Wicked Intentions(28)

He beams. “Angel! You know The Sound of Music!”

I gaze around his underground sanctuary. It sizzles with machismo and is operated with voice commands taken from Julie Andrews movies. I ponder my predicament.

Only one reasonable explanation comes to mind.

“I’m dead, aren’t I? Just give it to me straight. I was shot sometime yesterday, and now I’m dead. And this is…purgatory?”

He scoffs. “This is heaven, baby!”

“Heaven? I am dubious.”

“That’s a one-hundred-ten-inch ultra-high-definition TV! And that”—he swings me around so I’m pointed in the direction of a large kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel appliances—“is a professional-grade chef’s kitchen complete with a grill, a griddle, a double-walled pizza oven, and an infrared salamander broiler—”

“Maybe purgatory was being too generous.”

Ryan purses his lips and considers me. “I know what you need,” he pronounces. Then strides through the living room, past the gargantuan television and arty nudes, past the built-in wine cellar and wet bar, around a wall composed entirely of live succulents in different shades of green, brown, and gray, and into his bedroom.

He stops in front of a bed approximately the size of a train platform. The duvet and sheets are black, as are the pillows. A trio of red candles reside on a black bedside table. A fuzzy black rug sprawls over the floor.

“So how many vampiresses do you usually sleep with in this thing?”

“Vampiress?”

“A vampire of the female persuasion.”

“Why isn’t that just vampire? Do you say poetess too? Seems a little sexist, Angel.”

“You’re avoiding the question about your abnormally large bed, which I find suspicious.”

“The bed, or the avoidance?”

“Both. I also find your choice of black and red as a palette for your boudoir suspicious. Especially when you’re trying to convince a person that this is heaven, which I’d like to think is decorated in more cheerful tones.”

“Boudoir?” he repeats, sounding insulted. “I’m a badass, sweetheart, not a French escort. This is called a bedroom. And it’s awesome.”

Ignoring his obvious delusion, I point with my foot across the room. “What in God’s name is that?”

“You’ve never seen a grand piano before?”

I exhale with what I hope is sufficient disgust. “I’ve never seen one in a bedroom before. It’s ridiculous. I’m picturing you in a velvet smoking jacket, serenading your harem of vampiresses with a little post-bloodsucking Rachmaninoff.”

Ryan kisses the top of my head. “You’re delirious. It’s probably the proximity to all this grade A testosterone I’m manufacturin’.”

“Undoubtedly,” I say, trying hard not to find him charming, but failing.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strides over to the black behemoth and gently deposits me on it. He kneels at my feet, unlaces my boots, and pulls them off, then peels off my socks and tosses those aside while I watch in something like shock. Only achier.

He glances up and catches me watching him. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

He looks at my feet, then back up at my face. He answers like he’s speaking to someone very drunk. “I’m takin’ off your shoes, darlin’.”

“No.” I close my eyes, inhale, then make a little motion with my index finger indicating the two of us. “What are you doing?”

When he squeezes my ankles, I open my eyes. Looking straight into them, he says, “Takin’ care of you. And before you ask why,” he says when I open my mouth, “the answer is because that’s what I’m gonna do from here on out. Take care of you. You’re the priority now. You’re mine.”

I mull over this ludicrous pronouncement.

Is he a professional stalker? Does he have a screw—or ten—loose? This can’t possibly be how he lives his whole life, just making one rash decision after another, with no more forethought than you’d give what pair of socks you were going to wear.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know,” he says warmly, pulling my hoodie over my head. “But you will.”

“How can you just decide like that?” I ask, sounding petulant as he discards my hoodie. I stare at my bare feet. They appear startlingly vulnerable, naked and pale, a visual metaphor for my heart. “We don’t even know each other,” I insist.

When I see that dimple appear in his cheek, I mutter “Biblically doesn’t count.”

The dimple turns into a pit you could fall into and disappear. “So says you. Lie down.”

I’m gently pushed onto my back. Swimming in confusion, I stare at the ceiling but find no answers there, probably because ceilings generally aren’t good for that sort of thing.

Ryan unbuttons my jeans and drags them down my legs in a no-nonsense, businesslike way, as if I’m an uncooperative patient and he’s my long-suffering nurse.

“People make things way more complicated than they need to be,” he says, flinging my jeans over his shoulder. I notice he isn’t nearly as fastidious with my clothing as he is with his own. “If you’d just listen to your gut, nine times out of ten you’ll make the right decision without havin’ to do any hand wringin’ or hair pullin’. Your instincts will tell you what you should do.”

“Except for that pesky tenth time.” I yawn as he pulls the covers up to my chin. My eyelids are so heavy. “Then you’re fucked.”

He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. Then he makes a face and wipes his lips. “Stay there,” he commands, as if I have a choice in anything.

He leaves. I let my eyes drift shut and listen to the sound of running water. Then his footsteps return, along with him, bearing a wet washcloth.

He begins to clean my face.

“This is too much,” I protest, but only half-heartedly, because the warm, wet cloth feels delicious on my dirt-caked skin. “Ryan. I don’t think I can handle this…whatever this is. Us. You’re giving me a mental breakdown.”

“Nah, you’re doin’ that all on your own, darlin’. Just go with it. I promise it’ll all work out. Jesus, what is this, like, industrial-strength dirt?” He scrubs harder.

“Had to make sure…you know…disguise.”

“Yeah, well, you get a gold star for effort. When you wake up, I’m gonna have to throw you in the shower to get the rest of this shit off.”

“Throw?” I say, drifting off to sleep. “Sounds a little aggressive, cowboy.”

He sighs, stirring my hair. “Always focusin’ on the wrong things,” he mutters to himself.

I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and his hands gently caressing my face.



* * *

I dream of burning buildings and firetrucks with ladders too short to rescue people hanging from windows on upper floors. When I wake, I bolt upright, sweating, heart thundering, with no idea where I am.

Then I see the polished bulk of the ridiculous grand piano, the all-black everything else, and realize there’s only one place on earth besides Dracula’s castle that I could possibly be.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, throw off the covers, and pad into the adjoining bathroom. My bladder isn’t so much full as it is ready to burst. I use the toilet, then wash my hands and face and brush my teeth because my breath is poisonous. When I realize I’ve used Ryan’s toothbrush without a second thought, I have a lot of second thoughts, and stand there staring at it in my hand.

From the doorway comes his amused voice. “I can see the smoke pourin’ from your ears, Angel. Don’t pop a blood vessel over there.”

I glance at him. He’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of faded jeans, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest and a wry smile on his lips.

As always, he’s beautiful. A big, muscular, tattooed, golden beauty of a man who claims I’m his.

My heart feels like it might explode.

“I’ve never used anyone else’s toothbrush before,” I say quietly.

“I’ve never let anyone else sleep in my bed before.”

That gives me a start. He sees my surprise and drawls, “Nope, not even the vampiresses. I kick ’em out right after I play Rachmaninoff. Come here.”

Moving at the speed of refrigerated molasses, I return his toothbrush to its small glass tumbler and walk toward him. He holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers.

“Any slower and I’ll be an old man by the time you get here.”

“Give me a sec. I’m trying to control my freak-out.”

“Over how spectacular I look without a shirt?”

I step into his arms and hide my face in his chest. “Over how spectacular you are in general.”

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in tight. I’m engulfed in warmth and the scent of a male in his prime: clean skin, warm musk, and a delicious, indefinable something that’s so damn sexy I make a little noise deep in my throat.

Ryan nuzzles my ear. “You’ve got it bad for me, don’t you, Angel?” he teases, a chuckle rumbling through his chest.

That sound coming from my chest is a whimper.