“You said that they found hair?”
“Yeah,” I stumbled, confused, “one of the officers was bagging it.”
“Do you know anything about it? Were they planning on running it for DNA?”
I smiled. “You must have caught a couple of CSI episodes, too.”
Sampson avoided my gaze. “I’m not joking.”
I was taken aback. There was nothing overtly angry in his statement, but the way he kept his eyes averted from me let me know that, suddenly, a wall was up between us.
I gripped the back of the dining chair.
“She’s looking for us, Sophie.”
I straightened. “She saw me. She didn’t try to talk to me. I really don’t think she knows you’re here. And if she did—I know her, Sampson. Why don’t you just let me talk to her? I can tell her about you, explain that you’re not a threat to her. Or to anyone else.”
“No!” Sampson’s eyes flashed with a rage that was buried in fear. My breath caught and I saw his expression immediately shift from surprise to sadness. He reached out and patted my hand, used his other hand to rake his sand-colored hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—please, don’t contact Feng. Don’t say anything to her until I can figure out what we’re going to do.”
I nodded, but unease thrummed through my body. I was comforted that Sampson referred to us; I wanted to do everything I could to help him. But as I looked at the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he worried his bottom lip, I wondered if everything I could do was going to be nearly enough.
Chapter Three
I’d thought it was a physiological impossibility for a good-looking man to snore.
And if it isn’t, it should be.
“Is he dying?” Nina wanted to know.
I gnawed on my bottom lip. “No, unfortunately not.”
Nina’s eye’s flashed, part shock, part careful consideration. “Sophie Lawson!”
I rubbed my temples and moaned softly. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he doesn’t turn into a werewolf. Maybe he turns into a Boston terrier.”
We were standing in our living room, tiny slivers of yellow-grey San Francisco morning light-slash-fog poking in through the blinds. I was pajama clad and bedheaded, Nina was Audrey Hepburn chic complete with signature boat-necked black dress and broached chignon. All that was missing were the elbow-length gloves and one of those long, elegant cigarettes.
“What do we do about it?”
“It” was Sampson. He was a beautiful specimen of a man, indeed—his sandy brown hair was peppered with steely grey and it made him look distinguished, sexy. He had one of those incredible Roman noses and full lips that fell apart just a quarter inch in his slumber, letting out the most raucous, brain-shattering snores.
Maybe it was a paranormal thing.
He had a nice chiseled chest and well-muscled arms, but after three nights being serenaded by the nose symphony, I couldn’t see straight, let alone appreciate anything other than a man who slept in beautiful silence.
And Sampson was not that man.
Seriously, I was about to consider snuggling up with Vlad, if only for the blessed silence of a breathless vampire.
“I don’t think we can do anything about it, Neens. The man’s been on the run for over a year. He said he’s always had to look over his shoulder, to question his safety. This is the first time he’s felt safe since—since the incident.”
The night Pete Sampson went missing and I was nearly bled to death by a Snuggie-wearing maniac had become known as the night of “the incident.” It was easier to explain, and for me and Sampson to remember it, that way. For me it was simply traumatic, my first (and, unfortunately, not my last) run-in with someone who thought this world would be far better without me in it. For Sampson, it was the night his life had gone from simply complicated to in desperate danger.
As I looked over the peaceful, rhythmic rise and fall of Sampson’s chest, I couldn’t help but feel a glowing sense of pride. I hadn’t necessarily had anything to do with saving his life and had been a very good part of the reason Sir Snuggie almost ended his, but protecting him here on my couch seemed like the least I could do.
And then his mouth dropped open again, breathing in a rush of air that came out again, rattling our picture frames and my brain more than any of our native earthquakes ever did.
Nina looked at me, her perfect, coal-black eyes actually seeming to show a bit of purple-tinged exhaustion. “We have to find out who’s hunting him so we can get him out of here.”
I nodded. “ASAP.”
In the eight blessed seconds of Sampson-breathing-in silence, our front door opened, and Vlad poked his head in.
“It’s bad enough I have to smell him, now I have to hear him, too?” he growled.