Hunting Daylight (9781101619032) (41 page)

“We can make this hard or simple,” Tatiana said. “Which shall it be?”

“Simple.”

She laughed. “I wish you could see the look on your face. I could set it to music. “Jim Morrison’s ‘The End’ with a little Cradle of Filth.”

At the other end of the restroom, the doorknob rattled, and someone began to knock.

Without looking away from Nick, Tatiana yelled, “Come back later. I’m vomiting. One of those twenty-four-hour viruses.”

The doorknob went still.

Tatiana’s face held no expression. “Answer my question and maybe you will not die in a restroom stall. Maybe you’ll make your connecting flight. I’m afraid you’ve missed the last call for New York. But the Copenhagen flight is on time.”

The backs of his eyes burned. Dammit, he wouldn’t cry. Not in front of her.

“Where is Vivienne?” she asked.

“I’m not telling.”

“We had a deal.”

“Yeah. For a million euros, not a piece of glass in my neck.”

She twisted the shard a little deeper.

He winced. “Put down the damn glass and we’ll talk.”

The inside of his shirt felt cool and wet. How badly had she cut him? The lounge was packed with businessmen, and they’d been drinking. Any second now, someone else would get a full bladder and knock at the door.

Tatiana’s faint smile seemed to hold back a manic energy. “For all I know, you’ve set me up,” she told him.

“I haven’t. I swear it.” Perspiration slid down Nick’s forehead. “Put down your weapon. We’ll renegotiate. I’ll take less money. But I get to walk. It’ll be win-win for us both.”

But Nick was starting to understand how quickly his plan had reversed. She wouldn’t let him go. She never left witnesses.

Her breath hit his face, stinking of camphor and cigar smoke. “You brought me here for nothing,” she said. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“No, I—”

“You don’t know where Vivienne is, do you?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out?”

“Della Rocca brought Caro to my
riad
.”

Tatiana stared at him a long moment, and her pupils dilated. “How did they get out of Paris?”

“I don’t know anything about Paris. I was wired the night they showed up.”

“Was Vivienne with them?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Where is Della Rocca now?”

“Marrakech.”

“And?”

“I’m not saying another word.”

Tatiana dragged the glass along Nick’s neck. “If I miss my flight, I’ll really be pissed.”

Terror sliced through him. He didn’t want to die today. He wasn’t ready.

“Good-bye, Nick,” she said.

“Wait, stop.” He panted. “If I tell you where to find Vivienne, will you let me go?”

“Yes.”

He drew in a breath, held it, let it out in a rush. “Vivienne isn’t with Caro.”

“Liar. She’d never go anywhere without that child.”

“I read Della Rocca’s mind. He knows where the kid is. He kept the information from Caro.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is the girl?”

“Back off and I’ll tell you,” Nick said.

Tatiana stepped back, holding the wineglass. A drop of blood fell off the sharp edge and hit the floor.

Nick put his hand over his neck. Blood seeped through his fingers. He edged backward, toward the toilet. His plan was to hop on the seat and vault over the metal stall.

“You’re too close,” he said. “Move away.”

Tatiana eased back. “Quit fucking with me, Nick.”

“She’s with someone named Sabine. They’re in
Provence. I couldn’t see the name of the town. I couldn’t stay in Della Rocca’s head for more than a few seconds. He really loves that Barrett chick.”

“Love is nothing,” Tatiana said.

“You’re going to kill them both, aren’t you? Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He glanced at the toilet seat, then bent his knees, preparing to jump.

Tatiana lunged forward and slashed his carotid. Arterial blood jetted across her face like cherry-colored paint. Another spurt hit the stall and ran down. Nick dropped to the floor, clutching his throat.

Tatiana moved above him. “You didn’t
really
think I’d let you walk out of here.”

A gurgling sound came out of his throat. He watched her rip open his shirt, listened to his buttons ping on the tile. A cool draft stirred over his chest. He heard music playing somewhere, so he couldn’t be dying.

“Poor Nick,” Tatiana said. “When adrenaline hits, you’re all flight, no fight. If you’d stayed in Marrakech, I wouldn’t know anything. And you’d still have a beating heart.”

She placed the jagged edge of the glass just beneath his ribcage, then she made an incision. Her hand thrust deep inside him, groping and digging.

He felt a tug. A burst of pain. The whole world turned red, and somewhere music was playing.

VILLA PRIMAVERINA, ISLA CARBONARA

VENICE, ITALY

I watched the lights from St. Mark’s Square spread out as the helicopter angled toward Raphael’s private island, where Villa Primaverina cast a glow on the dark waters of Laguna Veneta.

Security boats patrolled the island, and their lights bobbed in the waves, brightening the floats and buoys that created an obstacle course around Isla Carbonara. A floating sign warned trespassers of Arrapato’s ferocity: P
ROPRIETA
P
RIVATA
G
UARDI
D
A
D
EI
C
ANI
.

The helicopter began to descend, the blades stirring the olive grove, blowing leaves toward the four-story Italianate house.

Raphael’s manservant, Beppe, waited by the helicopter pad, holding Arrapato in his arms. Beppe was part Italian
and part Swiss, a bald, big-shouldered man of an indeterminate age—and completely human. His chin was long and knobby like a bell pepper. He always wore a white dinner jacket with gold buttons.

“Caro, you’ve been gone too long,” he said, kissing my cheek.

“I’ve missed you, Beppe,” I said, reaching up to hug him.

Arrapato began to howl, then leaped into Raphael’s arms. The dog’s tongue shot out and he licked every inch of Raphael’s face. After a few moments, Arrapato realized I was there, and he gave me a melty, apologetic stare. But he would not let Raphael set him down.

We found Monsieur La Rochenoire in the kitchen with Beppe’s wife. Maria was a professional chef—Raphael still loved to smell food. She got huffy when La Rochenoire put on an apron.

“Where’s the butter?” he asked, peering into a stainless-steel refrigerator.

Maria gave him the stink-eye. “Olive oil is on the counter. Sauté the porcini in oil.”

“Oil?” He spat out the word.

“If you want butter,” Maria said, “buy a dairy farm in Normandy.”

As the argument escalated, Raphael and I slipped out of the kitchen, leaving the cooks to debate the finer points of French versus Italian cuisine. Me, I would eat anything as long as it didn’t involve fish eyes or sheep entrails.

“Let’s walk into the garden,” Raphael said.

“If we’re going to do more than walk, you might want to take your Benadryl,” I said.

“Good idea.” He pulled a box our of his pocket and swallowed two pink tablets. On our way out the terrace door, he lifted a silk quilt from the back of a sofa and took my hand.

Arrapato ran ahead of us, loping through the shadows. The constellations curved over Isla Carbonara while Raphael and I spread the quilt on the lawn. We sat down and he draped his arm around me.

Arrapato glanced back, as if making sure we were still there, and then he raced around the garden, peeing on the bushes and kicking up tufts of grass.

“I’m trying not to look into your mind,” Raphael said, smiling down at me. “But you’re so quiet.”

“I was just remembering the first time I came to the villa,” I said. “It was almost fifteen years ago. Right around Christmas. You bought me a red Chanel dress, and you hired a makeup artist and a hairdresser—just for drinks on the terrace.”

Those days seemed distant, like pieces of a torn dream, but I remembered that night so clearly. Jude had come with me to the villa. He’d been human, filled with angst. He probably wouldn’t have come if a trio of homicidal vampires hadn’t tracked us across Venice. I’d worn crazy disguises then, too.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. I don’t know who said that, but it’s true.

“I remember every moment of that night,” Raphael said. “I kissed you. A bit heavy-handed, I admit. You were outraged and told me to never do that again.”

“I was in shock. You were also dipping in and out of
my thoughts. I heard you say, ‘You could love me,
mia cara
.’ And at that moment, I thought I could. Then you made me climax.”

“That was rude.” He traced his finger along my arm. “I was so attracted to you. But you loved Jude.”

“Do you remember what you said after that kiss?”

“You told me that you couldn’t be with anyone but him.”

“And you said I would change my mind. That I might fall for you. And you promised great sex.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Did I lie?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You said you would wait for me. I thought you were a playboy, someone who didn’t understand love. I was so wrong.” I watched his finger slide along my arm. “After Jude died, why didn’t you tell me how you felt?”

“Because our first kiss had ended in disaster.” Raphael smiled wryly, then he gazed toward the lagoon and didn’t speak for a long moment. “I was happy to be near you. It was enough.”

My chin was shaking so hard, I couldn’t answer. The Inverna began to blow, sifting through the olive trees, stirring Raphael’s hair. I caught a strand and tucked it behind his ear.

He put his head in my lap. He cupped his hand around my cheek. “Come live with me and be my wife.”

I leaned over him, and my hair fell around us in a veil. “I’d love to.”

“Do you want a long engagement?” he asked.

“Not too long.”

His hand dropped to my neck. “A church wedding or something small? Maybe in the garden?”

I breathed in the smell of lemon verbena. “The garden.”

“What about next week?” I heard a smile in his voice.

“That’s too soon.” I smiled. “I want Vivi to be our flower girl.”

“We can have two weddings. One next week, in the garden, and a second wedding after Vivi returns.”

“Do you need two ceremonies to feel married?” I teased.

“No, but what if we make a baby tonight?”

I shut my eyes, remembering when Vivi was little. I’d put her plump toes against my lips and I’d give them air kisses. She’d always smelled of talcum and milk. I’d always wanted more children. I still did. My eyes blinked open. Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to bring another hybrid child into the world? Assassins would have two targets.

“I heard that,
mia cara
,” he said. “You know what Mark Twain said. ‘If you have one egg in a basket, watch that basket.’”

“I’ve been watching Vivi’s basket for a while,” I said.

He let that pass. “Our child would have three-quarter vampire genes,” he said.

“Hypothetical child,” I said.

“You grew up without siblings. Vivi needs a sister or a brother. They can protect each other, if anything should happen to us. They won’t be alone. And I want to have a child with your eyes.”

“You’ve forgotten one salient point,” I said. “It isn’t easy for hybrids and vampires to make babies.”

“Then we will need to practice,” he said, rising from my lap. He pulled me into his arms and carried me into the gazebo and set me down next to a Grecian column. Arrapato sped around us and leaped onto the rattan sofa, then stretched out full-length. He flashed a triumphant stare, as if to say, I’ve thwarted you again.

Raphael took off his trousers. His gaze never left my face as he slipped his hands under my dress, tugged off my panties, and picked me up. I locked my ankles around his waist and his hardness pressed between my legs.

“We haven’t made love standing up in at least two days,” I said.

“Three days,” he said, bracing his shoulders against a column. “You smell so good. Like sun-drenched olive trees and lemon verbena.”

I smiled and put my arms around his neck. His chest leaned against mine, and I felt his heart booming, his whiskers scraping on my cheek, his breath ruffling in my hair, the pressure of his hands on my backside. I reached between us, and slipped my hand through the gap in his boxer shorts. My fingers brushed down his erection, caressing his smooth flesh, then I moved up and smeared the damp bead on his tip.

His breath was coming in short puffs, and so was mine. “Raphael, I want you. I’ve never wanted anyone this much.”

“I want you more.”

My teeth nipped the swell of his bottom lip, and I sucked it. He kissed me, and a current raced from my
throat to my fingertips. Tiny veins of rapture seemed to enter my bloodstream, and I climaxed. Then he was inside me, his buttocks thudding against the column, pushing deeper into me. Another orgasm broke loose, and I skimmed my teeth over his neck and pinched the flesh. I bit down.

He groaned, and his mouth dropped to my throat. I felt the prick of his incisors, and my hand tightened on the back of his neck. As we tasted each other, a pulse started to beat between my thighs. He kissed my mouth, and I tasted blood. A convulsive force moved low inside me, sweeping through me. He kept thrusting, saying my name, and I climaxed again. His breathing became erratic, and as he spilled into me, I imagined a dome of water rising out of the Adriatic Sea, tipped with white foam, and pouring onto the shore.