“Living off the land?” When she nodded, he frowned at the image that conjured up. “Hunting and fishing?”
“No. But I can locate a fast food restaurant within three minutes of arriving in a new area.”
He looked appalled.
“It’s a joke,” she pointed out curtly. “Although, ninety percent of all accident sites do occur in an urban environment. Some Keepers spend their entire lives in the same city, trying desperately to keep it from falling apart.”
“What about the other ten percent?”
“Big old houses in the middle of nowhere with at least one dead tree in the immediate area.”
“Why a dead tree?”
“Ambience.”
His smile was tentative and it disappeared entirely when she didn’t join in. “Not a joke?”
“Not a joke.” Closing the registration book, Claire came out from behind the counter. Dean was not going to be alone in that room when Sasha Moore returned and that was final—no matter what sorts of demanding tasks she had to perform. She was strong enough to resist the temptation the musician represented but he, however, was a man, and a young one, and expecting him to decline that kind of invitation on his own would be expecting too much. Whether or not he had succumbed during the previous visit was immaterial; this time, she was here to help. “Where do we keep the supplies?”
“In the supply cupboard.”
From anyone else, she’d have suspected sarcasm.
“I could wait here and help Ms. Moore carry her bags upstairs. She looked tired.”
Ms. Moore could carry you upstairs; one-handed. But that wasn’t Claire’s secret to reveal. “You know, the longer you leave that floor unattended the greater the odds are that Austin will take a walk and track dark oak stain all over the hotel.”
“He’d notice the floor was wet.”
“Of course he’d notice. He wouldn’t do it by accident.”
“But…”
“He’s a cat.” She waited until Dean started back toward the dining room then, jaw set for confrontation, headed upstairs.
“So she’s h…cute, is she?” Yanking out a set of single sheets, she piled them on top of the towels. “I don’t care if he’s been providing breakfast, dinner, and midnight snacks, it’s dangerous and it’s going to stop. I won’t have my staff snacked on.”
“Who is snacking on your staff?” Jacques floated down from the floor above and settled about an arm’s reach away. “And does that mean what it sounds like it means, or is it some prissy Anglais way to talk of what is more interesting?”
“It means what it sounds like it means.” Two small bars of soap were dropped on the pile. “Did I put one of your anchors in here?”
“Oui.”
“I wonder why I did that.”
“So we could have more time alone together?” He lifted a lecherous brow but at her protest pressed it back down onto his forehead. “Because you felt sorry for me?” His whole body got involved in looking mournful, shoulders slumped, gaze focused on the loose interlacing of his fingers.
Claire rolled her eyes at the dramatics but couldn’t help smiling.
Peering up through his hair, Jacques caught sight of the smile and flashed her an answering grin. “Ah. That is better, no? You should be in a happy mood. I am saved from the pit, and you…” He waved a hand at the gathered supplies. “…you have someone to stay at your hotel.”
“You seem to have recovered from this morning’s experience.” Claire struggled toward the door, decided she was being ridiculous, wrapped the whole unwieldy pile in power and floated it out into the hall. “I expected the trauma to have lasted a little longer.”
Jacques shrugged. “A man does not allow himself to be held captured by his fears. Besides, as Austin reminds me, I am dead. The dead exist in the now; this morning is as years away. Tomorrow may never happen. When I am with you, only then do I think of a future.”
Which said something, something unpleasant, about the lingering effect of Aunt Sara. Not to mention country music lyrics.
Inside room four. Claire brought the bedding and towels and sundries to rest on the bureau and picked a small shaving mirror and stand up off the floor.
“What are you doing?”
“You can’t have access to rooms that guests are in.”
“Why not?”
“Because they might not like it.”
“How can they not like me?”
“You’re dead.” She set the mirror out in the hall and carried the towels into the bathroom.
“Hey, who’s the dead guy?”
The sound of the hall door closing brought Claire back out into the dressing room. “He’s none of your concern.”
“Count on it” She grinned and shrugged out of her jacket. “I don’t ask for much from my dates, but they do have to be alive. Now that piece of prime rib in your basement…”
“Stay away from him.”
“Why?” She polished nails much the same length and color as Claire’s against her black sleeveless turtleneck. “You think I’m too hard an act to follow?”
“I have no intention of following you or anyone else. I don’t know and I don’t care…” Claire ignored a raised ebony brow, obviously intended to provoke. “…about what happened when Augustus Smythe ran the site, but while I’m responsible, Dean Mclssac is under my protection.”
“Really? He seemed like a big…” A reflective moment later, she resumed. “…very big boy. And you’re not his guardian, Keeper, so chill. But, as it happens, I never feed in the crib unless things get desperate and, if that’s the case, your mother hen act will be the least of my problems. Besides, it’d be easier to throw myself on your mercy. After all, Keepers respond to need.” A startlingly pale tongue flicked over burgundy lips. “You’re what, O negative?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It doesn’t. It’s just nice to know you’re one of my favorite flavors. Just in case.”
Busying herself with the bed, Claire pointedly did not respond.
Behind her, Sasha laughed, neither insulted nor discouraged. “From the way you spoke of him, I assume the
