Lover At Last(89)

The door was shut.

“Okay, especially after all that, I really need to check your vitals,” Doc Jane said, easing the female back against the pillows and helping to resettle the covers that had been thrown off.

Qhuinn didn’t move as a blood-pressure cuff was slid up a slender arm and a series of puff-puff-puffs sounded.

Phury, on the other hand, paced around—at least until he frowned and took out his phone. “Is this why Havers called me last night?”

Layla nodded. “I went there looking for help.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” the Brother muttered to himself.

“What did Havers say?”

“I don’t know because I didn’t listen to the voice mail. I thought I’d have no reason to.”

“He indicated he would deal only with you.”

At that, Phury looked over at Qhuinn, that yellow stare narrowing. “Are you going to mate her?”

“No.”

Phury’s expression grew icy again. “What the hell kind of male are you—”

“He’s not in love with me,” Layla cut in. “Nor I with him.”

As the Primale’s head whipped around, Layla continued, “We wanted a young.” She sat forward as Doc Jane listened to her heart from behind. “It began and finished there.”

Now the Brother cursed. “I don’t get it.”

“We are both orphans in many ways,” the Chosen said. “We are—were…seeking a family of our own.”

Phury exhaled, and wandered over to the desk in the corner, taking a load off in the dainty chair. “Well. Ah. I guess this changes things a little. I thought that—”

“It matters naught,” Layla interjected. “It is what it is. Or…was, as the case may be.”

Qhuinn found himself rubbing his eyes for no particular reason. Not like they were blurry or some shit. Nah. Not at all.

It was just so…damned sad. The whole fucking thing. From Layla’s condition, to Phury’s impotent exhaustion, to his own driving ache in the chest, it was just some seriously sad goddamned business.





THIRTY-ONE


“This is just what I’m looking for.”

As Trez spoke, he walked around the vast, empty space of the warehouse, his boots making loud impacts that echoed. From behind him, he could easily sense the relief that wafted out of the real estate agent standing by the door.

Negotiating with humans? Like taking candy from a baby.

“You could transform this part of the city,” the woman said. “It’s a real opportunity.”

“True enough.” Although it wasn’t like the kind of stores and restaurants that would follow him were highbrow: more like tattoo and piercing shops, cheap buffets, XXX theaters.

But he didn’t have a problem with all that. Even pimps could take pride in their work—and frankly, he tended to trust tattoo artists waaaaaaaay more than many so-called “upstanding citizens.”

Trez pivoted around. The space was tremendous, nearly as tall as it was wide, with rows upon rows of square windows, many of which had been broken and covered up with plywood. The roof was sound—or at least mostly so, the corrugated tin sheaths keeping the snow, although not the cold, out. The floor was concrete, but there was obviously a lower level—at various points there were trapdoors set underfoot, although none of them were easily opened. Electricals looked okay; HVAC was nonexistent; plumbing was a joke.

In his mind, however, he didn’t see the place as it was now—nope, he could picture it transformed, a club of Limelight proportions. Naturally, the project was going to require a huge capital infusion, and a number of months to get the work done; in the end, however, Caldwell was going to have a new hot spot—and he was going to have another venue to make money in.

Everybody wins.

“So would you like to make an offer?”

Trez looked over at the woman. She was Ms. Professional in her black wool coat, and her dark suit with the below-the-knee skirt—ninety percent of her flesh covered, and not just because it was December. And yet even all buttoned up with the sensible hair, she was pretty in the way that all women were to him: She had breasts and soft smooth skin, and a place for him to play in between her legs.

And she liked him.

He could tell by the way she dropped her eyes from his, and by the fact that she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands—they were in her coat pockets, then playing with her hair, then tucking her silk shirt in….

He could think of some things to keep her busy.

Trez smiled as he walked across to her—and didn’t stop until he was just inside her personal space. “Yes. I want it.”