Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(19)

“Sorry, mate,” he said as I entered the trees, “the girl’s already mine.”

“I found her first,” I said. Then I punched him in the throat.





Chapter 8


Moira

The hairs rose on the back of my neck. I could hear the hushed sound of my own shallow breathing, and my heart went from erratic to spastic.

For an odd moment, I had the terrible feeling that if I moved even the slightest bit, something big and scary would attack me. Fear was a stupid, irrational thing, and I knew it. But still I was frozen, my fingers trembling on the car door handle, my other hand clutching my tote.

I heard a big, quick swoosh . . . then . . . nothing.

Silence enveloped me, and it felt thick and strange, like wet cotton had been stuffed into my ears.

I took a breath and then whirled around, ready to swing my bag at an intruder—and let me tell you, that Theodora Monroe book added substantial heft.

I was alone.

The wind tickled at my hair, sudden and playful, as if it hadn’t abandoned me. Then the parking lot lights flickered back on.

My heart rate, however, remained at a steady one thousand rpm.

Because I was stubborn, I took a minute to study the area, to try and determine what had been behind me. I glanced up at the steady blue hue of the light, and made a mental note to get those damned things checked.

Then I slid into my car, eased the tote onto the passenger seat, and carefully started the motor.

By the time I reached the street that led to my house, my heart rate was normal and I could breathe again.

I had no idea what had happened. Maybe reading about vampires before venturing out into the dark had messed with my mind.

In any case, I had more important matters to worry about.

Like what to wear.

• • •

I stood near the table laden with mini quiches, puff pastries, and prosciutto-wrapped melon. I held a champagne flute while I mulled over the selections, even though I’d already filled my plate four times. What? They were tiny plates. Every so often I would look at the open double doors that led into the ballroom.

Where was Dove?

She was never on time, but being late always made her arrival spectacular. Still, we were nearly two hours into the gala and Dove hadn’t showed. That wasn’t like her. Half an hour, yes. An hour, maybe. Two hours? Never. Sheesh. Had she tripped on those outrageous shoes and broken her neck?

I slipped into a corner, pulled the cell out of my beaded wristlet, and called Dove. The phone rang and rang, and finally voice mail came on. “Apparently I didn’t want to talk to you,” she intoned. “Leave a message. If. You. Dare.”

Oh, I dared.

“Where are you? Are you okay?” I hissed into the receiver. Then I realized I sounded like worried Mama Bear. “I’m bored! I’ve eaten my weight in quiches, and you’re supposed to prevent me from doing that. If you don’t call me in the next five minutes, I’m going to the dessert table without you. I will eat all the cheesecake, Dove. All of it.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone back into the little purse. Worry nibbled at me like vicious hamsters. Surely Dove was fine . . . just being extra Dove-y, or something. And I really wanted her to see my dress. I suspected it might actually rate Dove approval.

I looked down at said dress and sighed. I’d unearthed the purple sheath and matching heels from the closet. With my hair pulled into a topknot, and the amethyst jewelry I wore, I looked good. And with all the lotion and powder and spritz I’d put on after my shower, I smelled good, too. Considering I spent a lot of time in the same clothes, sweating daily, showering . . . um, weekly, and ignoring stench and beauty in the name of archaeology, dressing up in this kind of finery was unusual. And uncomfortable. Why couldn’t some designer make T-shirts and khakis the next big trend?

I looked at my wristlet, debating whether to call Dove again. Maybe I should go to her apartment and make sure she hadn’t suffocated after putting on her corset.

Dove was an irreverent bitch, but she was responsible. And she didn’t lie. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. I was giving her fifteen minutes. If she didn’t show by then, I would track her down. And if she was alive . . . I would kill her.

I sipped my champagne. The college orchestra played lovely eighteenth-century music, and performers from our dance and theater programs were showcasing Baroque dances, such as the minuet and the gavotte.

Then the tempo changed to an upbeat tune, and the performers dispersed, grabbing partners from the watching crowd and dancing with sweet abandon.

“Good evening, Dr. Jameson.”

I turned my gaze to the gentleman who’d approached me. He was taller than I was by several inches, and I was six feet. He was also nicely filled out, muscled in a non-brutish way, with sandy brown hair and eyes so blue they looked gray . . . and cold. Like fog rolling over a fresh grave. I had no idea where that imagery was coming from, but that’s the feeling he gave me. He was handsomely dressed in an old-fashioned tailored tuxedo. I had pictures of my grandfather from his youth in the same style of formal wear.