Pike and I were tucked against a back wall at a tiny round coffee table barely big enough for our elbows, let alone our drinks.
“You’re sure you don’t want anything? Coffee? Frap-mocha-liscious or however the hell they bastardized coffee?”
I pursed my lips together and shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks.” I tapped my ever-present travel mug. “I’ve had about all the coffee I could take for the day.”
And it wasn’t a total lie. The blood bad that I had for breakfast had a distinct, burnt coffee flavor. Made my teeth curl just thinking about it.
Pike had his elbows on the table, chin in hand. “What kind of woman comes to a coffeehouse and doesn’t at least order a coffee? Or . . .” He pulled a chipped white plate toward him and snatched the muffin from it, his bite leaving less than half the muffin. “A sweet?”
“The kind of girl who is on a stakeout.” I nudged my chair a half-inch farther away. “Can you try to keep most of that in your mouth?”
Pike shrugged. “I can’t even hear what they’re talking about.”
Vlad and Nicolette were seated half the shop away from us, Nicolette’s light waves falling over the back of her chair while Vlad smiled kindly and nodded, all the while shooting dagger glances at us whenever Nicolette looked away.
“Nicolette is talking about Emerson. She ate a cookie—snickerdoodle, I think—and is now talking about Christmas Eve at her parents’ house. Apparently, Emerson got an Easy-Bake Oven while Nicolette got the Barbie Design Studio.”
Pike leaned back in his chair, clearly impressed. “You can hear that?”
Heat zinged through me and I felt color—whoever’s it was—washing over my cheeks. “I have really, really good hearing. And I read lips. It runs in the family.” I kept my eyes focused on Vlad but I knew that Pike was staring at me. “Interesting.”
A good forty minutes had passed and Nicolette told Vlad about being on the cheerleading squad and her college career. Vlad looked adequately forlorn and heartbroken as he mentioned his “ex-girlfriend” and how he came out to New York to mend his broken heart. I was about to gag, Pike was about to drop dead of boredom, and we were no closer to learning anything about Emerson’s private life.
“Okay, either something happens or I’m going to stab someone through the heart.”
My throat tightened and my blood froze statue-still. “What did you say?”
Pike held up his hands. “Sorry—too soon? Too soon.”
I felt my mouth drop open then slammed it shut again, certain that Pike was talking about stabbing in general—not staking a vampire through the heart.
And I don’t know if that made me feel better or worse.
“Tell me about yourself.”
“What?”
Pike let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The motion caused his semifitted black tee to rise just the smallest bit—just enough to expose a thin, two-inch trail of jet black hair leading from his very kissable belly button and disappearing into the gathered elastic of his boxer shorts. I licked my lips.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well . . .”
I did my best to tear my eyes from that happy trail, to tear my mind from what lay beneath.
“Tell me about your family.”
Nothing will pull you out of a fantasy like an incredibly sexy man asking you to talk about your family.
“Not much to tell,” I said simply. “Mom, dad, sister, two brothers.” I shrugged toward Vlad. “And Vlad.”
“What kind of name is Vlad? I assumed you were French.”
I felt my beaming grin go from ear to ear. I loved it when a man recognized my elegant French upbringing—especially now, more than a century and a half after the fact. “You did?”
“Yeah. French or Spanish—‘La’ Shay.’”
Well, he was pretty enough to be a little bit dumb.
“My sister married a Hungarian,” I lied. “Vlad is a pretty common Hungarian name.”
Pike’s brows went up. “Interesting. I thought it was Russian.”
It was storybook vampire cliché! I wanted to scream. Which was why Louis LaShay chose to adopt the annoying Dracula moniker later in his non-creative vampire life.
“Look, Vlad and Nicolette are on a date.” I snaked a tongue over my bottom lip, my number one tip in my arsenal of man-without-pants-prep. “Why don’t we stop talking family and start talking fantasy?”
A single eyebrow rose over Pike’s dark eyes and his lips quirked into a smile that stood halfway between innocently interested and sex god with a naughty spot. “Fantasy, huh?”
I nodded slowly, resting my chin on my hands, letting a flow of my dark hair spill over my shoulder. If I had a whipped-cream topped coffee—if I could stomach such a thing—I would trail an index finger through it. Instead I leaned just a touch closer to Pike, letting my long hair tickle his arm.
The temperature in the coffeehouse rose by ten degrees.
“Well . . .” He let his voice trail off in that half-gravelly, all-sexy way, his eyes cutting from mine to wash all over my body with an appreciative grin. “Vlad wants you.”
I squelched a snarl. “That’s disgusting. We’re French nobles! Not Alabama hillbillies! You’re into some sick—”
Pike rolled his eyes and pointed. “No, Vlad, for real, wants you.”
I whipped my head toward where he pointed and this time, didn’t bother toning down the snarl. Vlad stood up and walked toward the restroom; I followed at a furious pace.
“What do you want? Don’t you know I was—” I paused, cleared my throat, and straightened. “Please tell me you’ve called this little summit because you found out something good.”
Vlad shrugged, all unaffected teen. “Sorry I interrupted your attempt at a fang bang, but this is going nowhere. All Nicolette wants to talk about is Christmas in Norman Rockwell-ville and her stupid Barbie Design Studio.”
I arched a brow. “Barbie Design Studio?”
Vlad shrugged. “I don’t know. Apparently Emerson got the Easy-Bake Oven. Look, I’ll give her five more minutes and then I’m taking her home.”
“Five more minutes?”
Vlad whipped out his iPhone. “And this time counts.”
Five minutes—to the millisecond—later, Vlad was tossing a few crumpled bills on the table and opening the door for Nicolette.
I groaned. “So, that was a waste.”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . we never got to talk about your fantasy . . . or your fears.”
I was drained, cranky, and the sickly sweet smell of pastries going day old was making my stomach churn. As sexy as Pike was, the borrowed blood running through my veins was almost gone and all I wanted was an US Weekly and a vat of O Neg. “Maybe another time.”
Pike sucked in a sharp breath. “There is something we haven’t tried.”
I was waiting for him to say sex. Or kissing. And I was cursing myself for wasting all that good blood when it could have been rushing to my—
“We need to look at the bodies.”
Never mind.
“Look at the bodies? What for?” I wanted to know.
“Anything. Signs of struggle, bruises, cuts—something the police may have missed.”
“I certainly don’t have a whole load of faith in breathers but I figure the cops—and the coroner, or medical examiner—would probably have found, photographed, or scraped off anything of evidentiary importance.”
“Did you say breather?”
I grabbed my purse and stood up quickly. “Sure, breather. It’s what everyone calls the cops in San Francisco. You know . . .” My mind raced. “They ‘breathe’ justice?” I turned on my heel. “I’ve got to go.”
I felt Pike’s hand close over my forearm and the strong warmth sent a shiver of gooseflesh all over my body. He pulled me closer and my breath caught in my throat, the tight anticipation all at once amazing and uncomfortable. His lips brushed over the part in my hair, then barely touched my earlobe. “Meet me tonight.”
My body felt like warm Jell-O as his command oozed through me. I swallowed, batting my eyelashes in that slow, bedroomy way that Elizabeth Taylor created and I mastered. “Where are we going?”
“The morgue.”
It’s official: I’ve been living with Sophie Lawson for way too long.