Night Huntress 02.5 - Happily Never After (2 page)

"Just Chance," he corrected, giving her another appraising stare. "You know, with your black hair and cedar eyes, you look a lot like your grandmother when she was younger."

Isa
froze
…
 
and
then sat back down. "How do you know my grandmother?"
Or that she looked like me when she was young?

Chance cast a glance over her shoulder. "We've got company coming, darling, but suffice it to say my sire's an old friend of your grandmother's, and I
am
here to help you."

Robert's most trusted cohort Paul appeared in the next moment. With his massive size and steamrolling personality,
Isa
mentally referred to him as Bowling Ball.

"
Isa
," he rumbled. "Boss wants to see you
now
."

She stood at once, her mind in a jumble. What had her grandmother done? She wasn't even supposed to know Frazier was in trouble. My God, the woman was seventy-five, she couldn't take the stress!

"Next time try the 1997 Cabernet," she said to Chance, tapping on his wine bottle. "In fact, there's a store on

He inclined his head with another smile. "I'll remember that."

Isa
hoped Chance would get the message to meet her there tomorrow night. Whatever her grandmother was up to, it had to be called off. Robert wasn't some average stalking suitor who could be dealt with by filing a restraining order. He practically owned the police, and whatever Chance was—a private investigator her grandmother hired, maybe?—he wouldn't be able to handle the heat Robert would bring.

With an inward sigh,
Isa
went off to pacify her fiancé.

* * *

Chance heard the men following him. Their heavy footfalls, combined with huffy breathing and accelerated heartbeats, made them as noisy as if they were clanging cymbals together. He inhaled, sorting through the bonanza of the evening's scents to filter what was theirs. The one called Paul had recently cleaned the gun in his jacket; the scent of oiled metal was palpable even above the odors of garlic, spaghetti and meatballs. The other one, Ritchie, was less fastidious with his firearms—and his personal hygiene. He smelled like he hadn't taken a bath for days.

Chance didn't quicken his pace from the same leisurely stroll he'd used while leaving the restaurant. Isabella had watched him go, surreptitiously, of course, but he'd caught her eye right as he went out the door. And then she'd blushed as he winked at her.

That blush was what he was thinking about now, far more than the two
meatwagons
following him to the parking lot. He'd been observing Isabella since he arrived in Philadelphia over three days ago. Familiarizing himself with her routine, marking the places she visited
…
 
and
watching Robert "Robbery"
Bertini
as well.

Robert was much less interesting a subject, in Chance's opinion, and not just because Isabella was infinitely more attractive. Robert was a typical schoolhouse bully, and all his clothes, money, houses or influence wouldn't change that. His insistence on marrying a woman who didn't want him was just as spiteful as a child demanding a particular toy because some other child had it. As a vampire, Chance had seen Robert's type in one form or another for multiple decades, and his tolerance for his sort hadn't grown with time.

Normally vampires didn't interfere in human's affairs. Humans had their own laws and social structure, and to say they differed from vampire society was to put it mildly. Most vampires had enough to handle within their own group of allies and enemies without adding human trials and tribulations to that.

But in this case, Chance
could
intervene. Isabella's grandmother, Greta, had once been a member of his sire Bones' line. Time had passed, but Bones' sense of responsibility to her hadn't. Even though Chance was Master of his own line now and no longer under Bones' authority, his sire had asked him for a favor. So Chance could meddle to his heart's content with the wedding plans of the arrogant mobster. Someone who would blackmail a woman into marriage made Chance angry. Power was supposed to be used for the protection of those you cared about, not for selfishness. Apparently no one had taught that to Robert
Bertini
.

In fact, it was high time someone put the
Bugsy
wanna-be in his place. A smile tugged at Chance's mouth.
Why not?
he
thought. It wasn't what his sire Bones told him to do, which was to simply alter Robert's mind until he no longer believed that he wanted to marry Isabella, but Chance would make sure it still all turned out the same. Well, with just a little well-deserved comeuppance added to it.

And that would mean more time in the lovely Isabella's company.
Maybe enough to find out what else would make her blush.
Chance already had a few ideas.

"Hey, buddy," the one named Paul growled behind him. "We wanna talk to you."

Chance turned, noting with amusement that they'd picked the darkest end of the parking lot for their confrontation. How unoriginal.

"If you're going to warn me to stay away from
Spagarelli's
beautiful proprietor or you'll hurt me in various exaggerated ways, save your breath," Chance replied calmly. "I'll be seeing her—and you idiots too, I suppose—there tomorrow night at nine sharp."

Paul's mouth dropped, making him look like a freshly caught blowfish.

"You know who you're
talkin
' to?" he finally demanded.

"Of course.
Spaghetti
alla
nona
, side of extra meatballs."

Ritchie cracked his knuckles as he stepped nearer. "You're in for a beating, dickhead."

"Really?
Fuggetaboutit
," Chance mocked with a heavy Italian accent.

Ritchie swung. Since he was human, to Chance it looked like he was moving in slow motion. He ducked neatly and at the same time, pivoted Ritchie a little to the right.

That roundhouse punch landed in Paul's face instead.

Paul rocked back even as Ritchie gasped. Chance didn't bother to suppress his laughter.

"Ouch. You owe your friend an apology," he chuckled.

Ritchie whirled around even as Paul began cursing about his nose being broken. From the sudden sweet smell in the air, Chance didn't have to glance his way to know he was correct.

With a snarl, Ritchie came at him again. This time, Chance didn't duck out of the way. He simply moved to the side and stuck out his foot.

Ritchie tripped and went flying, the momentum from his charge making him land with a heavy thud several feet away. More rich, mouth-watering scent filled the air. Ritchie had skinned his knee and his elbow on the asphalt badly enough that both were bleeding.

"Will we be dancing like this for long?" Chance asked.

Ritchie got to his feet slowly, giving Chance a furious look. Paul was still focused on his nose, more red staining the front of his shirt.

"You got fancy moves, pal?" Ritchie asked, drawing a gun from his inner jacket. "Try dodging
this
!"

He fired twice in quick succession, hitting Chance in the chest. The bullets weren't silver, though, so their pain only lasted a few moments. Long enough for him to drop to the ground like a regular person would, clutch his chest (to hide the rapidly healing wounds), gasp out a few breaths
…
 
and
then let his breath rattle out in one last, dramatic exhalation.

Oscar-worthy, if he did say so himself.

"Jesus!" he heard Paul hiss above him.
"Ritchie, what the fuck?
There's people
around here!"

Ritchie's heartbeat was galloping, from the thrill of his presumed kill, or the fear of getting caught. Either way, its sound made Chance's fangs ache with longing.

"Get his keys," Ritchie said roughly. "We'll put him in his trunk, you follow in your car behind me, and we'll bury this fuck before Letterman comes on.
Hurry."

Chance felt them tug his car keys from his hand, lift him up with much muttered cursing about being quick to avoid potential bystanders, and then the thump of landing in his own trunk. Mentally he counted off the time. Less than two minutes from shots fired to body hidden, not bad. Clearly this wasn't their first time.

He was jostled more as Paul swung the vehicle out of the parking lot.
Careful
, Chance thought over the squeal of tires.
You dent my new
Camaro
and I'll shove the steering wheel right up your ass.

Thoughts of Isabella brightened his mood. She had a beautiful face, a curvy body that bucked today's frightful stick-figure trends, and an ironclad streak of loyalty mixed with bravery. It wasn't every person who would sacrifice themselves to save their undeserving brother, after all. Frazier
Spaga
had gotten involved with Robert
Bertini
because of the lure of easy money. Now he was being used as collateral over his sister, and Isabella thought she had nothing but herself to ransom him back.

But you're wrong
, Chance mused with a smile.
You just don't know it yet.

Chapter 2

Isa
walked into Blue Ridge Vineyards fifteen minutes early. She didn't want to run the risk of missing Chance if he showed up.
What a strange name,
she mused. Maybe it was an alias.

Again, she wondered what her grandmother was up to.
Isa
hadn't bothered to call her and ask, of course. No need to upset her by telling her she was pulling the plug on whatever it was the sweet old lady had put into motion. Chance had said his "sire," which
Isa
surmised was just a formal word for father, had been a friend of her grandmother's. Despite
Isa's
inventive lies, her grandmother must have figured out that Frazier was in trouble, which wasn't uncommon. He'd been very rebellious as a teenager and though he'd calmed down in his twenties, he was hardly a stellar citizen.
Isa
didn't know how Frazier managed to pay his rent every month, since he hadn't held a regular job in years.

Still, when you added her brother's abrupt disappearance with
Isa's
surprise engagement to a man like
Robert,
no wonder her grandmother was spooked.

"Hi,
Isa
," the store clerk greeted her. Since she bought a lot of her wine from this place, she'd been on a first-name basis with most of the employees for a while.

"How's it going, Jim?" she asked.

"Can't complain, who'd listen?" he replied with a friendly smile.

Who indeed?
Isa
mentally agreed.
Certainly not the police.
She'd gone to them right after Robert proposed, if that's what you could call him saying, "Good news,
Isa
. I've decided we're getting married," and cutting off her immediate, sputtering objections with, "Seen your brother Frazier around lately?" with a knowing gleam in his dark eyes. Robert had followed up with, "Yep, I know for a fact you'll see him after our wedding, but if we don't have one
…
 
well
.
That brother of yours.
He's accident prone, isn't he?"

She'd relayed that to the first police officer she saw at the station the very next day, and
Isa
would never forget what he did. He looked around, shut his office door, and slid her complaint form back across the desk at her.

"You seem like a nice lady," he'd said without looking at her. "So I'm going to say congratulations on your engagement
…
 
and
don't ever file this form to me or anyone else if you care about your brother.
Or yourself."

That's when she knew all the whispers about Robert
Bertini
were true. He really
did
run the streets, and apparently had considerable clout with the police as well.

She might have tried again. Called the FBI, Homeland Security,
someone,
but later that day, she received a phone call at her restaurant.

"
Isa
," her brother said as soon as she answered. "Don't say my name, and listen very carefully. I need you to go along with this engagement. Robert thinks he has both of us cornered, but it'll all work out, I promise."

"You're all right?" she'd asked low, trying to look casual in front of her employees.

"Yes. I can't explain, but just hang in there and play along. I'll contact you again as soon as I can, but not on the phone. Robert will probably tap all your phones next."

The line went dead, but
Isa
said, "Wrong number, no problem," and then hung up like nothing unusual had happened.

It was only later that she'd wondered how Frazier could have said things like "play along" and "Robert thinks he has both of us cornered." As a hostage,
Isa
didn't think Frazier would have been granted private phone privileges, but it also didn't make sense that he'd say such things in front of one of his captors. Had Frazier somehow managed to get away?