Vampire Moon (Page 6)

Kingsley turned to me. I always liked the way the bridge of his nose angled straight up to his forehead. Very Roman. And very hot.

He said, "You became a private investigator after you were changed?"

"Yes."

"So that means you took your P.I. photo when you were a vampire."

"Yes."

"So how did you manage that?"

"I wore a lot of make up that day," I said smugly, proud of myself. I had wondered what to do about the photo, too.

"So the make up showed up, even though you didn’t?"

"Yes, exactly. I even made sure I blinked when the picture was taken."

"Just in case your eye sockets came up empty."

"Exactly."

"You could have worn colored contacts," said Kingsley.

"But then the whites of my eyes would have come up empty," I said.

He nodded. "So you sacrificed your vanity."

"I might look like a major dork in the picture, but at least I look human. Granted, if you look close enough, there is a blank spot somewhere near my throat, where I had missed a patch of skin, but not too many people are looking at my throat."

"No," said Kingsley. "They’re looking at the dork with her eyes closed."

I punched him in the arm. The force of my blow knocked him sideways.

"Ouch!" He rubbed his arm and grinned at me, and the light from the half moon touched his square teeth. Kingsley was a successful defense attorney in Orange County. A few months ago, he had hired me to investigate a murder attempt on his life. His case had come at a difficult time in my life. Not only had I just caught my husband cheating, the bastard had the gall to kick me out of my own home.

A very difficult time, to say the least. The wounds were still fresh and I was still hurting.

And I would be for a very long time.

Not the greatest time to start a new romance with a hunky defense attorney with massive shoulders and a tendency to shed.

"There are two people boffing over there," said Kingsley, looking off over his shoulder. "I think one of their names is Oh, Baby."

Kingsley’s hearing was better than mine, which was saying something.

I grinned and elbowed him. "Will you quit eavesdropping."

He cocked his head to one side, and said, "I was wrong. His name is Oh, God."

I elbowed him again, and we sat silently some more. Our legs were touching. His thigh was about twice as wide as mine. We were both wearing jeans and sweaters.

I sensed Kingsley’s desire to touch me, to reach out and lay his big hand over my knee. I sensed him forcibly controlling himself.

Down boy.

I was still looking out over the black ocean, which, to my eyes, wasn’t so black. The air shimmered with light particles which flashed and streaked across the night sky. I often wondered what these streaking lights were. I didn’t know for sure, but I had a working hypothesis. I suspected I was seeing the physical manifestation of energy itself. Perhaps I was being given a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the workings of our world.

Then again, I’ve been wrong before.

Kingsley was still looking at me, still fighting what he most wanted to do. And what he most wanted to do was ravage me right here and now on this lifeguard pier. But the brute held himself in check. Smart man. After all, I gave him no indication that I wanted to be ravaged.

"Not yet, Kingsley," I said calmly, placing my own hand lightly on his knee. "I’m not ready yet."

He nodded his great, shaggy head, but said nothing. I sensed his built-up energy dissipate in an instant. Hell, I could practically see it zigzagging away from his body, caught up by the lunar wind and merging with the silver spirits surfing the California night skies.

He exhaled and sort of deflated. Poor guy. He had gotten himself all worked up. He rested his own hand lightly on mine, and if my own cold flesh bothered him, he didn’t show it.

And while we sat there holding hands, with me soaking in the tremendous warmth of his oversized paw, I told him about my latest case.

When I was finished, he said, "Jerry Blum is a dangerous man."

"I’m a dangerous girl."

From far away, emerging from under the distant Huntington Beach Pier, was a lone jogger. Even from here, the jogger appeared to be a very big man. The man was easily a hundred yards away.

Kingsley, who had been looking down at my leg, suddenly cocked his head, listening. He then turned and spotted the jogging man. The man, as far as I could tell, wasn’t making a sound.

I was intrigued. "You heard him?"

"Yes and no," said Kingsley, still looking over his shoulder at the approaching man. "But I could hear his dog."

I looked again. Sure enough, running along at the man’s feet, about the size of a rat on steroids, was something small and furry. A dog, and it looked miniscule next to the running man. I smiled. For some reason, I found it heartwarming to see such a big man running with such a little doggie.

Kingsley said, "So what, exactly, is your client hiring you to do? Does he want you to take down one of the most dangerous criminals on the West Coast?"

"Taking him down will be extra."

"Taking him down will be dangerous for both you and your family, Sam. Remember, this guy doesn’t play nice."

"I won’t put my family in harm’s way," I said. "And besides, who says I play nice, either? I’ve been known to bite."

"Very funny. But I don’t like this, Sam. This isn’t your typical P.I. gig. Hell, the FBI still hasn’t figured out a way to nail this guy, and you’re just one woman."

"But a helluva woman."

"Sure, but why am I more concerned about your safety than you are?" he asked.

"Because you like me a little," I said, blinking daintily.

"I would like you more if you stayed away from this case."

Something small and furry and fat suddenly appeared in the sand beneath our feet. It was the same little dog, now trailing a leash. It was, in fact, a tea cup Pomeranian, and it was about as cute as cute gets. Maybe even cuter. It wagged its tail a mile a minute and turned in a half dozen small circles, creating a little race track in the sand. It never once took its eyes off Kingsley.

"It likes you," I said.

"Go figure."

Kingsley made a small noise in his throat and the little dog abruptly sat in the sand in front of him, staring, panting, wagging.

And from out of the darkness, sweating through a black tee shirt and rippling with more muscle than two or three men put together – that is, if those men weren’t Kingsley – was the same tall man we had seen a few minutes earlier. He approached us with a small limp that didn’t seem to bother him.