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Authors: Susan Sizemore
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not going into the who or what.
Heads up, woman!
another voice said in her mind.
She could sense far more than Strahan’s attention on her, but his were the thoughts touching hers. She recognized the sparks of Dark Angel minds in the darkness but could also pinpoint the hostile attention of other watchers as well.
She had an audience. It was time to play to it.
Francesca smiled into the eye of the security camera to the side of the gate, dropped her shoes, and coyly waved her fingers. “Hello, Jimmy!” she called. She pressed the buzzer. “Jimmy Wilde, come out and play! I’m here!”
She heard cars approaching and caught the glow of headlights from the corner of her eye but carefully kept her back turned to the street. In a moment there was more to the light than headlamps; she was illuminated by glaring flashbulbs and the click of cameras at her back. The media sharks had come looking for blood—the poor dears had no idea—and it wouldn’t be long before the police and rent-a-cops pulled up to join them.
A riot is a terrible thing . . .
Pay attention!
Strahan’s order was stern, but she could feel his amusement in her head
. . . . to waste
, he added.
“What are you doing here?”
The disembodied voice this time issued from a speaker beside the security camera and had a rich Irish accent.
“Jimmy!” Francesca bounced up and down and waved the champagne bottle while cameras clicked and recorded. “You told me to stop by, remember? Let me in! Or come out and play.”
“Oh, I’m coming down all right.” The angry Irish voice issued loudly from the speaker.
He’d been telepathically briefed to play along with this nonsense.
There was a solid wall of hungry anticipation behind Francesca. The paparazzi’s excitement almost overlaid her awareness of Angels and enemies alike.
Soon the gate swung open and two dark cars pulled out into the street before James Wilde stepped into the firing line of flashbulbs and shouted questions.
She hadn’t expected him to grab her and kiss her in front of the crowd, but it made sense for dragging out the diversion a little longer. The kiss looked fierce and hungry, but there was no passion in it. Francesca barely remembered to lean against him and put her arms around his neck. She did remember to drop thechampagne bottle.
Which was when the fight between the Dark Angels and Purists started.
She had no idea what sort of potion the witch had put in the bottle, but the fumes from it kept the media bloodsuckers’ attention on her and Wilde instead of the fight—even after Wilde spun her through the gate and closed it behind them.
Chapter Twelve
“Stay here,” the actor Prime ordered her before rushing off to join the fray.
Of course.
It was an order she was getting used to hearing. This time she didn’t mind obeying it. Let the boys have fun without her. Francesca knew just how far she dared go in helping the Dark Angels, and the last few minutes had come very close to crossing that line. If any of the photos about to hit the tabloids showed her face she would be in very deep trouble with her Matri.
Then again, her mom was enthusiastic about the prospect of having a grandchild from her. So even if she was going to get locked away in Idaho for the foreseeable future it wouldn’t be until that deed was accomplished.
She was not perturbed when a scream issued out of the darkness near the house. The sound did make her fingertips tingle, claws wanting to come out. A faint scent of blood perfumed the air and she ran her tongue over her slightly extended fangs.
What a shame the boys got to have all the fun.
Francesca kept her instincts under control by nursing her resentment against the whole of vampire culture and stayed put. She adjusted her clothing, leaned against the gate, and waited.
Eventually Joaquin, the blond werewhatever, came up to her and said, “Boss told me to take you back to the safe house.”
I don’t want to be safe.
No answer came back
Heads up, woman!
another voice said in her mind.
She could sense far more than Strahan’s attention on her, but his were the thoughts touching hers. She recognized the sparks of Dark Angel minds in the darkness but could also pinpoint the hostile attention of other watchers as well.
She had an audience. It was time to play to it.
Francesca smiled into the eye of the security camera to the side of the gate, dropped her shoes, and coyly waved her fingers. “Hello, Jimmy!” she called. She pressed the buzzer. “Jimmy Wilde, come out and play! I’m here!”
She heard cars approaching and caught the glow of headlights from the corner of her eye but carefully kept her back turned to the street. In a moment there was more to the light than headlamps; she was illuminated by glaring flashbulbs and the click of cameras at her back. The media sharks had come looking for blood—the poor dears had no idea—and it wouldn’t be long before the police and rent-a-cops pulled up to join them.
A riot is a terrible thing . . .
Pay attention!
Strahan’s order was stern, but she could feel his amusement in her head
. . . . to waste
, he added.
“What are you doing here?”
The disembodied voice this time issued from a speaker beside the security camera and had a rich Irish accent.
“Jimmy!” Francesca bounced up and down and waved the champagne bottle while cameras clicked and recorded. “You told me to stop by, remember? Let me in! Or come out and play.”
“Oh, I’m coming down all right.” The angry Irish voice issued loudly from the speaker.
He’d been telepathically briefed to play along with this nonsense.
There was a solid wall of hungry anticipation behind Francesca. The paparazzi’s excitement almost overlaid her awareness of Angels and enemies alike.
Soon the gate swung open and two dark cars pulled out into the street before James Wilde stepped into the firing line of flashbulbs and shouted questions.
She hadn’t expected him to grab her and kiss her in front of the crowd, but it made sense for dragging out the diversion a little longer. The kiss looked fierce and hungry, but there was no passion in it. Francesca barely remembered to lean against him and put her arms around his neck. She did remember to drop thechampagne bottle.
Which was when the fight between the Dark Angels and Purists started.
She had no idea what sort of potion the witch had put in the bottle, but the fumes from it kept the media bloodsuckers’ attention on her and Wilde instead of the fight—even after Wilde spun her through the gate and closed it behind them.
Chapter Twelve
“Stay here,” the actor Prime ordered her before rushing off to join the fray.
Of course.
It was an order she was getting used to hearing. This time she didn’t mind obeying it. Let the boys have fun without her. Francesca knew just how far she dared go in helping the Dark Angels, and the last few minutes had come very close to crossing that line. If any of the photos about to hit the tabloids showed her face she would be in very deep trouble with her Matri.
Then again, her mom was enthusiastic about the prospect of having a grandchild from her. So even if she was going to get locked away in Idaho for the foreseeable future it wouldn’t be until that deed was accomplished.
She was not perturbed when a scream issued out of the darkness near the house. The sound did make her fingertips tingle, claws wanting to come out. A faint scent of blood perfumed the air and she ran her tongue over her slightly extended fangs.
What a shame the boys got to have all the fun.
Francesca kept her instincts under control by nursing her resentment against the whole of vampire culture and stayed put. She adjusted her clothing, leaned against the gate, and waited.
Eventually Joaquin, the blond werewhatever, came up to her and said, “Boss told me to take you back to the safe house.”
I don’t want to be safe.
No answer came back
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