Marcus’s look seemed to question his sanity. “Hell, no.”
Roland nearly wilted with relief. “Good.”
Shaking his head, Marcus produced a half smile. “I should have said yes and dredged up a few tears just to watch you squirm.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t,” Roland returned sardonically.
Upon leaving the bathroom, they found Sarah back in the den, setting a large tote bag down on the futon.
She glanced over her shoulder, then turned to face them. “Wow. You look …” Her gaze made a slow excursion down Roland’s body and back up again, speeding his pulse. “You look great.”
The admiration in those hazel depths made his body harden.
“Are you feeling better?” she continued. “Was Marcus able to help?”
“Yes to both questions.”
Brow furrowed with concern, she closed the distance between them. “You are going to see a doctor now, right?”
“No, I need to get you to safety first.”
“Surely the CIA has emergency medical facilities available for their operatives. Wouldn’t I be safe there?”
Marcus passed them on his way to the front door. “You told her you’re CIA?”
“Yes.”
Sarah turned to Marcus. “It wasn’t his fault. I know it’s supposed to be kept secret, but if he hadn’t told me I would have called 911 and blown his cover.”
As soon as she looked away, Marcus rolled his eyes and mouthed, Lame.
Ignoring him, Roland asked Sarah if her bag was packed.
“Almost. I need a few things from the bathroom, then I’m good to go.”
Roland moved aside so she could slip past him, then crossed over to Marcus.
“You aren’t supposed to tell them you’re CIA,” he said, his voice muted, as he set the duffle bag down and picked up the briefcase. “You’re supposed to let them infer it.”
Roland sent him a warning scowl. “I haven’t had to explain myself to a mortal in centuries. Cut me some slack.”
Balancing the briefcase on the back of the futon, Marcus flipped the latches up and opened it.
Roland smiled when he saw its contents. “You thought of everything, I see.”
“I figured if you had lost your clothes, you’d probably lost your weapons, too.”
“You were right. I did.” He was distributing sais, daggers, and throwing stars to various pockets, boots, and belt loops when Sarah returned and dumped a toothbrush, hairbrush, comb, hair ties, and several small bottles and jars into her tote.
Eyeing his weapons, she crossed her arms beneath full breasts. “Okay, would someone please explain to me why a man posing as an illegal arms dealer doesn’t carry a gun?”
“Amateur,” Marcus mumbled beneath his breath before continuing more clearly. “The knives are part of the persona we created to reinforce the belief of the criminals he deals with that he is a member of a particularly violent eastern European crime family. He also usually carries a couple of .45 semiautomatics but lost them in the fight.”
“Why didn’t you bring him replacements?”
“A miscommunication.”
Since they rarely fought more than one vampire at a time and wanted to avoid drawing attention to their battles, immortals tended to avoid using guns. Vampires did as well, knowing even in their madness that more than one careless vamp had experienced an excruciating death in a sunlit cell after being taken into custody by law enforcement officials.
Pursing her lips in a way Roland found adorable, Sarah left them, disappeared into the bedroom, and returned carrying a Glock 9mm and a spare clip.
“Here,” she said, holding them out to him. “You can use mine.”
Roland raised his eyebrows.
She shrugged. “I used to live in Houston. Crime is pretty bad there and, when a woman in my apartment complex was raped by a burglar, I decided that any man who broke into my place was going to have to be carried out.”
Damn. He really liked her.
Sarah watched him palm the weapon and give it a quick inspection. She kept it in good condition. Clean. Well-oiled. No rust or dust in any of the grooves or crevices. He seemed satisfied.
“There’s a bullet in the chamber and fifteen in the clip,” she told him.
“You any good with it?” Marcus asked.
“Very good,” Sarah answered matter-of-factly. “There’s no point in owning a gun if you aren’t prepared to use it.”
Roland handed it back to her.
“Don’t you need it?” she asked, taking it.
“I want you to hold on to it. If my assailants catch up with us before we reach my home, aim for the major arteries.” Using his index and middle fingers, he pointed out the key arteries on his own body in his neck, arms, abdomen, and inner thighs. “Here, here, here, and here. Got it?”
“Yes.” Every man she had ever chatted with at the shooting range, including cops, had told her to aim for the chest. Then, after seeing what a good shot she was, amended that to the head and chest. Yet, Roland was telling her to aim for major arteries?
That was odd.
“Don’t hesitate,” he stressed earnestly. “If you even think one of them is moving toward you, start shooting.”
“Will do,” she promised.
Marcus cleared his throat. “And don’t shoot us.”
She frowned up at him. “I just told you I’m good. I never miss my target.”
“And I’m asking you not to target us,” he countered, eyebrows raised. “Please?”
She looked at Roland and caught him exchanging a somber glance with Marcus.
Feeling as if she were missing something, she addressed Marcus. “Fine. If it will make you feel better, I promise I won’t shoot you.”
He nodded. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that.”
If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he truly believed she might turn her gun on them later.
Roland grabbed her tote bag. “Let’s get going.”
Marcus collected the duffle bag and briefcase and headed outside.
Sarah stuffed the spare clip into her back pocket and gripped the 9mm tightly with her right hand, nervous all of a sudden.
His expression softening, Roland touched her left arm. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone harm you.”
She forced a smile.
Sliding his hand down until their palms met, he linked his long fingers through hers and gave her hand a light squeeze.
Butterflies erupted in her stomach as she followed him onto the porch.
How could something as innocent as holding hands sometimes feel so intimate, she wondered as he locked and closed the door behind them.
Darkness enfolded them, so complete Sarah couldn’t see an inch in front of her face.
When Roland started down the front steps, she remained where she was.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, tugged to a halt.
“I can’t see.”
The porch light flickered, then came on.
Blinking at the sudden brightness, she looked up at the glowing bulb, back at the closed door, then at Roland, who waited on the steps.
He shrugged. “Must be faulty wiring. I turned it on as we were leaving. Come on. We need to hurry.”
Descending the steps, Sarah followed him across the uneven front lawn, then glanced back at the light.
The house was old. The wiring, too. Perhaps she shouldn’t have exchanged the dim yellow bulb that had originally been in the archaic fixture with a hundred-watt one. There had just been too many nights when she had tripped on the uneven ground between the gravel driveway and the front steps because the lower wattage bulb only lit the porch.
The brilliant white light of this bulb spilled down the stairs onto the grass and extended all the way to Marcus’s shiny black Prius, which was parked close behind her sixteen-year-old grungy white piece of crap Geo Prism.
Marcus handed Roland the briefcase, unlocked the passenger door, and started around the front of the car.