of you. Don't think for a moment there's anything wrong with you. We clear?"
"But - "
"Nope. I'm not hearing that. " Bending down, he pressed his lips to her shin, her calf, her ankle, tracing the scars, caressing them. "Beautiful. All of you. "
"How can you say that," she whispered, blinking back tears.
"Because it's the truth. " Straightening, he gave her a final squeeze. "No hiding from me, okay. And after I feed you, I think I'm going to have to show you just how serious I am. "
That made her smile. . . and then laugh a little.
"That's my girl," he murmured. Except. . . shit, she wasn't his. What the hell had come out of his mouth?
Forcing himself back to the door, he stepped out into the corridor, shut her in and -
"What the fuck?" Lifting his lower leg, he inspected the bottom of his bare foot. There was silver paint on it.
Glancing at the runner, he found a trail of. . . silver paint heading down the hallway toward the second-story balcony.
With a curse, he wondered which of the doggen was working on what part of the house. Good thing stains made the poor bastards cheerful; otherwise Fritz was going to be pissed.
Following the line of drops to the head of the great staircase, he descended to the foyer along with them.
The mess went right out into the vestibule.
"Sire, good day. Do you require anything?"
Tohr turned to Fritz, who was coming through the dining room with some floor polish. "Hey, yeah. I need to get some food. But what's up with the paint? You guys doing something obscene to the fountain out there?"
The butler shuffled over and frowned. "There is no one painting anywhere in the compound. "
"Well, someone's pulling a Michelangelo. " Tohr sank down on his haunches and dragged a finger through one of the little pools. . .
Wait a minute - not paint.
And the shit smelled like flowers.
Fresh flowers?
In fact, it was the scent that had been in his room.
As his eyes shot to the door to the vestibule, he thought of the shower of bullets he had walked into. And worried that a miracle hadn't been the reason he wasn't dead, after all.
"Get Doc Jane, stat," he barked to the doggen.
Ah, yeahhhh, Lassiter thought as he rolled over on hot stone and started to sun his bare ass. That's what's up. . . .
All things considered, it had been a good day to get shot at.
Well, night, rather.
Make that season.
Thank the Maker it was summer: Lying on the front steps of the mansion, the brilliant July megawatts beat down on him, the rays healing his bullet-ridden body. Without it? He might well have died again - which was not the way he wanted to meet up with his boss. Indeed, the sunlight was to him what blood was to the vampires; a necessity that he really enjoyed. And as he bathed in the stuff, the pain faded, his strength returned. . . and he thought of Tohr.
What a dumb-ass, pulling a move like that in the alley. What in the name of all that was holy had the fucker been thinking?
Whatever. There had been no way he was going to let that bastard walk into all that gunfire without protection. The pair of them had come too far to crap out just as progress was being made.