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THE CREW THREW A PARTY FOR THEM—IMPROMPTU feasts of cold smoked ham and ca
"I think I'll retire for the evening," Cecilia said as she passed him. "Join me?"
Liam let a torturous second or two go by, then pushed away from the rail. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I might."
He was kissing her well before they reached the cabin—in the hallway, in fact, up against the wooden wall, perilously close to the tilting lantern. He kicked the cabin door open and pulled her inside, already unfastening her belt and leaving it in a pile on the floor as he walked her relentlessly back, toward the bed. Her shirt marked another step, and his joined it. Boots next. Trousers.
By the time they reached the bed itself, they were naked and warm and entirely consumed with tastes and touches and not at all with thought. Liam's hands slid around Cecilia's head, combing through her thick short hair, and he devoured her mouth in hungry, desperate kisses with all the feverish energy of lightning striking.
When he pulled back, Cecilia found herself shaking, panting, and very close to heaven. In the firelight, Liam's skin was the color of hot caramel, twice as sweet to the taste—burned darker on his forearms and hands and face, a true man of the sea.
"Maybe we ought to wait," Cecilia said. Lockhart's eyes widened.
"Wait?" he echoed, and she smiled wickedly.
"Something's bound to interrupt us."
Liam held up one finger, stepped back and turned to the door to bellow, "Mr. Argyle!"
The cabin door opened just a crack. "Aye, Captain?"
"You'll guarantee our privacy this time?"
"Oh, aye, sir. Totally guaranteed." And the door shut with a clank of metal.
"See?" Liam said. "Problem solved."
"Except that your first mate is listening right outside the door, Liam. I don't call that privacy."
Liam seemed honestly surprised. "Well, then, we'll have to be quiet, then, won't we?"
His kiss completely derailed her objections. The lovemaking was like a dream, waves hitting the shore, sleek and salty and irresistible. Cecilia floated in the currents, anchored only by his body, the sharp nip of his teeth on her neck, the electric-hot press of his hands.
In the end, there was nothing in the least quiet about it, but Cecilia quite forgot to worry about that.
"Ah, that's the way to mark the passing hours," Liam said drowsily, stroking her hair as they lay twined together in an untidy heap on the disordered bed. "One day down."
"Aye aye, Captain." She smiled against his chest. "And forever to go."
Rachel Caine is the author of the popular Weather Warden series, the sixth installment of which Thin Air was released in August 2007. She also writes a young adult series, Morganville Vampires, with the third book, Midnight Alley, scheduled for an October 2007 release. In addition, Rachel has written paranormal romantic suspense for Silhouette, including Devil's Bargain, Devil's Due, and the recently released Athena Force novel Line of Sight.
Visit her Web site: www.rachelcaine.com.
My Space: www.myspace.com/rachelcaine.
HER MOTHER'S DAUGHTER
P. N. Elrod
Gangsters, gats, and girls in Depression Era Chicago mean trouble, even for an undead shamus. Jack Fleming relates his latest case from The Vampire Files.
Chicago, February 1938
IT'S BEEN MY EXPERIENCE THAT A BLUSHING BRIDE usually waits until after the honeymoon's over before hiring a gumshoe to check up on her husband's whereabouts. When Dorothy Schubert, nee Huffman, plowed into the office still in her wedding gown I figured she was out to break a record along with anything else in her path.
She was the angriest woman I'd ever seen—which is saying a lot.
I'd only stopped by to pick up the mail and hadn't bothered to turn on the light. She'd charged noisily up the outside stairs, shoving the door open so hard the glass rattled. Blindly she fumbled the switch, and the sudden brightness caught me behind the desk, envelopes in one hand, reaching under my coat for my .38 with the other. Chicago's a tough town; even a vampire needs an extra edge at times.
You heard right, but I'll get back to the Lugosi stuff later.
I eased off drawing my gun and put down the envelopes. The lady appeared to be unarmed, just remarkably upset. Her face was red, her brown eyes blazed, and she had very straight teeth, nearly all of them bared. I kept the desk between us.
"Is that you?" she demanded, jabbing a finger at the name painted on the door's pebbled glass panel. It read THE ESCOTT AGENCY.
I hesitated replying, wondering what my partner had gotten himself into, and then realized she'd not have asked the question had she ever met Escott. "No, but maybe I can help?"
"I need a detective," she said, tottering forward to grab the back of one of the wooden chairs in front of the desk. The charge up the stairs must have winded her.
"You look like you need a drink."
"That, too." She dropped onto the chair, her classy wedding dress making an expensive rustling sound. She was more arresting than pretty, with thick black hair, a hawk's nose, strong brows, and wide mouth. By turns she was the type who could turn ugly or traffic-stopping beautiful depending on her mood. A sculptor would have made much over her cheekbones, chin, and throat. I noticed the big vein there pulsing in time with her heartbeat, which was audible to my ears. She was calming down, though, the beat gradually slowing.
Her floor-dragging veil was half off, and she wore no coat over the gown. Last time I checked it was cold enough that even I felt the bite of Old Man Winter. The lady must have departed straight from the church in one spitfire of a hurry. Post-ceremony, I noted, her rings were in place. One was a showy engagement sparkler, the other a more modest band with diamonds embedded in its gold surface. She had enough on one finger to buy the block, never mind the pricey trinkets hanging from her neck and wrists.
"You cold?" I asked. Her bare arms showed gooseflesh.
She considered, then nodded. The heat was down for the night; I took off my overcoat and draped it over her shoulders.
"You're nice. So polite," she said, pulling it close around her body like a blanket.
"Sometimes."
Escott kept a pint of Four Roses in the bottom left drawer—cheap stuff and strictly for clients in need of a knock-in-the-head bracer. I pulled it out and started toward the back room to get a glass, but the bride didn't wait. She had the cap off, bottle upended, and drained a quarter of it away in two shakes. It being her wedding day she had good reason to indulge, but still—impressive.
She slammed the bottle on the desk and whooped in a deep breath, her dark eyes watering. "Wow."
I'd given up drinking booze some while ago, but knew that Four Roses could peel varnish without much effort. "How may I help you, Miss—uh—Mrs.—?"
"Mrs. Jerome Kleinhaus Schubert as of an hour ago. I want you to find my husband."
"Uh."
Damn few things are a cause for flummoxing, but this peculiar situation had me nailed to the wall. Had Mrs. Schubert been a bad-tempered, gun-waving mug with one of the city's mobs I'd have known exactly what to do. Instead we traded stares for a long, much too-silent moment; then I remembered to fall back on procedure, and got out one of the agency's standard contracts, notepaper, and a fountain pen.