Chapter 8
Jean-Luc leaped onto the front porch, aiming his foil at the trespasser.
A blond woman yelped and stumbled back. Her stiletto heel caught between two wooden planks, and she crashed onto the porch. "Shit!"
She looked familiar. "Who are you?" he demanded. She was mortal, but that didn't mean she was safe. Lui enjoyed using vampire mind control to coerce mortals into performing his assassinations.
"Damn." The woman rubbed her bony ankle. "I'd better be able to walk a runway." She glared at him. "You crazy imbecile! You scared me to death with that sword!"
He recognized her now. Sasha Saladine, the model Alberto had hired. Obviously she had no idea who he was.
Still sprawled on the porch, she pulled off her shoes and examined the rhinestone-studded heels. "I swear, if my shoes are damaged, I'm suing your ass. These were four hundred bucks, you know. I only buy the best."
Already he missed Heather. When she challenged him, he liked it. She was witty and fun. This woman was simply annoying. While she continued to berate him with her shrill voice, he scanned the yard for any sign of movement.
"You gonna stand there all night like an idiot or help me up?" She looked around the porch. "This is Heather's house, isn't it? This is where she lived in high school."
She glanced over her shoulder at his car. "Shit. She told me she didn't have a boyfriend." She gave him a wary look. "What are you doing with a freakin' sword?"
"You prefer a gun?" Fidelia shoved past Jean-Luc, holding a beer in one hand and her Glock in the other.
"Oh my God!" Sasha jumped to her feet and raised her hands. "Don't shoot. I thought this was Heather's house."
"Fidelia, be careful!" Heather rushed out onto the porch, her shotgun in her hands.
Sasha gasped. "And I thought New York was dangerous."
Jean-Luc groaned inwardly. "Heather, didn't I tell you to stay inside?"
Heather ignored him and turned to the blond model. "Sasha? What are you doing here?"
"I'm about to get shot or skewered, I don't know which."
"Well, make up your mind. I don't have all night." Fidelia set her beer on the porch and removed a set of keys from her skirt pocket. She fumbled with the key, trying to release the trigger lock on her pistol.
"Don't do that," Heather warned her. "You've had too much to drink."
Fidelia snorted. "I'm not drunk. I'm in complete control." She tore off the trigger lock.
Bang! The gun fired, ripping into a nearby oak tree.
The women screamed. Jean-Luc winced.
A squirrel plummeted from the tree and landed in the yard with a thud.
Fidelia shrugged. "I meant to do that. Damned rodent's been gnawing on the house. And stealing all the nuts from our pecan tree."
Heather planted her hands on her hips. "Haven't I told you a million times to keep the locks on?"
Fidelia hung her head, looking properly remorseful. "I'll be more careful." She switched on the safety, then shot Jean-Luc a pointed look. "I know how to deal with a scumbag with nuts."
His mouth twitched. "I'll take that under advisement."
At that moment, Emma burst onto the porch, a stake in her hand. "Is he here?"
"No," Jean-Luc answered. "False alarm."
Emma looked around. "But I heard a gunshot."
"Yes." Jean-Luc motioned toward the front yard. "We suffered a casualty."
Emma's eyes widened. "We were attacked by a squirrel?"
"Damned right," Fidelia said. "And I took care of it."
"Oh my God, Heather," Sasha whispered. "You're dealing drugs?"
"What?" Heather turned to her. "No!"
"Oh." Sasha looked disappointed. "Then what's the deal with all the weapons?"
Heather sighed. "I can explain. Later."
"Since everything's fine, I'll go back to my post." Emma slanted Jean-Luc an amused glance as she headed back into the foyer. "And you thought you'd be bored in Texas."
He nodded. Life had become much more interesting lately.
"I've had enough excitement for one day," Fidelia announced and waddled after Emma. "I'm taking a long hot bath and going to bed."
"Good night." Heather set her shotgun down on the porch. "Great. Now I get to deal with the squirrel."
"There is nothing to deal with," Jean-Luc assured her. "The squirrel is dead."
"I can't leave it lying there. Bethany will see it, and she thinks it's SpongeBob's friend Sandy."
Jean-Luc had no idea what she was talking about. "I could bury it. Even say the Last Rites." He knew them by heart after hearing Roman perform them more than a hundred times for their fallen comrades during the Great Vampire War.
Heather's pretty mouth tilted up at the corners. "I didn't realize our squirrel was Catholic."
Was she laughing at him? "If you rather I didn't - "
"No, please. I want you to." She gifted him with a brilliant smile. "I think you're very sweet."
His heart expanded. Mon Dieu, a man could grow addicted to this feeling. "You have a shovel?"
"Yes, in the garage." She motioned to her left.
He hurried down the porch steps and took a left turn toward the driveway. He kept his sword with him, just in case Lui was hiding in the shadows. Or the garage.
Sasha Saladine watched him as he passed by, then hissed at Heather. "You big liar! You told me you didn't have a boyfriend."
"He's not my boyfriend," Heather whispered.
Jean-Luc continued to pick up their conversation as he strode toward the detached garage.
"Where on earth did you find him?" Sasha whispered.
"I met him last night at the grand opening."
"You're kidding! That handsome hunk was there? Damn, I screwed the wrong guy."
"Sasha!"
"Have you slept with him yet?"
"Of course not," Heather huffed. "I just met him yesterday."
Her indignation made Jean-Luc smile. He paused at the garage's side door to hear more.
"If you don't want him, I'll take him," Sasha continued. "Alberto was kinda disappointing. But he did promise me more turns on the runway. So, what do you say?"
"Uh, congratulations?"
"No, I'm talking about the hunky guy with the sword. Can I make a move on him or not? Do you want him?"
He strained to hear a response.
"Jean!" Heather called. "Is the door locked?"
He twisted the doorknob, and the door creaked open. "It's fine!" He slipped inside, but left the door ajar so he could hear. He glanced around. The garage was empty.
"John?" Sasha asked. "John who?"
"Jean Echarpe," Heather replied. "He's Jean-Luc Echarpe's son."
Sasha gasped. "You're kidding! Oh, crap! I really did screw the wrong guy."
Jean-Luc shook his head. As if he could possibly desire that vain shrew. Now Heather was another story. He'd love to see her green eyes grow dazed with pleasure when he palmed her breast or stroked her between her sweet thighs. He'd like to see her cheeks flush with heat, her mouth open with a throaty groan. He'd...
He'd better stop before his eyes started glowing. He grabbed the shovel and left the garage. The women were still talking, but he was no longer the subject.
"Where's your rental car?" Heather asked. "How did you get here?"
Sasha was lounging on the porch swing, pushing it with a bare foot on the porch. "Alberto dropped me off. We just had dinner, and he thought I'd drunk too much to drive. But I swear I only had two margaritas."
"Did you eat anything?"
"Sure. But I didn't keep it, if you know what I mean." Sasha pointed an index finger into her mouth.
Jean-Luc grimaced. She was bulimic. This was precisely why he used Simone and Inga as his main models. They were Vamps, so they never had to damage themselves to stay thin. Unfortunately, the media was beginning to question why they never aged, either.
"You shouldn't joke about bulimia," Heather grumbled. "It's a disease."
"It's desperation. I'm twenty-six years old, trying to compete with babies." Sasha noticed Jean-Luc passing by and scrambled to her feet. "Oh, Mr. Echarpe, it's such a pleasure to meet you. I hope you weren't offended by anything I said." Her gaze wandered to the sword, still in his right hand. "Heather said you were here to protect her. I think that's so noble of you."
She was buttering him up. Jean-Luc was used to that. It had nothing to do with him. He'd realized many years ago that some models would jump the Hunch-back of Notre Dame if it could further their careers.
"I am honored to meet you." He shifted his gaze to Heather. "Where would you like the burial site?"
She looked around the front yard. "How about under the oak tree? That was his home, so I think he'd like that."
"As you wish." Jean-Luc sauntered toward the tree. He spotted a blank space between two patches of flowers and started to dig. If only the women would go inside, he could use vampire speed and finish the task in a few seconds.
The porch swing creaked when Sasha sat once again. "People talk about how friendly small towns are, but it's so not true. Old Mrs. Herman threw me out of her bed-and-breakfast. Can you believe it?"
"That's odd," Heather answered. "She's a widow. I would have thought she'd need the money."
"She's an old prude. I invited Alberto over last night, and when she saw him leave this morning, she got all huffy and told me she wasn't running a bordello. Then Alberto and I tried to go back there after dinner, and she wouldn't let us in. I swear, she's just a frigid old bat!"
"She was our Sunday school teacher," Heather murmured. "Do you have a place to stay?"
"Well, I really don't want to stay with my psycho mom in her dinky trailer, so I thought I'd crash here," Sasha mumbled. "What do you think?"
"Where's your luggage?"
"Don't need it. I sleep in the nude."
"Great," Heather muttered.
"I'll get my stuff and my rental car in the morning. I can't wait to get out of this town. I'm going to the Spa d'Elegance in San Antonio tomorrow. You want to come?"
"I need to stay here."
"How can you?" Sasha's voice turned shrill. "I can't stand it anymore. There are no shopping malls, no nightclubs. I ordered an orange frappaccino at the diner, and they looked at me like I was some kind of alien."
Heather sighed. "You lived here for eighteen years. You know how it is."
"Believe me, I made sure I forgot everything about this godforsaken cesspool."
Heather's voice was low and tense. "I still live here."
Jean-Luc paused in his shoveling to look at the women on the porch. He could see the pink tint of Heather's cheeks, and the green flash of anger in her eyes.
Sasha shrugged. "Well, that's your loss."
He considered digging a bigger grave.
"Since you have no car and nowhere else to go," Heather continued, "I'm going to ignore your insulting comments and show you to the guest room."
Jean-Luc's mouth tilted with a slight smile. In spite of her recent divorce, Heather still had a forgiving and compassionate nature. But would she be so understanding if she knew the truth about him? His smile faded as he recalled her description last night of a vampire. Creepy monster. How could she ever accept him?
"Geez, Heather." Sasha's thin shoulders drooped. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You're the only real friend I have. Everyone else just wants to use me. Well, I use them, too. But you're the only one I can really talk to."
Heather's face softened, and she gave the model a hug. "Okay." She opened the front door. "Let's get you to bed."
As the door shut, Jean-Luc surveyed the house once more. It was more than a home; it was a shelter for those in need. Heather had opened it to Fidelia, and now Sasha. With her generous, loving heart, Heather would always have friends and family.
A picture flashed through his head. A family picture - Roman and Shanna Draganesti and their little son, Constantine. Jean-Luc fisted his hands around the wooden shovel handle. He'd never had a family. He never would.
He rammed the shovel into the ground. With his vampire strength, the blade sliced into the ground all the way past the hilt, neatly chopping through a tree root. The grave was big enough now for the squirrel, so he walked toward the dead animal. After two steps, he halted.
A white police car rolled to a stop in front of Heather's house. Along the side of the car, fluorescent letters spelled the words County Sheriff. Merde. Like most Vamps, Jean-Luc was wary of law enforcement. A Vamp could never allow himself to be interrogated in one of those rooms with one-way reflective glass, not when their bodies didn't reflect.
He glanced at his sword where it rested, propped against the tree. He strode back and slid the sword under some thick bushes at the base of the tree.
Meanwhile, the officer had exited the squad car. He marched toward the house, looking very official in his neatly pressed khaki uniform complete with belt and gun holster. He watched Jean-Luc with narrowed eyes and rolled a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.
"Step away from the tree. Raise your hands where I can see them," he ordered.
Jean-Luc took one step to the side and opened his hands, palms forward. "Is there a problem, Sheriff?"
The young officer halted and chewed on his toothpick. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am Jean Echarpe."
"Johnny Sharp, huh? Where you from, Mr. Sharp?"
Jean-Luc figured it was best to leave the misunderstanding alone. "I'm from Paris."
The sheriff nodded knowingly. "Up north of Dallas. I've been there."
Jean-Luc was taken aback for a few seconds. "There is a Paris in Texas?"
"Yep. But you talk too weird, even for someone from up north. Guess you're one of those Frogs."
Jean-Luc gritted his teeth. "I am from France."
"That's too bad." The sheriff's gaze focused on the recently dug grave. He plucked the toothpick from his mouth and tossed it on the ground. "I got a report from one of the neighbors that a gun was fired here. And now I catch you in the act of digging a grave."
Jean-Luc motioned to the hole. "As you can see, it is a very small grave."
"Well, maybe you like cutting up your victims and burying them in parts." The sheriff rested a hand on his gun holster.
Jean-Luc glared at him. "I have not murdered anyone." Yet. He pointed to the side. "The victim is lying there."
"Shit." The sheriff strode toward the dead squirrel, then glowered at Jean-Luc. "Look, Mr. Sharp, I don't appreciate foreigners coming here and shootin' our squirrels."
"I didn't shoot it."
The sheriff snorted. "Right, it was a suicide." He held up a hand as Jean-Luc approached. "Stay back. This is a crime scene, and I don't want you mucking it up."
Jean-Luc sighed. Obviously, not much happened in this town. "I told Heather I would bury the squirrel for her."
The sheriff's eyes narrowed. "You know Heather?"
"Of course." Jean-Luc lifted his chin. "This is her house, in case you didn't know."
"I knew that." The sheriff widened his stance and crossed his arms. "I dated her for two years in high school. How long have you known her?"
So this was the guy Heather's mother had decided was too dangerous. If she hadn't interfered, would Heather have married this big lummox instead? An angry, snakelike sensation coiled in Jean-Luc's belly. With a jolt he recognized it. Jealousy. Merde. He hadn't felt that in more than two hundred years.
"Billy!" Heather yelled from the porch. "What are you doing here?" She shut the door and descended the steps.
"Hey, Heather." The sheriff raised a hand in greeting. "Thelma called about a gun going off." He gave Jean-Luc a suspicious look. "And I found this Frog digging up your yard. Probably looking for snails to eat." He snickered at his own joke.
Heather frowned at him. "Jean is my guest. And he's kind enough to help me with this poor dead squirrel."
She was defending him. Again. Jean-Luc loved it. But he could tell Billy was not impressed. Billy looked downright pissed.
"You gonna ask some foreigner to bury your squirrel? That's a job for a real man." Billy grabbed the dead squirrel and strode toward the grave.
Jean-Luc glanced at Heather to see if she was swayed by Neanderthal tactics. Thankfully, she was not regarding Billy with hero worship in her eyes. She looked really annoyed.
"That's not necessary, Billy. Jean has everything under control."
Billy dumped the squirrel in the grave. "You should have called me, Heather. I told you before if you needed anything to call me." He grabbed the shovel, but it was stuck fast. He yanked it hard, but it didn't budge.
"Shall I?" Jean-Luc strode toward the grave.
"Stay back." Billy widened his stance and grasped the shovel with both hands. He strained. A low growl reverberated in his throat. Sweat popped out on his brow.
The shovel didn't move.
He glared at Jean-Luc. "What did you do to this damned thing?"
"Let me see." Jean-Luc curled one hand around the handle and jerked the shovel out of the ground. "Ah, you were correct. The job required a real man."
Heather covered her mouth to hide her grin.
Billy glowered uncertainly as if he wasn't sure if he'd been insulted. Before he had time to figure it out, his walkie-talkie crackled and a voice came on. He punched a button. "Sheriff here. What's up?"
"Someone called about a public disturbance behind Schmitty's Bar," a woman's voice reported.
"Cathy, use the proper code number," Billy growled.
"There ain't no number for a guy acting like a cockroach!" the woman yelled. "He climbed into their Dumpster and he's wallowing in the trash."
Cockroach? Jean-Luc glanced at Heather. It had to be her ex-husband. She frowned, but remained silent.
"Damned drunkard," Billy muttered into his mike. "I'll be right there." He scowled at Jean-Luc. "I'll be watching you, Mr. Sharp." He strode toward his squad car.
Jean-Luc used the shovel to scoop dirt onto the squirrel.
"I think my ex has gone crazy," Heather whispered.
"He was crazy to let you go." Jean-Luc used the flat end of the blade to tamp down the mound of dirt.
"That's kind of you, but I'm worried about leaving my daughter with him."
"It is hard to find people you can trust."
"You can say that again." She frowned at the squad car as it drove away.
Jean-Luc retrieved his sword from under the bushes and used the tip to etch a cross in the loose dirt on top of the grave. "You don't trust the sheriff?" When she shook her head, he continued, "I thought not. You didn't tell him about Lui."
She gave him a quizzical look. "You didn't, either."
He started toward the garage to put up the shovel. "I am accustomed to taking care of my own problems."
She walked beside him. "And I'm one of your problems."
He stopped. "No, not at all. I am enjoying my time with you. It is my greatest regret that you and your daughter are in danger."
She gave him a calculated look. "Then you admit I'm in danger because of you."
Where was this going? "Yes." He resumed his walk to the garage.
"Then you will agree to let me come with you to look for Louie."
He stopped again. "I did not agree."
"But you will. You understand I'm at war with fear."
"Yes, I do, but I don't want to endanger you more than - " He stopped when she moved close and rested a hand on his chest. The way she was looking at him, with such beseeching eyes, he was hard-pressed not to drop his shovel and sword and pull her into his arms. "Ms. Westfield, are you trying to sway me with your feminine wiles?"
She jerked her hand off his chest. Then she smiled and placed her hand back on him. "Do you think I could?"
"Perhaps. How...persuasive can you be?"
She curled her hand around the lapel of his black coat. "I've been bossed around so much of my life. I need to take charge."
"Then you plan to seduce me?"
"No. I just want to go with you. I need to take an active role in this."
"How disappointing."
She huffed. "That I want to determine my own destiny?"
"No, that I'm not being seduced. I think I'd like a strong, self-determining woman to seduce me."
She laughed, then gave him a flirtatious look. "The night is still young."
He smiled. "Yes, it is."
"Then we have an agreement," she announced. "I'm coming with you."
Merde. His smile faded. When had he lost all control in this relationship? Heather Westfield was wrapping him around her little finger. And God help him, he liked it.