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She sucked in a breath. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Shall we let him through?”
Cassidy swiveled the chair toward the storm bunker tucked away downstairs at the center of the house. Windowless, made of steel-reinforced, poured concrete, and secured with a door worthy of a bank vault, nothing short of dynamite would dent it.
“Is he alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay. Let him through.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
She returned the handset to its charging station. The clock on the monitor had the time an hour before sunset. If Jackson had reverted to his nefarious ways, he was cutting it damn close. That his asshole uncle wasn’t with him, however, ruled out the possibility of dynamite, not to mention random bullets to her head.
Also, this was as good an excuse as any to log off theV-zette’sDiscord server. Four hours of moderating and organizing the hyper-fast postings of a chatty international vampire community was about all she could take for one day anyway.
After changing out of her frumpy yoga pants and sweatshirt into something more suitable for company, she headed for the foyer. Her low heels clacked and echoed in the vast space as she moved down the stairs. Enormous glass walls bracketed the two-story space at both ends, one side overlooking the infinity pool and dock out back, the other surrounding the massive double-door entry which had been hammered in a starburst design. The sun was low enough to pour through the front windows and flood the entire area in a warm glow. In the beams, dust motes danced on the breeze swirling in through the open sliders.
At the foot of the stairs, she paused to absorb the peaceful moment and mentally record it for later when she would share it with the love of her life. This was her favorite room in the house at her favorite time of day and year. Not long now, and Florida’s sticky summer would seize hold again, relegating open doors and fresh air to distant memories.
A polite bing-bong drew her to the door.
Jackson Striker, vampire hunter, stood on the paved stoop, hands in pockets, looking tall and casual in khaki slacks, a polo shirt, and mirrored sunglasses. He pulled them off his nose and folded them. “Hi, Cass.”
“Hi,” she said, and then considered the strange smile he wore. It wasn’t smug, nor anxious. Just normal. There was a new depth to his rugged face and a warmth in the steel-gray eyes that hadn’t been there the last time she saw him two years ago. Gone was the young hunter brimming with impatience, replaced by the confident strength of a man of almost twenty-seven with nothing to prove to anyone.
“I’m guessing he lives here?” Jackson prompted.
“What? Oh. Yes.” Grateful for the distraction, Cassidy reached down to scratch the little red-and-white cat behind an ear as he stalked through the open door. There was a smear of blood on the side of his furry face, which was probably all that remained of one of Mrs. Havashand’s prize finches. “Brinkley came with the house. Just showed up the day we moved in.”
With the front door open, a steady breeze swept through the foyer. Swirling in it was Jackson’s familiar citrus aftershave and shards of memories she thought to have forgotten long ago.
Cassidy straightened and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s a little early for Dominique to be up.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“And Sam is out teaching and has dinner plans.”
Jackson shook his head. “I can talk to my sister any time. The person I was really hoping to talk to before sundown, though, is you.” She couldn’t keep the shock from her face, and he laughed, raising both hands, one of which held a small black case. “No, don’t worry. I won’t try to talk you into leaving him again.” He looked her over, taking in the gold, kitten-heeled sandals, white palazzo pants, peacock blue patterned tunic, and the thick mass of her chestnut hair falling around her shoulders. Noticing her suspicious glare, he sobered. “You’re looking good, Cassidy.”
Her cheeks warmed in a way she didn’t appreciate. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But since you’re here, fine. I’ll listen.”
Jackson followed her through the living room. Last night’s blankets and empty popcorn bowl still decorated the sofa. The adjoining kitchen was a lake of jade granite counters, maple wood cabinets, and stainless steel appliances.
“Cozy place you’ve got here,” he said.
She snorted and opened the fridge. “Only you could describe this multi-million-dollar palace as ‘cozy.’” His own home, the Striker family compound, was three times the size—and price. “I swear I still lose stuff in just this kitchen on a weekly basis. It’s way too much house for me.” But bomb-grade storm shelters and twenty-four-seven armed security generally came with substantial real estate attached. “What would you like? Beer, wine, water, or juice?”
“Juice.”
Cassidy set out two glasses, careful how hard she placed them on the unforgiving granite surface.
“You know you’re supposed to have staff for a kitchen like this,” Jackson pointed out as she poured the apple juice.
“Kind of a waste for just one person. I don’t need much.” What meals she did need, Dominique enjoyed preparing for her. Samantha, who lived out in the pool house, kept her own, strictly vegan kitchen.
He settled himself on a cast iron barstool and placed the little black case on the counter beside him. His hand lay on it for a moment, as though reluctant to let it go. Curiosity made Cassidy’s eyes cling to it. “You’re in here all alone? All day?”
