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blue water. Had she actually drunk some of Raphael's blood? And what did that mean? She
only knew rumors about how vampires were changed, reborn, whatever the hell they called it.
Was she a vampire now? Gripping the sink for support, she pulled herself to her feet and
staggered back to the elegant bedroom. Heavy drapes covered the window, but she could
see a line of light around the edges and hear the steady hiss of the waves. She walked slowly
over to the glass and, cursing herself for an idiot, hesitantly slipped the fingers of one hand in-
to the hot sunlight. Nothing. Okay. So she wasn't a vampire.
She yanked the drapes fully open. The sun was dropping fast. Which meant she had to
get out of here now.
A frantic search of the bedroom turned up the remnants of her clothing. She tugged them
on, snarling in frustration to find the zipper on her jeans torn beyond recovery. Her sweater
was more or less intact, enough for modesty anyway, but it wasn't long enough to cover the
gap at her waist. She opened the closet and found Raphael's long, leather coat hanging
there, dark and stiff with blood and ... other things. A vague memory surfaced of the big vam-
pire wrapping her in its warm depths before carrying her out to the cars where Duncan waited.
Duncan and the other vampires. Waiting while she and Raphael had sex, for God's sake, in
the middle of a fire fight. What the hell was wrong with her?
Her face hot with belated embarrassment, she dragged the heavy coat from its hanger
and pulled it on. It would have to do for now. Her boots sat next to the bed, splattered with
blood like everything else, but undamaged. It felt good to tug them on her feet, to have
something solid, something of her own. A quick glance around the room sent her rushing over
to a table near the door where her weapons lay waiting for her. Both had been cleaned and
reloaded, one tucked into her shoulder rig. She took off the coat long enough to don the hol-
ster, then drew it back on quickly, sliding the other weapon into a pocket. That was it. No
keys. Where was her car?
She stood next to the door, listening, but heard no sound from the other side. She twisted
the knob slowly, then pulled the door open and peered into the hallway. No one. Orienting
herself by the view from the window, she figured she was on the second floor, not far from
Raphael's office. Probably where he stashed his blood donor du jour for easy access, she
thought nastily. Reaching the first floor, she hesitated, edging down the hall and into the spa-
cious entry.
There were guards here. Human guards. Looking past them, she could see her car parked
outside, exactly the same spot as last time. So maybe the keys were in it again? Was she a
prisoner? If she simply walked out like she knew where she was going, would they try to stop
her?
Cyn straightened, tugging the heavy coat closed, and slipping her right hand into her
pocket, feeling her spare Glock's reassuring weight. With a confident nod and a smile for the
surprised guards, she strolled toward the glass doors and was out the door and into her car
before they'd really registered her presence. The keys sat in the ignition; she twisted them
quickly, and the Land Rover responded with its usual heavy rumble. The pressure rolled off
her chest as she drove away from the house, then tightened again as she thought about the
guards at the gate. Maybe that's why the house guards hadn't bothered to stop her. There
was no need.
She slowed down as the guard stepped out of the gatehouse and approached the side of
her car. Ms. Leighton, I didn't know you'd be leaving."
"Going home to change clothes. She wrinkled her face meaningfully. You know how that
is."
The guard looked uncomfortable, but nodded. I guess I do, but I don't "
"I'm not a prisoner, am I? she asked, feigning confusion.
"Of course not, but "
"Well, then, I want to go home and change clothes. It's only five minutes from here."
"Uh, okay. I guess. You'll be coming back?"
"Of course. Eventually. Someday.
The guard frowned, but signaled his buddy and the gate rolled open. In only minutes, Cyn
was breezing down the highway toward her own place.
Her garage door stood open, so she rolled inside and opened the car door. She was mov-
ing slowly now, the high of her easy escape beginning to wear off as sore muscles asserted
their unhappiness. She wanted nothing more than a long soak in a hot bath, and maybe a
nice, deep tissue massage. She almost groaned out loud at the very thought of how good it
would feel.
"Ms. Leighton?"
Cyn jerked in surprise, her hand going to the gun in her pocket before she recognized one
of Raphael's human guards standing in her garage. What? she said irritably.
"Are you supposed to be here, ma'am? I mean, I was told to watch the place because
you'd be staying up at the estate for a few days."
"Really? And who the hell told you that?"
"Lord Raphael, ma'am."
"Figures. This is my house. She peered at his name tag. Tony. So as for whether I'm
supposed to be here. I think that's up to me."
"I don't know, ma'am. I better check in. He lifted his cell phone ... so Cynthia shot him in
the leg. He fell to the hard concrete with a cry of pain.
"I'm sorry, Tony, she apologized, rushing over. Really, I am. It's nothing personal. I'm
sure you're a nice guy trying to do your job. But I can't have you bringing down the house on
me. I need a little air. You can understand that, can't you, Tony? Cyn was babbling, almost
as shocked by the turn of events as poor Tony, who could only moan in response.
"I'm sorry, she repeated. She grabbed the small pillow she kept in her back seat and
shoved it under his head. A quick check of the bullet wound verified that she hadn't hit any-
thing vital, but there was still some bleeding. Ignoring his fretful attempts to stop her, she
stripped off his belt and slipped it around his upper thigh in a tourniquet of sorts, grimacing at
the position of his leg. The bullet might have hit bone, but she couldn't do anything about that
right now.
Next, she jumped up, ran over and hit the button to close the door so her neighbors
wouldn't see a bloody man lying in her garage. Bad enough they might have heard the shot,
but most of them should be gone on a workday afternoon, and people really didn't pay atten-
tion to what went on outside their own little worlds anyway.
After confiscating Tony's cell phone and gun, she hurried into the condo, yanking blankets
and more pillows from the downstairs closet and dumping them on the floor near the stairs.
Upstairs, she snagged a couple bottles of water and some nice Percocet the oral surgeon had
prescribed after pulling her wisdom teeth. As drugs went, it had been major overkill, which
was why she'd never taken any, but it had made her wonder what kind of wimps he usually
dealt with. On the other hand, it was perfect for poor Tony, who was going to be feeling a
world of hurt very soon. She ran back to the garage. Tony glared at her with pain-fogged eyes
as she was making him a nice little nest to rest in.
"You shot me, he moaned in disbelief.
"I know. I said I'm sorry."
"I can't believe you shot me."
She just looked at him. Maybe it was shock. Come on, she said, tugging him up onto his
one good leg. He cried out and Cyn winced in sympathy as she helped him over to the pile of
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