Vamparazzi (39 page)

He said to them, “I'd like a few minutes alone with Miss Diamond.”

I saw Flame's skeptical expression and assured him it was okay. He nodded, gave Lopez a hard glance, and stated that he and the others would be within earshot and visual range at all times. Then he and Casper turned away and rejoined Treat and Silent near the motorcycles.

“Who are
they?
” Lopez asked me.

“My vampire posse,” I said, still cradling my injured hand against my chest.

“Your what?” He drew in a sharp breath when he got a good look at my battered face and my general dishevelment. “Holy shit, what's
happened
to you?”

“I am never working with vampires again,” I said seriously.

Daemon finally seemed to be finished with his stomach's rebellious response to the evening's festivities. He gave a despairing groan and sank down into a sitting position on the sidewalk, his back resting against the building, a prudent distance away from the mess he had just made.

“Hey, are you all right?” Lopez asked him distractedly, still looking at me.

“Urngh.”

“It's been a rather trying evening, but I was safe,” I assured Lopez. “I have my vampire posse to protect me now.”

“Vampire posse? You know, somehow, that seems just . . .
perfect.
” He rubbed his forehead. “I was having a lovely evening wading through a sewage mishap underground while searching for the murder scene. I would have been happy to stay there all night—or at least until the methane gas made me pass out. But then I got a message saying that
you
were
here
with
him
.” He glanced at Daemon, who was holding his head in his hands and muttering that he felt like hell. “At first, I thought, no, it must be the
other
actress from the show, because Esther and I talked about this—exactly
this
—and there's no way she'd do something that crazy . . .” He sighed and glared at me. “But then I realized, no, if anyone was going to be that crazy, it would definitely be you. So I asked a squad car to bring me straight here.”

“Ah, so that's why you smell, um, the way you do.” I asked, “But how did you find us? I mean, who sent that message?”

“Daemon's a murder suspect in a high profile case,” he said in a low voice. “Who do you
think
contacted me?”

My eyes widened in surprise. “The police are tailing him?” I whispered.

“Plainclothes cops, unmarked car. They followed him here from the theater.” Still keeping his voice low, he added, “And since the investigating team knows that I'm worried you're at risk, they contacted me when they saw you in his company. I got the message a little while ago, when I came topside for some air.”

“Oh.” I felt bad about disrupting his work.

“What are you
doing
here?” he asked in exasperation.

I tried to remember. “Actually, I was keeping my agent company.”

Lopez glanced over his shoulder at Thack, who was some distance away, with his back to us all, as he continued his conversation with Uncle Peter.

“That's who the other man is?” he asked in surprise. “Your agent?”

“Yes. Thackeray Shackleton.”

“Oh, right. You've mentioned him before.” Lopez added, “That can't be his real name. Speaking of which . . .” He turned his gaze back to Daemon with a sigh. “I only came here to get you. But we can't just leave him here like this.”

“We can't?” I said in disappointment.

After all, Daemon had a cell phone, a personal assistant at his beck and call, and a chauffeur-driven limo somewhere around here. He was also indirectly responsible for all my injuries. So I was perfectly willing to leave him alone, drunk, and vomiting on the sidewalk.

“Well,
I
can't,” Lopez said apologetically. “You know—that whole ‘protect and serve' thing.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “Bummer.”

Daemon's nose was swollen and runny, and he was drooling a little. Some vomit had gotten on his black silk shirt and his leather coat.

“This has been the worst day of my life,” the celebrity vampire moaned.

“All things considered,” Lopez said as he looked at how the mightily self-absorbed had fallen, “this is almost enough to make me believe in a just god.”

“You don't?” I asked. “A churchgoer like you?”

“If I hadn't already had doubts,” he said, “then being a cop would certainly have brought them on.”

Daemon sneezed violently, twice in a row, then glared at us through glassy, red-rimmed eyes. “For fuck's sake, will the two of you get
away
from me?” he said, his speech noticeably less slurred now.

“Are you sobering up?” I asked hopefully.

“I can't
believe
the week I'm having,” Daemon moaned.

Gazing at him, Lopez shook his head. “I just don't get it. How does
this
guy get so many women?”

I shrugged. “It's a mystery to me.”

Daemon snapped, “It helps that I don't smell of sewage.”

“He looks pretty rocky,” Lopez said. “I wonder if he needs to go to a hospital. How much has he had to drink?”

I shrugged. “Other than
plenty
, I don't really know.”

“I
don't
need a hospital,” Daemon insisted.

“In that case,” said Lopez, “we need to get you home, Danny.”

Daemon flinched. “Don't
call
me that!”

Lopez asked, “You came in your own car, right? Where is it now?”

“My car,” Daemon said wistfully. “Yes. I want it right
now.
I want to go home.”

“And I want my stuff.” I added to Lopez, “My tote bag is in his car.”

“My car . . .” Daemon squinted at Lopez. “Do I know you?”

“No.”

I went out into the street so I could look up and down the block. I spotted the limo double-parked, halfway down the street, shining darkly beneath the streetlamps. With my injured hand cradled against my midriff, I stepped into a pool of light and waved my good hand overhead, hoping to attract the driver's attention. It worked. The headlights came on, illuminating me as I gestured for the car to come collect us.

Nearby, Lopez was again speaking to the cops in the squad car. Then he joined me in the street, a regrettable aroma wafting around him, and put his hand under my elbow, tugging me back toward the sidewalk as Daemon's car pulled to a stop near me.

“I need to get into the car,” I said. “My stuff—”

“The officers will get your bag and keep it in the squad car until you're ready to go. They're taking you home,” he said as he dragged me back to the sidewalk.

“Oh?”

“Yes.
After
they help the Vampire Ravel get into his car without passing out.” He turned to face me. “As long as I'm here, I wanted to make sure . . . What's wrong?”

I had been trying not to grimace. Apparently I was not successful. “Could you stand downwind of me?”

He sighed. “Fine. Whatever.” We switched places. “I wanted to check . . .” Now
he
made a face. “What do
you
smell of?”

“Antibiotic ointment and muscle liniment.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“You were saying?”

“I wanted to make sure you . . .” Lopez stopped speaking and looked over my shoulder with some consternation.

“Now what?” I glanced in the same direction and saw my four-man posse all staring at us.

“If this is what it's like to have an audience,” he said, “I don't understand the attraction.”

“No, I think this is what it's like to have bodyguards.” I admitted, “It takes some getting used to.”

Lopez held their unwavering quadruple stare for another moment, then gave up. “This is distracting. Let's go around the corner and talk for a minute.”

I waved and reassured my posse that all was well, then I let Lopez lead me around the corner of the building. This being late Sunday night, the street was quiet, with no cars or pedestrians in our immediate vicinity.

“Jesus, what
else
happened to you?” Lopez asked with concern, noticing the way I was cradling my injured hand. He gently took it in both of his hands, palm up, and examined it while I explained. The cut was still bleeding. “This looks deep, Esther. I think you might need stitches.”

“I can't afford stitches. Do you have a handkerchief or something?”

“Oh, um, here, use this.” He reached for the cotton bandana that was keeping his long hair out of his eyes, pulled it off, and shook it out.

While he folded it into a neat square, I threw the bloody, crumpled cocktail napkins on the ground. I was normally a conscientious citizen who despised polluters, but I was much too tired to go look for a garbage can in the dark.

As Lopez took my hand in his again, I asked him, “Do you really think I need stitches?”

I was fretting about the cost. As a city employee, he might have a medical plan that would cover something like this, but I certainly didn't.

“I don't know.” He brought my hand a little closer to his face and bent his head over it, trying to get a good look in the dim light. “Does it hurt very much?”

“Not that much.” In fact, I was mostly aware of the feel of my hand lying in his warm palm, his fingers clasping me gently. “Uh, just stings, I guess.”

He absently stroked the side of my hand with his thumb, sending tingles through my solar plexus. “I guess it'll be all right if you . . . take care of it.”

His voice was a little husky now.

“Oh. Good.” So was mine.

“But I'm not a . . .” He swallowed.

“A . . .” I breathed.

“Not a doctor,” he murmured.

My chest hurt. My throat felt tight. I was pretty sure he noticed that I was breathing too fast. But then so was he.

It wasn't a good idea for us to stand so close together. Touching. One of us should move away.

I tried and found that I couldn't. My feet felt like they were weighted down. I realized the hand he was holding was starting to tremble.

His black hair gleamed like onyx beneath the rays of light flowing down from a nearby street lamp. I felt his warm breath wafting softly across my palm. I swallowed and curled the fingers of my other hand into a fist, aware of a desire to stroke his hair.

A delicate trickle of blood started to run down my wrist.

He hesitated for a moment, then lowered his head. I gasped when he caught the ruby trickle of blood with his tongue. He went still, aware of my startled reaction. I didn't move a muscle, just stood there with my hand in his hand, staring at his bent head while his warm mouth hovered over my skin.

My heart started pounding, and I felt a quiver in my pelvis. His rapid breathing tickled me as it danced across my tender flesh. I leaned a little closer to him, feeling hypnotized by the moment. Captured by the damp, trembling touch of his lips.

“Let's find out,” he whispered, his breath stroking my wrist, “what's so great about . . .”

I closed my eyes when his warm, wet mouth moved over the base of my palm. He licked delicately at my recent wound, then closed his lips on my skin and began sucking gently, drawing my blood into his mouth.

Although the night was chilly, I started to feel warm all over and then, in certain places, wickedly hot. A brisk wind swept down the dark street, and the contrast between the cold air on my skin and the hot mouth sucking more insistently on me now drew a voluptuous sigh from me. I tilted my head back, spiraling into the mindless sensation that spread through me from the nerves that were thrillingly alive beneath that stroking tongue.

Ramping up his game, he nipped my sensitive skin, making me flinch me a little. I gave a helpless moan and leaned against him as my knees sagged, shakily seeking something to hold me upright. I felt the delicate flutter of his eyelashes brushing my skin and the teasing caress of his thick hair as his tongue and mouth continued working rhythmically, taking what wanted. Sucking with increasing intensity now. Feeding on me.

Clinging to him for balance as my heart thundered, I looked down at his head, bent over my hand, his breathing getting harsh now, and I brushed aside his black hair and sank my teeth into the back of his neck, biting him hard enough to hurt a little—in that
good
way.

He drew in a sharp, startled breath and went very still for a moment—then sucked more fervently on my wound, drawing my life force into his hot mouth, massaging me with his agile tongue, and nibbling—

“Detective?”

I uttered a gurgling shriek and staggered backward—which is what saved me from getting a bloody nose when Lopez lifted his head and sprang bolt upright, moving as if he'd received an electric shock.

I clapped my good hand over my mouth and gaped with horrified embarrassment at the patrolman who had come around the corner and caught us in the act.

Lopez's chest was heaving as he stared at the cop in consternation.

The policeman looked a little bemused at our reaction. “Oops. Sorry,” he said casually.

I realized that
my
chest was heaving, too. I tried to get control of myself. And of my thoughts. It was dawning on me that nothing in the cop's face suggested that he realized he had just interrupted . . .
that.

Huddled together in the dark, a dozen feet away, and glimpsed for only a second or two, I realized we had probably looked like we were just embracing, not . . . not...