"Are you . . . all right?"
"Extremely very all right." I scratched at some of the dried blood, which had pooled in the center of my throat. "Aw. You were worried."
"I think I shall kill you soon," he speculated to the ceiling. "After I use your body more, of course."
"Of course. Wouldn't have it any other way. Not a jury in the world would convict you."
He didn't laugh, or even smile. His hand, which had been gently cradling my wrist, tightened. "I was . . . afraid."
"Me, too. I do not like being run over on the so-called Magnificent Mile. And I'm going to wring Laura's neck when we see her."
"Yes." I didn't think I'd ever heard him sound so grim, so I tried to cheer him up.
"But you're here now. And we'll figure it all out."
He turned and was looming over me, his dark eyes piercing, his forehead furrowed. He looked terribly, terribly concerned. "What? What will we figure out?"
"What we have to. Sinclair, don't you know? Didn't you read the memo? We can do anything. Anything."
"I love you," he said, and kissed me deeply. His mouth tasted mine for a long, long time and I remembered, again, that I had to die to understand about love.
I broke the kiss, and not without regret.
"Something I've always wondered, Sinclair. And by 'always' I mean 'for the last few hours.'"
"Ah, I await all a-tremble for your random comment."
"If you died when you were in your late teens, why do you look like a handsome-but-weathered thirty? I can remember first meeting you and thinking you were thirtysomething, but in the past you were just a kid. Younger than Laura, even! Oooh, don't get me started on Laura."
"I shall not, then." My husband wiggled his dark brows at me. Like me, and Jim Carrey, he had the gene that let him raise them independently. He hardly ever indulged, so it was hilarious when he did. Over the sound of my appreciative snort, he said, "You recall, of course, that my last week of life as a human being was somewhat stressful."
"Dead sister, dead parents." My throat tightened. How would I handle it if my mom . . . if BabyJon . . . bad enough to contemplate the scenario at all, but to lose them both the same week?
Leaving Eric Sinclair alone . . . with Tina, his family's very own pet vampire. Small wonder he made the decision he had. And it worked. And it was a bargain. The only price he paid was his soul . . . and decades of loneliness.
My father and stepmother's deaths were startling, but not all that traumatic. Hey, I'm not going to pretend I loved her. I mean them. We never got along; death didn't change that. Or her. I mean them.
"That's just . . . I don't have the words."
"A rare and wondrous occasion."
"And I'm so sorry. I was sorry then and I haven't-I didn't have a chance to tell you-I guess I should tell you now. I'm so, so sorry."
"I know," he said, and leaned in and kissed me above my left eyebrow. "I know the things you think, and cannot say."
"Okay, creepy. But we'll get to that another time. But about your past-about your sister and-and-I can't believe you didn't jump off a bridge."
His eyebrows climbed higher, if that was possible. "In a manner of speaking, I did. Certainly I was dead quite soon after. But even if I hadn't endured the worst week of my life, it was the early twentieth century, darling. We lived hard."
"And ate hard. I can still taste your delicious live blood. I can't believe I just said that."
"Speaking of your bite, beloved . . ."
"Were we?"
He was licking the column of my throat. "Not . . . precisely . . ."
"Wow!"
"Really?" He looked pleased, and licked harder.
"This is the coolest room!"
He snorted, then rolled over so he was again on his back. "I had hopes I was dazzling you with my seductive skills."
I held up a double handful of shredded T-shirt and raised my eyebrows at him. The bum didn't even look apologetic, just pointed to some dresser drawers and went back to lolling. What is it about tearing clothing that made men all "me Tarzan" as opposed to embarrassed they showed the patience of a four-year-old?
The RV bedroom could have been an expensive Miami hotel room . . . everything was cream and chrome and glass. The carpet was so plush! The sofa was also cream, and beautiful . . . this was not a low-rent mobile home on wheels. Nor was it child-friendly. Plasma TV, mirrors everywhere. The living area, which I'd gotten a bare glimpse of while Sinclair was dragging me through it, was just as plush. Velvety cream-colored couches, small exquisite tables, swivel chairs, another TV . . . wow.
"It's not Jessica's private plane," I said, digging through the drawers, which someone (Tina . . . the clothes were appropriate and neatly folded) had stuffed full of my outfits. "But I suppose I can put up with the crudeness of a seven-figure recreational vehicle."
"Plane?"
"Mmmm." I jerked a thumb toward a door I assumed led to the bathroom. "Shower?"
"Of course." Sinclair bounded up from the bed like a big cat.
"I don't need a tour," I said, amused. Damn, he was a fine specimen of a man. Even if he was practically tripping because his slacks had clung to his ankles. I'd never seen a sexy stagger before.
"I wasn't going to give you a tour," he said, and I laughed.
I heard a lively honk and poked my fingers through the shades, making a tiny tent of the blinds. There, in the lane beside the Mansion on Wheels, were Tina and Marc . . . and Marc was driving Sinclair's Ferrari!
"I specifically told Marc he could not," Sinclair humphed, glaring out the window. Marc tooted more and zigged back and forth in the lane, waving. Tina was covering her eyes and shaking her head. "If we did not require a discreet physician who would never betray us . . ."
I was dazzled. This was the coolest week ever! Maybe. "Why'd you bring the monster RV and a car?"
"Oh, some silly nonsense they were bleating about not wanting to listen to our lovemaking."
"Nick must have lost the coin toss," I said, remembering I'd seen him at the wheel for half a second when I was hauled ("Thar she be, matey!") aboard the vessel like booty. Or booty (get it?).
"And quite cross about it, too," Sinclair said, and I laughed so hard I fell down.
That was okay, though. My husband kissed my boo-boos in the shower. Do I have to tell you it was shiny and luxurious and stuffed with high-end gels and shampoos?
