“I’m not about to keel over, cher.” A slow smile. “I can pick up a bottle from the Tower.”
She tugged up the cuff of her black V-necked sweater to bare her wrist and raised it to brush his lips. His eyes went heavy lidded, his chest expanding on a deep inhale. “There is no obligation.”
“I know.” Stroking her fingers down his neck, she leaned in even closer, the side of her body aligned to his.
He shuddered, cupped the other side of her wrist, and pressed a kiss to her rapidly beating pulse. Then he licked out, drew in another long breath. Her blood seemed to rush to that one tiny point. Nipples rubbing against her bra and skin tight, she waited. When his fangs scraped over her skin, she bit back a moan.
His eyes flicked up. In them was pure sex and the lazy, possessive affection that had tied her up in knots long before she’d admitted he was far more than just a job to her. “Now,” she said, tone husky.
A sinful smile before his fangs pierced her flesh.
His lashes came down, his throat moving as he fed . . . and her blood, it turned to honey. Legs trembling, she shifted to lean against the counter. He followed, one hand going to her lower back to caress her lightly as he continued to feed.
He wasn’t drawing much blood, she realized with the part of her mind that wasn’t dazed. He’d taken most of what he needed in the first two pulls, was now sipping . . . enjoying. She was enjoying it, too. The arousal kept building and building, a fist low in her belly. It was different from sex, not as intimate . . . except this was Janvier. Slipping his fingers under her top to caress her skin, he lifted his lashes again, their eyes connected, and the fist exploded outward.
Shivering through the ripples, she opened eyes she didn’t remember closing to see him licking the wound closed. He did it several times, until she couldn’t see anything but tiny pinpricks that would fade in a day. Satisfied, he slid a hand around her nape and jaw, running the thumb of his other hand over her lower lip. “I could become used to this breakfast.”
She nipped at his thumb. “Gotta say, it’s not a bad morning wake-up.” Yeah, he’d turned her inside out, but he wasn’t exactly in control, either, his erection aggressive against the zipper of his jeans. “Maybe next time we should do it before we get out of bed.”
“I vote yes.” Rubbing up against her, he groaned. “We have—”
Both their phones beeped at once. The message was identical: One victim awake. Wishes to talk.
Arousal doused, they headed out and to the hospital without further conversation. It was Brooke who was awake and stable enough to talk. Fear was a metallic taste in the air around the brutalized woman, but when she grabbed for Ashwini’s hand, Ashwini didn’t protest.
Stomach muscles clenched against the barrage of pain and panic that made nausea shove at her throat, she met Brooke’s bruised brown eyes. “You’re tough,” she said. “Good. The bastards wouldn’t have expected that.”
Brooke’s smile turned into a grimace as her abused facial muscles attempted to stretch. “You haven’t found—” She coughed, but waved off the chips of ice Ashwini offered from the cup on the bedside table.
“No,” Ashwini answered, putting the ice back. “We haven’t tracked them down yet, but we will. Do you know any place Giorgio might hide?” Pulling out her phone, she went through each of the properties they’d already cleared.
“You got them all.” Rasping, barely audible words. “Only . . .”
40
“Only?” Ashwini could tell Brooke was in severe pain, but the woman had nixed pain medication prior to this meeting because she wanted to talk, wanted to help. Ashwini wasn’t about to second-guess her courage.
“Cattle,” Brooke whispered, her hand tightening on Ashwini’s. “Cattle give him things.”
Ashwini frowned, focusing ruthlessly on the facts rather than the silent scream of terror that continued to slap at her, making her skull throb. “How?” she asked. “His pattern seems to be going after women who have little.” Even the showpiece cattle had all proven to be from modest or deprived backgrounds. Brooke herself had been an exotic dancer in a low-rent part of town before Giorgio plucked her for his adoring harem.
Despite that, the financial wizards had checked them out, found no properties.
“Pattern right.” Brooke coughed again, accepted the ice chips this time, her breathing a serrated scrape. “Make us grateful.”
“He’s a predator.” Ashwini squeezed the other woman’s hand. “One who’s had hundreds of years to hone his skills. Don’t you ever blame yourself for what he is.”
A shaky nod. “Th-thanks. Needed to hear.” The other woman seemed to be about to lose consciousness, but blinked rapidly, managed to stay awake. “Cattle poor . . . but Penelope got in-in-inh . . .”
“Inheritance?”
Another faint nod. “T-turned out her McScrooge aunt was rich. L-left it all to her five y-y-years ago.” Air noisy in her lungs, her hand spasmed on Ashwini’s. “It’s in sp—” Throat dry, she couldn’t speak until Ashwini had eased more ice into her mouth. “Aunt didn’t like Giorgio,” the hurt woman said clearly, eyes so bright it was clear she was fighting desperately to communicate all she knew. “House is in special legal trust where Pen can use it till death, but she has no . . .” A wracking cough.
Mind racing, Ashwini said, “She has no control over it—can’t sell it or sign it across to Giorgio?” That had to be the reason why it hadn’t shown up in the searches. Penelope’s name wasn’t on the deed.