Part 4 (1/2)

I s.h.i.+ft uneasily. Heat ripples my skin. I'm aroused, physically, embarra.s.singly, in a way I haven't been in months.

By a woman. Is it a spell?

Culebra is tugging at my arm, forcing me to turn away from those hypnotic eyes. He's pulling me toward the door. Dumbly, reluctantly, I allow myself to be led outside.

Only then is the link broken. I round on him. What the h.e.l.l was that?

His smile is grim. She likes you.

Likes me? We were mind f.u.c.king-or didn't you notice? What kind of magic does she work?

He shrugs. Werewolves emit a powerful s.e.xual energy. It's what attracts humans. It's the way they propagate. Human reproduction is not available to them.

Propagate? h.e.l.lo, I'm not human. Another insignificant detail? We both happen to be women.

She may not know that you are vampire. They do not have psychic abilities except with other pack members. As for s.e.x, werewolves are like vampires in that respect.

It's all he says. It's enough. Werewolves must make other werewolves as vampires do, with an exchange of blood.

What in the h.e.l.l were you thinking letting a pack of werewolves camp out in your bar?

”There wasn't any trouble until you showed up. Come to think of it, most of the time there isn't any trouble until you show up,” he says sharply. He jabs a thumb toward the door. ”I think you're missing an important point. Sandra doesn't act like that around everyone. It's as if she was waiting for you. For you. Her pack mate knew your name. Aren't you the least bit curious why?”

Indignation at the charge that I am to blame for what happened inside suddenly morphs into a pool of uncertainty and rampant curiosity. I realize with a jolt that what Culebra said is true.

I turn to go back in. This time, if that muscle-bound Tamara tries to stop me, she's in for a surprise.

Sandra is inside. It's Sandra I need to see. I feel her tugging at the corners of my mind.

Culebra stops me by grabbing my arm. ”Not tonight,” he says. ”I don't want trouble.”

I pause, reading Culebra's concern. He fears for my-for our-safety. There are two of us and at least forty of them. He's right. If things go badly, the odds are not in our favor.

”I'll see what I can find out from the weres and get back to you tomorrow,” he says.

I sigh. There is the matter of Gloria's indiscretion to take care of. If I'm lucky, maybe Rory O'Sullivan will try something and I can work off some of my aggression by slapping him around.

Culebra is in my head. He frowns, clucking his tongue. ”You must find a way to curb your impulses,” he says. ”Bully someone like Rory O'Sullivan, and you can be sure he'll bully right back. Better to follow your first impulse and take a human s.e.x partner. Do it before you meet O'Sullivan, please, not after. Lose your temper with him, and you risk exposure.”

He sounds like a priest. Irritation slithers up and coils in the pit of my stomach. Diffusing that anger in a proper manner was the reason I showed up here.

Culebra releases a long sigh. I know. I am sorry to disappoint you. You put yourself in this position, Anna, over and over.

There is an alternative. You know it. Take one partner to satisfy your appet.i.tes safely. Settle down. There's nothing wrong with that. It's the prudent thing to do.

Yadda, yadda, yadda. I've heard it before. This time when I stomp down the dusty boardwalk toward my car, no one tries to stop me.

CHAPTER 8.

THE ENTIRE DEBACLE AT CULEBRA'S LASTED ONLY an hour. It felt like much longer. The drive through tourist traffic making its slow way back to San Diego gives me time to sort through conflicting emotions.

The first being shock and anger at Max. For obvious reasons. But also a tinge of regret at the way I reacted. In spite of knowing that it never would have worked out between Max and me, seeing him tonight hurt.

Then there's Sandra. I can't believe she affected me in such a potent s.e.xual way. A response maybe to seeing Max? To knowing he'd just had s.e.x with someone else?

Confusion. Why in h.e.l.l would one of her werewolf buddies want to pick a fight with me? As far as I know, I've never come in contact with any member of the were family, so I can't have insulted or harmed one. Not intentionally anyway. My experience with the supernatural community has had its ups and downs, but the only time I've killed was in defense of myself or of the human community. I'm certain I've never killed a were.

By the time I get back to town, it's after nine and my head spins from trying to sort it all out. I need a drink, so even though it's too early to meet Rory, I head for Glory's.

The bar is more crowded than before. All the tables and booths lining the back wall are occupied. I work my way through the crowd and ask the bartender if by chance Gloria or her partner is in the back. He says no. Gloria left a while ago, and Mr.

O'Sullivan isn't due for another couple of hours. I order a vodka martini, extra dry, hold the olives. A thirtysomething wearing Armani and a sleazy smile moves off a stool and motions for me to sit. I do. He has the oily good looks of a lawyer, with designer horn-rim gla.s.ses and delicate hands. Defense, probably. The suit is too expensive and the hands too soft to belong to a prosecutor. He's drinking something in a tall gla.s.s with a fancy swizzle. He's definitely a defense attorney. The prosecutors I know wouldn't be caught dead with a paper-umbrella drink.

Neither would I. It takes more than a raging libido to be tempted by a drink like that, or the type who would order one.

Caught dead. I smile at my own joke. When my drink comes, Umbrella Man flips a twenty onto the bar and steps closer, misinterpreting the smile as an invitation.

I figure one good growl should discourage him.

Careful, Anna. Don't give yourself away.

Great. The familiar voice is an unwelcome intrusion into my head. I look past Umbrella Man. Williams is sitting at a table in the back. He's smiling, too, but it's only lip service. His eyes are veiled and serious.

Williams. What are you doing here?

It's good to see you, too. What's it been? Two months? You don't write. You don't call.

Very funny. I elbow my way toward him, ignoring the yelp of protest from Umbrella Man when I shove the drink back at him. If you'll recall, you asked me not to contact you. From what I've been reading in the newspapers, you're not completely out of trouble yet.

Williams moves so I can slide next to him on the bench seat. He knows I'll want to have the same vantage point he does. Like good cops, or vampires, our backs to the wall, eyes on the crowd.

He's in civilian clothes, slacks and a polo s.h.i.+rt open at the collar. He's handsome in a fiftyish, lean, graying kind of way. The gray is an affectation. He's a vampire, an old vampire, who is also the police chief of the city of San Diego.

At least technically.

Two months ago he got in trouble because of a rather unconventional police sting operation. Unconventional because it involved a civilian-me-and because although a bad man was caught, a deputy was killed in the process. It wasn't Williams' fault but as chief of police, every good thing he'd done in the ten years of his tenure faded when compared to the harsh reality that he'd lost one of his own. He's on administrative leave now, defending his actions and his office to every civilian and police review board in existence. He has not yet been reinstated, and now here he is, sitting by himself in Glory's nursing a beer.

Coincidence?

I think not.

”Why are you here?”

He tips his own gla.s.s toward me. ”That's what I like about you, Anna. There's no bulls.h.i.+t in you. Culebra called me. Told me where you were headed.”