Shadows Strike(4)
Ethan tilted his head slightly. “I’ll hear you if you do.”
It was a warning, albeit a very kindly delivered one.
“I won’t make any calls.”
Nodding, he backed away. Then his form blurred and shot away into the forest.
Heather stood there, numbness seeping into her that could not be blamed on the cool breeze.
Was this what it felt like to go into shock?
The mind that had raced with various and assorted freak-outs only moments ago now slowed to a standstill, as if trying to process everything she had seen and done in the past few minutes had overloaded its circuits.
Gravel crunched as a car pulled into her driveway.
She frowned. That couldn’t be Ethan. He hadn’t even been gone a full minute.
Leaving her bucket of lights where she had dropped it, Heather headed for the house, walked around the side toward the front, and stared at the vehicle parked behind her little compact car.
The sleek red and black sports car looked as if it could fly and fairly oozed money. Every man she had ever dated would have drooled and instantly declared it his dream car. Even the damned rims were cool, and Heather never noticed crap like that.
The driver’s door swung open. Ethan stepped out.
The car was so low to the ground that she didn’t think it even came up to his waist. How the hell did he fold his—what?—six-foot-four-inch frame into it?
Closing the door, he strode toward her. A limp marred what might have normally been a smooth, graceful gait.
“Now I know this is real,” she told him with resignation.
“Why?”
She motioned to his car. “Because I’ve never seen anything like that before, so it wouldn’t make sense for it to appear in one of my dreams.”
Nodding, he reached toward her.
Heather’s breath caught as butterflies erupted in her belly in anticipation of his touch.
What the hell?
Tucking his long fingers under her backpack strap, he drew it down and off her arm, then looped it over his own shoulder. He motioned to the house. “Shall we?”
Her tongue inexplicably tied, she turned toward the house and headed up the steps to the front porch.
Ethan kept pace with her, his hand lightly brushing her lower back as if she were a date he escorted home.
Her fingers fumbled a little when she tugged the keys from her pocket and unlocked the door.
He didn’t wait for an invitation the way vampires in movies often did. He just entered on her heels. Even standing a bit hunched over, he had to duck to enter.
Heather closed the door behind him and watched him set her backpack down.
He gripped the lapels of his long, black coat. Struggling to shrug it off his shoulders, he winced and issued a soft grunt of pain.
Heather closed the distance between them and brushed his hands aside. “Let me do it.” She could feel his gaze as she eased his coat—sticky with blood—over his shoulders and drew it down his arms.
Touching those broad shoulders—shoulders she had seen bared and bunching as he moved over her in the erotic dreams—drove home again that he was real.
He sighed. “Thank you.”
Nodding, she hung the coat on one of the hooks by the door. Sheesh. The thing was heavy, and she soon discovered why. Numerous bladed weapons were tucked into sheaths in the coat’s lining. As was her 9mm, which she opted not to retrieve for the moment.
Quiet embraced them as she turned to face him.
Heather had been born with the ability to read others’ thoughts, so she rarely experienced complete quiet like this in another’s presence.
“This is weird,” she said.
Ethan laughed and winced once more. “Yes, it is.”
“I’m having a little trouble processing it all.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Heather stared up at him. She was alone with a tall, dark, and dangerous vampire. What the hell should she do?
She motioned to the sofa. “Would you like to sit down?” Pure habit, she supposed, prompted the offer. Her parents had worked diligently to instill good manners in her.
He followed her gaze. “Do you have an old towel or a sheet or something I can cover the cushions with so I won’t stain them?”
Heather amended her earlier thought: She was alone with a tall, dark, and dangerous vampire who was polite enough to want to avoid staining her furniture. “Sure. Do you . . . want to wash up first?”
He glanced at the curtains covering the nearest window. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
“No.” She doubted theirs would be a short conversation. Once she jump-started her brain, she would have little trouble coming up with questions for him.
He opened the front door. “Excellent. I’ll be right back.”
Damn, the man could move fast. He flew out the door, then returned almost swifter than it took her to realize he’d left.
She eyed the small duffel bag he carried. “That had better not contain duct tape, rope, and a scalpel.”
He grinned. “I’m not a serial killer, Heather. This is just my first aid kit.”
“Oh.” His kit didn’t include blood, did it? Gross.
“Where’s your bathroom?”
She pointed to a hallway just off the living room. “First door on the right.”
“Thanks. I’ll just be a minute,” he promised and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Heather took two steps toward the kitchen, intending to wash her own hands, then halted. Was that her shower turning on?
When the telltale squeak of her shower faucets repeated, she looked toward the bathroom. She had thought he had just meant to wash the blood off his face and hands, not take a shower. That didn’t seem odd to him? Showering in a complete stranger’s home?
It sure as hell seemed odd to her.
The water turned off.
She frowned. Not even a full minute had passed, so he couldn’t have taken a shower. It must’ve been the sink. She hadn’t realized the sink’s faucet squeaked, too.
She started toward the kitchen once more.
The bathroom door opened.
Ethan strode out, carrying his duffel bag.
Heather’s mouth fell open. It had been the shower.
Ethan’s skin no longer bore ruby stains. His short, black hair was wet and slicked back from a face Heather found even more handsome than she had anticipated. Heavy stubble dusted a strong jaw. His straight nose fit his face perfectly. Dark brows hovered above pretty brown eyes that no longer glowed with that peculiar iridescence.
The clothing that adorned his large form was fresh and clean, if a little rumpled. A tight, black T-shirt clung to broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and biceps the size of freaking bowling balls. The man worked out. His black cargo pants hugged a narrow waist and thighs that also bulged with muscle.
When she finally managed to drag her gaze back up to his face, she felt her heart turn over at the boyish grin he sent her.
“Thank you. That feels much better.”
Heather couldn’t find her voice. Her heart began to pound erratically in her chest as images from those erotic dreams bombarded her. Damn it. They had been few and far between. Why had they affected her as much as the nearly nightly battle scene dreams?
Ethan’s smile slipped. “Heather?” Dropping his bag, he approached her with care. “Are you okay?”
She forced herself to nod. “Yes, it’s just . . . been a rough morning.”
“For both of us,” he agreed. Only a few feet away now, he drew in a deep breath and frowned. “You’re hurt.”
“What?”
“You’re hurt. I smell blood. And not vampire blood.” His gaze swept her form. Stepping closer, he took her hands in his and turned them palms-up so he could study them.
Heather dragged her gaze away from him and glanced down, surprised to see several scratches on her hands. She must have scraped them on rocks or sticks when Ethan and the vampire had knocked her down. Though the cuts weren’t deep, they had managed to birth a few beads of blood.
She looked up at Ethan.
A faint amber glow entered his eyes. Was he drawn by the blood?
She cleared her throat. “If you start licking my hands, I’m going to totally lose it.”
He laughed—a deep rumble that warmed her insides and demanded she smile in return. Then his grin twisted into a grimace of pain. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry.”
He raised her hands and pressed them back toward her shoulders so he could see the underside of her forearms. “Your elbows are scraped, too. Do you have any first aid stuff, or do you want to use some of mine?”
“They’ll be fine if I just wash them.”
“You should put some alcohol on them. I know it’ll burn like hell, but it will help keep the cuts from getting infected.”
She tried to protest again, but soon found herself squeezed into her bathroom with him. Ethan positioned her hands over the sink. Turning on the water, he soaped up his large hands, then shocked Heather by gently sliding them over her hands and up her arms to her elbows.
Her heart again pounded in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it stings.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. How could he smell so good when he wasn’t wearing any cologne?
He rinsed the soap off them both, then patted her skin dry and bent to draw a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the bag she hadn’t realized he had brought with them. Opening the small closet behind him, he drew out a small, clean hand towel.