Chosen asc-6 Page 4

  I’ve showered and traded dusty jeans for a clean pair of shorts, tugged and smoothed my T-shirt, run fingers through wet hair. I can only imagine what it looks like. Times like these, not having a reflection is a blessing.

  Lance hasn’t mentioned what he whispered in my ear.

  I won’t.

  We sit side by side on the edge of the bed, comfortable with each other again despite the few moments before when I know Lance was disappointed. He expected a response. He probably deserved one. I can’t verbalize why I’m not ready to echo his sentiment. I just know that I’m not.

  Lance has changed into board shorts and a T-shirt. He’s running a brush through his own wet hair when Adele swoops in, her arms loaded with garment bags. She hangs them in a closet and comes to stand in front us, her face wreathed in a bright smile.

  “Will you need help?” she asks. But her expression says she already knows the answer. She seems pleased that I’m here with Lance, like an indulgent sister who is happy her brother found someone.

  Lance puts his arm around my waist and gives the reply we both know she is expecting: “I’ll help.”

  “Thank you, but I’ve been dressing myself for quite a while. I think I can manage on my own.”

  Adele excuses herself, pausing at the door to look back at us. “Stephen and I are having coffee downstairs. He has shoes with him so when you’ve decided on the clothes, come down and pick what you’d like.”

  She pulls the door closed behind her.

  I get up and move toward the closet. “So, who is Stephen?”

  Lance joins me. “He manages the Armani shop in town.”

  “And he comes when you call? Must be nice to be a DeFontaine.” I look into the closet. “There are a dozen outfits here. How long does Adele think I’m going to stay?”

  Lance joins me, reaching past my shoulder to retrieve one of the bags. “Let’s see what we have.”

  He unzips the bag and withdraws a long gown of black silk. “I like this. Try it on.”

  I pull my T-shirt over my head and shimmy out of my shorts to stand naked while Lance slips the dress over my head. It settles over my body like a warm breeze. It has a V-neck and scoop back and a skirt of soft pleats. I twirl in front of him and the skirt billows around me with a whisper of silk.

  “How do I look?”

  The glint in his eye and a familiar quirk to the eyebrow makes me take a step away. “Whoa. If we have sex after every wardrobe change, Stephen will be here through dinner.”

  “And the problem is?”

  I laugh. “Let’s just see what else he’s brought.”

  We shuffle through a dozen outfits—all beautiful, all exquisitely detailed. Not my usual attire, for sure. But there is something magical about well-made couturier clothes. I choose the Cady gown I first tried on, a sleeveless jersey dress and micro pinstripe trousers with a black V-neck sweater gilded front and back with rhinestone insets.

  I’ll knock ’em dead in those slacks the next time David and I have a court date.

  I sort price tags, adding up the purchases. “Good thing I brought a credit card.”

  Good thing I have a job.

  Lance is gathering the discarded outfits and says offhandedly, “No need to worry about that. It’s been taken care of.”

  My turn to raise an eyebrow. “What’s that mean?”

  “It means I own the Armani license here in Palm Springs. An investment. I’ve never had the opportunity to take advantage of it before. Adele prefers more earthy styles. With you, on the other hand, I can.”

  “Am I dreaming? You own an Armani store?”

  A nod. “You can keep everything if you’d like. I wish you would.”

  “Okay. What’s the catch? There’s got to be a catch.”

  He’s close again, nuzzling his lips against my neck. “No catch. You want to show your appreciation? Be grateful. Very grateful. I can think of a hundred ways to take advantage of grateful.”

  I take his face in my hands, press my body against his. “So can I. Do we have time?”

  “I’m the boss, remember?” He scoops me up. “We have all the time in the world.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, we’re heading downstairs, bodies glowing, skin flushed with the afterglow of sex.

  Adele and Stephen rise from a couch in the living room when they see us approach. Stephen is tall, angular, with sharp cheekbones and dark, close-cropped hair. He’s a walking advertisement for Armani—cotton slacks, tonal striped shirt, twill dress blazer—right down to the Metro Shield sunglasses tucked into the open neck of his shirt. Must get a great employee discount. He grins as Lance makes the introductions.

  Adele is right, Stephen says. You are beautiful.

  Stephen is also vampire.

  It doesn’t surprise me that Stephen is vampire. Why should it? We’re well integrated into the human community. I take his outstretched hand. Thank you. For the compliment and for taking the time to bring the clothes.

  Anything for the boss’s lady.

  Lance folds the garment bags over the back of a chair. “You can return these,” he says. “I think Anna should take them all, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She is a model of restraint.”

  Restraint? I think about what we were just doing in the bedroom and wink at him before turning to Stephen. “Will you be at the party tonight?”

  He looks over my head to Lance as if surprised that I know about it. Surprised and—I can’t quite interpret the other emotion I see in his expression. My feeling is that he’s not entirely pleased with the idea.

  He recovers quickly, smoothing any lack of enthusiasm from his face. “Yes.” A glance at his watch. “And now I need to get back to the store. Come into the dining room. I have a selection of shoes for you to try.”

  We leave Adele and Lance in the living room discussing household matters. As soon as the two of us are out of earshot, I ask, So what was that look?

  He feigns ignorance with a shrug. He’s busy sorting shoe boxes. What look?

  He pulls out a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos and holds them up for my consideration.

  I nod, take them from his hand and slip them on. They’ll be perfect with the gown.

  But I’m not that easily distracted. The look you gave Lance when he said I would be going with him to the party. You seemed surprised that he’d ask me. Is there a reason I shouldn’t go?

  Stephen pauses two beats too long before answering. Of course not. It’s just that Lance—Rick—has never brought a date to one of our soirees before. It’s . . . interesting.

  A date? It’s not like I’m the local prom queen. I’m one of their own. I throw Stephen a sharp-eyed look of curiosity. Why wouldn’t he bring me?

  He’s guarding his thoughts, not letting anything but his words through. Finally he says, Do you like the sandals?

  Yes.

  He slips them from my feet and replaces them with a simple open-toed Blahnik pump. I turn my ankle to the right and left, as if examining the shoe, when in reality, I’m trying to probe his mind. I don’t know how long he’s been a vampire, but it’s obviously long enough to know how to block an intrusion.

  I take the shoe off and hand it to him. “I’ll take this pair, too. I think that’s all I’ll need for the weekend.”

  His features soften. With relief? He stands and begins the process of putting the extra shoe boxes into an oversized canvas tote bag.

  I move to his side and hand him boxes. How long have you been vampire?

  Five years. And you?

  Not quite one.

  He turns and looks at me, eyes wide. Really? You seem—I don’t know—much older.

  If I was a mortal woman, I’d be insulted by that.

  He holds up a hand, smiles. No offense meant. You give off a serious old-soul vibe.

  He’s just about finished repacking the boxes. How do you know . . . I almost say Lance, then realize I should probably be calling him Rick. It’s how he’s known here. I start agai
n. How do you know Rick?

  Stephen hoists the bag to his shoulder. We have mutual friends. The vampire community in Palm Springs is small but closely knit. He throws me an ironic smile. Incestuously so.

  It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the meaning in that remark. You have the same sire?

  You’ll have all your questions answered tonight. It should be an interesting evening.

  It’s the second time he’s used that word. This time, there’s no mistaking it. The subtle inflection he puts on the word “interesting” doesn’t necessarily reflect a sense of anticipation or eagerness. I’m not sure whether Stephen is looking forward to tonight or dreading it.

  Before I can ask anything else, he’s moved into the living room. Lance is gathering up the garment bags. He leans over and kisses the top on my head when we join them. “I’ll walk out with Stephen. See you in a minute.”

  Stephen says his good-byes to Adele, and he and Lance move toward the door.

  Adele is clearing away the coffee service when she stops suddenly and looks up at me. “Do you care about Rick?”

  It’s asked with fierceness I recognize and appreciate. A fierceness that hardens her mouth and tenses her shoulders.

  The same fierceness I’d use if I were concerned about the well-being of one I love. It prompts an honest answer. “Yes.”

  Her shoulders relax, she resumes cleaning up. “Do me a favor tonight, will you?”

  “All right.”

  “Watch out for him.”

  “Watch out for Lance? That’s a strange thing to say.”

  She picks up the tray. Her eyes are bright with concern that she’s trying to mask with a smile. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything. Ignore me.”

  “But you did. Adele, is there something I should be on the lookout for? Someone?”

  She busies herself folding napkins, rearranging cups and spoons on the tray. She’s not looking at me. “It’s probably nothing. And besides, you’re smart. I can tell. If there’s something wrong, you’ll figure it out.”

  Lance is closing the front door. I look up to watch him approach and when I turn around, Adele has made her escape into the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 9

  Lance spends the afternoon giving me a grand tour of the house. Three floors of art, books, antique furniture and family history. A simple, pleasurable, uncomplicated exercise. I don’t recognize Lance in much of it, but it’s like visiting a museum. You don’t have to have a personal connection to what’s on exhibit to appreciate interesting things that represent the past.

  Adele doesn’t join us.

  While we explore, I watch Lance and listen to his thoughts. There’s no anxiousness in his manner, no nervousness about the party. He is neither alarmed nor disturbed at the prospect of attending. If anything, he is looking forward to it. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s glad I will be accompanying him. I begin to feel that either Adele and Stephen are misguided in their concern or that my suspicious nature made me misconstrue what could be innocent remarks. Stephen because I’m a stranger being introduced into what is obviously a close-knit “family.” Adele because she is afraid I’ll hurt Rick. Asking me to watch out for him might have been another way to ask me not to hurt him.

  We don’t see Adele again until just before we’re ready to leave the house. She’s on her way out, too. She’s dressed in black slacks and a fitted white top, a pair of simple flats on her feet. She’s knotted a bright silk scarf resplendent in jewel tones at her neckline. She looks me over. “That gown is perfect for you.”

  Her compliment pleases me. I realize that I want her to like me. It’s silly and makes no sense, but I want her to like me. I reach out and touch the scarf. “That’s beautiful.”

  She smiles. “It was given to me by my mother. It’s always been one of my favorites.”

  Lance asks, “Adele, would you like to join us for a drink before the party?”

  She shakes her head. “No. But thank you for the invitation. It’s my bridge night. Can’t keep the girls waiting, you know.”

  She leaves through the front door. Her manner is relaxed, untroubled. No furtive glances my way, no whispered reminders of our conversation earlier. There’s a big SUV waiting in the driveway. When the driver sees Lance silhouetted in the doorway, she waves. I make out two other females sitting in the back.

  “Do you know Adele’s friends?”

  Lance closes the door. “Most of them. Sometimes she hosts the game.” He touches my arm. “She’s right about this gown. I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.”

  His hands slide up my arms, his fingers begin to slip the straps off my shoulders.

  The passion in his face burns through his fingertips, rages through his thoughts, stirs my own. “Maybe we should skip the party.”

  His lips are so close. I raise myself up to meet them. His kiss is all the answer I need. I let the gown fall in a silken puddle at my feet. I kick off my shoes and stand before Lance naked and trembling and in a frenzy to get Lance naked, too.

  He’s stripping off his jacket when his cell phone rings.

  “Don’t answer it,” I breathe, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

  But he has the phone in his hand and by his expression, I know he recognizes the number. He pushes me gently away and puts the phone to his ear. He says nothing. In another few seconds, he snaps the phone shut.

  “I’m sorry, Anna. We have to go. It’s important we’re not late.”

  He stoops to retrieve his jacket.

  “We have to go? This minute?”

  But he’s reaching down for my dress. I snatch it up before he can. “Who was on the phone?”

  He doesn’t answer the second question, either. I can’t get anything from his thoughts. I can forgive a lot of things, like the fact that he’s kept his true identity from me, but here I am, standing naked in front of him, and he’s pretending not to notice. The first time that’s happened. Embarrassment yields quickly to anger. I turn my back and yank the dress back up.

  Lance makes a noise in his throat. “Talk about coitus interruptus, huh?” He traces a finger across my shoulders. “I am sorry, Anna. We’ll pick this up when we get home, okay?”

  Something has changed. He’s trying to be flippant, but his thoughts are troubled. Irritation tempers to concern.

  I face him, slipping into my shoes. “Was that Stephen on the phone?”

  Still no answer. Instead, he holds out a hand. “Let’s get going.”

  Now I’m wildly curious. Who could be so important that Lance would drop everything (meaning me) to hustle us out of the house? And why did his mood change so abruptly?

  CHAPTER 10

  Once we’re on the way, I don’t jump right in and insist that Lance tell me who called. My instincts tell me to be patient even though patience is not one of my strong suits. I’ll go in the back door if I can’t get in the front. I try probing, to read his thoughts, but bump up against the steel curtain drawn around them.

  Lance senses my concern, shifts into tourist guide mode as if to distract me. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we head to the restaurant, calling my attention to points of interest along the highway. He may be doing it for his benefit as well as my own. In any case, it works because by the time we pull into the parking lot, a little of the anxiety has faded from his mind.

  But not from mine.

  I remember my conversation with Adele and anxiety comes flooding back. I wish now I’d asked more questions. Was it something Lance said that prompted her concern? Or did she pick up on Stephen’s reaction to hearing I’d be accompanying Lance to the party? I glance over at Lance, wondering if he’s listening to my thoughts. But his attention is on the valet hurrying over to greet us. His mind is closed to me. Whatever worries he’s harboring, he’s determined to keep them to himself.

  The valet comes directly around to the passenger side of the car, but Lance is quicker. He’s out of the car and opening my door before the v
alet or I can do it myself. For once, I don’t disparage the old-fashioned act of chivalry. I take his hand and let him help me from the car. He bends over my hand and kisses it. I feel like a schoolgirl on a first date. Come to think of it, maybe that’s exactly what I am. I’ve always been the aggressor in relationships. I’m surprised at how nice it feels to let someone else take the lead.

  Perhaps it’s the place itself that’s inspiring such romanticism. Melvyn’s is located on the property of the Ingleside Inn, tucked off the main route so it seems isolated from the bustle of Palm Springs. It’s a Spanish style masterpiece, redolent with lush greenery and resplendent with flowers. A riotous array of flowers, the scent of jasmine so potent it makes the senses swim.

  Once inside, the maitre d’ greets Lance like an old friend. The rest of our party has yet to arrive, so he suggests we wait at the bar.

  I throw Lance a pointed look. We left because you said we shouldn’t be late. So where is everyone?

  Lance shrugs, squeezes my shoulders. I’ll make it up to you.

  He orders champagne. He’s more relaxed again, his smile easy and confident.

  Melvyn’s is a great place to people watch. The bar is dark and intimate, the walls lined with pictures of the rich and famous who have visited here. There’s even one of Lance—his arm around a gray-haired man.

  I point to the picture and raise an eyebrow.

  “The owner, Mel Haber.”

  I’m suitably impressed. Lance whispers names in my ear as he recognizes locals who stop by our table to say hello. Humans. Mostly geriatrics. I wonder how long it will be before he will have to give up such a public existence in a place where he does not age. For the time being, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

  The champagne works its magic. By the third glass, I’ve forgiven him for rushing us out of the house. He’s no longer apprehensive. He’s laughing. His hand finds its way under the tablecloth to stroke my thigh through the silk of my gown. He inches his chair closer. Soon I feel his touch on my bare skin, his fingers dangerously close to sparking a reaction that is bound to get us thrown out of the restaurant.