Page 35 of Blood Stone

Chapter Eight

Roman had genuine business in the city the next morning, so finally he called Kate at nine. “It would be easier if I picked you up. I’m already in Van Iuys.”

“I’m already downtown.”

“I’ll meet you there at eleven-thirty if the suits don’t bore me to death first. Who invented accounting, anyway?”

She giggled as she disconnected, and the sound made him smile. It was another layer to the woman. An unexpected one. Who’d have thought she had the ability to be childlike? Except making movies was one big exercise in daydreaming, so she had the capacity.

He turned back to face the panel of executives staring disapprovingly at him and realized they hadn’t liked his conversation. He hadn’t used volume modulation at all. He shrugged. “Any chance we can wrap this up in thirty minutes?”

The head suit tugged at the knot of his precisely arranged tie. “These are complex financial matters you’ve presented us, Mr. Xerus. We would be doing you a disservice if we didn’t ensure you fully grasped the complete array.” And the man’s gaze flickered over Roman’s jeans and tee-shirt, and lingered for a moment on his earring, before settling on his face once more.

Ahh...Roman hid his smile and cracked his knuckles with obvious relish. “I have a Masters in finance from Caltech, and a doctorate in economic theory from Harvard. Accounting was a minor degree for me. I think I can keep up with you.” He tapped the portfolio in front of him. “Let’s go. I don’t want to keep the lady waiting.”

* * * * *

“This place shouldn’t look exactly the same as it did two weeks ago,” Kate murmured, looking around the lounge bar.

Roman let his gaze settle briefly on every occupant in the sprawling room, and spotted five vampires and two males he wouldn’t classify until he got closer and could sniff them. There were too many bodies in the room for their aromas – if they had them – to differentiate from this distance.

“He’s here,” he said.

“Where?” Kate asked. “I don’t see him.”

“He’s not in the bar himself, but his people are. The man at the bar nursing the beer, the one with the bad taste in ties. He’s one. So is the one with the long hair over by the pool table, also holding a beer.”

Kate looked at her watch and then glanced around, frowning, like she was looking for someone. It was a sweeping glance of the room that didn’t linger on anyone in particular. She glanced up at Roman. “The one with the black hair, bad haircut?”

“Very good,” he murmured. “What tipped you off?”

“The beer. It’s the same distance down the glass as the other two.”

“I’m impressed.”

“How do you know they’re Garrett’s people?”

“They’re by themselves, they’re drinking by themselves, not waiting for friends, and ever since we stepped in the door, they’ve been watching us. They’re security. Garrett’s or someone else’s, but the on-point stare makes it more likely they’re Garrett’s.” He held out a hand toward the bar. “Garrett is going to want to pick his own table. Petty power play. So let’s not bother with giving him the luxury of pulling us away from ours. We’ll sit at the bar to wait for him, instead.”

She nodded and headed for the bar, walking confidently down the wide aisle between the tiny tables and cerise red lounges, her chin up. Roman stayed even with her, and realized that he wasn’t shortening his pace all that much to do so.

Reallylong legs.

His body tried to tighten as images from yesterday in the trailer flickered through his subconscious, almost too deep to register as full thoughts. Her thighs spread before him as he drove into her. The length of her legs as she bent over the desk.

Her throaty, used scream as she came.

He deliberately forced his mind away from yesterday, focusing on the coming confrontation. He couldn’t help Kate if he was caught up in daydreams about her body and what he wanted to do with it.

She pulled out a stool and hitched one hip onto the edge of it. “Virgin daiquiri,” she told the waiter, who instantly appeared in front of her. “Hold the fruit.”

“Johnny Walker Blue,” Roman ordered.

The barman lifted a brow. “I’m sorry, sir. We don’t serve that in single shots. You’re welcome to purchase a bottle, which I would be happy to serve for you.”

Roman snorted. “Not at your mark up, thanks. I’ll pass.” He leaned against the bar with his elbow and turned to face Kate. “Anything less is an offense to the palate,” he told her.

“Scotch?” She was smiling. “I’ll take your word for it. I’m not a whiskey drinker at all.”