I think about Frey’s book. Maybe the answers I need are in that damned chapter seventeen—the one I haven’t yet read. I start to get up, to get it, when I realize I’ve left it at the office. Damn. I don’t have the energy to get out of bed and drive back to the office.

A car alarm shrieks. I jump at the noise, sitting straight up in bed. Has Sandra followed me here?

Then I collapse back into the pillows. Damn it. It’s out on Mission, not the alley in back of my house, and it’s certainly not my car, locked in the garage.

Locked.

Did I lock the doors downstairs? The windows?

Frantic drumming starts again in my chest.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I throw off the covers, no longer wanting to sleep. I grab my purse and dump the contents on the floor. Start shuffling through the contents.

There it is.

I snatch up my phone and dial the number printed on the card in my hand.

Please let him be home.

“Hello?”

“Lance. It’s Anna. What are you doing right now?”

There’s a lilting laugh. “Coming to see you?”

I release a pent-up sigh of relief. “How soon can you get here?”

CHAPTER 34

I GREET LANCE AT THE FRONT DOOR WET FROM A shower, towel twisted like a sarong around my body.

He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt, flip-flops on his feet. He doesn’t say a word, lets me draw him inside. When the door is closed, he kicks off the flip-flops, pulls the tee over his head. He reaches for the towel.

I stop him. The memory of being sick beside the road is still fresh in my memory. “I don’t want to feed. I want the sex.”

He smiles. “I think I can accommodate you,” he says. He unzips his jeans, peels them off. He’s already hard. This time when he reaches for the towel, I let him snatch it away.

His hands start their exploration while his mouth covers mine, his kiss urgent and savage. One hand holds me at the hollow of my back, pressing his body against mine, letting me feel his hardness against my thigh. The other goes to work, massaging my breasts, pinching my nipples, tracing a path down my stomach. I try to hold back, to control the tidal wave building too soon, but when his fingers find their way inside me, desire, hunger and turbulent need take over. I pull Lance down to the floor, lock my legs around his waist and force him between my thighs. Only when he’s inside, matching his movements to mine, do I relinquish the lead. His movements become deliciously slow and deliberate. Teasing, languid. He’s watching me through the veil of his hair, his eyes glowing.

The pressure builds. For him, too, I feel his sex swell, filling me.

Still, he holds back. He wants me to cry out for release and when I can no longer bite back long, shuddering moans, he brings me to the brink and over. With a single thrust, he comes so deep inside, I feel it to my very core.

After, he waits for me to grow still, for the heat to subside. My muscles refuse to relax. I’m reluctant to let go of him. He’s in no hurry. He moves gently, lowering himself on his hands until our faces are within inches of each other. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose.

“You are beautiful, Anna Strong,” he whispers. “Why are you so alone?”

The question raises the hackles at the back of my neck. I put both hands on his shoulders and push him up and away. “I’m not alone.”

An eyebrow arches. “Oh?” He makes a parody of looking around. “There’s a husband I don’t know about? A boyfriend? A steady fuck buddy?”

I start to protest, but he’s hard again and he moves just enough so that the hot, wet friction sends ripples radiating through me. He smiles and rocks a little faster.

“I’m not alone,” I whisper again.

He isn’t listening. He doesn’t care.

In another second, neither do I.

CHAPTER 35

WHEN I AWAKEN THE NEXT MORNING, LANCE IS gone. I didn’t hear him leave. The emotional exchange with my parents at dinner, the terror I felt at Sandra’s, the mind-numbing relief of sex with Lance left me exhausted. When I finally succumbed, it was like falling into a great dreamless pit.

The sleep of the dead.

I only wish I felt rested. Instead, I feel restless. Restless and full of dread for a day that holds no promise of resolution for any of my problems. When my eyes drift to a bedside clock, however, those feelings are swallowed up by a moment of panic.

Shit.

It’s eight thirty. I’m supposed to meet Jason at the coffeehouse at nine.

I throw back the covers and head for the shower. Lance’s smell is strong on me—the musk of sex and sweat and healthy male vampire. I’m not about to go out smelling like I spent the night doing what I did. Especially when meeting a teenage boy.

I turn the shower on full force and hot. Since I don’t have the body temperature of a human, I can stand under a steamy hot shower and not feel the burn. I lather up head to toe, paying particular attention to the nether regions, rinse off, and jump out.

Slather on perfumed body lotion. Comb out my hair. Pull on jeans, a T-shirt and black leather boots. Grab a leather jacket, and I’m out the door by eight fifty.

Lestat’s. The onboard GPS tells me the address is 3343 Adams Avenue. The Normal Heights area. It’s Sunday, so though I know I won’t make it by nine, I also know I shouldn’t be too late.

At nine ten, I’m pulling up in front. The storefront has big picture windows, and through them, I can see an array of well-worn couches and chairs clustered around well-worn tables. Not many people inside. Two hippie types in a corner. No Jason.

Did he think I wasn’t coming and leave? Would he do that after only ten minutes?

Cursing myself for being late and Jason for being on time, I climb out of the car and dart across the street.

The first surprise comes when I walk in. The shop is a long, narrow space with the counter area along one wall. There’s a guy with his back to me pouring beans into a grinder. He gives a start, puts the bag down, doesn’t turn around.

Vampire?

It’s my turn to be startled. The guy looks at me over his shoulder. He’s a nerdy-looking, chunky fellow with dark hair combed across a wide forehead, black horn-rim glasses perched on a narrow nose and thick lips.

I nod. This your shop?

He turns toward me. His name tag reads “Gordon.” He shrugs. I wish. I work here. Pretty cool decor, huh?

The walls are hung with original art along with a few scattered crucifixes, an assortment of miniature cast-iron “death skulls,” a half dozen ornate mirrors (I send Gordon a raised eyebrow at those although I notice they’re set high enough that you’d have to be ten feet tall to see your reflection—or not) and a crystal chandelier over the wood-and-glass alcove where the two guys I spotted before are playing chess.

There are also festoons of garlic. I don’t smell or feel anything. Another raised eyebrow gets this response: They’re artificial. Made of raffia. Look real, though, don’t they?

Too real. Are you trying to keep vamps out?

He shakes his head. I don’t like it, either. It’s my cousin’s idea. He owns the shop.

He’s not a vamp, I take it?

A nod. He imagines himself a rogue vampire slayer. He’ll be in soon. Dressed in black with a stake in a holster and pretending to be all broody and shit. He gets his ideas about what a vampire is from Anne Rice. I think it’s pretty funny, really.

You’re not worried he’ll find out about you?

He blows air through pursed lips. It comes out a disdainful pffft.

Look at me? Do I look like a vampire to you? When I decided to change, I thought I’d get all buff and cool looking. I was hoping for Spike and got Xander. The only thing that got buffed was my brain. I’m smarter and faster but no less nerdy looking. Go figure.