Big Game
Chapter Three
Rafe
A soft beep from the plane's intercom system jars me from a light slumber. Dria slips under my arm, and presses a button on the com box near the cabin's door. "Yes?"
"We're landing in twenty minutes."
"Thanks, Drew."
She pads lightly to the bed and leans over me. A whisper soft kiss lands on my lips. "Time to get up, love."
"Yeah, I heard." I stretch, allowing the sheet to fall away from my chest. Dria's eyes lock onto my revealed stomach muscles. Mouth slightly agape, her tiny pointed tongue brushes a lengthening canine. It's so fun to tease her. She's like a caged tiger living next door to the butcher, and I'm the raw meat parading past her bars. "Let me pull on some clothes and grab our overnight bag."
"My turn to pilot. I'll fly the seaplane from the marina hangar." Dria draws back from the bed and snatches a jumpsuit from a nearby chair. She deftly steps in and zips the dark blue coverall up her naked form, wiggling her round ass to torment me. The lined fabric hugs her curves and hides the fact she's not wearing underwear.
She gently pulls out her long hair from under the collar and gives her head a sexy shake. Just like when she teased my cock an hour or so ago. The glint in her eye reveals she knows I'm watching and the gesture was intentional. The little minx.
The next couple of hours proceed without a hitch. Minutes after a smooth water landing, workers from our private island taxi the plane through the cove to return to the hangar to retrieve the rest of our luggage from the jet.
"Holy cow!" Paul stands on the large dock, staring up the gentle slope of the island. "The house overhangs a freakin' cliff? I don't know why I thought 'tropical' when I pictured Argentina."
I look at the large crest Paul called a cliff. Shadows and crags hide in the dark recesses, showcasing the brightly lit stucco house at the rocky pinnacle.
"Flip your thoughts when you pass the equator," I say. "Buenos Aires is three hours north of us. Right now, it's like the difference between New Jersey and northern Florida during the fall in the U.S."
Drew grabs Chelly's hand. The couple steps in line behind Dria. My wife leads our merry band toward the small parking lot a hundred yards up a gently sloping hill. The rolling landscape here is much greener than Alaska was when we left. Lots of short grasses and manicured shrubs.
"It's fall?" Bob comments from the dock. "Who ever heard of fall in April?" His shoulders shrug. "Makes no sense, I tell ya."
Paul shoves the large man playfully, encouraging him to walk behind the others. "Dude, didn't you hear him? We crossed the equator. Southern Hemisphere is opposite the northern one in seasons."
A "harrumph" comes from the larger man, but he dutifully trails along with the rest of us. "So that means it gets colder the more south you go, too?" Bob shakes his head. "Right when I think I get to understanding how the world works, I get thrown a curve ball and visit the other side of the globe."
Tommy smirks, "God-forbid you step out from the comfort of your living room and explore beyond the flat screen TV."
"I always wondered where you guys went in the summer," Paul directs to Dria and me. "Should have guessed you'd follow suit and go someplace where the nights are long."
Drew leans close to Chelly's ear. "That Vivian," he whispers in a faux conspirator-like tone, "she's a smart one."
My wife grins. "I've owned this small island for seven decades. It's come far since I first brought Rafe here."
I laugh recalling the two-room shack my wealthy wife so humbly lived in. It was dank, dark, and cold. I don't know how or why she lived in it for as long as she did. To hide from her enemies, I suspect. She never ceases to amaze me. "It took a team of engineers and gardeners to make this desolate island into what you see today. Not many trees, anyone notice?"
"Yeah," says Chelly. "I was wondering about that."
Drew asks, "Remember the Falkland Islands pictures I showed you?" She nods. "I had a feeling the terrain here would be the same." He glances to the sloping ground. "Looks like something cleared most of the vegetation."
"No," I answer. "It may look that way, but the rock under the surface makes it very hard for roots to form, making it a natural terrain for grasses."
"Still," Bob says, "I hoped for palm trees and bright flowers." He eyes up a grouping of two-toned ornamental grasses. "It's pretty, don't get me wrong. I just hadn't pictured grassy hills when I thought of visiting an island off Argentina."
"Reminds me a little of Ireland," Drew says. "From the pictures it didn't seem as green, though. Now that I'm here it's colder, and much windier than I expected."
A two-foot tall black-and-white body waddles by, heading back to the cove, and I wait for the expected exclamations.
"Holy crap," says Paul. "Did I just see a penguin?"
"Bet they don't have those in Ireland." Chelly leans into Drew and kisses his cheek. He whips around to gawk at the bird, and the group continues in this fascinated vein for a bit while we walk.
By their expressions, I'm betting only one or two of them even vaguely researched where we were going. Typical ignorant Americans. They really do make the rest of us look bad. Hell, Tommy is Australian and Drew is older than I am-there's no excuse for the lot of them, really.
Vivian continues walking, ignoring the inane chatter from the group. She looks regal as she carries herself over the crushed stone drive, even in a jumpsuit. The lighted trails remind me of the winding pathways in Alaska, without the snow and different plants. I wonder if that was subconscious on our part when we directed Dalton to install them down here.
We gather on the terraced parking area near a group of electric utility and transport carts. They are larger and nicer than golf carts, but the principle is the same-compact, not built for speed, but designed to shuttle people and things for short distances.
Chelly looks around, the strong breeze whipping her long hair about while she takes in the many small buildings and road leading to the main house. "I'm getting the feeling like I'm walking through an episode of Fantasy Island more and more as the months go by."
Drew laughs and squeezes her hand. "Vivian as Mr. Roarke?"
Before Chelly has a chance to clarify, Dria jumps in. "But of course, darling," her eyes flash in a rare show of amazing good humor. "I'm proud to say you're the first in a while to make the connection."
The young blond woman straightens under the attention and smiles. "Classic TV. 'Da plane, boss. Da plane'."
We toss our bags in the carts and motor up the winding drive toward the main house. Bob, Tommy, and Paul make a big show of driving the cart while acting like fools. All in good fun and we've been cooped up in the plane, so I don't correct their idiotic behavior. Dria must be thinking the same thing since she rarely suffers fools.
The largest grouping of buildings we pass look like old English country farmhouses, a style Vivian detests, and one most prevalent on these islands. She never lived in the houses here, flat out refused, making a rustic cabin instead. Said the old design reminded her of the homestead Mikov locked her in for over two decades. Can't say I blame her for disliking it.
Dalton and his wife remodeled the dilapidated structures when they hired on. By then, the first portion of the main home was built and we didn't have to field questions on why we lived in the crappy cabin. I've gotten used to my wife's idiosyncrasies, but that tiny shack was never my favorite-like living in a windy coffin.
"Is that the caretaker's house?" Drew asks from the cart behind us. "Where are they now?"
"Yes, it is," I say. "Dalton and Flavia await us at the main house. Dria dislikes them crowding around the dock to say hello." I slide a warm palm over Dria's jumpsuit-covered thigh, snagging on a zipper pull. I tickle the edge of it and resist. The multiple fasteners make me want to open up all the zippers and explore.
"Well," Dria says, "their daughter fell in the cove that one time. I felt so guilty when she cried for her ruined dress."
"That was fifteen years ago, dear. She's no longer a four-year-old wearing frilly pink dresses." No sooner do the words leave my mouth than we round the last bend to see Dalton standing on the cobblestone circular drive flanked by four delectable beauties. Poor Paul, he's going to whimper when he gets a gander at them.
A stifled intake of breath comes from one of the stopped carts. I suppress a smile as I picture the poor sod trying to calm his raging vampiric tendencies to seduce and feed from anything attractive.
I lived through it when Dria changed Cy, but his fledgling stages progressed so very quickly it was maybe only a week where he walked around being led by his semi-mortal cock. There's not as much temptation for Paul at a job worked for ten years and they all know your wife.
"Welcome," Dalton steps forward and shakes my hand the moment I disembark from the cart. "How was your long trip?"
"A few storms," I answer. "Uneventful, otherwise." The wind slashes across the driveway, hitting us harder at the hilltop.
"Good." He withdraws his hand and kisses Dria on both cheeks. I note the dark haired, doe-eyed beauty of his wife still looks as lovely as ever. Flavia's full lips part in a small smile and she greets me with the traditional show of Argentine hospitality, double cheek kisses and a short hug.
Their daughter, Rosia, stands near her two aunts Carmella and Carmina. The trio could've stepped off the set of a South American telenova-glossy, dark-brown hair, fully made-up faces, dressed to the nines, and exuding a sexual air combined with a womanly confidence one doesn't often see in the States.
I nod to the ladies, but wisely keep my distance. Dalton is a protective man and already the frown forms between his brows at Tommy and Bob's slack-jawed appreciation of the single women. Thankfully, with a shove from Chelly, they close their mouths and manage to keep quiet.
I'm guessing Flavia's younger sisters are in their mid-twenties, the perfect age for sexual experimentation with exotic strangers. This could be a very good trip for the two bumbling fools if they play their cards right, and avoid Dalton's watchful eye. Although, I think I'll mention something to them about not hitting on his daughter. Dria would be pissed if we lost a good caretaker over their exploits.
After Dria introduces the group to our traveling companions, we make our way to the large, modified Spanish-style hacienda. All of the lights have been left on inside to welcome us, and the effect is grand. A warm glow spills from each pane of glass, inviting the weary traveler indoors. The red tile roof compliments the creamy stucco beautifully, even years after flying in craftsmen from northern Argentina to do the work.
The many exterior balconies have been enclosed with high-tech glass that tints to block the sun at the press of a button. From every side of the house the gently sloping terrain does not hinder observation of the ocean, but prior to the conversion it was not cozy viewing this time of year. The central courtyard of the home is enclosed as well, with high-arching atrium panels spanning the open area between rooftops.
Maintaining the sparsely-wooded twenty acres closest to the home takes up a large portion of Dalton's time in the summer. But since Jon didn't join us and we plan on heading to Buenos Aires soon, his efforts won't be as appreciated this trip.
With a welcoming gesture, the couple ushers us into the home so we can get out of the wind. The foyer is much smaller than the one at the inn, but it makes up for its lack of size with homey warmth. Terra cotta tile covered with boldly designed rugs stretch off in all directions, spilling into the rooms on the ground floor.
Pieces of art from around Central and South America decorate the walls, rustic wrought iron scones highlighting their beauty without being harsh. The kitchen and dining rooms lay to the right, leading away and bending around the corner to bracket the central courtyard, and the various living room areas lay to the left, also wrapping around the courtyard. The bedrooms lay above, on the second floor, with the hallway to all the bedrooms overlooking the green interior.
The mouth-watering aroma of seafood and fresh bread drift from the kitchen wing to greet our weary group.
"Oh, something smells good," Paul says, earning an appreciative smile from Flavia.
"You like to cook, sir?" the housekeeper asks, deftly guessing from his pale complexion, so like her employer's-that he probably likes to cook more than eat.
"Yes, and I can hardly wait to get in your kitchen. I'd love to learn the local dishes if you don't mind sharing. My wife and kids always appreciate new cuisine."
Dalton's face relaxes at the mention of Paul's family, and Flavia's smile grows even broader. "Come back to the kitchen with me." She gestures for him to follow. "I'll show you what I've made for tonight." As they walk off, she peppers Paul with questions about his wife, the ages of his children, and where he learned to cook.
Dalton approaches Dria and bows slightly at the waist. "Dinner at nine? Is that acceptable, ma'am?"
My wife's face softens as she looks to him fondly. "Call me Dria, please. You know I don't stand on ceremony."
"As you wish, Dria." He smiles to show he's agreeable, but I can still tell he'd feel more comfortable calling her ma'am. It's not only a generational sign of respect, but manners from his upbringing. We do this same dance every year when we arrive. "Is nine still good?"
"Yes, thank you." Before we left, we emailed the sleeping preferences. Tommy and Bob will share a suite next to Paul, and Chelly and Drew will be alone in their own room. "Dalton, would you mind showing our guests to their rooms? The luggage will be a while, but I'd like them to get a feel for the place."
"Certainly, ma'-Dria. Right this way, gentlemen," indicating Tommy, Bob, and Paul should follow him. "Carmella, would you mind showing the couple to their room?"
Carmella casts a lingering glance at Drew, raking his body from head to toe. Chelly sees the look and steps closer to Drew, slipping an arm around his and glaring back at the honey-skinned brunette.
It figures. Carmella's more interested in the man who has a woman than the available single ones drooling at her feet.
Dalton clears his throat and Carmina, caught staring at Drew as well, scurries off toward the kitchen.
I wonder what's going on there? I say to Dria through a slight tingle of connection.
She shrugs and motions for Drew and Chelly to follow us to the staircase, trailing after the men and Carmella. "Come, your room is just past theirs, she'll show you the way." Drew, oblivious to the entire female power exchange, smiles warmly and looks to us to follow.
Looks to me like the ladies want to bag a vampire lover, Dria says. Should prove an interesting few weeks for Chelly, that's for sure.
A soft beep from the plane's intercom system jars me from a light slumber. Dria slips under my arm, and presses a button on the com box near the cabin's door. "Yes?"
"We're landing in twenty minutes."
"Thanks, Drew."
She pads lightly to the bed and leans over me. A whisper soft kiss lands on my lips. "Time to get up, love."
"Yeah, I heard." I stretch, allowing the sheet to fall away from my chest. Dria's eyes lock onto my revealed stomach muscles. Mouth slightly agape, her tiny pointed tongue brushes a lengthening canine. It's so fun to tease her. She's like a caged tiger living next door to the butcher, and I'm the raw meat parading past her bars. "Let me pull on some clothes and grab our overnight bag."
"My turn to pilot. I'll fly the seaplane from the marina hangar." Dria draws back from the bed and snatches a jumpsuit from a nearby chair. She deftly steps in and zips the dark blue coverall up her naked form, wiggling her round ass to torment me. The lined fabric hugs her curves and hides the fact she's not wearing underwear.
She gently pulls out her long hair from under the collar and gives her head a sexy shake. Just like when she teased my cock an hour or so ago. The glint in her eye reveals she knows I'm watching and the gesture was intentional. The little minx.
The next couple of hours proceed without a hitch. Minutes after a smooth water landing, workers from our private island taxi the plane through the cove to return to the hangar to retrieve the rest of our luggage from the jet.
"Holy cow!" Paul stands on the large dock, staring up the gentle slope of the island. "The house overhangs a freakin' cliff? I don't know why I thought 'tropical' when I pictured Argentina."
I look at the large crest Paul called a cliff. Shadows and crags hide in the dark recesses, showcasing the brightly lit stucco house at the rocky pinnacle.
"Flip your thoughts when you pass the equator," I say. "Buenos Aires is three hours north of us. Right now, it's like the difference between New Jersey and northern Florida during the fall in the U.S."
Drew grabs Chelly's hand. The couple steps in line behind Dria. My wife leads our merry band toward the small parking lot a hundred yards up a gently sloping hill. The rolling landscape here is much greener than Alaska was when we left. Lots of short grasses and manicured shrubs.
"It's fall?" Bob comments from the dock. "Who ever heard of fall in April?" His shoulders shrug. "Makes no sense, I tell ya."
Paul shoves the large man playfully, encouraging him to walk behind the others. "Dude, didn't you hear him? We crossed the equator. Southern Hemisphere is opposite the northern one in seasons."
A "harrumph" comes from the larger man, but he dutifully trails along with the rest of us. "So that means it gets colder the more south you go, too?" Bob shakes his head. "Right when I think I get to understanding how the world works, I get thrown a curve ball and visit the other side of the globe."
Tommy smirks, "God-forbid you step out from the comfort of your living room and explore beyond the flat screen TV."
"I always wondered where you guys went in the summer," Paul directs to Dria and me. "Should have guessed you'd follow suit and go someplace where the nights are long."
Drew leans close to Chelly's ear. "That Vivian," he whispers in a faux conspirator-like tone, "she's a smart one."
My wife grins. "I've owned this small island for seven decades. It's come far since I first brought Rafe here."
I laugh recalling the two-room shack my wealthy wife so humbly lived in. It was dank, dark, and cold. I don't know how or why she lived in it for as long as she did. To hide from her enemies, I suspect. She never ceases to amaze me. "It took a team of engineers and gardeners to make this desolate island into what you see today. Not many trees, anyone notice?"
"Yeah," says Chelly. "I was wondering about that."
Drew asks, "Remember the Falkland Islands pictures I showed you?" She nods. "I had a feeling the terrain here would be the same." He glances to the sloping ground. "Looks like something cleared most of the vegetation."
"No," I answer. "It may look that way, but the rock under the surface makes it very hard for roots to form, making it a natural terrain for grasses."
"Still," Bob says, "I hoped for palm trees and bright flowers." He eyes up a grouping of two-toned ornamental grasses. "It's pretty, don't get me wrong. I just hadn't pictured grassy hills when I thought of visiting an island off Argentina."
"Reminds me a little of Ireland," Drew says. "From the pictures it didn't seem as green, though. Now that I'm here it's colder, and much windier than I expected."
A two-foot tall black-and-white body waddles by, heading back to the cove, and I wait for the expected exclamations.
"Holy crap," says Paul. "Did I just see a penguin?"
"Bet they don't have those in Ireland." Chelly leans into Drew and kisses his cheek. He whips around to gawk at the bird, and the group continues in this fascinated vein for a bit while we walk.
By their expressions, I'm betting only one or two of them even vaguely researched where we were going. Typical ignorant Americans. They really do make the rest of us look bad. Hell, Tommy is Australian and Drew is older than I am-there's no excuse for the lot of them, really.
Vivian continues walking, ignoring the inane chatter from the group. She looks regal as she carries herself over the crushed stone drive, even in a jumpsuit. The lighted trails remind me of the winding pathways in Alaska, without the snow and different plants. I wonder if that was subconscious on our part when we directed Dalton to install them down here.
We gather on the terraced parking area near a group of electric utility and transport carts. They are larger and nicer than golf carts, but the principle is the same-compact, not built for speed, but designed to shuttle people and things for short distances.
Chelly looks around, the strong breeze whipping her long hair about while she takes in the many small buildings and road leading to the main house. "I'm getting the feeling like I'm walking through an episode of Fantasy Island more and more as the months go by."
Drew laughs and squeezes her hand. "Vivian as Mr. Roarke?"
Before Chelly has a chance to clarify, Dria jumps in. "But of course, darling," her eyes flash in a rare show of amazing good humor. "I'm proud to say you're the first in a while to make the connection."
The young blond woman straightens under the attention and smiles. "Classic TV. 'Da plane, boss. Da plane'."
We toss our bags in the carts and motor up the winding drive toward the main house. Bob, Tommy, and Paul make a big show of driving the cart while acting like fools. All in good fun and we've been cooped up in the plane, so I don't correct their idiotic behavior. Dria must be thinking the same thing since she rarely suffers fools.
The largest grouping of buildings we pass look like old English country farmhouses, a style Vivian detests, and one most prevalent on these islands. She never lived in the houses here, flat out refused, making a rustic cabin instead. Said the old design reminded her of the homestead Mikov locked her in for over two decades. Can't say I blame her for disliking it.
Dalton and his wife remodeled the dilapidated structures when they hired on. By then, the first portion of the main home was built and we didn't have to field questions on why we lived in the crappy cabin. I've gotten used to my wife's idiosyncrasies, but that tiny shack was never my favorite-like living in a windy coffin.
"Is that the caretaker's house?" Drew asks from the cart behind us. "Where are they now?"
"Yes, it is," I say. "Dalton and Flavia await us at the main house. Dria dislikes them crowding around the dock to say hello." I slide a warm palm over Dria's jumpsuit-covered thigh, snagging on a zipper pull. I tickle the edge of it and resist. The multiple fasteners make me want to open up all the zippers and explore.
"Well," Dria says, "their daughter fell in the cove that one time. I felt so guilty when she cried for her ruined dress."
"That was fifteen years ago, dear. She's no longer a four-year-old wearing frilly pink dresses." No sooner do the words leave my mouth than we round the last bend to see Dalton standing on the cobblestone circular drive flanked by four delectable beauties. Poor Paul, he's going to whimper when he gets a gander at them.
A stifled intake of breath comes from one of the stopped carts. I suppress a smile as I picture the poor sod trying to calm his raging vampiric tendencies to seduce and feed from anything attractive.
I lived through it when Dria changed Cy, but his fledgling stages progressed so very quickly it was maybe only a week where he walked around being led by his semi-mortal cock. There's not as much temptation for Paul at a job worked for ten years and they all know your wife.
"Welcome," Dalton steps forward and shakes my hand the moment I disembark from the cart. "How was your long trip?"
"A few storms," I answer. "Uneventful, otherwise." The wind slashes across the driveway, hitting us harder at the hilltop.
"Good." He withdraws his hand and kisses Dria on both cheeks. I note the dark haired, doe-eyed beauty of his wife still looks as lovely as ever. Flavia's full lips part in a small smile and she greets me with the traditional show of Argentine hospitality, double cheek kisses and a short hug.
Their daughter, Rosia, stands near her two aunts Carmella and Carmina. The trio could've stepped off the set of a South American telenova-glossy, dark-brown hair, fully made-up faces, dressed to the nines, and exuding a sexual air combined with a womanly confidence one doesn't often see in the States.
I nod to the ladies, but wisely keep my distance. Dalton is a protective man and already the frown forms between his brows at Tommy and Bob's slack-jawed appreciation of the single women. Thankfully, with a shove from Chelly, they close their mouths and manage to keep quiet.
I'm guessing Flavia's younger sisters are in their mid-twenties, the perfect age for sexual experimentation with exotic strangers. This could be a very good trip for the two bumbling fools if they play their cards right, and avoid Dalton's watchful eye. Although, I think I'll mention something to them about not hitting on his daughter. Dria would be pissed if we lost a good caretaker over their exploits.
After Dria introduces the group to our traveling companions, we make our way to the large, modified Spanish-style hacienda. All of the lights have been left on inside to welcome us, and the effect is grand. A warm glow spills from each pane of glass, inviting the weary traveler indoors. The red tile roof compliments the creamy stucco beautifully, even years after flying in craftsmen from northern Argentina to do the work.
The many exterior balconies have been enclosed with high-tech glass that tints to block the sun at the press of a button. From every side of the house the gently sloping terrain does not hinder observation of the ocean, but prior to the conversion it was not cozy viewing this time of year. The central courtyard of the home is enclosed as well, with high-arching atrium panels spanning the open area between rooftops.
Maintaining the sparsely-wooded twenty acres closest to the home takes up a large portion of Dalton's time in the summer. But since Jon didn't join us and we plan on heading to Buenos Aires soon, his efforts won't be as appreciated this trip.
With a welcoming gesture, the couple ushers us into the home so we can get out of the wind. The foyer is much smaller than the one at the inn, but it makes up for its lack of size with homey warmth. Terra cotta tile covered with boldly designed rugs stretch off in all directions, spilling into the rooms on the ground floor.
Pieces of art from around Central and South America decorate the walls, rustic wrought iron scones highlighting their beauty without being harsh. The kitchen and dining rooms lay to the right, leading away and bending around the corner to bracket the central courtyard, and the various living room areas lay to the left, also wrapping around the courtyard. The bedrooms lay above, on the second floor, with the hallway to all the bedrooms overlooking the green interior.
The mouth-watering aroma of seafood and fresh bread drift from the kitchen wing to greet our weary group.
"Oh, something smells good," Paul says, earning an appreciative smile from Flavia.
"You like to cook, sir?" the housekeeper asks, deftly guessing from his pale complexion, so like her employer's-that he probably likes to cook more than eat.
"Yes, and I can hardly wait to get in your kitchen. I'd love to learn the local dishes if you don't mind sharing. My wife and kids always appreciate new cuisine."
Dalton's face relaxes at the mention of Paul's family, and Flavia's smile grows even broader. "Come back to the kitchen with me." She gestures for him to follow. "I'll show you what I've made for tonight." As they walk off, she peppers Paul with questions about his wife, the ages of his children, and where he learned to cook.
Dalton approaches Dria and bows slightly at the waist. "Dinner at nine? Is that acceptable, ma'am?"
My wife's face softens as she looks to him fondly. "Call me Dria, please. You know I don't stand on ceremony."
"As you wish, Dria." He smiles to show he's agreeable, but I can still tell he'd feel more comfortable calling her ma'am. It's not only a generational sign of respect, but manners from his upbringing. We do this same dance every year when we arrive. "Is nine still good?"
"Yes, thank you." Before we left, we emailed the sleeping preferences. Tommy and Bob will share a suite next to Paul, and Chelly and Drew will be alone in their own room. "Dalton, would you mind showing our guests to their rooms? The luggage will be a while, but I'd like them to get a feel for the place."
"Certainly, ma'-Dria. Right this way, gentlemen," indicating Tommy, Bob, and Paul should follow him. "Carmella, would you mind showing the couple to their room?"
Carmella casts a lingering glance at Drew, raking his body from head to toe. Chelly sees the look and steps closer to Drew, slipping an arm around his and glaring back at the honey-skinned brunette.
It figures. Carmella's more interested in the man who has a woman than the available single ones drooling at her feet.
Dalton clears his throat and Carmina, caught staring at Drew as well, scurries off toward the kitchen.
I wonder what's going on there? I say to Dria through a slight tingle of connection.
She shrugs and motions for Drew and Chelly to follow us to the staircase, trailing after the men and Carmella. "Come, your room is just past theirs, she'll show you the way." Drew, oblivious to the entire female power exchange, smiles warmly and looks to us to follow.
Looks to me like the ladies want to bag a vampire lover, Dria says. Should prove an interesting few weeks for Chelly, that's for sure.
