Ramsey said. "He's on our side."
Marisa stared at the man. The words for the time being seemed to hover, unspoken, in the air between them.
He's a vampire. The words screamed in her mind as she went to open the front door.
"Good evening," Grigori said.
"Hi." She looked up at him, wondering how a man who was so handsome, who exuded such vibrant masculinity, could be one of the undead. He was dressed in a pair of gray slacks, a white shirt open at the collar, black loafers.
"May I come in?"
A burst of hysterical laughter bubbled up inside Marisa. It was too late to refuse him entrance to her house. She moved aside, then shut the door after him. "I have company," she said.
"Oh?"
Marisa nodded. "We just had dinner. Would you care to join us for coffee?" She couldn't help it; she giggled. "I guess you don't drink coffee."
"No." Grigori's eyes narrowed as he studied her.
Marisa swallowed hard, then turned and headed for the kitchen.
Ramsey was standing beside the table, one hand fisted around the crucifix that dangled from a chain around his neck.
Grigori grunted softly when he saw the vampire hunter.
Marisa stood at the counter, glancing from one man to the other. Whoever said looks were deceiving had certainly been right. Ramsey, pale and mild mannered, looked more like a bank teller than a vampire hunter. And Grigori - tall and dark and confident, always well dressed - looked like he should be on the front cover of GQ.
"I guess you two know each other," Marisa said.
Grigori nodded curtly. "Ramsey."
"Chiavari," Ramsey replied, his tone equally blunt. "Miss Richards tells me Alexi was here last night."
Grigori stroked his cheek absently, and Marisa noticed the gashes had healed without a trace.
"Yes," Grigori replied. "He knows you're in the city. Be careful."
"He was here, and you let him get away!"
"I didn't let him get away, and you know it. He's more powerful than the last time we met. I'm not sure he can be destroyed."
"Have you lost your courage after all these years, Chiavari?"
"I've lost nothing," Grigori replied quietly. "No one wants him dead more than I."
Ramsey's hand tightened around the cross, his knuckles going white. "We must find where he rests during the day."
"That's supposed to be your job."
"Stop it, both of you!" Marisa stepped between the two men. "This isn't solving anything."
"You're right, Miss Richards; forgive me."
"You can go home now, Edward," Grigori said. "I'll keep an eye on Marisa."
Ramsey's gaze rested on Grigori for a long, speculative moment, and then he turned toward Marisa. "Do you wish me to stay?"
"I'll be all right," Marisa said, hoping she was telling the truth. "Thank you."
"Very well. Good night, Miss Richards. Thank you for dinner."
"You're welcome."
Ramsey glanced at Grigori again, then nodded at Marisa. "I can find my way out."
Marisa watched Ramsey exit the kitchen, then turned to face Grigori. "I thought you two were supposed to be working together."
"We are." Grigori grinned wryly. "I'm afraid we're both a little on edge."
"A little on edge," Marisa muttered. "That's got to be the understatement of the year."
Chapter Seven
"Well," Marisa said, suddenly ill at ease to find herself and Grigori alone in the house, "do you want to watch some TV?"
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a flood of color climb up her neck into her cheeks. Did vampires watch TV? Did she really believe he was one of the undead? Looking at him made the idea seem ludicrous. She had never seen anyone, male or female, who looked more vital, more alive.
He grinned at her, as if he knew what she was thinking.
Marisa brushed by him, eager to have something else to focus on. Picking up the TV Guide, she thumbed through the pages, scanning the listings for Friday night.
"Bruce Springsteen was right," she muttered, "fifty-seven stations and there's nothing on."
She jumped as the TV crackled to life. She hadn't turned it on; the remote was on top of the set. "How did you do that?"
He lifted one brow, and shrugged. "I told you, I'm a magician."
She sat down on the sofa, as far from him as she could get, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The theme for The X-Files provided a momentary distraction.
"Is it true? Are you really a vampire, like Ramsey said?"
He hesitated only a moment, but there seemed no point in denying it, not after what she'd heard, what she'd seen. "Yes."
The world seemed to shift somehow, and she knew,