Читать книгу Temptation Calls - Caridad Piñeiro - Страница 10

The room was not much bigger than a closet. A small uncomfortable-looking bed spanned one wall and along the other was an assortment of chains, straps and bindings.

“You don’t expect that you and I—”

“No, Samantha. I know what your life has been like. I would never ask you to exchange your virtue for what I offer.” He cupped her cheek, his touch that of a friend and not a lover.

“And you offer—”

“A way for you to quickly rebuild your strength. Otherwise, it may take days and many more feedings before you are right. With Meghan missing, we all need your strength.”

Samantha couldn’t imagine feeling as badly as she had today for several more days. Nor requiring that many more feedings. Her blood supply was hard to come by, and with as many people as there were in the shelter, she risked discovery by feeding too often. “Why are you offering this?”

“I was a selfish and foolish young man. It’s why I am the way I am. But now I wish to help. In exchange, I only want the friendship you have offered for all these years.”

His words brought tears to her eyes. He was one of the few men in her life who’d ever shown her any kindness. He and Ricardo…And the good detective.

Diego brushed away a tear. “I believe you would be more comfortable if we did this standing up, no? Minus the accoutrements, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, watching as he slipped off his jacket and his shirt, revealing his chest and neck to her.

Each muscle on his body was delineated beautifully, as if a sculptor had chiseled the fine lines into the palest of marbles. He was almost too beautiful to be real, and she reached out, laying her hand on his chest just to remind herself that he was.

His skin was still warm from his feeding, but nowhere near a human temperature. Nevertheless, the heat of it blazed against her skin, chilled as she was from the injuries to her system.

Diego bent his head, exposing his neck.

A spark of warmth came to life inside her. She could feel her fangs elongating, slipping downward past the edge of her lower lip. His heartbeat, slow and steady, called to her.

Rising on tiptoe, feeling a bit woozy from the transformation that had drained the last of her strength, she inhaled the scent of him, savored it before she grazed his neck with her fangs. A shudder worked through his body and he grew hard against her.

“Diego, don’t.” Her voice sounded way too feeble to her own ears.

“I cannot help it, mi amor. Por favor, just feed. Before I forget that I am an honorable man.”

Samantha met his gaze and realized the truth of his words. There was only so much he could bear. And she had no choice any longer. A damp sweat had erupted on her chilled skin as her body began to fail.

With a small prayer that they both knew what they were doing, Samantha bit down on his neck and fed.

The rush that had come from feeding on Diego was indescribable. From the first taste of his blood, energy had surged through her, charging every atom in her body with incredible potential. Invigorating all her senses until everything seemed more alive than ever.

She’d taken only a few sips, afraid of the intensity of that kiss. Afraid of the passion that might rise within her. Sexual urges that would need to be assuaged had she fed even a drop more.

She avoided passion. In her life, passion had invariably led to pain. First her husband. Then the vampire who’d turned her. It was why she avoided any kind of involvement.

Once passion entered the mix, everything was sure to change.

Even a hint of desire was enough to incite her fear, which was why she didn’t linger with Diego. When she reached the shelter just past midnight some of the effects of her feeding had worn off, but not entirely. Like someone who was over-caffeinated, she was unable to rest. Unable to remain confined. So she slipped into the night, leaping from rooftop to rooftop as she surveyed her neighborhood to make sure all was right. It was something she regularly did to keep the neighborhood safe. Even though she rarely saw anyone during her solitary patrols, she knew her neighbors believed her responsible for the improvements in their lives.

She paused her patrol after an hour to watch the fast rush of clouds across the face of the moon. A storm was on its way, she could smell it. When the first drops arrived, she turned her face to the sky and let the chill rain wash over her. It cleansed away the smell of Diego and his blood, cooled the heat of her skin from her transformation and the feeding.

The calm lasted only until she returned to the shelter. A flat of bright salmon-colored impatiens and a note from Sofia waited for her on the kitchen table. Detective Daly dropped by with these flowers and some questions.

She didn’t know what to think about the flowers. She took them out to the small brick patio just beyond the French doors to catch the spring rain.

The flowers sat there for the rest of the night and into the early morning while she worked off some of the blood-induced energy by making lunches for the children and working mothers and preparing that morning’s breakfast.

Dawn was just breaking when Sofia came down, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “You’re up earlier than usual.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Thinking about the good detective?” Sofia asked as she made a pot of coffee.

Yes, Samantha thought, but she shook her head. “Nope. Just worried about a friend.” Which wasn’t far from the truth. The night had come and gone with them finding out nothing about Meghan’s whereabouts. It wasn’t like they could go to the authorities for help.

As she’d put the impatiens on the patio, she’d let herself imagine how the good detective might react if she asked for his assistance.

Hello, my friend Meghan is missing.

Any distinguishing characteristics?

Why, yes. Fangs and a bad temper when deprived of blood.

He would think she was certifiable. Not that she cared what he thought.

Then she had little time to think about anything as the morning rush commenced, with the women and kids shuttling in and out of the kitchen, preparing for another day.

He was a stupid fool.

Why had he expected her to be home last night? She was a beautiful woman. She wouldn’t sit around the shelter day in and day out. His cop’s intuition told him there was something about Samantha Turner that was far from saintlike.

He’d felt like a total idiot as he’d thrust the flat of impatiens into the hands of the young black woman who’d answered the door earlier in the day. Her sullen mood had dissipated to some extent, but it hadn’t kept her from issuing a warning. “Ms. Turner has no interest in men.”

With those words, she’d slammed the door in his face and left him pondering all night long the meaning behind them.

Given the nature of the shelter, and the scars he’d seen on her back, it seemed likely that Ms. Turner’s aversion to men had to do with a relationship with one man that had soured her on the species in general.

And you’re about to remedy that? The annoying little voice in his head had challenged him for the entire drive back to the shelter this morning.

He really had no more information than he’d had the day before. Which meant that unless she abruptly changed her tune about her whereabouts on the night of the shooting, it would do little good to see her again.

So instead of walking up her stoop he headed to the end of the block, to the store where his one supposed witness lived and worked.

Peter gazed through the large display window at the various items for sale along with the santero’s services. Rumor claimed he was a healer, although Peter was reluctant to put much faith in gossip. Doctors healed. This guy was probably a con man robbing people of what little they had left from their social security and welfare checks.

Not that Peter could do anything about it, even if that was the case.

As he walked to the door, the sign that said Closed flipped to Open.

Inside, it was not what Peter had expected.

In the anteroom of the shop, one wall held an assortment of candles and books related to various religions. A glass-topped display counter ran along the opposite wall and bore an antique cash register. Within the counter, religious medals and pins made of gold, silver and semiprecious stones gleamed. Behind the register stood the healer himself and beyond him, bookshelves filled with dried flowers and herbs alongside sacred statues and other items of devotion.

“May I help you, Detective Daly?” Ricardo asked.

“Mr. Fernandez,” Peter said with a nod of his head. “I wanted to confirm the information you provided the other night.”

Peter walked into the back room of the shop. Here at the farthest wall, there was a small altar holding a large statue of a saint, although he couldn’t identify which one despite his earlier life as an altar boy. Assorted candles were scattered along the altar, together with an assortment of small bowls and dishes that held an eclectic mix of items—flowers, tobacco and some coins.

Peter motioned to the altar. “This is—”

“To Catholics, Santa Barbara. But to those of us who practice santeria, it is Chango, one of the strongest of the deities.” Ricardo followed Peter then sat in one of the chairs in the back room.

Peter turned to look at him, waving his hand at the woven grass mat on the floor and the chairs circling the area. “What exactly do you do back here?”

“Worship. The Supreme Court says it’s allowed, you know.” As he spoke, Ricardo crossed his arms in a casual stance, but there was some anger in his words.

Peter sat in one of the chairs opposite Ricardo. “Do you do your ‘healing’ here?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but knowing he failed miserably.

Surprisingly, the other man took Peter’s contempt in stride. “I’m not asking that you believe, Detective. But I know I’ve helped others with my abilities.”

Peter flipped through his notes before asking, “You say you helped one of the teenagers that night.”

Ricardo nodded. “One of them was still alive when I got there, but bleeding badly.”

“Was it a mystical help or—”

“Plain old medical help. I applied pressure to his wound and tried to do what I could. I was a medic in the army before opening my store.” Peter suspected there was more to that story than he was letting on, not that it mattered to this case.

“And how about Ms. Turner? How did you help her that night?”

“Detective. I’ve already told you. I was the only one on the street that night with the children.”

“Right. So tell me how it is that Ms. Turner was the one who purchased the groceries at the store? Groceries in your possession immediately after the shooting.”

There was no trace of emotion on the santero’s face. Not even a flinch or a narrowing of the eyes. “I went to the shelter. Ms. Turner was already inside when I took the groceries from her.”

“In your pajamas? And you walked right into the line of fire?”

“I’m a healer, Detective. What did you expect?”

He’d expected the santero to do exactly what he was doing, Peter thought. Cover up for Samantha Turner. Peter had no doubt she’d been there that night. Maybe even had a hand in saving the lives of the children who’d survived. But if she had done so, she had to have been injured. The blouse and the blood in the stairwell gave mute testimony to that fact.

“Did you heal Ms. Turner after she was shot that night?”

Shaking his head, Ricardo rose from his chair and motioned for Peter to leave. “I think we’ve exhausted this line of questioning, Detective.”

Peter followed Ricardo back to the counter. “Did you heal her? Off the record.”

Ricardo narrowed his eyes as he considered him. “Off the record?”

Peter nodded.

“What Samantha has, I can’t heal.”

Something akin to dread filled Peter’s gut. “She’s sick? Is it—”

“It’s not a sickness like you can imagine, Detective. It’s in here,” Ricardo said and motioned to a spot above his heart.

“I know she’s had it rough. I saw the lines on her back.”

Ricardo seemed almost physically jolted by that revelation. “She doesn’t show them to many people. She must trust you.”

He didn’t want to contradict the other man by telling him that he’d given Samantha no choice. Not that they were what he’d expected. But having seen them, he’d recognized that she’d entrusted him with something very personal and very painful.

Peter said nothing else, just closed his notepad and headed for the door.

“Detective.”

Peter stopped and turned.

“Don’t make her sorry that she trusted you.”