eye might have been butchered, but there was nothing wrong with the rest of him. The muscles on his arms and chest rippled under the sunburned skin. Her fingertips smoothed the springy pelt of dark hair that covered the curves of his chest and then trailed down to his navel. There they stopped, but her eyes didn’t. This wasn’t the behavior of a Southern lady. But how many Southern ladies found vampires in their gardens before breakfast? And Christopher was a feast for the eyes.
A flat stomach gave way to strong thighs and shapely legs and between them, nestled in the dark hair, everything a man needed. Her hand brushed his thigh; her breath caught as she watched the change there. He might lie as still as a stone crusader in the church, but he wasn’t dead. Not yet.
“Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?”
She almost choked, whirling round to meet his gaze, blood surging to her face. “Here,” she said, “I brought you some blankets.” She dumped the rest over him and made a pretense of tucking them in, not wanting to meet his eye but determined not to look where the blankets tented below his waist.
He didn’t say a word. In the silence, she heard footsteps up the path and the clink of milk bottles. She hoped to heaven the trap door over the steps wasn’t ajar.
Christopher tried to lean up on one elbow but collapsed back on the pillow. “Look all you want, Dixie. I owe you that much.”
She wasn’t about to discuss that. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Eventually.” He paused as if exhausted. “I have to rest. Until dusk. Then feed.” His chest heaved with the effort of speaking. “Don’t let them find me, Dixie. Not until I’ve regained strength.”
“No one’s going to find you, but you’d better explain everything. Tonight.” His eye closed. He looked terrible. The concrete floor had a healthier color than he did.
She was shaking, whether from cold or tension, she’d never know. She tucked the blankets around him, draped towels over the narrow windows to obscure any possible light and left him in the dark.
A soak in a hot bath should have relaxed her. It didn’t. Her mind raced in crossed circles. She tried pinching herself in case she’d been dreaming. She wasn’t. Reddened knees from scrambling about the cellar floor and a broken toenail, to say nothing of scratches all over her body, convinced her that, though this might be a nightmare, she sure wasn’t sleeping through it. She had a dying vampire in her house. Was that possible? Wasn’t he dead already? Or undead? Was he dying at all? He’d muttered something about being okay after he’d rested. He should know.
Someone had tried to kill him. Would they search for him? What if they came back to gloat over his charred remains and found nothing?
She jumped out of the tub, dripping water on the mat. She’d better cover Christopher’s tracks. Before “they” came back.
She raked over the wheelbarrow tracks, which had flattened the grass. She could close up the garden door and hope the loosened ivy didn’t look too disturbed, but what to do about the remnants of rope dangling from those hideous stone erections? She shuddered and chuckled at her unconscious choice of word. Looking closer, she noticed the grass brittle and yellowed where Christopher’s shoulders and hips had pressed. The blades crumpled in her fingers. The heat of his body had dried the grass to hay. If she hadn’t found him, would he have burned? Hell if she knew! But that was the myth and it was all she had to go on.
She had a garden broom handy and the hose connected in case the fire got out of control. With the Swan Vestas from the kitchen and the gas she’d bought for the lawn mower, she worked away. She poured trails of gasoline for each arm and leg, a blob for his head and a rough rectangle for his trunk. Some masterpiece. It resembled a pyromaniac toddler’s stick man more than Christopher’s manly shape but it would do. She hoped. As a last touch, she put a match to the remains of rope, and watched amazed as they flared to ashes.
She could keep him safe until sundown. What then? And what about whoever had tried to kill him?
She needed a second bath and a shampoo to rid herself of the smuts and smell. It was almost lunchtime before she sat down to coffee and the turmoil of confused thoughts. What if Christopher died despite her efforts? What if he didn’t? What was she going to do with a vampire? He’d muttered something about “feeding.” That she didn’t want to think about. He wasn’t snacking off her, but she couldn’t stand by and let him die. He needed sustenance. That much was obvious. Since she’d no idea of the right way to revive a vampire, she might as well go on guesswork now and worry about it later. Time to shop for his supper.
The smell of blood sent her stomach heaving. Raw liver slid between her fingers and dropped in soft wet thups out of the plastic tub. This was why she never touched meat. Disgusting wasn’t the word—but disgusting or not, she’d spent the afternoon defrosting the mammoth tubs of chicken livers from the freezer center in Leatherhead. She hoped it worked.
She drained the revolting mass in an antique jelly press. From the six tubs she had a pint and a half of blood. Pints were bigger here than at home but it didn’t look enough to make a man’s supper. But Christopher wasn’t a man. Sheesh! She had a headache from thinking about it.
She shut the pantry door on the jug of blood and the pan of liver, and scrubbed the sink with bleach. Slathering her hands with cream, she looked at the clock. Only late afternoon. Hours before dusk. Why was she waiting? Hadn’t Christopher come over that Sunday during the day? Maybe all that dusk and dawn business was a figment of Hollywood’s imagination. Maybe this whole day was a figment of her imagination.
One look at the inert body in the basement told her it wasn’t.
“Didn’t I tell you not to call from work?” Sebastian resisted the urge to slam the receiver down. He’d talk to Emily briefly and then not see her for several days. She’d soon get the message. A week of enforced celibacy would bring her back to heel.
“It’s urgent, Sebby. I’d never have called otherwise. I’m at work, too.”
“It had better be good.”
“It’s terrible! You know how I random check journal entries?”
He didn’t and didn’t care to. “Go on.”
“Just now, barely five minutes ago, I had an awful shock. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had to double-check to make sure, but there was no mistaking. It’s not every day you see the name Dixie.”
That caught his attention. “What the hell are you wittering about, Emily?”
The phone amplified the sucked-in breath. “I’m not wittering! At first it just surprised me. Then the full implications dawned. I had to sit down for a couple of minutes, my legs were shaking.”
Her teeth would be, too, if he’d had her in the same room. “Emily, get to the point. I have an appointment waiting. If it’s important, tell me. If not, get back to your Nescafe.”
She sniffed. Over the phone it sounded like a seal lion honking. “Oh, Sebby, listen. You have to. It’s terrible.”
Now it was his turn to inhale. “What’s so terrible?”
“I’ve been telling you! Dixie’s deposit. A massive one.”
“How much is massive?” Emily told him. “What? You’re certain she made it?”
“Yes, Saturday afternoon. In the money machine.”
Where was Dixie LePage getting extra money? Selling off furniture? Not that sort of amount. She had to have discovered the old ladies’ hoard and started blackmailing. But who? “Cash?” he asked.
“No! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Emily was panting. He could picture the sweat beading on her upper lip. “She deposited a check. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Who wrote the frigging check?”
She