Phantom Shadows (12 page)

Richart lifted his hand off the car, took a step, then sank to his knees.

Bastien zipped over and caught him before he could fall forward and hit the ground face-first. “What is it? Have you been tranqed?”

“No.” Richart gripped Bastien’s arm and used it as leverage to gain his feet. “I’ve never teleported a car before and was curious to see if I could do it.”

Bastien released him as soon as he stood, but prepared to throw a hand out as the Frenchman swayed.

Beige grasses and weeds crackled and crunched as Melanie joined them. “Does teleporting weaken you?”

“Teleporting cars does, apparently.”

“What about people?”

Bastien could see her slipping into her physician mode. Odd that even when she was clinical and impersonal he found her utterly alluring.

“Not if I only teleport one person at a time.”

“Do you need blood afterward?”

He sent her a flirtatious smile. “Are you offering?”

Bastien’s fist slammed into Richart’s jaw.

Richart’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed from his lips.

Melanie gasped.

Bastien stared. He really hadn’t meant to do that. Hadn’t he just told Melanie he didn’t want a relationship with her? Behaving like a jealous moron wouldn’t go very far in helping him convince her of that.

Richart staggered back against the car and raised a hand to cup his cracked jaw. “What the hell, man?”

Bastien risked a glance at Melanie, then swore.

Though her eyes were wide, the look in them was too knowing.

“Dr. Lipton is under my protection.”

Richart leaned over and spat blood. “I wasn’t going to bite her, you horse’s ass! It was a joke!”

A harmless joke that every immortal on the planet, himself included, had probably spouted dozens of times. Except tonight it had sent a storm of jealousy thundering through him. “Well, it wasn’t funny.”

Richart grunted as his jaw began to heal. “If you’d just told me you wanted her for yourself, I wouldn’t have opened my mouth. Asshole.”

“He doesn’t want me for himself,” Melanie said. “He isn’t looking for a relationship.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s looking,” Richart grumbled. “He’s found one. The two of you can’t take your eyes off each other. And in the rare moments you do, you usually touch.”

“What?” Bastien said the same time Melanie did.

Was she as appalled that her feelings were so transparent as he was?

“Don’t worry.” Richart drew out a handkerchief and wiped his crimson lips. “I doubt anyone else has noticed. Bastien is usually too busy pissing them all off.”

“He doesn’t piss you off?” Melanie asked.

“Other than just now”—Richart glared at Bastien—“no. I’ve spent enough time in his company that I’ve become immune to his bullshit.” He tucked the stained cloth away. “We’ll have to either drop by my place or return to the network because
now
I need blood.”

“The network,” Bastien chose. “I want to run our plan by Cliff and Joe and seek their advice. And we need to drop these guys”—he motioned to the unconscious vampires—“off in the holding room.”

Chapter 5

Once at the network, Bastien and Melanie helped Richart chain the vamps up in the holding room and notified Chris. Then they accompanied Richart to the infirmary, where he drained a couple of bags of blood. As he finished the second one, “Monster” imbued the stark, hospital-like environment with a bit of life.

Richart pulled out his phone, looked at the caller ID, and donned the dopey smile Bastien had come to think of as
her
smile. “Excuse me.” He turned away and took the call. “Hi.” His voice always softened when he spoke to his mystery lover.

“Hi,” Bastien heard her say, her voice a little flat. He didn’t know if Richart was so smitten that he forgot Bastien could hear both sides of the conversation or if Richart simply trusted Bastien not to run to Chris with any information he overheard, but the immortal rarely sought privacy during the calls unless their talk turned amorous. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not at all.”

“You aren’t fighting vampires?” she asked, a teasing lilt entering her voice.

“No. No vampires,” Richart said with a light laugh. “How are you feeling?”

“Not that great. That’s actually why I was calling. I wanted to let you know I’m playing hooky from work again. I think I may have done too much too fast. My fever went back up today and I pretty much feel like crap.”

“I’m sorry, darling. Can I bring you anything? Some soup, perhaps?”

Melanie looked at Bastien.

“His girlfriend,” he murmured. “She’s fighting that flu that’s been going around.”

Melanie grimaced in sympathy. “It’s a nasty one. The network employees who have come down with it have been missing up to two weeks of work and come back noticeably thinner.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Richart asked.

Melanie spoke up. “Orange juice and club soda.”

Richart turned around. “What?”

“Take her some orange juice and mix it with club soda. It will help settle her stomach and give her some vitamin C at the same time.”

Richart nodded. “Thank you.”

“And crackers,” Bastien added. “Saltines.” He had heard Sarah mention that crackers had helped curb her nausea during her transformation. She hadn’t had the flu, but . . . nausea was nausea, wasn’t it?

Richart’s face reflected his surprise at Bastien’s input. “Thank you.”

Bastien consulted his watch. “If you’re going to get her the organic stuff, you need to go now. Whole Foods closes in fifteen minutes.”

“Right,” Richart acknowledged, then spoke into the phone. “I’m going to pick up a few things at the store, then come by, if that’s all right.”

“You know it is,” she said. “But I don’t want you to go to any trouble for me, Richart. You have enough on your plate.”

“It’s no trouble, sweetheart. Try to get some rest. I shall be there shortly.”

Melanie couldn’t help but be curious about the woman who had stolen the French Immortal Guardian’s heart. Everything about him softened when he spoke to her. His voice. His features. His body language. He clearly adored her.

Richart tucked his phone away. “Well. This is awkward. Dr. Lipton . . .” He paused. “Let me think how to word this . . .”

Bastien rolled his eyes. “He isn’t supposed to leave me unsupervised and wants your discretion.”

“Oh.” Really? Bastien was supposed to be watched
every
minute? “Yes, of course.” She wondered how much of that was distrust on Seth’s part and how much was wanting a bit of protection for the heavily disliked newcomer. Did Seth and David worry that one of the other immortals might try to avenge Ewen’s death?

Richart pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, then tucked it away and combed his fingers through his hair. “How do I look?”

Melanie grinned. “Very handsome.”

Bastien eyed Richart balefully. “If you ask me to check your breath, I’m going to hit you again.”

Richart flipped him off with a grin and vanished into thin air.

Melanie looked up at Bastien. “I know, as a doctor and a researcher, I should find a more clinical way to say this, but that is
so
cool.”

He laughed. “Yes, it is.”

Dr. Whetsman entered the room, his attention on an open file cradled in his hands. Raising his gaze, he caught sight of them, blanched and—without breaking stride—made a sharp U-turn and strode right back out.

“Who the hell was that?” Bastien grumbled.

“Dr. Whetsman.”

His countenance darkened. “The prick who scratched your face when Vince had his last break?”

“Yes,” Melanie said, stunned that he even remembered her mentioning it. So much had happened since then. And she had only mentioned it the one time when they were facing Vince as he struggled for lucidity.

Bastien’s eyes flashed amber. A growl rumbled forth from his muscled throat.

When he took a step after the retreating doctor, Melanie grabbed his arm. “Whoa there, tiger. Leave him alone.”

“He hit you.”

“He scratched me while he screamed like a little girl and ran away from a crazed vampire.”

His expression changed from fury to amusement to one of self-loathing. “Oh, hell. I forgot you were wounded.” Bending, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to an exam table.

Melanie gasped. “What are you . . . ?”

He seated her on it, then began to unwind the bandage he had applied.

“Bastien, you don’t have to . . .” She broke off when he took one of his daggers and applied it to her jeans. Her snug jeans. Which became something very close to Daisy Dukes on one side as he swiftly and efficiently cut away her pant leg above her injury.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice light with curiosity. “Your emotions are all over the place.”

It really was disconcerting that he could know what she felt anytime he wanted to simply by reaching out and touching her. The only thing worse would be his being able to read her thoughts.

“Just off the top of my head?” she said. “I’m glad I shaved my legs last night.”

He grinned. “What else?”

“I like you touching me, even though the cut is stinging like crazy.”

His eyes began to glow. “I thought we weren’t going to go there.”

“I’m a grown woman. I can go wherever I want to go.”

“Why would you
want
to go there?” His tone was pure puzzlement.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Anyone who spent five minutes in his company knew he was something of a mess, still trying to find his way in his new life. Still battling the bitterness of the past. Reluctant to trust after being deceived by—oh—about a hundred of his closest friends.

“There’s just something about you,” she said finally, “that . . . lures me.”

Bastien pilfered first-aid supplies from nearby drawers and cabinets.

Melanie sucked in a pained breath as he disinfected the cut. It felt as though he were holding a blow torch to her skin.

“Sorry,” he said, his eyes losing some of their glow as his brow furrowed.

She nodded, blinking back tears. Crap, it hurt. But it didn’t halt her body’s response when he leaned down and blew on her thigh in an attempt to squelch the fire.

Giving in to temptation, she reached out and combed her fingers through his dark locks.

She had never dated a man with long hair before. Bastien’s fell past his shoulders in a sleek midnight curtain.

It was so soft. She hadn’t expected that. More often than not when men let their hair grow long it looked frizzy, split-endy, or just plain greasy and in need of a wash. Bastien’s appeared as smooth and shiny as that of the models in shampoo commercials. Smoother and shinier than
Melanie’s
, making her wish she had found a better conditioner or used a curling iron or
something
to make her brown locks less blah. She was always just so tired when she got home in the morning. Even two extra minutes spent combing a conditioner through her hair in the shower seemed like too much work.

Bastien’s breath halted the moment her fingers sank into his raven tresses. His eyes flared bright amber again. His lids lowered.

Melanie combed his hair back on one side, let it fall forward in graceful waves. Heart pounding, she buried
both
hands in his hair—so thick—and slid her fingers, nails clipped short to accommodate her work at the computer, along his scalp.

A growl, more like the rumbling purr a leopard might make, arose deep in his throat.

Her pulse spiked.

Bastien braced his hands on the edge of the exam table, gripping it tightly.

“What are you doing, Dr. Lipton?” he asked hoarsely.

“Melanie,” she corrected, heart pounding so hard she was sure Cliff and Joe must hear it in their apartments across the hall.

“What are you doing, Melanie?”

She repeated the action. “Whatever feels good,” she whispered.

That drew a groan from him. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead on her shoulder.

She waited for him to turn his head and nuzzle her neck, maybe take a little bite. But he didn’t. He increased the pressure of his forehead on her shoulder, pressed her back the tiniest bit, the battle raging within him palpable.

“I need you to not do that,” he said, voice low.

“Why?”

“Because every time you touch me I feel how much you want me and it makes me want you even more.”

Her blood heated. “I don’t have a problem with that,” she murmured.

Bastien groaned and did turn his head, then pressed his lips to her throat. “You should.” He lifted his head, stared at her with those incredible, luminescent eyes. So bright. So beautiful. So full of desire.

Mere inches separated them.

He raised one hand, cupped her cheek, smoothed his thumb across her skin.

Melanie had never wanted a man to kiss her more.

He shifted, leaned closer, touched his lips to hers.

Her breath caught.

“I can feel everything
you
feel,” he whispered.

“Is that the only reason you’re kissing me?”

His head moved from side to side in a barely discernible shake. “You don’t know how much I wish it were.” His lips again closed on hers, firmer, hungrier.

Melanie hummed in pleasure as fire licked its way through her veins. His tongue met hers, stroked, enticed. So hot she thought she might melt onto the table.

Abruptly, he broke the contact and again braced both hands on the table, rested his forehead on her shoulder.

“We can’t do this,” he said gruffly. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my long life, Melanie. A
lot
. And, knowing me, I’ll make many more. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

“What makes you think I’d be a mistake?” She couldn’t change his mind if she didn’t know his train of thought.

He straightened suddenly, shoulders stiff, eyes lowered, though not enough that she couldn’t still see their glow. Bastien may do his damnedest to appear cold and indifferent, but his eyes reflected the strong emotions that whipped through him.