THE ONE BRIGHT SPOT IN A SHITTY DAY IS THAT Lance is at the cottage when I get home.
He senses my mood the minute I walk in the door.
"So what's up? Trouble with Culebra?"
He's sitting on the couch, a magazine open on his lap. He's dressed in a pair of jeans, no shirt, no shoes, and must have just come out of the shower because he smells of my soap and shampoo. Only Lance could make the citrus of my favorite Chanel fragrance, Chance, smell masculine and sexy.
I sit down next to him. "You smell good."
He drapes an arm over my shoulder. "And you smell like cigarette smoke and stale beer. You've been in a bar?"
Two in fact. An image of that girl in TJ and her dead eyes makes me squeeze my own shut in exasperation.
He reads my reaction and the reason behind it. "Must have been hard, seeing that girl. I'm surprised Culebra would have chosen a spot like that to meet you. Why not Beso de la Muerte?"
I let him pick the story out of my head. "He set you up?" he asks in surprise. "With a story about Sandra?" Lance and I had just met when Sandra arrived in town the first time. He's heard the whole story. He's one of the reasons I made it through that period without going crazy.
"What did she say?"
"Never got the chance to talk to her. Williams took over."
I replay the episode for him through the lens of my aggravation. He listens with quiet concentration until I get to the part about Lance not being bright enough or strong enough to hold my interest.
"That guy is a jerk," he says. Then he starts to laugh. "Did you really clock him?"
I pantomime a right hook to the jaw.
"Wish I could have been there to see it." He takes a sip of his wine, tilts his head, studies me. "I think he's jealous."
"What?"
"I think he has the hots for you."
"He hates me," I reply with a snort. "And he's married."
Lance's turn to snort. "He's a male, isn't he? He's got a dick. Why else would he disrespect a guy he doesn't know?"
He tightens his arm around my shoulders. "What do you think about the rest of the story? The vampires turning up drained?"
I shrug. "I don't know what to think. I don't know why he came to me with it. I don't know what he expects me to do."
Lance interprets my chagrin. "Do you think he wants you to come back to the fold? Help him track whoever or whatever is doing this?"
I snuggle against his chest. "If he thinks I'd work with him after all we've been through, he's delusional. He's got the Watchers to figure it out." I let my hand slide to the bulge between his legs. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. There must be something more pleasant for us to do."
He laughs and gives me a nudge. "Let's get you into the shower. Wash away the bar stink first. Then we'll see what comes up."
He doesn't have to ask twice.
SOMEBODY SAID THE SEXIEST ORGAN IN THE BODY IS the brain. Must have been a vamp. It isn't possible to explain how much of a turn-on it is to be able to feel your partner's desire and react to it without relying on words. Lance and I don't have to tell each other what we want. We feel it. We anticipate it.
The air around us becomes charged. First in the shower, then after, again, in bed, the shock of him runs through me like a current. I welcome him into my body, into my head, and it's more than sharing a moment of physical need. It's allowing him into my soul.
It's the second bright spot in an otherwise dreary day.
ONCE AGAIN, LANCE IS GONE WITH THE FIRST LIGHT of day. This time he's leaving for New York. Abercrombie & Fitch tagged him for their new winter catalog and the shoot will last a week.
I start to miss him before the door snicks closed.
With his departure, exasperation comes flooding back. Exasperation that Culebra could pull such a dirty trick. Exasperation that Sandra wouldn't even talk to me. Exasperation that Williams still thinks he can jerk me around.
I look around for a distraction.
The Sunday paper is spread out on the coffee table. I never got the chance to go through it yesterday. I have a mug of coffee in my hand so I settle my butt on the couch. Lance's lingering scent is still in the air and that 's enough of a distraction in itself that I'm only paying half attention as I leaf through the pages when an article in the business section catches my eye.
The article is about a local cosmetics firm about to make a big splash. But it 's not the product that catches my eye, it's the picture of David's ex, Gloria Estrella, standing beside the president of the firm, a woman named Simone Tremaine. Gloria is to be the spokesmodel for the new product Eternal Youth, a revolutionary antiaging cream (according to the article), and the launch party is in two weeks at Gloria's restaurant.
It makes me smile. How appropriate for the queen of vanity to be involved in something like antiaging. She's probably already ordered a lifetime supply.
I take a closer look at the picture. Gloria looks good. Evidently, she's recovered from her brush with the law. The last time I saw her she had been charged with the murder of her business partner, Rory O'Sullivan. My dad and I helped to get those charges dropped by pointing the police in a different direction. O'Sullivan sold the rights to a formula for an AIDS cure right out from under the noses of his board of directors. Bad move. One director in particular took exception to being cut out of a billion-dollar deal. He hadn't read the fine print in his contract. O'Sullivan owned the rights to the formula and when a foreign government offered him a huge amount of money, he took the quick and easy way out. Unfortunately, being greedy had a price. His life.
So far, I haven't received a thank-you note from Gloria. But to be honest, she has lived up to part of the bargain. I agreed to investigate if she'd agree to cut David loose.
Given that David is right this minute vacationing on Paradise Island with a hot real -estate developer he met while looking for investment property, I'd say it's worked out pretty well.
I've finished the paper and my coffee and since it's a cloudy gray Monday and Lance is gone and I can't think of anything better to do, I fall back on the last thing I ever want to do-cleaning and laundry.
The vacuum is sitting in the middle of the living room floor, my laundry is divided into whites and colors and Creedence is blasting on the CD player when my cell phone rings.
I dive for the remote to mute CCR and flip open the phone.
This time I recognize the number-from yesterday.
"Culebra." Coldness creeps into my voice, anger at him for yesterday bubbling to the surface. "That was a fast trip."
"No. It's Sandra."
Sandra? I draw a quick, sharp breath. "What are you doing calling from Culebra's cell phone? Is he back?"
There's the briefest hesitation before she replies, "Yes. You need to get down here, Anna. Culebra is ill. I think he's dying."