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Teeth bared, he flipped the phone open, placed it to his ears and waited.
“Vivienne?” Conall recognized that voice immediately, and a snarl left his lips. It was the human he’d vowed to kill, the one who’d ripped her away from him that night at Fangs.
“Who is this?” The man’s voice had grown cold. “Where is she?”
Max could not be Vivienne’s lover, as not only had she come to him untouched, but she hadn’t had another man’s scent on her body. On the other hand, he certainly wasn’t her brother. Still, he sounded concerned, and although Conall would make him sorry for pulling Vivienne away from him if ever their paths crossed again, he calmed slightly.
“Safe,” was the terse reply, emitted from between clenched teeth.
“Who are you?”
“She’s safe.” With that, Conall ended the call. So his name was Max.
He tossed her phone back into her bag and headed back to the bedroom. She was now curled where he’d been, as if she’d tried to find him and had settled for where his warmth was. Her hair was a wild mass about her head, her arm secured the comforter right above her belly. He smiled and headed over to the edge of the bed. Reaching a hand down, he cupped her soft cheek and rubbed his thumb along the slant of her jaw. She murmured something that sounded suspiciously like his name, and he smiled.
He was about to pull the covers back and get into bed beside her when he felt a distinct shift in the air. It was slight and to someone not as experienced as him, it would be dismissed. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he closed his eyes and waited. It came again, a slight pulsation of warm energy. He bared his teeth.
Witch.
And he wasn’t the target. The energy was searching for Vivienne, had traced her to this hotel room. Conall reached down and pulled her against him, shielding her essence with his. He felt the energy ebb gradually, and looked down into Vivienne’s sleeping face.
Why was she important to a witch? She snuggled closer to him and the covers fell to her waist, revealing her breasts. Beast and man stirred but both were insistent on getting her to safe ground first.
Conall flashed clothes onto both of them and easily lifted the sleeping woman into his arms. Flashing was a skill most of his kind did not possess, but he was a Celt, and the Celts had always been linked to magic. He flashed them down to the parking lot, where his Roadster was. Placing her into the front seat, he scented the air for any danger before punching in the code to unlock the car without the keys. Methodically, he popped the trunk, and opened the lone black briefcase inside, removing the black Berretta and Glock that lay casually inside. His eyes scanned the underground parking garage as he shoved both guns into his waistband. He was taking no chances, not with her. Bullets wouldn’t kill immortals, especially not lead bullets, but it would slow them down. A bullet to the head slowed everything down.
Conall swiftly moved around to the driver’s seat, and punched in another code that would start the car absent key. He sped through the mostly empty lanes of New York City, his eyes watching and scanning the road. Through it all, Vivienne slept on.
***
Charles Bordeaux shifted and reached out an arm to his wife.
It came in contact with rumpled sheets and a tossed pillow, and he reached out once more, a soft grunt escaping his lips as he unconsciously searched for her. He came awake and sat up.
“Evelyn,” he called softly, wearily. When there was no response, he turned on the dim lamp beside the bed, and squinted. Where was she? The digital clock told him it was two-thirty.
She’d probably gone to the bathroom or to the kitchen. Yawning, Charles pushed the duvet from his body and slipped his feet into comfortable bedroom slippers. He groaned as he pushed his body from the bed, reaching out a hand to his back. At fifty-two, he was beginning to experience the little aches and pains that went with growing old. A smile touched his lips as he remembered Evelyn telling him that. His Evelyn had turned forty-five this year, yet she was still as lovely as the first time he’d laid eyes on her, almost thirty years ago. He’d been a law student when he met the pretty French girl working in a New Orleans coffee shop. She spoke English with a heavy accent, and he’d indulged her the first weeks by speaking to her in the language of his Creole parents. Within a few months of knowing her, however, she’d settled for speaking only English, and her accent had all but faded to a light, exotic lilt. Lovely in both a beguiling and innocent way, vibrant with her lively personality, Charles always felt lucky she’d settled for him when so many had wanted her.
