Every Which Way But Dead (41 page)

“Oh, Trent and I go back a long way,” I said lightly, twirling a curl of my hair about my finger and remembering its new shortness. “We met at camp as children. Sort of romantic when you think about it.” I smiled at Trent's suddenly blank look.

“Really?” She turned to Trent, the hint of a tiger growling in her voice's soft cadence.

Sitting up, I tucked my legs under me to sit cross-legged, running my finger across the rim of the mug suggestively. “He was such a cub when he was younger, full of fire and spirit. I had to fight him off, the dear boy. That's where he got that scar on his lower arm.”

I looked at Trent. “I can't believe you haven't told Ellasbeth! Trent, you aren't still embarrassed about that, are you?”

Ellasbeth's eye twitched, but her smile never faltered. Maggie set a delicate looking cup full of an amber liquid by her elbow and quietly walked away. Her carefully shaped eyebrows high, Ellasbeth took in Trent's silent posture and his lack of denial. Her fingertips made one rolling cadence against the table in agitation. “I see,” she said, then stood. “Trenton, I do believe I will catch a flight out tonight after all.”

Trent met her gaze. He looked tired and a bit relieved. “If that is what you want, love.”

She leaned close to him, her eyes on me. “It's to give you the chance to settle your affairs—sweetness,” she said, her lips shifting the air about his ear. Still watching me, she lightly kissed his cheek. There was no feeling in her eyes beyond a vindictive glint. “Call me tomorrow.”

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Trent. Nothing. And its very absence chilled me. “I'll count the hours,” he said, his voice giving no clue either. Both of their eyes were on me as his hand rose to touch her cheek, but he didn't kiss her back. “Should Maggie pack up your tea?”

“No.” Still watching me, she straightened, her hand lingering possessively on his shoulder. The picture they made was both beautiful and strong. And united. I remembered the reflection of Trent and me at Saladan's boat. Here was the bond that had been lacking between us. It wasn't love, though. It was more of…My brow furrowed…. a business merger?

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Rachel,” Ellasbeth said, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “And thank you for accompanying my fiancé tonight. Your services are undoubtedly well-practiced and appreciated. It's a shame he won't be calling upon them again.”

I leaned across the table to shake her offered hand with a neutral pressure. I think she had just called me a whore—again. I suddenly didn't know what was going on.
Did he like her, or didn't he?
“Have a nice flight out,” I said.

“I will. Thank you.” Her hand slipped from mine and she drew a step back. “Walk me to the car?” she asked Trent, her voice smooth and satisfied.

I'm not dressed, love,” he said softly, still touching her. “Jonathan can take your bags.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her, and I flashed her a catty smile. Turning, she walked out to the hallway overlooking the great room. “Jonathan?” she called, her heels clacking.

My God. The two played mind games with each other as if it was an Olympic sport.

Trent exhaled. Putting my feet on the floor, I made a wry face. “She's nice.”

His expression went sour. “No she isn't, but she's going to be my wife. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't imply anymore that we are sleeping together.”

I smiled, a real one this time. “I just wanted her to leave.”

Maggie bustled close, putting down table settings and taking away Ellasbeth's teacup and saucer. “Nasty, nasty woman,” she muttered, her motions quick and sharp. “And you can sack me if you want, Mr. Kalamack, but I don't like her and I never will. You watch. She'll bring some woman with her who will take over my kitchen. Rearrange my cupboards. Push me out.”

“Never, Maggie,” Trent soothed, his posture shifting to a companionable ease. “We all have to make the best of it.”

“Oh, worra, worra, worra,” she mumbled as she made her way back into the kitchen.

Feeling more relaxed now that Ellasbeth was gone, I took another sip of that wonderful coffee. “
She's
nice,” I said, looking at the kitchen.

His green eyes boyishly soft, he nodded. “Yes, she is.”

“She's not an elf,” I said, and his eyes jerked to mine. “Ellasbeth is,” I added, and his look went closed again.

“You're getting uncomfortably adept, Ms. Morgan,” he said, leaning away from me.

Putting my elbows to either side of the white plate, I rested my chin on the bridge my hands made. “That's Ellasbeth's problem, you know. She feels like she is a broodmare.”

Trent shook out his napkin and put it on his lap. His robe was slowly coming undone to show a pair of executive-looking pajamas. It was somewhat of a disappointment—I'd been hoping for boxers. “Ellasbeth doesn't want to move to Cincinnati,” he said, unaware that I was sneaking glances at his physique. “Her work and friends are in Seattle. You wouldn't be able to tell by looking at her, but she's one of the world's best nuclear transplant engineers.”

My surprised silence brought his attention up, and I stared at him.

“She can take the nucleus of a damaged cell and transplant it into a healthy one,” he said.

“Oh.” Beautiful and smart. She could be Miss America if she learned how to lie better. But it sounded really close to illegal genetic manipulation to me.

“Ellasbeth can work from Cincinnati as easily as Seattle,” Trent said, mistaking my silence for interest. “I've already financed the university's research department to update their facilities. She's going to put Cincinnati on the map for her developments, and she's angry that she's being forced to move instead of me.” He met my questioning eyes. “It's not illegal.”

“Tomato, tomatto,” I said, leaning back when Maggie set a crock of butter and a pitcher of steaming syrup on the table and walked away.

Trent's green eyes met mine and he shrugged.

The scent of cooking batter drifted close, heady with promise, and my mouth watered as Maggie returned with two steaming plates of waffles. She set one before me, hesitating to make sure I was pleased. “This looks wonderful,” I said, reaching for the butter.

Trent adjusted his plate while he waited for me. “Thanks, Maggie. I'll take care of the settings. It's getting late. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kalamack,” Maggie said, clearly pleased as she rested a hand atop his shoulder. “I'll clean up the spills before I go. More tea or coffee?”

I looked up from pushing the butter to Trent. They were both waiting for me. “Um, no,” I said as I glanced at my mug. “Thank you.”

“This is fine,” Trent echoed.

Maggie nodded as if we were doing something right before she returned to the kitchen humming. I smiled when I recognized the odd lullaby, “All the Pretty Little Horses.”

Lifting a lid to a covered container, I found it full of crushed strawberries. My eyes widened. Tiny whole ones the size of my pinky nail made a ring around the rim as if it was June, not December, and I wondered where he had gotten them. I eagerly ladled berries on top of my waffle, looking up when I realized Trent was watching me. “You want some of these?”

“When you're done with them.”

I went to take another scoop, then hesitated. Dropping the spoon back in, I pushed them across the table. The small noise of clinking silverware seemed loud as I poured the syrup. “You do know the last man I saw in a robe, I beat into unconsciousness with a chair leg,” I quipped, desperate to break the silence.

Trent almost smiled. “I'll be careful.”

The waffle was crisp on the outside and fluffy on the inside, easily cut with a fork. Trent used a knife. I carefully put the perfect square into my mouth so I wouldn't dribble. “Oh God,” I said around my full mouth and giving up on manners. “Is it because we almost died that this tastes so good, or is she the best cook on earth?”

It was real butter, and the maple syrup had the dusky flavor that said it was a hundred percent real. Not two percent, not seven percent; it was real maple syrup. Remembering the stash of maple candy I once found while searching Trent's office, I wasn't surprised.

Trent put an elbow on the table, his eyes on his plate. “Maggie puts mayonnaise in them. It gives them an interesting texture.”

I hesitated, staring at my plate, then deciding if I couldn't taste it, there wasn't enough egg to worry about. “Mayonnaise?”

A faint sound of dismay came from the kitchen. “Mr. Kalamack…” Maggie came out, wiping her hands on her apron. “Don't be giving my secrets away, or you'll find tea leaves in your brew tomorrow,” she scolded.

Leaning to look over his shoulder, he widened his smile to become an entirely different person. “Then I'll be able to read my fortune. Have a good night, Maggie.”

Harrumphing, she walked out, passing the sunken living room and making a left turn at the walkway overlooking the great hall. Her steps were almost soundless, and the closing of the main door was loud. Hearing running water in the new silence, I ate another bite.

Drug lord, murderer, bad man,
I reminded myself. But he wasn't talking, and I was starting to feel uncomfortable. “Hey, I'm sorry about the water in your limo,” I offered.

Trent wiped his mouth. “I think I can handle a little dry cleaning after what you did.”

“Still,” I said as my gaze slid to the crock of strawberries. “I'm sorry.”

Seeing my eyes flick from the fruit to him, Trent made a questioning face. He wasn't going to offer them to me, so I reached out and took them. “Takata's car isn't nicer than yours,” I said, upending the container over the remains of my waffle. “I was just jerking you around.”

“I figured that out,” he said wryly. He wasn't eating, and I looked up to see him with knife and fork in hand, watching me scrape the last of the strawberries out with my butter knife.

“What?” I said as I put the crock down. “You weren't going to have any more.”

He carefully cut another square of waffle. “You've been in contact with Takata, then?”

I shrugged. “Ivy and I are working security at his concert next Friday.” I wedged a small bite into my mouth and closed my eyes as I chewed. “This is really good.” He didn't say anything, and my eyes opened. “Are you—ah—going?”

“No.”

Turning back to my plate, I glanced at him from around my hair. “Good.” I ate another bite. “The man is something else; when we talked, he was wearing orange pants. And he's got his hair out to here.” I gestured, showing Trent. “But you probably know him. Personally.”

Trent was still working on his waffle with the steady pace of a snail. “We met once.”

Content, I slid all the strawberries off the remnants of my waffle and concentrated on them. “He picked me up off the street, gave me a ride, dumped me off on the expressway.” I smiled. “At least he had someone bring my car along. Have you heard his early release?”
Music. I could always keep the conversation going if it was about music. And Trent liked Takata. I knew that much about him.

“ ‘Red Ribbons'?” Trent asked, an odd intentness to his voice.

Nodding, I swallowed and pushed my plate away. There were no more strawberries, and I was full. “Have you heard it?” I asked, settling back in my chair with my coffee.

“I've heard it.” Leaving a shallow wedge of waffle uneaten, Trent set his fork down and pushed it symbolically away. His hands went to his tea and he leaned back in his chair. I went to take a sip of coffee, freezing as I realized Trent had mirrored both my posture and my motion.

Oh, crap. He likes me.
Mirroring motions was classic in the body language of attraction. Feeling as if I'd stumbled into somewhere I didn't want to go, I intentionally leaned forward and put the flat of my arm on the table, my fingers encircling my warm mug of coffee.
I wouldn't play this game. I wouldn't!

“ ‘You're mine, yet wholly you,' ” Trent said dryly, clearly oblivious to my thoughts. “The man has no sense of discretion. It's going to catch up with him someday.”

Eyes distant and unaware, he put the flat of his arm on the table. My face went cold and I choked, but it wasn't because of what he had done. It was because of what he had said. “Holy crap!” I swore. “You're a vamp's scion!”

Trent's eyes jerked to mine. “Excuse me?”

“The lyrics!” I sputtered. “He didn't release those. It's on the vamp track only undead vampires and their scions can hear. Oh my God! You've been bitten!”

Lips pressed together, Trent picked up his fork and cut a triangle of waffle, using it to sop up the last of the syrup on his plate. “I'm not a vampire's scion. And I've never been bit.”

My heart pounded and I stared. “Then how do you know them? I heard you. I heard you say them. Straight off the vamp track.”

He arched his thin eyebrows at me. “How do you know about the vamp track?”

“Ivy.”

Trent rose. Wiping his fingers clean, he tightened his robe and crossed the room to the casual living-room pit with the wall-sized TV and stereo. I watched him pluck a CD from atop a shelf and drop it into a player. While it spun up, he punched in a track and “Red Ribbons” came from hidden speakers. Though it was soft, I could feel the base line thumping into me.

Trent showed a tired acceptance as he turned with a set of wireless headphones. They were professional looking, the type that fit over your ears instead of resting on them. “Listen,” he said, extending them to me. I drew back suspiciously, and he wedged them on my head.

My jaw dropped and my eyes flew to his. It was “Red Ribbons,” but it wasn't the same song. It was incredibly rich, seeming to go right to my brain, skipping my ears. It echoed within me, swirling behind and through my thoughts. There were impossible highs, and rumbling lows that set my tongue tingling. It was the same song, but there was so much more.