"You're home early. You should have called."
She spun as Karl stepped inside. He'd changed since meeting her for lunch, trading designer chinos and a brilliant blue polo for a dark suit that looked like it came from a department store, well below Karl's usual standards. Not that it mattered. Karl could make Goodwill castoffs look good. The lowbrow attire was camouflage – Karl's way of blending into a crowd, and the moment he stepped into the room, though, the tie and jacket were off, cast onto the chair like a hair shirt.
"Good hunting?" Hope asked.
"You forgot to lock the deadbolt and chain."
He kissed the top of her head, cushioning the rebuke. She could feel the chaos waves of worry rolling off him. When Karl settled in a new city, he couldn't relax until he'd cleared out any other werewolves. Kill Karl Marsten, and a werewolf would instantly seal his reputation, guaranteeing for years to come that others would clear out of his way.
Hope knew that having her there made it worse. She was an easy way to get to him. So if he wanted her triple-locking the doors and taking a taxi to work until he'd finished scouting, she understood. The same way he understood the quirks and issues of a chaos half-demon girlfriend.
As he took off his shoes, she told him about Robyn's call and Portia Kane's "invitation."
"And, apparently, Portia insists I bring my 'hot boyfriend.' "
Karl snorted as he put his shoes aside. Not that he doubted Portia found him attractive. Hope knew his ego was too healthy for that. What he objected to was being called anything as common as "hot."
"Give it some thought while I grab a shower," she said. "If you want to get more scouting done instead, that's fine."
"If you're out, I'd rather stay close. I know you wanted to spend time alone with Robyn, though…"
"Not much use if Portia's there." Hope started unbuttoning her blouse. "In fact, it'd probably be better if you did come, keep Portia occupied, so she doesn't spend the night ordering Rob around."
"Using me as a distraction. I should be insulted."
"You aren't."
"True." He reclined on the bed, arms folded behind his head as he watched her undress. "She was wearing a lovely diamond bracelet the other day. At least ten carats. Platinum setting…"
"Don't you dare."
"If I'm expected to spend my evening charming a silly little girl, I think I'm entitled to compensation."
"Oh, you'll get compensation."
He plucked the hem of her skirt as she passed to the bathroom.
"It's a big job. I think I need an advance."
"And I need a shower."
"The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."
She paused, as if thinking it over, then lunged, skirt breaking from his grasp as she sprinted for the bathroom. She got the door closed just before he thumped against it, then she quickly fastened the lock. That would slow him down… for about ten seconds.
She smiled and tugged off her skirt.
ROBYN
As Robyn spotted Portia across the club, she was tempted to grab Hope and bail. Portia certainly didn't look as if she wanted company. She had the best see-and-be-seen spot in the club: a trio of sofas overlooking the dance floor. At least twenty people had squeezed onto those sofas, basking in the reflected glow of Portia's celebrity.
But even from across the dance floor, Robyn could tell no one was speaking directly to Portia. When she saw Robyn, she leapt to her feet and frantically waved her over.
"Oh my God. Finally! Rob, you look amazing."
She didn't and she knew it. She wore an unremarkable black dress and basic makeup, with her shoulder-length hair brushed straight. For Portia, that was perfect – presentable enough not to embarrass her, but in no danger of upstaging her. As Portia's gaze traveled to Hope, though, her eyes narrowed.
Robyn had neglected to pass along the "hot but not hotter than me" message. Why bother? With perfect features and long black curls, Hope looked great without trying – which was good, because she rarely did. Tonight, though, she'd put in the extra effort, wearing a pale green sheath dress and heels, her hair swept up, tendrils dangling.
"I love that dress!" Portia squealed, air-kissing Hope. "Where did you find it?"
Hope glanced over her shoulder at Karl.
"Vagabond," he said. "In Philly."
Portia swept past Hope and embraced Karl, giving him a kiss that definitely made contact. "I am so glad you could make it." She tugged him onto the sofa, scooting over so close she was almost on his lap.
"Robyn tells me you're in the jewelry business, which is perfect, because I have a question."
"We'll let these two talk shop," Hope said to Robyn. "I think there's a spot over there…"
Karl's hand shot out, grabbing the hem of her dress and yanking her down beside him. She laughed and made room for Robyn.
Karl chatted with Portia, leaning over every now and then to whisper in Hope's ear, smiling as they shared a joke or wry observation. Just like Robyn used to do with Damon.
She remembered how she used to want that for Hope, with her endless stream of casual boyfriends. Someone to whisper and laugh with. Someone to lift the shadows from her eyes.
Karl wasn't what Robyn had in mind. Too smooth, too good looking, too old – almost a decade Hope's senior. She'd feared Karl was a gold digger, his eye on Hope's family money and social connections. But Karl had his own money and, she'd eventually conceded, his only interest in Hope was Hope herself.
As Portia monopolized Karl, Hope talked about work, making Robyn laugh as always with her tales of sewer monsters and alien abductions. Robyn used to worry that Hope's breakdown after high school had shattered her self-confidence, making her think she couldn't do better than tabloid reporting. But Damon had scoffed at that, saying Hope had the most interesting job of anyone he knew. It was like taking this position with Portia Kane. Sometimes, you just had to say to hell with relevancy and immerse yourself in the trivial. Not that it was working out so well for Robyn…
She gazed out over the club and saw a face that reminded her of Damon. She always did, finding him in the tilt of a stranger's chin, the curve of a face, the crinkle of an eye. She imagined him sitting beside her, getting a kick out of all the posturing around them. Peacocks, he'd call them, so busy preening and parading they never realized everyone else was too absorbed in themselves to notice.
He'd cut up the music, too, say they were warping perfectly good songs into dance versions for white boys from Nebraska. Then he'd lean over and sing in her ear. She could feel the tingle of his breath on her neck, the warmth of his finger sliding down her arm, the deep bass of his voice vibrating through her. He'd sing " 500 Miles," their song – the one he'd been singing on the phone that night, driving home late from a conference in Pittsburgh.
When Robyn closed her eyes, she could hear him. Then he stopped and said, "Huh. Looks like someone lost a tire. Shit. Guess I should be a gentleman and offer to help."
Don't, baby. Please, please, don't…
She drained her champagne glass and refilled it. Hope didn't notice. She'd stopped talking and was staring across the club, eyes glazed over.
Gave up on me, I guess, Robyn thought.
She stared at the bubbles in her glass and allowed herself a two-second self-pity break.
She could imagine what Damon would say. What did you expect, Bobby? She came all this way to help you, but she can't do it by herself. You need to give a little.
Help her with what? Get over it? Get over him?