He didn’t say anything else until she finally looked up and met his eyes. And only his eyes!
“Once I’m asleep, I don’t move, querida. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
“I’m not worried about safety,” she protested. “It just doesn’t seem—”
“I thought I was the nineteenth century person here. What happened to women’s lib and all that?”
“Fine. I’ll sleep on the damn bed. Happy now?”
He grinned at her. “I am. Are you hungry?”
Her gaze dropped briefly downward before snapping back to his face. “Yes,” she said almost defiantly. And for the first time since she’d met him, Vincent seemed somewhat taken aback by her one word response. Not rattled, but definitely off his game . . . for all of a few seconds.
But then his grin widened slowly and his eyes went lazy. “You can eat anything you want, querida,” he murmured, his voice a deep, sexy purr.
Lana’s breath caught in her lungs. Vincent Kuxim was too sexy by half and she was crazy to be alone with him in this tiny room with its big bed. She managed to give him a cool look, raising a single, skeptical eyebrow.
“Dinner,” she told him dryly. “Is Marisol still serving food?”
Vincent winked at her, not at all put off by her indifferent response. “She’ll have something ready for us by now. She likes to feed me.”
“Will she mind—?”
“You’re my bodyguard. You have to eat. Are you going to shower?”
Lana felt gritty and sweaty, as if she’d walked those 300 plus miles through the desert instead of traveling in air-conditioned comfort. But she was not going to get undressed with a half-naked Vincent in the room.
“I’ll shower later,” she told him. “I’ll wash my face and hands before we go over, but I can wait until you’re finished.”
“I’m done with the bathroom. Why don’t you go ahead, and I’ll be dressed by the time you’re finished.”
Lana nodded. That sounded like the perfect arrangement. She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of a chair, then unzipped her duffel and retrieved the smaller case that held her toiletries. Stepping over the pile of Vincent’s clothes, she started for the bathroom before realizing that Vincent, still half-naked, was blocking the bathroom doorway. Not wanting to seem like a fainting virgin, she was prepared to scoot past him when he suddenly stepped out of her way.
She still had to get too close to him, close enough that she could smell the clean scent of his skin, could feel the heat rolling off his big, shower-warmed body. Was it the shower, she wondered. Or was he simply as warm as a regular human man would be? Weren’t vampires supposed to be cold? She was tempted to ask him, but remembered abruptly that he was standing there in a towel. Deciding that now was definitely not the time for a vampire tutorial, she kept her eyes elsewhere until she was safely inside, then pushed the door closed and finally let out the breath she’d been holding.
Setting her toiletry case on the sink, she grabbed a clean hand towel and wiped down the mirror so she could see the damage the day had done. She nearly groaned out loud. No wonder that teenager had dismissed her. She looked awful. Her eyes had dark circles and she was sweaty and disheveled, with flyaway strands of her hair tangled around her face and falling out of her once-neat braid. That explained Marisol’s doubtful look, too. She seemed like the kind of woman who always looked her best, even if just stepping out for a gallon of milk. One look at Lana, and she’d probably decided that, bodyguard or not, Lana wasn’t worthy of her precious Vincent.
Lana smiled at her own reflection, vain enough to feel a spark of smug satisfaction that she and Vincent were sleeping together, at least as far as Marisol knew.
She straightened and turned on the hot water at the sink. If they were going to have dinner with Marisol, then she’d have to make some effort, for her own pride if nothing else. She might not scream sensuality the way the other woman did, but she wasn’t that bad either. Vincent had said she was beautiful, although she didn’t believe him. She’d make an effort tonight, though. Not for Marisol, and not for Vincent. But for herself. And for Gretchen.
The room was empty when she emerged from the bathroom, and her first thought was that if she’d known Vincent was going to leave, she’d have taken a damn shower and felt a hell of a lot better. Too late now. She’d washed her face and arms, brushed her teeth and put on deodorant. That, plus a clean shirt and Levis, instead of her combats, would have to do. She’d also freed her heavy hair from its long braid and brushed it out. She was still re-braiding it when she opened the outside door and found Vincent sitting in perfect stillness on a slatted wooden chair to one side of the walkway.
It was a beautiful night, a fact that she’d missed while zooming across the desert in the blacked-out Suburban. The moon was at three-quarters and waxing, its silver light painting the desert in hues of black and gray. This far out from the city lights, the sky was perfectly clear, and there were plenty of stars to be seen. It was the kind of night that tempted one to find someplace to lie back and simply stare up at the universe. She shivered slightly, the air cool after the warmth of the room. It wasn’t cold enough to break out the puffy coats, but there was enough of a chill in the air that she was grateful for the tank top she’d pulled on under her long-sleeved T-shirt and combat jacket.
Vincent looked over when she approached him, her braid over her shoulder as she finished tying it off with a completely unsexy coated rubber band.
“Do you ever wear your hair down?” he asked, his deep voice an unexpected caress of velvet in the moonlight.
Lana felt an odd tug in her chest at the question, implying as it did an awareness of her as a woman, not simply a bounty hunter.
“Not when I’m working,” she told him, careful to keep her voice casual. “It gets in the way.”
Vincent studied her for a moment, long enough that she began to feel uncomfortable and had to fight the urge to twist the long braid in her hands.
“Are you ever not working, Lana?”
“Of course. When I’m home and stuff.”