I laughed and raised my fingers to my wet face. “My eyes must be puffy and red.”
He gazed at me adoringly. “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Lacey. Always remember that.”
I laughed again as I blushed crimson, this time from pleasure, and busied myself drying my eyes. Jared took my hand and we walked back toward the park perimeter and the hotel across the street. As we waited for traffic to abate, I looked up at his chiseled profile and snuggled against his shoulder.
“So what now?” I asked.
“Definitely no more jewelry stores,” he answered with a chuckle. He adjusted the duffel strap on his shoulder, and when there was a break in traffic, we crossed to the Plaza entrance, where a doorman nodded in greeting and we pushed through the heavy glass doors.
“I’m serious,” I said as we walked across the lobby. “What are we going to do?”
He thought for several seconds. “There’s one place we can be absolutely safe: the mansion where I’m recording the album. It’s in the middle of nowhere, north of Portland. Nobody knows I’m there except Christina.”
“What about Carl?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t have said anything. Even if it meant his life.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I knew him for a hundred and forty years, Lacey. He would have stepped in front of a bus for me. We had a history.” He glanced around. “I made him just before the Civil War. There’s a unique bond between a maker and his creation. Nothing can come between us.”
“You still haven’t told me what that entails.”
He resumed walking. “We’ll have lots of time to discuss things at the mansion. Let’s get your stuff packed and check out. I’ll have Christina charter a plane and arrange for a limo.”
“And lunch. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I’m kind of starved.”
Jared smiled. “More lobster?”
“I’m actually thinking about one of those hot dogs.”
“You don’t want to know what’s in them,” he said with a grimace.
It was my turn to glance around to ensure nobody was listening. “Says the guy who drinks blood.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
I used the bathroom while Jared made some calls, and ten minutes later we were in the restaurant, waiting for my order of a club sandwich. I wolfed it down when it arrived, ravenous after traversing half the city, and by the time we made it to the lobby, a stretch limo was at the curb.
“Oh…I need to get a phone charger. Can you ask if he knows a store along the route?” I asked Jared, who nodded.
“Absolutely.”
After a word with the driver, we piled into the back, and the big car drove three blocks to an open electronics store. I was self-conscious about a limo sitting outside the shop while I bought a six-dollar charger, but the cashier was too involved in her own internal drama to notice, and I was in and out in moments.
Traffic to the airport was light. When we arrived, a thin man was standing by the entrance with a cardboard sign in hand with Jared’s last name written on it. He led us through security and out onto the tarmac, where a Lear 35 executive jet sat while two pilots by the fuselage inspected the landing gear.
Fifteen minutes later we were strapped in as the little jet sped down the runway at breakneck velocity and then hurtled into the gloaming, leaving the lights of New Jersey and the Manhattan skyline far below.
Chapter 27
We touched down in Portland a little more than half an hour after taking off in New Jersey. A young man with dyed black hair, wearing the red uniform of a car rental agency, met us at the private aviation terminal and directed us to a rental car. Jared tipped him handsomely, and after he tossed the duffel in the trunk, we slid into the front seats and he started the engine.
“Christina is a miracle worker,” he said. “She had the Porsche towed to a repair shop, so for the next couple of weeks I’m going to be driving this.”
I examined the interior with approval. “Doesn’t look like it goes nearly as fast. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”
“Only one way to find out,” he said, gunning the motor before he dropped the transmission into gear and eased the car from the lot. On the way out of town we stopped at a convenience store, and I bought several days’ worth of food and drinks to tide me over until we figured out our next step.
The road from Portland quickly turned rural as we headed northwest. The night sky was overcast, which blocked any evidence of the moon and stars. Jared kept the speed down in deference to possible police, and the drive was largely uneventful until we turned off the highway onto a lane with more potholes than pavement. After half a mile, he slowed at a cobblestone drive that stretched into the darkness, and pulled to a stop in front of a rusted iron gate with vertical bars that rose eight feet from the ground.
“I need to get out to open it,” Jared said, and stepped from the car to make his way to the gate. He felt in his jacket and extracted a key and had the barrier open in a blink before returning to the car.
Jared pulled through and relocked the gate and then rolled down the drive until the dark bulk of a massive stone home appeared in the headlights. I took in two stories of windows that seemed to go on forever, and glanced over at him.
“What was this place before you rented it?”
“It’s about three hundred years old. Built by a recluse who’d made his fortune in the Baltimore slave trade. One of the great old homes of the northeast, according to some. I just liked it because it’s far from the beaten path and has great acoustics in the banquet
