Nightbred(74)
The urge to hurry back to the stronghold had disappeared as well. Although Lucan hadn’t been responsible for what he’d done or said, she still felt bruised inside. She’d never taken his love for granted, but the bond they shared was supposed to guarantee it would last forever. Discovering that someone else could make it and Lucan go away had left her feeling brittle, as if one more knock might smash her to pieces.
“Excuse me.” The blond woman walked up to her, and held out her mobile. “You dropped this on the grass.”
“Thanks.” Sam took it and pocketed it. “You should go and talk to the officer over there; he’s going to need a statement from you.”
“I’ve already done that.” She glanced around. “I was wondering, Detective, if you knew where I might get a glass of wine at this hour. I’m still feeling a bit shaken.”
“You certainly don’t show it, and my name is Samantha.” Sam noted the soft English accent and the pale skin; the woman must have just arrived on vacation. “There’s a decent pub just around the corner, and I’m off duty now, so how about I buy you the drink?”
“That’s very kind of you. I’m Werren.” A smile briefly warmed her cool features. “I don’t want to keep you from going home.”
Home was Lucan, but she didn’t want to go there. Not until she was ready to be his sygkenis instead of a screaming bitch. “It’s okay. Come on.”
Neptune’s Bar and Grill had lost the grill to a kitchen fire some years back, and cut its losses by sticking to the better-selling liquid comforts: beer, wine, and liquor. Sam scanned the faces of the patrons, mostly men, nursing their bottles and glasses as they watched a sportscaster on the big plasma TV in one corner. A few glanced at them as they sat at the end of the bar, and Sam made a mental note to accompany her Good Samaritan every step of the way back to her car or hotel.
A baby-faced bartender came over and greeted them as if they were swans in a desert. “Ladies, what can I do you for?”
“Red wine okay?” Sam asked the other woman, who nodded. “Got something that won’t burn off our tonsils with the first sip?”
“Cases of the stuff,” he said, and rolled his eyes. “Boss’s wife comes here with her girlfriends. They’re all like French or something.”
“Then please do bring us something that you can’t pronounce,” Werren said politely.
Sam held on to her chuckle until the bartender reached the cooler at the other end of the bar. “I love how you Brits make a snappy comeback sound like Shakespeare.”
“While I am ever astounded by the generous nature you Americans possess.” As the bartender delivered two glasses of dark red wine, she returned his silly grin with a regal nod. “You’re always willing to jump in and save someone, whether it be car-crash victims”—she lifted her wineglass—“or a stranger whose insides resemble the Gordian knot.”
“Well, then.” Sam held out her glass. “God save the Queen.”
“And Mr. Obama.”
The wine tasted surprisingly good, and Sam thought she might be able to drink most of hers if she took it slow. Fortunately her companion seemed in no hurry to knock back her glass.
“So what brings you to South Florida?” Sam asked. “Vacation, business, family?”
“Business. My employer sent me to acquire some property, but I have a little time for myself.” Werren lifted a hand to the high collar of her blouse before she took another sip from her glass. “What is it like to live here, in this beautiful place?”
“As places go it’s usually hot, crowded, and busy, and that’s just in the off-season.” She ran her thumb along the thin stem of her glass. “But there are some wonderful places to explore. The Riverwalk, ballet at the performing arts center, and all the neat shops at Las Olas. There’s a wildlife preserve a little south of here that has nature trails and a walk-through butterfly garden. It’s beautiful and peaceful.”
“Sounds lovely, but I’m more of a night person.” She flinched as two of the men hooted loudly over a touchdown on the television.
Sam glanced sideways and what she saw nearly made her fall on the floor.
“Not terribly fond of loud noises, either.” The other woman frowned at her. “Is something wrong?”
“Tired eyes.” Sam rubbed them before she studied Werren again. Her blond hair gleamed, every strand brushed neatly in place, and her ladylike outfit looked equally immaculate. So why for an instant did I think she was wearing an old potato sack only slightly filthier than the rat’s nest on her head? It couldn’t have been a vision; the woman wasn’t bleeding or dead.