Jaz Parks 5 - One More Bite

premium ticket holders I’d have mooned everyone before we took off!”

Vayl knew better than to tell me the photos were adorable. Then I’d have had to kill him too. If that had been the real issue. Problem was, when my dad had cracked that old album, he’d done it upside down first. So the picture that had caught my attention was a copy of the one I’d locked in my safe nearly eighteen months ago. A shot of Matt and me just after he’d slipped his ring on my finger. I wondered if two people had ever been so sure they were headed for eternal happiness. Or had their mistake shoved so violently in their faces two weeks later.

“Look into my eyes,” Vayl said.

“What, so you can hypnotize me? No thanks.”

He shook his head. “We both know my powers have a minimal effect on you. Come now, my pretera. Humor me.”

“What’s a pretera?”

“It is a Vampere word, meaning wildcat.”

“Oh. In that case  .  .  .” I locked stares with the guy who’d started out as my supervisor, upgraded to sverhamin, and ended up  .  .  .  well, sometimes the possibilities practically made my skin steam. Other times I still felt like Matt’s traitor. Can you betray a dead man? Since I didn’t know the answer to that one, I forced my mind to pettier subjects. “I can’t believe my father’s here. This is like my first date times ten.”

“How do you say? Money talks.”

So true. In this case, the bucks had come from Albert himself. “What are we, the Russian Space Agency?” I demanded. “Selling seats on our trips haon our to the highest bidder?”

Vayl said, “I realize the shock is only now wearing off. Once again, I want to assure you that I would have warned you. But Pete did not inform me Albert would be joining us until he called just before I met you in London. Apparently your father felt you would strenuously object to his presence—”

“Ya think?”

“Thus the secrecy surrounding his joining us at Gatwick.”

“He must’ve known I’d have thrown him off the plane in Cleveland,” I muttered. I realized I’d taken my hand out of my jacket and Vayl had used the chance to curl his fingers around mine. No romance in that touch. He was probably just trying to keep me from reaching again.

I sighed. “Okay, I won’t kill him yet. But you get those pictures out of his claws, and keep him away from me, and—”

Vayl slid his fingers up my arm, sending trickles of awareness shooting through me. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything but his touch. A deliberate move on his part—underhanded and mean. I kinda loved it. “I never thought I would say this,” he murmured, leaning in so his lips nearly brushed my ear. “But I would suggest you spend the rest of this flight concentrating on Cole.”

Who? Oh. Damn, Jaz, would you kick your brain into gear? Remember Cole? Your third for this piece-o’-crap job? The one Pete has decided to fund using your dad’s 401(k)?

Jerking my arm from Vayl’s hand so I could think, dammit, I began plotting a revenge so intricate and satisfying I barely heard him say, “I will deal with your father.”

“Fine.” Wait, maybe not. “Um, Vayl? Do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Be discreet, will ya? He doesn’t know about  .  .  .  us  .  .  .  yet. And I think I should probably be the one to tell him I’m involved with a vampire.”

Chapter Two

When I retire I’m going to write a book. Not about the CIA. I know too many secrets that could get me killed. Or worse, elected. Nope, this one’s going to be called My Dad Is an Asshole: The True Story of a Shithead’s Daughter.

As I stared out the window, using Cole as a buffer between the butt-flap and me, I knew I should be trying to figure out his game. Mostly retired consultants to the Agency don’t just pop into the field whenever they feel the urge for some exercise. Especially ones who’ve just recovered from a major vehicular collision. But I was still too pissed to follow any logical train of thought for long.

I heard Vayl say, “Perhaps we should stow your album under the seat for now, Albert. I understand we are about to land. And we have had so little time to discuss football. I understand you are a Bears fan?” At which point I decided I owed my sverhamin an elaborate dinner that would not include any of the gross dishes I’d heard some native Scots preferred. Haggis? Who eats something that sounds like an eighty-year-old husband-beater who sees Jesus’s face in her porridge every morniwou„ng but devours it anyway?

“When do you think they’ll let me get my cell out?” Cole asked. “I promised Mom I’d text her as soon as we land. I’m going to stick my phone up some guy’s kilt, flash a picture, and then challenge her to guess what she’s seeing.”

“That is so disgusting.”

“What? I’ll get his permission first.”

“Sending dirty pictures to your mom?”

“She’ll laugh so hard her teeth will probably fly across the dinner table. She lost them in a car accident, you know.”

“Really?”

“She was drag racing. Oh, I’m supposed to tell you she won. She made me promise to always say that when I mention her dentures.”

I shook my head. Not just because Cole probably needed psychiatric help. But because he liked his mom. And