Bethany giggled.
Leah swallowed hard. Was that why Dougal had watched her with such an intense, hungry look in his eyes? Had he set his sights on her?
"They're muy macho, very sexy." Fidelia patted her hair, which was black with two inches of gray roots. "I had my eye on Robby, but he found a girl a few years younger than me."
"More than a few years," Heather muttered.
"I like the Scottish ones the best." Fidelia's eyes twinkled. "And I like what they're wearing underneath their kilts. Nada!"
Bethany grinned. "Aunt Fee, you should marry Dougal. He's still single."
Leah's breath caught. She turned her back, pretending to wait on the toaster.
"Ah, Dougal," Fidelia murmured. "He's a handsome hombre. Never says much, but I suspect he's more a man of action."
"He's real good with a sword," Bethany said.
Fidelia chuckled. "Those Scotsmen have some really long swords. And I bet they know just how to use them."
Heather cleared her throat. "I'm afraid Dougal won't be our guard anymore. He's going to be in charge of night security at Romatech."
Where I'll see him every night. Leah started when the bagels popped up in the toaster.
"I'm going to miss Dougal," Bethany whined. "Who's going to guard us then?"
"Don't worry, honey," Fidelia replied. "Mr. Glock and Senor Beretta will keep us safe."
"Oh God, no," Heather whispered. "You brought them with you?"
"Of course," Fidelia said. "That's why I love teleporting with the Vamps. They never take my guns away."
Leah glanced back and saw the older woman patting her large handbag.
Heather sighed. "You didn't need to bring them."
"How else do we stay safe during the day?" Fidelia asked. "We left Billy in Texas to guard the house, and Dougal's dead as a doornail right now."
Dead? That was the second time Fidelia had said the Vamps were dead. How could that be possible? Wasn't being Undead different from being dead? Leah spread some cream cheese on her bagel. "Where is Dougal?"
"In the basement, most probably." Heather sipped some more coffee. "That's where the guards stay when they sleep here."
Leah brought her bagel and coffee to the table. The basement. Maybe she could sneak down there when no one was looking.
"Guess what?" Bethany asked her. "Mom and I are going to a show this afternoon. Mary Poppins!"
"Oh, that's nice." Leah sat.
"Don't worry about me," Fidelia muttered. "I'll just stay here with the twins."
"John and Jillian?" Bethany asked.
"No." Fidelia patted her handbag, her eyes twinkling. "Smith and Wesson."
Leah shot a wary look at the handbag. How many guns were in there?
"We'd better hurry." Heather stood, stuffing the last of her bagel in her mouth.
While Leah ate, they bustled about, putting things away and cleaning up the happy toddlers, who had grape jelly smeared all over their faces. Then they went upstairs to a playroom Heather mentioned. She and Bethany would be leaving soon for their Broadway matinee.
With it quiet in the kitchen, Leah's thoughts kept returning to Fidelia's insistence that Dougal was dead. It didn't make sense. A body couldn't remain dead for hours and then magically revive itself. He had to be in a deep sleep or something like a coma.
The more she thought about it, the more she had to know the truth. She set her dirty dishes on the rack in the dishwasher, then left the kitchen in search of the basement. She didn't have to go far. The first door she tried opened onto a staircase.
At the base of the stairs, she found a washer and dryer. Then she entered a large, well-lit room with a billiard table in the middle. Sofas and chairs lined the walls. A small fridge held bottles of something called Bleer. Synthetic blood and beer. Racks lined the upper walls, where an assortment of weapons were stashed - swords, knives, guns and rifles. Interspersed between the racks were four coats of arms belonging to four clans. The MacKay, MacPhie, Buchanan, and Kincaid. The plaid background on the Kincaid coat of arms matched Dougal's kilt. Dougal Kincaid.
So where was he? She spotted a closed door and opened it. The creak made her wince. If he was sleeping, the noise might wake him up.
The room was dark, so she left the door open to allow light to filter in from the billiards room. Two rows of twin beds lined the walls. All were empty except the first one on the left.
"Hello?" she whispered.
No answer.
She approached the bed slowly. It was him. Dougal. "I don't mean to interrupt your sleep," Well, that wasn't exactly true. She fully expected him to wake up any second. After all, he was a security guard. Weren't they trained to be light sleepers?
His large frame filled the bed to the point that his feet practically hung off the bottom edge and his shoulders took up the entire width. He was flat on his back, his hands folded at his waist, his left hand resting on top of the prosthetic right hand.
She eased closer. "Hello?" Her gaze drifted down his body. What on earth was he wearing? Some kind of nightgown? It looked like the sort of thing Ebenezer Scrooge would wear. It was white, baggy, and ended at midcalf. His feet were covered with white tube socks. The gown had long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, and another row of buttons marched up his chest to the high collar.
She smiled. The collar even had a ruffle at the top. How old-fashioned could he get? At least he wasn't wearing one of those silly nightcaps on his head.
"Are you awake?"
No answer. She leaned over to see his face, prepared to jump back whenever his eyes opened. His hair was loose about his shoulders. His jaw and mouth were outlined with dark whiskers. His mouth was closed. How could a man have such a pretty mouth?
She glanced back at his eyes. Still shut. "You know I'm here, don't you? You're only pretending to sleep?"
His face remained completely still. Not a twitch from those dark eyebrows. She'd never seen eyebrows or a forehead that could be so expressive. Her mother's emotions showed in her eyes and her voice. Her father either smiled slightly or more often, his lips thinned in disapproval.
But Dougal - she'd recognized anger, fear, pain, hunger, curiosity, approval, and inquisitiveness all from the way he'd moved his brow and eyebrows. Without thinking, she reached out to touch his forehead. It was smooth and cool.
She lifted her hand quickly and checked his eyes. Still closed.
"You're breathing, aren't you?" She held a hand an inch below his nostrils.
No air.
She rested her hand on his chest. Hard as a rock. Dead as a rock?
"Come on, wake up." She shoved at his chest. "You can't be dead. It's not possible."
She touched his cheek. Cool. The dark whiskers prickled her fingertips. "You're just too pretty, you know that?"
She glanced at his eyes again. "Sexy rascal. Shall I have my way with you?"
No response. Wouldn't a normal guy stop faking it and make a grab for her?
But he wasn't normal. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, but his high, ruffled neckline was in the way.
"Well, this should wake you up." She unbuttoned the top three buttons of his nightshirt, then slid her hand to his neck to feel his pulse.
Nothing.
"This can't be." She felt the other side. Damn. He didn't have a pulse.
With her own pulse racing and fingers trembling, she unfastened more buttons. She peeled back his shirt and froze. This was the last thing she expected. A green and purple dragon curled over his right shoulder and down toward his chest. The mouth was wide open, breathing red and orange flames. An Oriental-style dragon, colorful and fierce. She placed her hand on the fire etched over his heart.
Nothing. She lay her head on his chest to listen. His skin was cool against her cheek.
No heartbeat.
"Oh God," she whispered, straightening. Should she attempt CPR? Would that even work on a vampire? It was almost two in the afternoon. He could have been dead since sunrise that morning.
"Dougal." She pulled the edges of his nightshirt together and looked at his handsome face. He couldn't be gone for good. He had to come back at sunset, right? Wasn't that what vampires did?
Her eyes burned with tears. "You will come back, won't you?"
Why was she feeling so drawn to this man? He couldn't be doing some sort of hocus-pocus glamour on her, not when he was dead. So that could only mean her attraction was real.
"Really crazy," she muttered, blinking away the tears. If she had any sense, she would avoid this man like the plague.
She rushed from the room, closing the door behind her and not looking back.
Dougal jolted back to life right after sunset. His vision adjusted quickly to the dark room. This wasn't the opulent basement of Jean-Luc's house in Texas but the old, familiar basement in Roman's townhouse. And tonight, he started his new job. If he was lucky, he'd see Leah again. He might even get to teleport her to Romatech.
He still felt bad about eavesdropping on her the night before, but his guilt was overshadowed now by his admiration for her. She'd remained so strong and brave while her safe world had crumbled around her. And then she'd shown even more courage with her decision to stay. Even though she was wary of Vamps, she was still willing to work with them in order to save lives.
She had a good, honorable heart. And she was bright, beautiful, and brave. Just thinking about her made him smile. He hadn't felt this excited in years. Centuries. He wanted to know more about her. What made her happy? What were her dreams? Could she fall for someone like him?
As he sat up, he noticed his nightshirt was unbuttoned and gaping open. Who? He glanced around quickly, but the room was empty. He peered into the billiards room, but it was empty, too. Whoever had unbuttoned his shirt was gone.
He caught a slight whiff of perfume. Jasmine. His heart raced. Could it have been Leah? Was she curious enough about him that she'd examined him during his death-sleep?
He jumped in the shower as he considered other possible culprits. Heather Echarpe? No way. Fidelia? He shuddered at the thought. The woman was always trying to peek under his kilt whenever he levitated.
It had to have been Leah. He winced, imagining her reaction to his old-fashioned nightshirt. Maybe he should do as Gregori suggested and go to that fancy stylist over at DVN. The other guys always teased him about his old nightshirt. They had modernized to the point that most of them slept in underwear or less. He clung to the old shirt because it completely covered his tattoo, and he didn't want to answer any questions about it.
Leah must have seen it. He groaned at the thought. How could he explain it to her?
When he stepped out of the shower, he turned on the digital camera and monitor so he could see to shave. Normally, he didn't bother much with his appearance, but tonight he might see Leah again.
Would she confess to unbuttoning his shirt? If not, how could he ask if she had? By the way, lass, did ye molest me during my death-sleep?
Before dawn, he had teleported back to Jean-Luc's house to gather up his belongings: his clothes, tartan blanket, bagpipes, Uilleann pipes, and old tin whistle. So now he was able to dress in a fresh white shirt and kilt and tie his damp hair back with a new leather strip.