Wolf at the Door Page 6

  “Ohhhh, Legals. Umm, did you ever have their Arctic char? Sublime. How do you know this? Research?”

  “Sure. And you come across as a planner. You probably researched, too.”

  “Well, I rented Fargo.” She laughed. “And I have to say, I loved the accent (and Frances McDormand). Midwestern accents sound so homey to me. Like when Paula Deen talks and I suddenly want her to start spooning mashed potatoes into my mouth. Can you hear it out here? The accent? They exaggerated it a bit in Fargo, you know . . .”

  “I can hear yours,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh. Really? I have one?” She jerked a thumb at herself. “I do?”

  “You drop the occasional r.”

  “You mean when I pahk the cah at Hahvahd Yahd?”

  He shuddered. “I really hate it when people say that. A fake Boston accent is one of the worst sounds in the world. It’s up there with Kanye West taking Taylor Swift’s mike away.”

  “You’ve got a point. I didn’t expect . . . I mean, I like some of the things I’ve seen out here.”

  Please be talking about me, please be talking about me, please be talking about me . . .

  “. . . place I’m staying turned out to be kind of terrific. Which made me ashamed. I’ve done nothing but find fault with the state of Minnesota since I showed up,” she admitted. “I hear myself talking like a jerk . . .”

  “And yet, make no effort to change,” he teased.

  “You shush. And you’d better go. You’re late already, aren’t you?”

  “Dammit!” Slammin’ hot, super-smart, funny, hot, smart, and the most intuitive person I’ve ever met. God, if this is another one of your sick jokes, you and I are DONE, pal! You’ll be off the Christmas list again! “Of all the—dammit!”

  “You didn’t think we were going to stand out on this sidewalk all night, did you?”

  Only in my dreams. “So tomorrow? Can I call you?”

  “I’m planning on it, Edward. So you’d better call me. I am no fun at all when I’ve been disappointed.”

  “Right. Right! Okay. Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. But I’ll talk to you earlier! Or leave you a voice mail.” He wanted to kiss her again, but they really did only just meet, so he grabbed her hand and wrung it like a politician canvassing red states. “Great to meet you, Rachael. Soooo great! Okay.” He ran to his rental car, screeched in mid-scamper, then turned around, abashed. “Um . . . Rachael . . .”

  “Six, five, one. Two, six, one. Seven, four, four, four.”

  “Got it!” He waved, squashed the impulse to run back and kiss her ripe mouth some more, then hopped in his Rent-A-Prius and roared out of the parking lot.

  The drive to the vampire queen’s lair had never gone so quickly.

  Twelve

  Rachael walked into Cain’s office, her nose in Minnesota for Morons. She hadn’t meant to let the book capture her, but Cain had kept her waiting, so she had pulled it out and then . . . and then . . . and then Cain’s assistant really hollered and Rachael realized Cain was ready for their meeting.

  “You know,” she said, engrossed, “Stillwater might be very nice. It’s old, comparably speaking. And the river looks so pretty.”

  “Consider visiting. Now.”

  That got her head up in a hurry. Anger. Fear. Anxiety.

  She snapped the book closed. “What’s wrong?”

  Cain was behind her desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked like she hadn’t changed her clothes in three days. She, ah, smelled like it, too.

  “A public relations nightmare. That is what’s wrong.” Cain stopped pinching and looked up. “I’m sorry. There have been some murders.”

  “Local?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pack?”

  Cain blanched. “Good God, I don’t think so. That’s all we need, dead Pack members popping up right when the Pack leader’s cousin gets to town. Michael would be so pleased.”

  Rachael snorted. Pleased wasn’t the word that leapt to her mind when wondering about Michael Wyndham’s reaction to a Pack murder spree. What constitutes a spree, anyway? She said murders, plural. Two? Is two a spree?

  “You’re jammed,” she guessed.

  “Extremely.”

  “You could have called . . . we didn’t have to meet today.”

  “We did have to meet today, Rachael. I’m sorry to have to tell you . . . this is going to sound a little odd, but the two victims were on a list of small business owners who are looking for an accountant.” Cain coughed. “A list I had drawn up for you and was prepared to give to you this morning.” Cain slid the list across her desk. “I strongly advise you not waste your time calling Mr. Stewart or Ms. Janesboro.”

  Less than a week?

  A WEEK?

  Cuz, you are in for the spanking of your life if I ever get back to the Cape.

  “And we don’t validate parking.” Rachael had been using the parking stub for a bookmark. “Sorry.”

  A never-ending nightmare.

  Thirteen

  Edward nearly drove into the pillar in the underground parking garage (it came out of nowhere!), so he stomped the brake and tried to calm down. You can’t meet up with Rachael if you’re found mangled in the Hilton parking garage with the front of your car squashed in like an accordion. So get a grip, shithead!

  He tried to calm down, but wonder of wonders, a space right next to the elevators had just opened up (it was possible the driver saw him racing into the garage and narrowly missing a fiery death, and got the hell out), so he pounced on it. Then he glanced in the rearview mirror, tried (and failed) to straighten his messy bangs, popped a breath mint, and then shoved his shoulder against the door so hard it went immediately numb.

  Moron! You have to OPEN the car door to get out!

  Right.

  So he did.

  On the elevator leading to street level, he tortured himself with the most likely scenarios. 1) Rachael had been a hologram. 2) Rachael got off on stringing geeks along and had no plans to see him again, ever. 3) Rachael had been run down like a squirrel in a senseless pedestrian vs. dirt bike collision. 4) Rachael had been too nice to say no to his face, so she said yes while having no intention of meeting him. 5) Rachael was a robot.

  He had agonized over what to wear. He had no idea how long he would be spying for Boo, and he hated shopping even more than packing, so he hadn’t brought much more than a suitcase full of clothes. Rattled and wearing nothing but his Homer Simpson boxers, he called Gregory.

  “Whoa, whoa, slow down. You . . . wait. You have a date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You do.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you haven’t even been out there a week.”

  “Did I call you for a timeline? No, Gregory, I didn’t. And if I wanted someone to shatter my dating self-esteem I would have called Boo’s cell. So, nice restaurant. Seafood restaurant in downtown Minneapolis.”

  “You’re calling me while you’re wearing your Simpsons underpants, aren’t you?”

  “Dude, do you really want me to answer? Because I will. And nobody says underpants anymore. And if you don’t help me, I’ll take a picture of Homer and me and send it to your phone about fifty times. A day!”

  It wasn’t easy to threaten or cow a vampire, but Edward thought it had gone nicely. He was wearing tan slacks, a light blue dress shirt, and his leather jacket. Loafers, with his lucky Yoda socks.

  Thank God I splurged on the extra-strength deodorant.

  He stepped out of the elevator, took a moment to get his bearings, and then spotted her chatting with the hostess by the entrance. “Oh thank God, thank God,” he murmured to himself.

  Rachael turned, almost like she’d heard him (which she couldn’t; too much background noise), and smiled. She had a great smile. And a wonderful dentist; he’d never seen teeth so straight and white.

  “Did you think I wasn’t going to come?” she asked as he galloped to her side. “Shame, shame.”

  “Well,
you did seem a little too good to be true,” he admitted.

  “I’d never stand you up. I know what it’s like and I’d never do it. Not even to someone I didn’t want to get to know.”

  He stared at her. “What colossal dumb shit bailed on a date with you? And did you suggest they get sterilized so they don’t muck up the gene pool any worse than it is? Because the thought of someone that dumb just roaming the earth at will is terrifying.”

  “Eugenics never came up,” she said dryly. “Besides, it was never going to work. At times, I’ve got a terrible temper.”

  “You?” Had she even raised her voice yet? “You seem pretty laid back.” No. That wasn’t quite right. Calm, maybe. And not easily spooked, or excited. “Hard to imagine you hulking out.”

  “It does happen on occasion.” She tipped him a wink. “Why, I’ve been known to eat men who stand me up.”

  He stared again. And again. The hostess was talking to him. Why was the hostess bugging him? Was she taking a restaurant survey? Why wouldn’t she leave them alone? Was she canvassing for UNICEF? Time and place, lady, time and place. Jesus!

  “Do you have a reservation, sir?”

  Sure. He was positive. Absolutely they had a reservation. Table for two. Yep. Now if he could only remember his last name . . .

  Eureka! “Batley, table for two, please.”

  “You’ve got to stop this,” Rachael mock-scolded. “You’re going to turn my head with all the lovely attention.”

  He was very, very tempted to kiss her for that statement alone. It seemed amazing but true: Rachael-the-goddess found flop sweat, the shakes, major horniness, and anxiety endearing.

  She’d turned and followed the hostess, and he in turn followed Rachael. He tried, tried—tried—to be a gentleman, but she was just too slammin’. Nope, slammin’ didn’t do her justice: she was slammin’ squared. No, cubed!

  She was wearing one of those dresses that looked like a big long shirt, in greenish blue, no stockings. Her rich brown hair hung at shoulder length, with a kind of ripple through it, not quite a curl. Some kind of black shoes. What did women call shoes that weren’t high heels? Anyway, she was wearing black shoes that weren’t high heels.

  Then they were being seated and examining the menu. “Hmmmm. This is not bad at all. What are you thinking?”

  “That it’s so great to see you,” he replied fervently.

  She smiled. “What are you thinking of ordering?”

  “Oh.” He immediately felt like a horse’s ass, but Rachael didn’t seem to mind (again!). “Uh . . .” He was so keyed up, he figured everything would taste like wet napkins no matter what he ordered, so he just asked for a bowl of clam chowder.

  “Cheap date,” she teased.

  “Yeah, but it’s my date. I asked you out.” After a little prompting, he reminded himself. “It’s my treat, Rachael, honest. Please order whatever you want.”

  “Priiicey. Though I think that’s a wonderful touch.” She pointed and he turned. Dozens of FedEx shipping labels were taped over the oyster bar, proving the seafood in question hadn’t been on the premises longer than forty-eight hours.

  “It is, huh? Guess that’s why they gouge us. Ten bucks for asparagus, nine bucks for mushrooms . . .”

  “What?”

  “Okay, I might have seen a flash of the temper you were talking about earlier because you said that really, really loudly.”

  “Nine bucks? The lobster I understand. The clam chowder I—Jesus! Forty bucks for halibut? Do we get to adopt it and take it home and raise it and send it to an Ivy League college?” She glared as the waitress bounced up to the table, all smiles and sleek hair and neatly pressed pants and apron. “We’re from Boston. Boston! And you’re way overcharging us.” She turned back to him. “Edward, you don’t have to pay, truly. Please let me treat you.”

  “No way. I’m loaded, baby. I’m a rich retiree. Can’t you tell?”

  “The Yoda socks gave it away,” she replied, rolling her eyes. He was astounded. Rachael had, among her many, many, many attributes, a fine eye for detail.

  “Did you have any questions about our menu, miss?”

  “Sooooo many questions. How does your boss sleep at night, that would be question number one. And can I get the scallops without the tortilla chips? That would be question number two.” Then she coughed, and he could swear she seemed ashamed, or embarrassed. “And I’m sorry about greeting you like I did. I’m homesick and I’m being quite the bitch about it.”

  “Rachael! Nuh-uh!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” she told the bemused waitress. “He’s madly in lust. But I do apologize. Although I have to warn you, all the food you bring us had better be spectacular.”

  “Don’t make her angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.”

  “You shush.”

  They ordered, the waitress left, and when Rachael gave him the full force of her dark gaze, he knew that if he never saw her again after that night, he would always, always think of her.

  “A retired man of leisure . . . how nice for you. What are you, really?”

  Good question. Sidekick? Besotted date? IT guy? Tourist? Vamp stalker? All of the above? None of the above?

  “I took a leave of absence from Grate and Tate—”

  “Not the Boston firm!”

  “Uh, yeah.” He mentally braced himself for, Oh. You’re an accountant? Um. How exciting. No, really. Um, I think the diarrhea’s coming back so let’s just hang it up for tonight, okay?

  “I’m an accountant, too!

  He instantly rewrote the dialogue in his head: I think accountants are the hottest thing on the planet! I continually fantasize about being spanked by an accountant! I wish you would spank me while filing my tax return! Mmmm . . . Mama likey . . .

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Go away, boner! No one hit your buzzer. “Oh, fine. I’m fine.”

  “You’re between jobs?” she asked with genuine interest (he was pretty sure).

  “No, but I’ve been working since I was sixteen, Grate and Tate pay well and have super bennies, and I have no life, so I’ve got five figures in savings. I was able to take a leave of absence.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  “I’m frugal, baby.”

  “I meant about having no life. You seem quite lively to me,” she teased.

  He could feel the blood rush to his face. “Thanks.” Then he cleared his throat to try to cover for his hot face and said, “So what are you gonna get?”

  “Laid, I hope,” she said, and that was when he spilled his water all over himself.

  Fourteen

  He was fumbling with the key card and dropped it and she snatched it up and then she dropped it (most likely because his hands were pretty busy under her dress) and somehow they managed to get the damned hotel room unlocked and fell inside.

  His hands were everywhere, his mouth was on hers; he was groaning and so was she. She yanked and heard his pants rip.

  Careful. Careful.

  So far, quite the successful first date. Hmm. I guess I’m that kind of girl now. The kind who ruthlessly seduces on a first date. Edward never had a chance . . . not that he seems to mind.

  No, he didn’t seem to mind.

  They had spent the evening gorging on the most overpriced seafood she’d ever had, and it was worth every penny.

  The halibut: buttery and tender and flaky. His chowder (which he kindly let her taste and, when she liked it, he insisted she finish his bowl while he ordered another for himself): thick and creamy and studded with plump clams. Her seafood tower (yes! A seafood tower, what a wonderful thing!): shrimp so perfectly chilled they were bursting with plump meaty flavor, clams and mussels so fresh she could smell the ocean on them. Her second order of raw oysters: sweet and briny and luscious at the same time, and well over a dozen went down her throat.

  And all the while, they played the seduction game.

  “You’re still using the Sage program?”
Edward asked, incredulous. “Do you drive around in a covered wagon, too?”

  “It’s perfect for my needs,” she insisted. “You won’t get me to back down this time, Edward. Though I grudgingly admit you were right about the updates—keeping track of the fundraising can be difficult without it. But I need something that’ll serve organizations of different sizes. Besides, Sage is compatible with Windows and Linux and Unix.”

  “But it—”

  “Plus I need to manage finances for all sorts of locations; I did that back on the Cape and I want to continue doing it out here.” Snatch clam. Hold to mouth. Tilt head back. Slurp.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sorry to cut you off again, but I don’t want to get locked into only taking small business owners or only taking government work or only taking nonprofits.” She shook her empty clam at him. “That’s why it’s perfect for me.”

  “What about overseas?”

  “What about overseas?” She picked up another clam and sucked it down.

  “That’s why you need the Epicor.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “You do not have Epicor.”

  “I absolutely have Epicor, and the thing is a demigod as far as I’m concerned, okay?” Edward was on his second bowl of chowder, she was glad to see. His appetite was getting stronger the more they talked.

  So was hers. But not for food.

  She liked how he had obviously taken some care with his wardrobe. She liked how clean he smelled. She liked his insistence on defending his workplace tools of choice. She liked his excitement and his passion and his manners. She even liked that he would not budge on the topic of who would pay for lunch.

  But she had a way to make that up to him, maybe. She could insist on a second date. Or she could . . .

  “I don’t believe it.”

  He smirked. “Jealousy . . . tsk, tsk, Rachael.”

  “No, I’ll admit it, that’s impressive. It really does everything they say?”

  “It practically cooks me breakfast.”

  “Maybe you’ll show me sometime?”