“Stop that,” she scolded weakly. “We’ll be here all night.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know about you, vampire, but I’ll wrinkle like a prune. And that’s not attractive in a lover.”
He slapped her ass, then stepped back, easing her legs to the floor and holding on to her until she was more or less steady. But this was Vincent, which meant he couldn’t let it go at that.
Reaching behind her, he pumped a good handful of shower gel and began washing her, sliding his strong hands all over her body, washing between her thighs and over her ass. Feeling more relaxed than she’d ever felt, Lana closed her eyes and enjoyed the massage.
“Rinse.”
She blinked her eyes open to find Vincent gazing down at her in bemusement.
“Rinse, querida. You’re all soapy.”
“Right,” she said, as if she hadn’t been half asleep. Vincent backed away so she could get under the spray, but then grabbed the handheld sprayer and danced it over her body, pretending to be helpful by aiming it between her legs.
“Give me that,” she snapped, taking it away and aiming it at his face briefly before finishing her own rinse. It was fortunate, she thought, that she’d washed her hair before they’d had sex. Because if she had to stand this close to a naked Vincent much longer, there was only one way it could go. And then she’d be a prune for sure.
Handing him the sprayer, she rose up on tiptoes to kiss his mouth, then slapped his ass on her way out of the shower enclosure. Instantly feeling about ten degrees cooler, she pulled on one of the fluffy robes, then grabbed a towel and a comb, and walked through the dressing area and out into the bedroom.
Wrapping the robe more closely around her body, she tied it loosely shut, then stood in front of the mirror and began combing out her wet hair. Someone knocked on the room door and she frowned, checking the time. Maybe Vincent had ordered room service for her breakfast . . . or dinner . . . or whatever you called it when you slept all day and woke up at night. Or maybe it was the maid, since they’d missed the regularly scheduled cleaning.
She crossed to the door and checked the peephole, covering it with her hand first, just in case someone was standing out there with a gun. She’d seen that in a movie once. The movie itself hadn’t made much of an impression, but the scene had.
Pulling away her fingers—which were still whole and free of bullet wounds—she put her eye to the peephole and found something much worse.
Dave Harrington. What the fuck was he doing here?
She snapped the locks and ripped open the door.
“What the fuck, Dave?”
“You ask me that?” he demanded, shoving his way into the room. “I’ve been leaving messages, e-mailing . . . your dad’s worried sick. No one knows what you’re working on, or why you’re down here in the middle of cartel country . . . and on your own, for fuck’s sake.”
“Get out,” she said, stepping in front of him, trying to stop him from going any farther into the room before disaster struck. “What I do isn’t any of your business or my dad’s. Now get out.”
“Not until you tell me why you’re here. What are you working on?” He took several steps into the room, forcing her to move aside, a big man by any standard, strong and fit . . . and Vincent would tear him apart.
“Not here,” Lana said firmly. “I need to get dressed. Why don’t I meet you in the coffee shop?”
Unfortunately, Dave might be clueless, but he wasn’t stupid. He turned in a circle, taking in the tousled bed, staring at the closed bathroom door. She knew the moment he heard the water running in the shower. His entire body stiffened, and he spun around, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“You’re fucking somebody? You ran out on your dad, on me, to have a fuckfest in Mexico?”
But Lana wasn’t looking at Dave anymore. The bathroom door opened and she met Vincent’s gaze.
“You didn’t tell me we had a guest, querida.”
VINCENT HAD JUST stepped out of the shower, feeling terrific, when he’d heard a man yelling at Lana in the next room. He’d grabbed his sweats, pulled them up his wet legs, and opened the bathroom door to find a human male shouting something about a Mexican fuckfest.
Vincent looked over the human’s bulky shoulder and met Lana’s worried gaze.
“You didn’t tell me we had a guest, querida.”
The human spun around, one hand going to the big pistol at his hip as he glared at Vincent, his gaze raking him from head to toe with unmasked hatred. Vincent didn’t have to dip into even the man’s most shallow thoughts to know what he was thinking. There might as well have been a light bulb blinking over his head. He saw a mostly naked Vincent, his hair and skin still wet from the shower, and he saw Lana, all shiny clean, wrapped in the enveloping robe, her long hair still dripping water.
The human cast a stunned look at Lana, then Vincent. And his expression changed, becoming more calculated, noting Vincent’s size and strength, the way he stood, balanced and ready to fight. And even more, his complete lack of concern over the human’s sudden appearance.