Page 94 of Thief of Night
“Hello, Mr. Carver? Ms.—”
“Lena Hall,” Red said, waving toward Charlie.
She gave what she hoped was the smile of a woman who was about to have a luxury weekend retreat with her boyfriend.
The man grinned. “I’m Michael, your butler. If you’re done here, I can take you to your cottage. Your luggage has already been moved.”
“So long as we can bring our drinks,” Red said with lazy swagger.
“Of course.” Michael caught the eye of the bartender, who was shaking up the martini, and nodded his chin in the direction of the outside.
“Do we need to settle up—” Charlie said, glancing toward her bag.
“No need,” Michael told her. “We want things to be easy here.”
Charlie bit the inside of her cheek, angry at herself. Lena-the-girlfriend shouldn’t be worrying about whether a bill was paid.
They carried the drinks out to a golf cart. Charlie drank half the wine she told herself she wasn’t going to touch, trying to keep it from spilling as they bumped along a narrow dirt road to a fairy-tale-looking cottage with gingerbread trim and pale blue French shutters.
Michael parked the golf cart in the driveway, then handed the keys over to Red. “You can call the front desk for a pickup if you don’t want to drive yourself.”
Red took the keys without comment.
Michael opened the door and showed them into a sitting area. Two sleek cream couches had been arranged in front of an electric fireplace with an arts-and-crafts-style mantel. A coffee station sat on a long stone-topped side bar, beside a welcome basket overstuffed with fruit, chocolates, cookies, and wine.
Red walked through to the bedroom while Michael chatted to him about amenities. When they returned to the sitting room, Red sprawled on the couch as though he owned it.
As Red attempted to arrange some kind of spa visit for Saturday and Michael tried to steer him toward getting massages in the room instead, without explicitly saying that he was trying to keep them away from the Umbral Elevation Retreat, Charlie poked her head into the bedroom.
A giant four-poster bed dominated the space. Chocolates sat on the pillows, along with lavender sachets. All the windows were lined in onyx, which was interesting. She considered hiding in the bathroom until Michael was gone.
Charlie found it hard to pretend to wealth and privilege next to Red. It was like trying to pass off moissanite beside a real diamond.
Through the door to the bathroom, Charlie saw a sunken tub and what she thought might be a steam shower. The tub looked deep enough to disappear into.
In the main room, she could hear Red arranging a dinner for eight in the evening.
Charlie headed back into the bedroom, passing a tasteful grouping of morel mushroom watercolors. Her hand smoothed over the stark whiteness of the sheets and she took a deep breath.
The thought struck her that if their scheme failed, she could still have a fancy, romantic weekend with Red. He’d put down his credit card, so she wouldn’t have to figure out how to pay for all this. What would it be like, to stop worrying about whether she fit in, to stop playing a role, because she was an actual guest and didn’t have to care? They could take the time to figure out what was between them.
She forced herself to walk back into the sitting room in time to see Michael wave goodbye and go out the door.
Red looked up at her. “I wish I didn’t have to ask you this, but I need blood.”
She blinked in surprise, half at the words, half at how he had completely dropped acting the part of Remy.
“Okay,” Charlie said, sitting on the couch and putting out her hand. She had a hangnail on one thumb and pulled it off with her tooth, watching blood pool up. Not a lot, but the energy was more important.
She should have guessed he needed it. He was fading at the edges, half shadow when they were alone. He’d been badly hurt recently.
Red bent over her hand. She shivered as the smoke of his tongue pressed against her skin, then he took her thumb into his mouth, licking her blood. She shuddered. Her skin felt abruptly too tight and the air she breathed was too hot and close. Longing uncurled in her stomach. Her gaze fell on the pink of his lips, the long line of his back, the spread of his thighs.
After a moment, he leaned back. When he removed his sunglasses, his eyes blazed.
Her heart stuttered. Maybe hurt. She wondered if this was what it would feel like right before it stopped.
“You’re very good at playing Mr. Moneybags,” she said, trying to focus on not embarrassing herself.
