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“Why?”
“I’m not wearing anything underneath!”
I was about to respond to that the way it deserved, when Burbles offered a compromise. “Okay,” I told him, and looked back at Grumpy. “How tall are you?”
“Five eleven.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Fine. Five ten.”
“Is pride worth tripping over your feet all night?”
“All right! I’m five eight—and a half.”
“He’s five eight,” I told Burbles.
“And a half!”
“You’re not fifteen going on sixteen. Halves don’t count.”
“They’ll be too short!”
“Then give me the damned size!”
“Fine!”
Marlowe stomped back to the bathroom, and I stood there in muddy sweats, getting cold from the air-conditioning. “Hang on,” I told Burbles, and put the phone down on his effusions of joy.
Mircea’s wardrobe of the gods yielded a long dress shirt, which I thought might do. I stripped off the sweats and was looking around for something to wipe off with, because I’d somehow gotten mud down my back. But even I draw the line at using Armani for a towel.
“Hey, Marlowe, can you throw me—”
I stopped, because I’d just come back into the bedroom, and noticed that we had a visitor. Which would have been okay, because I was still in a bra and panties, and I wear less to the beach. And because most vamps don’t care about such things anyway.
You notice I said “most.”
“Throw you what?” Grumpy came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and his trousers in his hand. Which he didn’t toss to me because he was currently getting tossed himself, back through the bathroom door hard enough to crack tile.
For some reason, I felt a stupid grin break out over my face.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” I said, a little bashfully.
To no one, because the party had already moved to the next room.
I walked over to the phone. “Just take your best guess,” I told Burbles, and hung up.
I was still barefoot, and now there was shattered tile all over the rug, not to mention glass from a newly destroyed bathroom mirror. So I didn’t get too close. Just climbed onto the bed to peer through the doorway, at what was amounting to the butt kicking of the century.
Marlowe was trying to talk his way out of it, I guess in preference to getting into a dustup with another senator, only that wasn’t working so well.
And we kind of needed him alive for the war.
So I threw the comforter over the shattered tile, jumped down, and grabbed Louis-Cesare the next time he had his back to the door.
“Let me go!”
“Are you going to kill Kit?”
