up.”
“They broke in?” he asked, flabbergasted.
“Well, it’s not like I invited them in.”
He turned to Cookie. “What are we going to do with her?”
Cookie was still glaring at me. “I think I should turn her over my knee.”
Uncle Bob brightened. Would Cookie never learn? “Can I watch?” he asked under his breath. Like I wasn’t standing right there.
Cookie giggled and headed back to the pot.
Oh, for the love of Godiva chocolate. This was unreal.
A knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Charley, honey?”
“Yes, Ubie, dear?”
“Are you awake?”
He was funny. “No,” I said, rinsing soap off my back.
An annoyed sigh filtered to me before he spoke. “I’ve been called to the station. It looks like we might have something on the Kyle Kirsch case.” He whispered the words
“Uncle Bob, I promise to stay awake. I have some research to do.” In the form of one Mr. Reyes Alexander Farrow and his hot Boys Gone Bad photo shoot. I would have paid a fortune for those ass shots as well. “I’ll be fine.”
After a long moment of thought, he said, “Okay. I should be back in no time. I’ll tell them where I’m off to, so if you need anything. And don’t fall asleep.”
I snored. Really loud.
“You’re hilarious,” he said, though I felt his admiration insincere.
Hoping the superglue would hold, I washed my hair with the gentlest of ease. Concussions freaking hurt. Who knew? I had to sit on the shower floor to shave my legs. The world kept tilting to the right just enough to tip me off balance. Getting back up was a bitch.
Just as I was about to cut the water off, I felt him. A fiery heat drifted toward me and the air charged with electricity. The earthy smell of him, like a lightning storm at midnight, wafted around me, encircled me, and I breathed deep. I could hear his heartbeat. I could feel it reverberate through the room and pound against my chest. The sound was glorious, and I couldn’t wait for the day I would once again get to meet him in person. The flesh- and-blood Reyes. The real deal.
He didn’t make a sound, didn’t make a move toward me, and I began to wonder if he had another kind of superpower. “Can you see through this shower curtain?” I asked, only half-kidding.
I heard the zing of metal a split second before he slashed through the plastic liner. It floated down and pooled on the floor. “I can now,” he said, a lopsided grin tilting his full mouth, and I felt my own heart tumble in response.
He sheathed his blade under the folds of his robe; then it disappeared to reveal the hills and valleys of his solid body. He was wearing the same T-shirt, only no lines of blood streaked across the torso. But I knew if he faltered, if his human self reawakened, he would be reduced to the shredded man his corporeal body had become. My stomach contracted at the thought, and I forced it aside. I had another chance staring me in the face. Another opportunity to convince him to tell me where he was. And I was not above bribery in any way, shape, or form. Nor stone-cold blackmail.
I turned off the water and reached for a towel. He reached over and took it out of my hand, leaving me naked and dripping wet. Which I used to the best of my ability.
“Is this what you want?” I asked, opening my arms, exposing myself to him completely, and hoping he didn’t mind the superglue. That shit was hard to get off.
With a look of hunger, he stepped forward and took me into his arms. But he paused, hesitated, his gaze boring into mine a long moment, as if in wonder. He ran his fingers along my jaw, brushed his thumb over my lips, his eyes the color of coffee in sunlight. Gold and green flecks shimmered like glitter until his thick lashes lowered and he pressed his mouth against mine. The kiss was blisteringly hot as his tongue separated my lips and dived inside. He tasted dark and dangerous.
A wayward hand dipped, cupped my ass as his mouth left mine in search of my pulse. Pleasure shuddered through me, and it took every ounce of strength I had to whisper into his ear. “You can have me, all of me, after you tell me where you are.”
He stilled, waited a long moment to get his breathing under control, then stepped back and narrowed his eyes on me. “After I tell you.”
“After.”
The room cooled significantly in a matter of seconds. I had angered him, and in the blink of an eye we were back to our impasse. I was worried about whiplash at this point, the back-and-forth nuances of our relationship so finite, so unmovable.
“You would use your body to get what you want?”
“In a heartbeat.”
He was hurt. I could feel it echo through him. He stepped closer again, leveled his face inches from mine, and whispered in the softest of voices, “Whore.”
“You can leave now,” I said, unable to quell the sting his statement elicited.
He vanished, a void of bitter emptiness churning in his wake. Then it hit me. The whore, or, um, prostitute. The silver screen star. What had I been thinking?
“Cookie, hurry, get up.” I shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle, then made a beeline for her closet.
She bolted upright and tossed up her dukes like a cartoon character. I would have doubled over laughing if my concussed head had not been throbbing.
But I did giggle. “You have some serious bed-head, girlfriend.”
She smoothed her hair self-consciously and squinted at me. “What’s going on?”
