“I take it you’re French? I spent time on the Continent in my youth,” he told her. “My father was British, my mother Spanish, but I spent time in Paris.”
“Oh, indeed?” Under normal circumstances, she would have loved to discuss his youth, which she suspected was of a similar time to her own, but the girl in the blouse was clearly mortal. Lizette could hear her heartbeat and smell the blood pumping through her veins. She turned to her. “I’m Lizette, it’s a pleasure. And you are?”
The girl didn’t look particularly scared. She looked angry. Very, very angry. “I’m Josie Lynn.”
“Enchanté,” Lizette added, because there just wasn’t an English equivalent that sounded as pleasing to her French ear.
“I’m Cajun but I don’t speak French,” Josie Lynn said. “And I want to know who the hell drugged me last night!”
That startled Lizette. “We were drugged?” she asked Johnny.
“It certainly seems like a reasonable explanation,” he said. “Which means we should probably be a little concerned about Zelda. She is out cold, and I would cover her up with my shirt but I can’t get my shirt off with this handcuff on. Is there a blanket or something around here? Maybe we should call for backup from Stella and Katie.”
Lizette knew Stella was of course Johnny’s sister and that Katie was married to Berto Cortez. She realized that Johnny was concerned about Zelda, and it did touch her just a tiny bit. Not wanting to reveal anything vampiric to Josie Lynn, she spoke French to Johnny. “So you think Zelda may be in danger, given that she is a mortal? If a drug could affect us as vampires that dramatically, what could it do to her, yes?”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding.
The truth was, Johnny had no clue what the hell Lizette was saying. He didn’t speak French. He barely spoke English with any sort of rhyme or reason, and certainly without any regard for proper grammar. But for some reason, Lizette thought he was worldly enough to speak her language, and he wasn’t about to disabuse her of that notion right now. It must have been his counting to three in French, but that was all he knew how to speak in about six languages. Along with the obvious yes and no. But he just didn’t want to admit that. Maybe it was because they might have had sex with each other, but Johnny felt compelled to impress Lizette. He knew she thought he was a jackass, and normally, that wouldn’t bother him. He also thought she was perhaps the most irritating woman he’d ever met, with her clipboard and her lists and her rules. But she had danced like a French hooker the night before, and with her hair down now . . . looking luscious and carefree, well, he didn’t find her quite as annoying.
He hoped the sex had been good. Even if she never remembered it, he’d like to think that he’d kept it up for a good long haul, and that she had screamed his name in violent orgasm at least three times. That was the way he was going to remember it. If they’d actually had sex. He wasn’t exactly sure. Did women have a secret way of knowing that? They always seemed to have a longer post-sex satisfaction. Ten minutes after he pulled out, it was like he’d never had sex in the first place, but women were wired different. So if they had, chances were Lizette would know in some mysterious female way.
Maybe he would ask her later.
“Okay, I’m calling Stella,” he said. “I think Zelda should be checked out by a doctor, just in case.” He turned to Josie Lynn. “How are you feeling? Do you feel okay?”
“I have a splitting headache and I’m wearing the stupidest shirt I’ve ever seen in my life, but other than that, I’ll live.”
“Good.” Johnny shot a glance at Drake, wondering what exactly had gone down between him and this girl. He didn’t even remember seeing her at the wedding, though admittedly, his memories didn’t extend much past the first bridal dance. “So what did we all drink in common, the punch?”
“I had one sip,” Josie Lynn said. “One lousy sip.”
“Lizette and I had like three glasses each.”
“I had about six,” Drake said. “Dude, I was thirsty.”
Johnny pulled his phone out of his pocket and called his sister while Drake went in search of better pants. Any pants would be better than those. Tighty whities would be better than those.
It took ten rings for Stella to answer. “Hey, Stella, have you seen Saxon? And did you drink that punch last night? Because I’m here with Drake and we’re hungover and can’t remember a damn thing. It’s like my wake all over again, only I’m not dead and this time I’m one of the victims, so actually, it’s much less fun.” Especially considering what he’d most like to remember was who had done the unbuttoning on Lizette’s blouse. Him or her?