A Vampire's Promise (12 page)

Propping himself up on one elbow, Gabriel carefully held the bag of ice to my face. The knot in my chest started to expand, and part of me hoped it might crowd out my lungs and stop me from breathing. If I suffocated, I wouldn't have to tell him anything.

“It's okay, Rowan,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath fanning my neck and cheek. “Nothing is going to happen between us tonight, no matter how much we both desire it. I'll stay only until you fall asleep.”

The knot loosened and started to unravel as the anxiety and tension flowed out of me. He would never know how grateful I was to hear he had no expectations, grateful that he was content to hold me, grateful that I might still get a chance to wear my Victoria's Secret underwear for him.

He lifted the bag of ice. “Your bruising is quite nasty,” he said, running a feather-light finger across my cheek. “May I give you something to help with the swelling?”

“Sure,” I mumbled, as exhaustion began to steal over me. At this point, I would have agreed to let him perform open-heart surgery with a Swiss army knife if he had asked. The mattress shifted slightly, and the scent of something coppery filled my nose, making it wrinkle in distaste. It lasted only a moment, and was replaced by the most glorious scent of pine and juniper berries, both of which reminded me of . . . “Christmas,” I sighed.

His fingers smoothed across my bruised cheek and over my eyelid, wiping the wonderfully scented cool salve across the skin. His hair tickled my neck as he bent close.

“What?” he whispered in my ear.

“Smells nice . . . like Christmas . . . ,” I murmured.

I didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.

“I dreamed about you, Rowan.”

“Me too.” My voice was barely more than a sigh, and I was fighting a losing battle with sleep.

“Do you know how beautiful you look on red satin sheets?”

I felt the warm pressure of his mouth on mine, his tongue tasting my lips, before I slid headfirst into la-la land.

I
t wasn't my alarm clock that woke me up the next morning, nor the sun streaming in through the open drapes. I couldn't even blame it on the raucous cawing of the crows that were holding an avian board meeting in the tree outside my window. No, what pulled me up from the depths of dreamless sleep to wakefulness was a fragrance. Light and sweet, the perfume drifted across me, teasing me awake as I drew in one sleepy breath after another. The scent was both familiar and maddeningly elusive. Something I already knew but was unable to place. Wanting more of it, I opened my eyes.

I was alone.

It would have been too good to be true to wake up still wrapped in Gabriel's arms, but I had hoped that was exactly what would happen, even though he had told me he would only stay until I fell asleep.

Trying to reconcile hurt feelings is easier said than done. Relationships are complicated, and I had no idea if what had happened between Gabriel and me could even be construed as the beginnings of one. He was a man who overwhelmed me on so many levels, but lying in his arms last night I had felt something hidden beneath the sexual attraction. A different type of desire, one with a flavor all its own. And it was something I wanted to taste. Sadly, my pool of experience regarding men and dating was a puddle in the Sahara.

The wonderful perfume teased my nose again, making me roll over. I quickly discovered the source. On the pillow next to me, resting in the indentation made by his head, was a single, heady spray of golden-yellow freesias.

I don't need a boyfriend to know that most men are pretty clueless when making romantic gestures with flowers. Most of them, if they can actually connect with their inner Romeo, will opt for either red or pink roses as their flower of choice—a safe bet even if they have no idea that each color has its own, significant meaning. But I've never been a rose girl. Instead I adore freesias, finding the vibrant colors and rich fragrance intoxicating.

Picking up the spray, I marveled at the deep yellow blossoms attached to the spring-green stem, wondering at the coincidence of finding this particular flower on my pillow. I must have let something slip when I was running off at the mouth over coffee, or perhaps I had told him in my sleep. As a little girl, I talked in my sleep, or so my dad had always said. Maybe I still did.

I pushed back the covers and got out of bed, holding the delicate stem in my fingers. For a few moments I simply stood and looked at the messed-up bed, picturing Gabriel repositioning himself as I moved in my sleep. I'd never slept with a man before. Okay, I still hadn't if we're going to get all technical, but this was as close as I had come as an adult. I have always held the belief that sleeping with someone, the actual act of resting in an unconscious state, is a far more intimate experience than sex.

Asleep, you are completely defenseless, and it is an act of supreme trust to put yourself in the care of another when you are that vulnerable. That being the case, I figured I'd just had the most intimate night of my life, and it didn't matter if Gabriel left a few minutes after I fell asleep . . . or before I woke up. I had felt safe with him.

After discovering that I didn't own anything that could pass for a vase, I filled an iced-tea glass with water and put the blossoms on my bedside table. Then I went to check my face in the bathroom mirror. The bruising was worse. Deep indigo and eggplant now stained my eye in a glorious rampage of color, but the swelling was significantly reduced, and I was surprised to find I could open my eyelid without too much difficulty.

The white of my eye was bloodshot, which was to be expected, and I began tearing up beneath the light, so I resolved not to overuse it. Running the tips of my fingers gently over my cheek, I was surprised to find it was barely sore, and the throbbing ache was gone. A faint line was all that showed where Suellen's eighteen-wheeler of a cocktail ring had split my skin. It wouldn't even scar. Whatever ointment Gabriel had used had done the trick.

True to her word, Laycee called me a little while later. Like me, she had also taken the day off, but she was using her free time to go apartment hunting. At some point while they were buying socks and undershirts, she and Jake had decided to move in together. I wasn't terribly surprised and invited the happy couple to supper.

Despite my promise, I didn't lie on the couch watching soaps or eating ice cream. Guilt over missing work was doing a number on me, and as reading was out of the question, I decided to punish myself by cleaning. I vacuumed, wiped down my bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, and then vigorously swept both front and back porches outside. By the time I started to make dinner, I felt tired, but it was a good kind of tired.

Except it didn't stop me from wondering why Gabriel hadn't called. Or stop me from checking my phone every fifteen minutes to see if I'd missed a call. I told myself that he was probably sleeping. He did mention being a night owl due to his somewhat ambiguous “this and that” occupation. I scolded myself for being needy.

Laycee showed up, alone, a little after six. Jake was still at work so wouldn't be able to make it, but she sniffed appreciatively as I took garlic bread out of the oven. Over spaghetti we discussed the strange turns of events both our lives had taken in the past forty-eight hours. Jake's indiscretion was now all over town, although there was still some confusion about the identity of the “other woman.” I'd already accepted that some folks would never believe it hadn't been me, no matter how much Jake and Laycee denied it.

“How's he doing today?” I asked, curious to know if there was any fallout at the Sheriff's Department.

“Good,” Laycee answered. “I don't know what Suellen was expecting, but it's not like he's going to quit being sheriff or anything. Thank God he got reelected last year.” She stacked our plates in the sink. “He's good at his job and being with me doesn't automatically mean scandal and ruin. I doubt anyone is going to demand his resignation because his marriage is over. We're not in the Middle Ages anymore.”

“And thank God for that, or else you'd probably have been put in the pillory so Bobby Wilkins and his mother could throw rotten fruit at you—or something worse!”

“Well, the overall impression I get is most people are being very understanding and wonder why he didn't leave Suellen years ago.” She filled the sink with hot water. “Of course, the kids are the ones who will be hurt the most.”

“Do you think she'll try to turn them against him?” I knew from television and the media how vindictive some wives could be in a divorce, especially if it turned ugly.

Laycee shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows? But Jake has already set up a separate account for their support.”

“He's a good man, Laycee.”

She segued right into it. “So, speaking of good men, tell me about Eye Candy.” She gave the bottle of dish detergent a generous squirt before sudsing up the water.

I hesitated. “What do you want to know?”

“Is he just as gorgeous without his clothes on?”

“Laycee!” I pretended to be shocked.

“Okay, I know, I know—you're not the slut I am!” She rinsed a plate and set it in the drainer. “But tell me there's a possibility you might be able to answer that question in the not too distant future?”

“I don't know,” I said, watching her pout. “But I hope so!”

She shrieked with delight. “So what time did he leave last night?”

“I have no idea.” I told her about Gabriel staying until I fell asleep, but omitted my crying episode. Laycee would want to know why, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings by admitting I had opened up to Gabriel about my mom.

“Wow, that's some serious shit,” she commented when I was done. Her face took on a thoughtful expression. “He must be really into you, Ro.”

“I hope so, I just . . .”

“What?” She pounced on my trailing sentence.

“I don't know. I get the oddest feeling that we've met before, even though I know it can't possibly be true.”

“Weird,” she agreed. “I mean, you would remember someone who looked like that, right?”

I nodded my head. “Totally.”

“Maybe it was in a different lifetime.” She began humming the theme to the old
Twilight Zone
series while rinsing the last plate. After removing the stopper from the sink, and laughing as the water drained away with a loud gurgle, Laycee dried her hands and checked her phone. “Oops, sorry to eat and run, but I better hustle if I want to get Jake out to those apartments tonight.”

She kissed me on my good cheek before picking up the Tupperware containing leftover spaghetti. I walked her out to her car.

“Are you going to work tomorrow?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think I'll be fine.”

“I'll pick you up in the morning.”

I snorted in exasperation. “I said I'd be fine.”

“Yeah, but I don't think you're up to driving yet.” The finality in her voice said it was a waste of time arguing. “By the way”—she rolled down her window—“whether you've met him before or not, he's still very easy on the eye.”

 

“Holy shit, girl, just lookit your face!” Angela's screech was an almost comical mix of horror and concern. “Walked into a door, my ass!”

This was the second person telling me any excuse about a run-in with a door would not be believed. How did other women get away with it? Maybe that was the point, they didn't. More than forty-eight hours later, the deep purple bruising around my eye had lightened considerably, and I could see faint tinges of avocado in the mix. I couldn't wait until the whole sorry mess turned a vivid chartreuse green.

“I'm okay, Angela, really. It looks worse than it is.”

She shook her head and gently grasped my chin, making loud tutting noises as she inspected my face. “Seriously, Rowan, you give me the bastard's name and I'll bitch-slap him into the middle of next week for you!”

I stared at her, more than a little shocked at her willingness to inflict physical harm on my behalf. Judging from the degree of her vehemence, I figured she must have had a run-in with her ex, and the outcome had not been good.

“Are you fighting with Ronnie again?” I asked.

“Bastard!” The hissing noise she made confirmed my suspicion. “He's parading a new girlfriend around.”

Figuring she needed it more than I did, I gave her a sympathetic hug. I have long suspected that Angela remains hopelessly in love with her ex; unfortunately it's not mutual.

“Well, if you must know, it wasn't a man that hit me,” I said, releasing her from my embrace. “It was a woman.”

“Oh,” she paused, and I saw a flicker of dismay in her eyes. “Want me to kick her ass instead?” What happened to getting bitched-slapped into next week?

“No, Angela, it's just fine, really. If there's any ass-kicking to be done, then I'm more than capable of doing it myself.”

“Really?” She dubiously raised an eyebrow. “So what happened?”

In the three years we have worked together, I have learned practically every detail of Angela's life. From the crush she had on her math teacher in ninth grade to the racy little number she wore on her wedding night. But she knows next to nothing about me. Of course, until now there hasn't been much to tell her, only she doesn't know that. She takes it for granted that I'm a private person.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, “I understand if you don't want to talk about it.”

“No, it's okay.” I squeezed her hand, touched by her concern. “It was a case of mistaken identity. Someone thought I was sleeping with her husband.”

I didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted by the smile she was trying her hardest to suppress.

“
You?
” Angela snorted, getting a major kick out of imagining me sleeping with someone else's husband. “This was a stranger, right? Someone you've never met before.”

I shook my head, remembering how Suellen looked when she was crowned homecoming queen. “No, she's kind of known me all my life.”

“No, girlfriend, she most certainly does not know you.” Waving a forefinger in my face, Angela continued. “If she did, she would know that you sleeping with her husband—with any woman's husband—is off-the-wall ludicrous.”

It was quite a shock to realize my co-worker thought I was such a paragon of virtue, and a little annoying, too.

“Do you think I'll scare off customers?” I asked, wanting to steer her concern in another direction. Tilting her head to one side and peering at me over the top of her glasses, Angela considered my question thoughtfully. “I have an eye patch,” I told her.

Pulling it out of my purse, I put it on. The guffaw escaped before Angela had a chance to cover it with her hand. The patch had originally been part of a sexy pirate outfit, and I couldn't be sure, but I don't think the red sequins did me any favors.

“I think that will scare people more than your shiner,” Angela said, struggling to keep a straight face. She took a deep breath and regained her composure somewhat. “We got our shipment of new romance novels yesterday. How about you set up the window display instead?”

I accepted gratefully, relieved that my interaction with the general public would be kept to a minimum. As I walked away I could hear the sound of Angela trying to smother more laughter.

I spent all morning arranging and rearranging copies of a dozen or so new titles until, perfectionist that I am, I was finally satisfied with the way our window display looked. After lunch I turned my hand to the children's section and was on my knees between
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
and
Where the Wild Things Are
when Angela yelled my name. I figured she'd messed up the cash register—not an uncommon occurrence when she was angry with Ronnie. I gasped when I saw the floral display on the front counter. The vase was huge, holding long-stemmed red roses that were complemented by an impressive amount of baby's breath.