Amused, Rick sat back and spread one arm out over the back of the chair beside him in an expansive posture. "You threatening a cop?" Black eyes glinting, his other hand unconsciously curled in to touch his chest, tracing the scars that had to be there.
I let my smile go, not hiding under the pretense of geniality. "Yep. I dropped you in one move the last time you needed a lesson. Angie is off-limits and you know it. That was low."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. It was. I took advantage of a situation that fell into my lap, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
I wasn't expecting an apology. My estimation of the man went up a notch. Men who had the capacity to apologize--and who knew the right words with which to do it--were few and far between. I'm not a whiz at social situations, and an apology wasn't something I was emotionally prepared to deal with. "Okay," I said, sounding far less gracious than he. Voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs were about to put a stop to our conversation, thankfully.
Rick glanced at the empty doorway. "So, who's your escort tonight?" he asked quickly.
"George Dumas."
Rick's eyes went wide just as Molly and the kids entered the room, effectively ending the chat. But I could see the sharpened interest in his gaze and I knew the subject would come up again. Soon. Rick was professionally interested in George. And I had to wonder why.
The rest of the day went by fast and I found myself enjoying it, even knowing that Rick was hanging around to see what would happen when my "date" arrived. The temps heated up in the un-air-conditioned house, the world all muggy and sweaty, despite the windows Molly threw open. The smell of slow-cooked beef built and poured out into the steamy day. The four of us played kiddie board games and Go Fish with Angie until she fell asleep, exhausted from the heat, and then we played Hearts until our supper of slow-cooked steaks and double-stuffed potatoes.
The lights went on and off a dozen times as city utility workers tried to get the system back up and running, but before dusk they went off. And stayed off. Again. We made do with candles and lamps, but were running low on supplies. If the electricity didn't come on and stay that way, I'd have to motor around soon for lamp oil and more candles if such could be found. Five minutes after the sun set behind the cloud bank left over from Ada, my cell rang. The number in the display was Bruiser's.
Rick watched as I took the call on the side porch. He'd been chatting happily to Molly about eighties bands, but now he had an ear half-cocked my way, trying to listen in.
Speaking softly, I said, "What's up, Bruiser?"
"Yellowrock. A woman will be there with a gown in half an hour. I'll pick you up at ten. Be ready. Be unarmed."
"You're such a charmer."
"You, on the other hand, are a bloody, sodding pain in the ass," he said equably. I often forgot that Bruiser wasn't American by birth, and then his accent would peek out, he'd use a term or phrase that sounded so very British, and I'd remember. The call clicked off and I chuckled as I returned to the kitchen.
I looked at Rick. "This is going to get seriously girlie. Maybe you should take a hike."
"I have sisters, and they always need a man's perspective when it comes to formals. You gals tend to get all froufrou, with ruffles and flowers and lace and stuff, instead of calves and cleavage--the important parts. I'll stay."
He said the last two words in such a way that I thought it might take monumental rudeness or a lot more muscles than I was supposed to have to cart him bodily from the house. I shrugged. "Suit yourself. But ruffles? Do I look like a ruffles kinda gal?"
Rick just grinned. I spent the time cleaning up the dirty kitchen and washing dishes. Rick picked up a drying towel and put things back where they had been, which told me something about the cop or raised new questions--either he was observant, with total recall, or he had been in my kitchen before.
The woman with the dress showed up in a panel van thirty-two minutes after Bruiser's call, knocked once, imperiously, and when I opened the door, strode into the house as if she were here to take over my life.
"Madame Melisende," she said, as if the name was vastly important, popped a card into my hand, and looked over the ground floor of the house. "This will do," she said of the living room. To Molly, she said, "You. Bring lamps." And strode back into the night, leaving behind the scent of numerous vamps. Which was weird.