Tracking the Tempest (3 page)

Or at least he used to.

Because he was either stealing the itsy-bitsy black BMW we were walking toward in Logan's parking garage or he'd bought a new car. This time my eyebrows did manage to speak volumes.

Ryu grinned. “I got bored,” he said, his voice arch.

“What
is
that thing?” I asked. The little car
was
beautiful. But it stank of overcompensation, midlife crisis, or general skankiness. Ryu had nothing to compensate for, and he was too pimp to be skank. That left midlife crisis. He
was
a few decades short of two hundred years old and probably due for some sort of nervous breakdown.

“A Z4 M Roadster,” he answered me, running a hand over the car's hood.

“What happened to the Porsche?”

Ryu smiled innocently at me. I knew that smile well. It was the smile he gave me right before he did something unspeakably filthy. “I had an accident” was all he said as he opened the trunk and began stuffing it full of my suitcase.

“Do I want to know?” I asked when he'd finally wrestled the trunk closed.

“No,” he replied as he came around to open my door.

I let myself be herded into the car, buckling myself in and then twice checking to make sure I was securely fastened. I pulled the belt sharply to be certain that it worked.

“You probably learned an important lesson about safe driving from the accident I'm not supposed to ask about, right?” I inquired of my vampire as he settled into his own seat. Ryu gave me his most angelic smile, the one he used when I was
really
in trouble.

“And you don't want to wreck this nice, new car, do you?” I continued, praying he didn't want to wreck this nice, new car. The vampire ignored me.

“Ryu, you have all this lovely fresh upholstery. You don't want me to wet myself with fear, do you? Ryu? Ryu?”

Once belted in, Ryu adjusted his rearview mirror and then deigned to turn to me.

“Honey, why do you worry? You know I'm always safe.”

“No,” I said. “You are not ‘safe.’ You drive like a fucking lunatic.”

“Jane, don't worry.” Ryu chuckled as he started the engine. It growled like a rabid dingo. “This is Boston.” I thought about that. He wouldn't have to be so aggressive on his home turf, right? And Boston was famous for its tight squeezes and tiny roads.
Boston never burned!
I reminded myself. How nuts could you drive in a veritable labyrinth?

He whipped out of the parking space so fast my stomach was left sitting there, burbling in surprise. He aggressively shouldered in front of one of those faux-military SUV wank machines that could have steamrolled us flat as a Fruit Roll-Up. He braked just long enough to fling money at the bored parking attendant in her little booth. She didn't even flinch when he gunned the evil little car so sharply that we barely missed crashing through the slowly lifting barrier.

“What happened to ‘This is Boston, Jane'?” I asked my demon lover through clenched teeth.

“It
is
Boston, Jane,” Ryu began as he embarked upon a complicated maneuver that involved seven lane changes, two milk trucks, an old VW van with every inch covered in S
UPPORT
O
UR
T
ROOPS
stickers, and a few choice expletives.

My heart was in my throat. My stomach had retreated to my shoes.

“… and
everyone
in Boston drives like a fucking lunatic,” Ryu finally finished, just as he slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the car that had totally just cut us off while going about ninety miles per hour.

It was a black-and-white Boston Police squad car, lights off, just making the rounds.

I'd never been a very spiritual person, but at that moment, I learned to pray.

CHAPTER THREE

I
t wasn't until Ryu told me we were home that I opened my eyes. I'd shut them when we'd reached Storrow Drive and Ryu had bypassed Ridiculous and gone directly to Ludicrous Speed.

“Jane, darling, you all right?” The little shit leered at me.

“Smoke if you got 'em,” I mumbled as Ryu helped me out of the car.

“Huh?”

I shook my head. “
Spaceballs
. Never mind.”

“Ah. Anyway, welcome to my home.”

We were in Bay Village, looking at an adorable brick townhouse with a navy blue front door and navy blue shutters. It looked like a miniature version of one of the grand townhouses we'd seen on Beacon Hill.

“Ryu,” I breathed. “It's lovely.” And it was. The whole street was lovely. Small, tree-lined sidewalks meandered alongside other townhouses, all of which had doors and shutters painted different colors. Many had window boxes that I'm sure would be full of flowers come spring. Everything was small and perfect and neat; Bay Village offered a little oasis of order tucked into the middle of downtown Boston right up against the glorious chaos of Chinatown.

“I like it here,” he acceded, looking pleased.
And predatory,
I thought as he took my hand to lead me forward. “I'll get your suitcase later, unless you need it now.” I shook my head. After all, we couldn't fornicate until we'd gotten past that stately front door, and I was as eager to get inside as Ryu.

As we crossed the threshold it suddenly struck me that I was finally in Ryu's Boston. I couldn't believe that after having known my lover for months now on such an intimate basis, I had no idea how he lived.

Warm sunlight flooded into the townhouse: The wall opposite the door was made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows, interrupted only by glass French doors that led out into a courtyard shared by the neighboring townhouses. The walls of Ryu's home were a soft white, although I could see various accent walls in darker shades of dun or taupe. I could also see lots of leather and chrome, and tons o' technology. A flat-screen television took up almost an entire wall across from the Bauhaus-inspired sofa and chairs that dominated the sitting area to our left. In front of us was the dining area. Its glass-and-chrome dining table winked at me in the soft light. To our right was a gorgeous open-plan kitchen: all dark granite, shiny black-lacquer cabinets, and gleaming dark appliances. An enormous island of granite helped to divide the living space from the kitchen. All the warm sunlight made Ryu's home even more like that of a Hollywood movie set. Everything was perfect—tasteful, polished, and coordinated—with an overall effect that screamed
money
and
masculine
.

Ryu wrapped himself around me from behind, his lips finding my earlobe. He suckled gently, making me melt back against him, before he finally spoke.

“Do you like, Miss True?”

“It's gorgeous, Ryu,” I answered, tilting my head and raising my cheek a bit so that my ear brushed against his lips again. He obliged me with another little suckle and a nip of his teeth.

“Come in, make yourself at home,” he said, as he pulled away to walk toward his kitchen. I followed him, running a hand over the beautifully aged leather of the sofa. I realized it was probably not Bauhaus-inspired but Bauhaus-for-real.

Ryu pulled a bottle of champagne out of a built-in wine refrigerator next to the actual refrigerator. I excused myself to use the washroom that I could see lurking off the kitchen, tucked underneath the stairs that led upstairs. It was all marble and chrome, of course, with an unbelievably artsy toilet that made me giggle until it took me forever to figure out how to flush the damned thing.

I heard the pop of a cork as I washed my hands and I opened the bathroom door just as Ryu finished topping off two champagne flutes. A bowl of sex-red strawberries beckoned me from the island.

“To you, Jane, and to Valentine's Day. That most romantic of massacres,” Ryu said, after he'd passed me my flute. I raised my glass to his and we clinked.

“And to you, Ryu. Thank you for everything,” I added.

We drank, Ryu never taking his eyes off mine. The second we put our glasses down, he had me in his arms.

“I've imagined you here so many times,” he whispered as he kissed my cheek, my forehead, my eyelids. I relaxed into his hold, let him find my lips with his. Our kiss was slow, gentle, and—unlike the greedy need of our airport PDA session—it was a kiss of promise, a kiss that said we
did
have the whole weekend and that we needn't rush things.

A promise I blatantly ignored as I raised my hand between us to run my fingertips down the expensive fabric of his shirt to the slick steel of his belt buckle. But before I could get in a good crotch fondle, Ryu's phone blared out a ringtone that sounded like a siren.

“Shit,” Ryu said, pulling away. He looked down to where my hand hovered above his groin. “Fuck, and damn,” he added for good measure. “I have to take that; it's one of my deputies.”

I shrugged and let go of his belt. Ryu was the supernatural equivalent of a police detective, and I knew he had to do what he had to do.

“Yes?” Ryu demanded of his cell phone as he strode toward the door that led out of the kitchen. I got a brief glimpse of a cluttered office before the door shut firmly on my curiosity.

I quaffed the rest of my bubbly, which fizzled its way directly to my brain. While it was up there, the champagne reminded me that Ryu's inopportune phone call had given me the chance to do the
other
thing I really wanted to do the moment I saw Ryu's front door. I wanted to snoop. And so snoop I did, starting with the kitchen. Which was
hilarious
. Not because it wasn't as impressive as it had appeared from the front door. Everything
was
state of the art, but the reason it shone so was that it was almost entirely unused—he still had plastic coverings on the racks inside the oven. The wine refrigerator was full, but the actual refrigerator was empty except for beer, bananas, bacon, and bread.

B is for ‘bachelor'!
my brain chortled as I started in on the kitchen drawers.

Again, everything was state of the art, expensive, and entirely unused. Really fancy knives sat in an expensive butcher's block, all but the largest still with their handles wrapped. A salad spinner sat in a box and a Le Creuset Dutch oven was fresh from the factory, still taped shut. Ryu did have a well-used microwave, espresso maker, blender, and toaster oven on the counter, but there were no other appliances. And except for dishes and glasses, the cupboards were practically empty, as were the drawers. One held cutlery, another dish towels, and a final drawer held about one hundred takeout menus.

I could hear Ryu arguing in a low, heated voice with someone. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I didn't think the conversation was going to wrap up any time soon, so I went right ahead and made my way upstairs.

To the left of the landing, I found what had to be a guest bedroom. It looked like a luxurious hotel room—both inviting and impersonal. Then there was a guest bathroom that was small but, again, luxurious. Which left the last door, the closed one, to be Ryu's bedroom. I turned the handle slowly and let the door swing open.

There were no sex swings or stripper poles or mirrors on the ceiling. And yet, just like the man who made his home here, the room reeked of sensuality. The bed was
huge,
first of all. It was like a playing field, dominating the room. And, except for two nightstands, a low bureau, and a small armchair, there was nothing else in the bedroom. No television for late-night talk-show viewing or bookcase full of late-night reading. The furniture arrangement clearly stated that this room was about the bed and everything that occurred there.

Maybe the sex swing's in the closet,
my libido hummed optimistically as I stuck my head between the two doors that led off the bedroom. The ridiculously organized walk-in closet served as a showcase for Ryu's impeccable taste, but there was no sex swing, much to my libido's disappointment. Meanwhile, the other door led into an amazing en suite wet room. Sex swing forgotten, the libido purred with anticipation at the granite shower with its plethora of spigots and jets and seating upon which to lounge. I wasn't all that surprised that in Ryu's world, even bathrooms became conducive for sex.

I shut the door on the wet room and returned to the bed. Standing before it, I giggled, for the bedding was all black satin. In A.S. Byatt's novel
Possession,
when the slightly repressed English heroine thinks of her louche former lover, Fergus Wolfe, she sees an unmade bed with sheets like “whipped egg-whites.” Inspired by Byatt, whenever I'd thought of Ryu, I'd thought of black satin sheets. And here they were, in all their playboy glory.

I kicked off my old green Converse and stretched out on the bed, resting after my long day of travel and the stress of Ryu's kamikaze driving. But the call to snoop still rang in my ears and—after listening for a moment to make sure Ryu wasn't sneaking up on me—I opened the drawer of the right-hand nightstand. Which contained four long silk scarves and a silk blindfold, still sporting their store tags. I snorted in glee as the sight of the black silk both tickled my funny bone
and
tinkled my ivories. The vampire had a thing about tying me up, and while I definitely wasn't complaining, I did keep threatening to go Freud on him. After all, I wasn't entirely sure he was kidding when he said that one day he wasn't going to let me go.

But so far, every time I got him on the couch, we ended up having sex. It didn't take a doctorate in psychology to diagnose the both of us with impulse-control issues. We were still like kids in a candy store with one another, and I loved it.

Besides the lamp on the other table was one of those electronic picture frames that showed digital images. I flicked it on, and to my astonishment, there I was: sticking my tongue out at the camera from the steps of the Notre-Dame de Québec basilica cathedral. The next picture was of Ryu and me, heads nestled together, grinning. Then there was a beautiful black-and-white photo of a woman sleeping, her naked back to the camera, a sheet draped over her hips to protect her modesty. After a second I realized it was me, and I reached out to turn off the frame. I felt uncomfortable for some reason, even though they were pictures of me that—with the exception of the one where I was asleep—I knew had been taken. I blinked at the frame for a second before reaching for the drawer of the second nightstand.

The other drawer was empty except for random detritus, like a broken watch. Seeing Ryu's junk drawer was the first indication that a real person lived here and not just a rogue gigolo.

I eased the drawer shut and lay back on the pillows, smiling. It felt good to be here, to see how Ryu lived when I wasn't around. Turning my head to nuzzle into the pillow beneath me, which smelled deliciously of Ryu, I rolled over to lie on my side. Then I reached toward the nightstand to angle the clock so I could see what time it was. In doing so, I jostled the old-fashioned rotary telephone standing bulky and proud on the table, revealing a nondescript address book hidden beneath it.

It was black. I told myself that this scenario was way too fucking clichéd. There was no way that thing was Ryu's “little black book.”

My heart sinking, and my hands suddenly trembling, I reached for it.

Don't do it
,
Jane,
my brain warned me sagely.
You're not going to like what you see.

But I could no more not look at what was in that book than I could resist rubbernecking at a car accident.

The contents of the book were laid out in Ryu's neat, professional handwriting. There were names and phone numbers, as I knew there would be. And there was even a vampire version of the sort of sexual rating system a human male might use. Instead of a gal's abilities in the sack, however, Ryu's system for evaluating a woman involved her vulnerability to glamour (some humans were more resistant than others), the amount of elemental essence in her blood (low, medium, or high), and her blood type.

I closed my eyes, letting the book flop forward onto my chest.

Dear gods,
I thought.
Am I in here?

I once again raised the book and, with trembling fingers, searched back toward
T
. While there were quite a few entries, there was no Jane True listed. Just to be on the safe side, I searched under
J
as well. I wasn't listed there, either.

I shut the book and stuck it back under Ryu's phone. Suddenly cold, I burrowed under Ryu's black satin duvet, curling up in a fetal position.

There hadn't been anything I didn't know in that book, but seeing it all laid out like that made Ryu's existence so much more real than it had been. I was just thankful I hadn't found my own name among all the others.

That list of names is no different from that drawer of takeout menus in his kitchen,
I realized. I didn't know if that idea made me feel better or worse.

I could still hear the murmur of Ryu's voice downstairs. Keeping my eyes closed, I let the warmth from Ryu's bed seep into my skin, even though my heart still felt chilled. I wished I could just pass out, but I wasn't a napper. I was tired from traveling all day and getting up so early and having swum so late. Not to mention that, at that moment, I would give anything for the sweet oblivion of sleep to take me away from my frenzied thoughts.