Her use of present tense, as if Connor’s still out there somewhere, cuts me to the quick. Fortunately, David pops through the bedroom door, a loose towel riding low on his hips. “Did I tell you I have a date tonight?”
Surprise chases away the sadness, at least for the moment. “What?” No time to squander on the past when I’ve got a flighty werewolf to keep track of.
“Yep. Gotta meet him at eight.” David gives me a once-over. “I’ll tell him you’re from the Mafia branch of the family, okay, Guido?”
He disappears, the door slams, and Sheena starts to laugh. “Oh shit. I think Jacques is going to owe you double when this is all over.”
“Get out of here.” I crack a grin and drop onto the tan, tailored couch. “When Spunky comes out, we’re going to have a little chat about rules.”
“Sure you are.”
“And then maybe I’ll ask him who might have tracked him to a club as soon as he got off the plane.” It’s muggy, and my sockless feet squeak against my leather loafers. “They knew where we’d be, and they knew to pack silver buckshot.”
Sheena gives the barest shake of her head. “Only thing I saw today was him working his way from man to man down the beach.” She swipes her tongue across her lower lip. “That’s it, but I’ll keep an eye out tomorrow.”
I shrug. “He’s a snazzy dresser anyway.”
“Snazzy.” She laughs. “What decade are you in?”
We ask each other that question fairly often, and the door closes behind her before I can say thanks. I slide my phone out of my pocket. The subtle hiss of the shower is overridden by a siren’s screech from the street below us. I can’t check the security of the windows because the sun hasn’t set. Fawn-colored drapes shield me from the light, but I can’t go any closer. There are no messages on my phone. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not.
This job is starting to give me a very bad feeling.
Very few people know the son of the Alpha is traveling with a vampire. Jacques. The Alpha himself. And who else? I should call Jacques and ask if he’d told anyone. I slide my phone back into my pocket. Jacques keeps his own council, and he doesn’t like questions.
I’ll ask David Collins, though, before we go on his date.
I turn on the television to cover the noise from the bathroom, the clink of a hanger, the soft whisper of fabric, the buzz of a blow dryer. I’m already picturing too much, and in a perverse way, I anticipate what he’ll be wearing. Something memorable, I’m sure.
There’s a soft tap at the door. “Room service.”
I wait a moment before answering, but all I sense is a single person whose heartbeat reads boredom rather than murder. I open the door. “Thanks.”
A young man with residual acne pushes the wheeled cart into our room. I reach for my wallet to give him a tip. The cart is draped with a white linen cloth, and the tray on top has a silver domed lid. Nothing about the waiter sparks any interest, yet when he leaves, I eye the cart doubtfully. There’s a sound or a smell I can’t quite place. David didn’t tell me what he ordered. I inhale slowly. Nothing savory or salty. Nothing grilled. No garlic.
“Is that my—” David comes out of his room at the same time I lift the lid.
The explosion throws us both to the ground.
Chapter Four
FOR THE SECOND night in a row, I’m stuck picking shrapnel out of my chest. Mostly nails, with a few ball bearings for variety. There’s no silver, and nothing much hit David, but my shirt is wrecked. We’re going to have to go by my condo, because my only other option is an old Mickey Mouse T-shirt.
David Collins does not need to see that.
“What the hell?” He’s still on his ass in the bedroom doorway. There’s a streak of blood on his cheekbone, and his hands have turned to paws.
I shake both my arms. A scattering of nails hit the floor. The room service lid is near the lanai window, and there’s a scorch mark six feet in diameter on the ceiling. I lean over the cart. What’s left of the tray is black.
“I think…” I poke at a cylinder in the middle. “Must have been a pipe bomb.” I straighten, dusting away the rest of the debris. Damn it. “We need to get out of here.”
Heavy footsteps pound up the hall, followed by voices at our door. “Hey? What’s going on in there?”
The door opens under my hand. A man in a black suit with a hotel badge bulls through. There are two security officers with him, and a pair of sirens roar up from the street.
I tell the story once, and then again when the police arrive. David is gathering his stuff, his expression a postcard for rebellious teen. Too bad. His bio says he’s almost twenty-three, so he can man the fuck up. Someone’s shitting on his vacation, and it isn’t me.
We waste way too much time hassling with the cops, and then with hotel management, but finally, we’re in the Escalade. It’s about eleven o’clock, and the dark has rolled down over the city. We’re not too far from the airport, and on instinct, I head for the four-oh-five.
“Where are we going?” David’s voice is pitched lower than his normal whine, with more growl in it. I slide a glance in his direction, but he’s staring out the window.
I turn the AC on and roll my window down, because the smell of wolf has my mouth watering. I’m not hungry for him, exactly, but I’ve had to heal injuries for two days running. When you’re hungry enough, even bad food smells good.
And David smells pretty damned good.
“I need to go home.” I pull up to a red light, calculating how long it’ll take us to get there. “We should be safe enough and can figure out what to do next.”
David’s hair doesn’t have quite the swoop as when we first met, there’s no kohl around his eyes, and his jeans are so tight, I wonder how he can breathe. He also wears a soft gray tank top and a darker hoodie; altogether conventional compared with his other outfits.
“You must have liked this guy.”
“What?” He curls his lip but doesn’t look at me. “Shut up. I half think you set that bomb off just to keep me from having fun.”
Good thing the light changes so I have something to do besides tell this little pisser off. “Maybe.”
“You’re not thinking.” He jabs his finger on the pad to roll his window up. “Which doesn’t actually surprise me.” Stroking his hair, he glares into the dark. “If whoever sent the bomb found us at the Travel-Dodgy, they’ll likely know to look at your apartment.”
I don’t change course. We pass one of those rows of palm trees, the tall, perfectly matched pairs lit up from underneath. They make LA look classier than it really is, the stately palms and Art Deco architecture doing their damnedest to distract visitors from the refuse of human ego.
He’s got a point, even if he’s being an asshole about it. Whoever is harassing us may know my address. I could call Sheena; in fact, I’ll have to tell her we’re not at the hotel and I’ll need her to meet us wherever we end up