“How old are you?”
“I’ll save that for the next leg of our journey together,” he told her, stepping up and opening the cantina door with a grand gesture.
“That’s not until tomorrow night,” she reminded him.
“I’m aware, querida. Let’s have dinner.”
Lana was already walking through the open door when his words registered. “Are you eating, too?” she asked in surprise.
“Vicentillo, mi amor!” Marisol appeared like magic from the next room, a hand held out in greeting, which Vincent promptly grasped and brought up to his lips for a lingering kiss.
As he straightened, he looked right at Lana and said, “Dinner is served.”
Chapter Seven
LANA CRACKED OPEN the bathroom door after her shower. Cool air rushed in as she peeked at the bed where Vincent lay sound asleep. Or whatever. What did you call a vampire’s daytime sleep? Did he dream? Maybe she’d use one of her questions tonight to ask him that. But right now, she was mostly concerned with ascertaining that he was, in fact, truly out of it and that he wasn’t going to witness her naked walk into their shared room.
She’d considered taking her clothes with her into the bathroom, but one, they’d get wet from the shower’s steam, and two, the idea had seemed a little too maiden-auntish, even for her.
The room was dark, with only one lamp burning on her side of the bed. The drapes were pulled tight over the windows in the bedroom, but the narrow window high up on the bathroom wall wasn’t covered, and sunlight escaped the cracked-open door to cast a narrow ray over the end of the bed.
Lana stared at it for a long moment, then gasped in horror and slammed the door shut. Leaning against the closed door, she tried to picture the bed with Vincent in it. Had he been completely covered? Had the light fallen on him directly? Surely, he would have grunted in pain or something, wouldn’t he?
Damn.
Standing on the closed toilet seat, she did her best to cover the window. It was a single pane, opening downward from the top. She opened it enough to jam a towel in there, then cranked it shut so that most of the light was blocked.
She opened the door again, her gaze riveted to the foot of the bed where the narrow strip had appeared before. There was a little light from the top of the window, but it didn’t touch the bed. Good. She wrapped the towel more securely around her chest and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. A glance at Vincent told her he wasn’t moving. He was lying on his stomach, fast asleep, his face turned away from her, both arms tucked under a pillow and the covers down around his waist.
“Don’t look,” she whispered to herself, deliberately turning her gaze away. “Don’t look, don’t look,” she repeated, then caught a flash of color on smooth golden skin and turned to stare. Damn, but he was pretty. All broad back and sleek muscles. The color she’d seen was the tattoo she’d caught sight of earlier on his left bicep. She wanted to get closer to check out the detail, but didn’t want to ogle. Actually, she did want to ogle, she just didn’t want to get caught. He was completely naked under those covers. He’d stripped down to nothing right in front of her, with absolutely no sense of modesty, and fallen into bed only moments after they’d returned from the cantina early this morning.
She’d half-expected the place would be empty when they’d gone over for dinner, but the party had been going as wild as if it had been midnight instead of nearly sunrise. At first, Lana thought Vincent had called ahead and thus the big party. But Marisol’s surprise on seeing him had seemed genuine, so maybe they partied like that every night around here. It made her wonder what they did with the rest of their time. Then she decided she didn’t want to know. This area was home to one of the major drug cartels, and Vincent had said Marisol was well connected. Maybe that’s what she was well connected to.
But whatever the reason for the late night revelry, it had certainly suited Vincent’s needs nicely. Every woman in the place had made her way over to their table during the course of the meal—Lana’s meal, that was. Vincent didn’t eat. But he did manage to greet every single female in the room as if they were each the last woman on earth—flattering, kissing, stroking. And he’d disappeared more than once, ostensibly to dance, but there wasn’t enough of a crowd to get lost in. It had been obvious to Lana that Vincent and his partners had done more than dance, and they’d done it somewhere other than the dance floor. The only exception to Vincent’s sensual charm offensive had been a young girl who didn’t look much older than sixteen. He’d been sweet to her, had kissed her hand in a courtly gesture, and then sent her on her way with a smile.
Lana had thought Marisol might be jealous of all the attention Vincent was getting from the others. But she’d seemed perversely delighted, gazing proudly at Vincent every time he came back from one of his little excursions, as though he’d been paying her a compliment by sucking down on her customers and friends. Lana didn’t know exactly what their relationship was. She only knew that every time Vincent disappeared with another dark-haired lovely, she’d felt like an idiot, sitting there watching them walk away. But then, she was only a bodyguard, right?
Standing there wrapped in nothing but a towel, she relived her earlier embarrassment and scowled down at Vincent’s sleeping form. Suddenly, it was easier to tear her gaze away from his naked perfection. She strode over to her side of the bed, where her duffel sat in the dim yellow light of the single lamp, and got fully dressed even though her only immediate plans were for sleep. Or so she hoped. She didn’t know if she’d be able to sleep with Vincent next to her in the bed, even if she was fully dressed. But she had to try, because her eyes were gritty and her muscles ached with exhaustion.
She pulled on fresh underwear—including a bra, because there was no way she was going braless around the walking seduction that was Vincent—and then donned her usual traveling outfit of Levis and a long-sleeved T-shirt. She put on socks, but left her boots off, and compromised by leaving the pants unbuttoned, although she did zip them halfway. And she left her hair down. She hated to sleep with it braided. It gave her a headache and there was little worse than starting the day with an aching head.
Tucking her dirty clothes into the laundry bag she always packed, she turned back to the bed and contemplated their sleeping arrangements. Vincent was right. It was a very big bed. But he was a very big guy, and a bed hog to boot. He’d started out on one side of the bed, but he’d stretched out so that he now took up well more than his half. And he sure as hell was not the stereotypical image of a vampire at rest, either. He was supposed to be lying on his back, board stiff, with his hands crossed over his chest. Instead he was sprawled on his stomach as if he didn’t have a care, the sheet barely covering his hips, his tattoo glinting gold in the yellow lamplight.
Suddenly curious about the mysterious tattoo, she glanced all around, as if expecting to find someone watching, then tiptoed around the bed and crouched down to study it more closely. She cursed, realizing there wasn’t enough light. Moving forward slightly, she examined Vincent’s face for signs of awareness. Finding none, she stretched over him and turned on the light on his side of the bed, then went back to her study of the tattoo. It was a four-pointed star in shades of gold and brown with the face of the Mayan Sun god grimacing in the middle of a beaded circle and a green stylized band on either side. Lana didn’t have any tattoos, but all of her dad’s hunters did, and she had a good idea of how much talent went into creating something as beautiful as this. She reached out to trace her finger over the image, then pulled back guiltily.
It was bad enough that she was ogling him in his sleep. It didn’t seem fair to touch him, too. Although, knowing Vincent even as little as she did, she doubted he’d mind. She stood and turned off the lamp, then returned determinedly to her side of the bed. Vincent Kuxim was the very image of male beauty and too sexy by half. Hell, too sexy altogether if his effect on the female population of the cantina was anything to judge by.
And lucky her, she got to sleep in the same bed with him. Fuck, fuckity, fuck.
Grabbing the spare blanket—there was no way she was getting under the covers with him while he was naked—she lay down gingerly, careful to stick to the very edge of the bed. She snagged the single pillow he’d left for her, then straightened the blanket and closed her eyes.
The last thing she remembered was thinking she was never going to fall asleep.
VINCENT WOKE WHILE the sun’s last rays still glowed above the horizon and was immediately aware that someone was in the room with him. Not only in the room, but in his bed. And she was sound asleep.
Sensing no threat, he remained still for a long moment nonetheless as he considered this unusual circumstance. Vincent frequently shared his bed with the women he fed from. The act of taking blood was intensely sexual and, since male vampires were blessed with the kind of stamina and recuperative powers that kept their partners happy, an encounter typically resulted in a great deal of mutual pleasure. He didn’t know about female vamps. He’d never had sex with one and had never thought to ask.
But even though he might share his bed for the night, he never, as in never ever, shared his bed through the day. He’d never trusted any of his human partners that far. Michael knew this, which was why he’d been so surprised that Vincent had decided to travel alone with Lana Arnold. Generally, Vincent traveled with a security team that included daytime guards. And he always slept alone.