To Dance with the Devil

above my sunglasses. “You are okay, right? Did you get the flowers?”

“Getting there.” I smiled, to take any sting out of the words. “And yes, they’re gorgeous. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. Are you by yourself or meeting someone?”

“By myself. I need to catch up on some reading, but I’m starving.”

“One Sunset Smoothie coming up. And, I assume, a margarita?” I nodded. Barbara knows me so well. She led me through the cheerfully noisy main dining area, asking over her shoulder where I’d like to sit. As we passed through the room, I overheard discussions about upcoming parties, past dates, work, and classes. I didn’t hear any comments about my appearance. Of course I wasn’t the most oddly dressed person in the restaurant, not by a long shot, even with the hair.

I chose a table in the corner near the patio doors. It was out of direct sunlight, but there was enough ambient light that I could read the screen of my phone without straining or resorting to vampire vision.

Setting the phone on the table, I opened my e-mail. Sure enough, Anna had come through, sending an e- mail with a large attached file. I settled in and started to read.

I’d managed to cover most of the basics when she entered.

There are people who can change the nature of a room just by walking into it. She was one of them. Every eye in the place turned to her when she stepped through the door—including mine. She was probably in her late teens or early twenties and an absolute knockout. Petite, her black hair hung in natural curls almost to her waist. Her eyes were large, dark, and doelike, framed by thick black lashes. She had the warm brown skin of a Latina and curves that weren’t concealed by the rather dowdy dress she wore. Conversations that had paused at her entrance stuttered back to life as she scanned the room, looking for someone.

An instant later she began striding purposefully toward my table, her face taking on lines of grim determination.

Oh, crap.

She stopped a few inches away from me. This close I could see she’d been crying. I could also see her body was actually quivering, with nerves, anger, or some other emotion.

“You’re Celia Graves.”

There was no point denying the fact. I’m pretty recognizable, what with the uber-pale skin and the fangs. I’d thought the new ’do and Goth-style clothing might confuse the issue a little, but apparently not. “Yes. Can I help you?”

She pulled out the chair and sat down without an invitation. Barbara gave me a quizzical look from where she stood by a nearby table. I just shrugged. I didn’t know who my guest was, but she didn’t seem the type to start trouble.

“My mother met with you the other day. I want to know why.”

Ah. This had to be Michelle Andrews. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her after my conversation with Dawna, but I’d hoped to have a bit of time to figure out what the hell I intended to do before I actually had to speak with the woman. I kept my expression calm and pleasant. My insides, however, were shaking nearly as badly as she was. La Cocina is very public, and I’m known to hang out here. If the bad guys were watching the place …

When I spoke, I made my voice sound ever-so-slightly bored. Which I wasn’t. At all. I was pretty much terrified. Hologram Guy had made his point, loud and clear. I decided to play dumb. If I let her take the lead I might learn something useful. “Really? Why don’t you ask your mother?”

“My mother was supposed to meet my plane this morning. When she didn’t, I went to the police station. They told me she’d been abducted.

“They found a body they think is hers. They even asked me for the name of her dentist so that they can check dental records.” Tears trailed gracefully down her perfect cheeks. Her voice quavered.

“I can’t believe it. It can’t be.” She hid her face in her hands, her body jerking with the sobs she couldn’t hold back any longer. It took her several minutes to regain her composure. All the while, the restaurant’s customers either stared openly or tried desperately to pretend nothing was wrong.

Michelle dropped her hands onto the table and pleaded with me. “Please. Please. You have to help me. The police were kind, but they didn’t tell me anything. They mostly asked questions, and the few things they did say didn’t make any sense. But I overheard someone saying that my mother had tried to hire a bodyguard. I’ve been calling everyone in the book from here to L.A.”

“What makes you think I’m the right bodyguard?” It was neither an admission nor a denial.

“I met with a man at Miller and Creede. He suggested I speak with you. Please. You have to tell me. Why did my mother want protection? What was she afraid of?”

I closed my eyes, trying to decide what to tell her. If Abigail had been alive, I couldn’t have said anything due to ethical considerations. But damn it, she’d wanted to hire someone to protect this woman, the one sitting across from me. Michelle was in very real danger and she didn’t have a freaking clue.

God, I wanted that drink.

As if on cue, Barbara came to the table with a tray containing a pair of water glasses, the smoothie, and a great big beautiful glass of frozen alcoholic goodness. I swear I wanted to kiss her. I took the margarita glass from her hand and drank most of it in a single pull as she set the little paper napkins on the table, followed by the water glasses. Then I took polite sips of the smoothie—I didn’t want Michelle to think I was a barbarian.

Barbara gave me a wide-eyed look, her brows climbing high enough to disappear beneath her bangs. But she didn’t say anything to me; instead, she turned to my guest. “Can I get you something, miss?”

The young woman toyed with her water glass, then picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes and nose. Speaking in a voice that was soft and a little hoarse, she asked for the special of the day and a Coke.

Barbara moved off to fill the order and I set about sipping my smoothie before the alcohol from the margarita kicked in.

Michelle Andrews sat there, waiting silently for me to make up my mind about what to do with her. She didn’t seem to have anything personal against me, just seemed to be generally upset. Still, if I was going to speak with her for more than a few minutes, I’d better check to make sure she was protected.

“Are you wearing an anti-siren charm?”

“Yes. Mr. Creede gave it to me. He said that I’d need it if I was going to meet with you.”

“You spoke with John personally?”

She nodded. “He was very … kind.”

Yeah, he was that kind of guy. It was one of the many reasons I missed him. I took a long drink of my smoothie, using it as an excuse to not speak while I gathered my thoughts. “All right, Michelle,” I went ahead and used her name. She hadn’t introduced herself, but in her state I don’t think she’d realized it. I said, forcing myself to smile—but not too much; no fang. “Your mother didn’t come to me for protection for herself. She wanted someone to guard her daughter.” It was a stretch to say what I did next, but it was something that had occurred to me just that morning. “I wonder if it had something to do with your adoption, with your birth parents?”

“My what? No.” Michelle shook her head. “That’s impossible.” She reached into her bag, pulling out her cell phone. After a couple of quick strokes, she passed me the phone.

The screen showed a photo. It was a cute picture. Michelle was kneeling beside her mother’s wheelchair, hugging her. Michelle was wearing a cap and gown—I assumed from her college graduation, given how she looked now—and Abigail was beaming with joy and pride as she held her daughter’s diploma in her lap.

“Is this the woman you met with?”

“Yes.”

Michelle shook her head in vigorous denial. “But I’m not adopted. I’m not.”

“Look—” I started to speak, but she interrupted me.

“No! Damn it, no. I refuse to believe my entire life is a lie. She’s my mother. My real mother. Do you understand? She wouldn’t lie to me. Not about something this important.”

Actually, I suspected she would, if it would keep Michelle safe. Abigail Andrews had appeared to me to be a tough, pragmatic woman. Kids talk. Oh, they swear each other to secrecy … and sometimes, not often, they even keep the secrets. But mostly, they talk. Adults do, too. If you truly want to keep a secret, you don’t tell