I’d heard sex while giving blood to a vampire was the most incredible lovemaking of all, but I couldn’t imagine any physical sensation being more intense than what we’d just had. I just had to ask. “What kind of lover are you as a vampire?”
He kissed my forehead. “Probably no better, though the glamour no doubt makes it feel otherwise. Being bitten by a vampire gets some victims off without sex.”
“I wonder if my attacker had sex with me.” The though erased almost all the good feelings I had, and I shuddered. “I’m not sure I’d want to remember that.”
Tristan hugged me tight to his wonderful body and kissed my forehead again. “I’m sorry to push you, but we really need to know.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Is this business with the vampire serial killer hurting your political aspirations?”
Tristan nodded. “You are a smart girl. I’ve been accused of trying to cover up the killer’s identity by my political opponents. The idea is getting a foothold in the county.”
“I guess that comes with the territory. You are the vampire leader of this community.” I regarded him. With his GQ good looks, he was such a pleasure to look at. “Is it true you’re planning to eventually run for president of the United States?”
Tristan snorted and found something else to look at. “That’s a rather lofty goal, seeing how vampires have only been able to vote for the last thirty years.”
I ran a fingertip over his jawline. I had fallen into the old routine of good conversation that made a client happy after sex. My clients always appreciated that as much, if not more, than my ability to get them off. I didn’t have to do it anymore, but old habits die harder than we do, apparently.
“Some of my clients have said if there’s a para who could pull off getting into the White House, it’s you.”
Tristan kept his expression and tone noncommittal, but I detected the pleasure in his eyes. “The community leaders here think Fulton Falls is a bigger deal than it is.”
I grinned. “I got that from Congressman Fletcher last time he passed through.”
Tristan looked at me in surprised delight. “My, my, Miss Payson, you do have quite the clientele.” He mused out loud, “So George is that impressed with me.”
From outside the closed door, Dan called. “Tristan?”
“Yes?”
“I just checked out the coroner’s office. They finished up Brandilynn’s autopsy. The cops are on the way to get the report.”
Fun time was over. Tristan and I stood, completely clothed again. He took up my hand and kissed the back of it with courtly aplomb. “Thank you for a lovely time, Brandilynn.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” Good Lord, had it ever been.
“And now the unpleasant awaits us. Let’s see what we can find out about your death.”
He preceded me to the door, opening it to find Dan waiting just outside. My rugged Marlboro Man searched my face. His lips thinned, apparently not liking what he saw.
Not yours, I thought at him. I still had a hard time not blushing as he glared.
What the heck was wrong with me?
Chapter Eight
I had never been in the coroner’s office, but both men had. Tristan transported me there. I stayed away from Dan since he looked so grumpy.
We arrived in the autopsy room, where three sheeted corpses lay patiently on their tables. Tristan and Dan had no problems finding the place, and I wondered what had transpired in their afterlives that they would have such familiarity with the cold, steel-accented room. I decided I’d rather not ask.
Four people walked in within moments of our entrance. I only recognized Sheriff Grayson. Flanking him were a woman in a white lab coat and two guys in suits.
Dan provided the one-sided introductions. “That’s Coroner Kris Landry and FBI agents Heany and Neuhaus.”
I almost stuck out a hand to shake with the people who didn’t know I stood there. Silly dead girl.
They gathered around one table holding a covered stiff, and I swallowed. “Is that me?”
Coroner Landry, her dark hair shot with gray and arranged in a practiced topknot, switched on a strong overhead light. She then waited patiently as one of the agents argued passionately with the sheriff.
Agent Heany was in his late thirties, an earnest-faced man whose hair was thinning fast. Some guys look good with no hair, and with Heany’s nicely rounded skull, I figured him to be a perfect candidate for nude flesh. He should just get it over with and shave off what hung on, I thought. It would take years from his looks.
His accent sounded funny to me, a little nasally without the down-home Southern twang I knew so well. Still, his voice produced a pleasant tenor I didn’t mind at all. “I agree on who is going to the World Series, but no way the Braves are going to take the Yankees, Sheriff. Most of your boys are past their prime.”