Personal Demon
Page 50
“He killed them?”
“Hell, yeah. Marsten’s not stupid. He knows you don’t quash a threat by tossing out warnings, maybe break a bone or two. Kill a few mutts and word gets around: don’t tread on Karl Marsten’s territory.”
“And in this case, Karl’s territory would be Hope.”
“But killing these kids doesn’t send a message to anyone except Hope and, as cold as that bastard can be, I can’t see him doing that. Could he have gone to scare the kid and things got out of hand? Maybe. Or if he felt that he could lose Hope to some kid she just met? Doesn’t sound likely, but who knows. You aren’t asking me if I thought he did it, but whether he could. Short answer: hell, yeah. Now, about this job Hope’s doing. Does Elena know?
’Cause she’ll feel out of the loop if—”
A whisper. Elena.
“One sec,” Clay said.
He didn’t bother covering the receiver.
“Time to go,” I heard Elena say. “Parent and tot swim starts this morning, remember?”
Clay let out an obscenity.
“Is that a no?”
“That’s a ‘why the hell can’t we just buy a pool?’”
“We can, but this has nothing to do with swimming lessons and everything to do with social interaction.”
Another, stronger epithet.
I considered hanging up, but if I did, Clay would call me back, annoyed, never understanding that I’d consider it rude to be privy to a private conversation.
“They love being around other children,” Elena continued. “Did you see them at the playground last week, Kate toddling after the older kids?”
“She was stalking them.”
A sputtered curse, from Elena this time. “She’s eighteen months old! She was not—”
“Classic stalking behavior.”
“And I suppose Logan hiding in the bushes was part of the ruse. She’d steer them into the trap, then he’d spring out—”
“Shit, I never thought of that.”
An exasperated groan, then a sharp “Hey!” from Clayton, probably as he got a poke or pinch. The phone line crackled.
“Lucas?” It was Elena. “Please excuse Clay’s rudeness, again.”
“That’s quite all right. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”
“I’ll have him call you back…if spending an hour in a pool crowded with humans doesn’t traumatize him too much.”
“It makes me uncomfortable,” Clay said in the background. “It does not—”
“Bye, Lucas.”
“Good-bye, Elena.”
The line went dead.
HOPE: BIRTHDAY PRESENTS
I woke alone, and flashed back to that Valentine’s “morning after.” This had better not be another case of next-day jitters. While his explanation of that next day made the memory less painful, I wasn’t enduring round two.
As I pushed off the covers, the door opened. Karl walked in with coffee. Hot and fresh—from the same place he’d bought it yesterday. Even if there’d been a coffeemaker and supplies, he’d have gone out. Having tasted his coffee, I was grateful.
I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Mmm.”
“I bought a few groceries. Eggs, bacon, bread—presuming there’s a toaster.”
“You’re going to make me breakfast too? Wow.”
He gave me a look. “You know I don’t cook.”
“Well, I sure hope this means you plan to try. Expecting me to cook breakfast isn’t a good way to sell this mate business.”
“Does that mean I should cancel the offer on the cabin in the Poconos?”
I laughed and swung my feet out. “I’ll make you breakfast, Karl, but only because it’s your birthday…and because, in comparison to the cabin and baby-making, it seems relatively benign. First, though, I’m having a shower—” The rumble of his stomach cut me short. “Okay, first breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
I headed toward the closet, but Karl tugged me back. “You don’t need that.”
“If you’re asking me to cook you breakfast in the nude then, yes, it is your birthday, but no. Bacon spatter is very, very hot.”
He handed me the button-down white shirt he’d worn the night before.
“Oh, you want me to wear your shirt. Little show of property rights?”
“You can’t just humor me and put it on without comment, can you?”
“At least I didn’t accuse you of wanting your scent on me.”
He helped me into the shirt. “I believe I’ve already accomplished that.”
“Which is why I suggested a shower…”
“I wasn’t complaining. In fact—”
“Don’t say it. Please.” I looked down at the half-buttoned shirt. “Do I at least get to put on panties?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Gonna milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“Gonna try.”
I STARTED FRYING bacon and making toast. The toast would go cold before I put the eggs on, but this was only the first batch. Even without Karl’s grumbling stomach, his pacing would have told me he was starving. So I fed him two slices and that seemed to be enough to let him turn his attention to other matters…like getting his hands under my shirt as I stood at the stove.
At first he just moved his fingers over my thighs and rear, stroking and tickling. Then he eased his fingers between my legs. I flipped the bacon and shifted, and his fingers slid in. I stood there, spatula raised, bacon forgotten…until the stink of burning pork reminded me.
“Distracted?” he said as he pushed his fingers in deeper.
I bit back a moan. “Maybe. But you’re the one who wants breakfast, so if I burn it…”
“Not your fault.”
I arched onto my toes and wriggled. Then I felt something that definitely wasn’t his fingers. I leaned forward, lifting up—and caught a spray of bacon grease in the face.
He pulled me back, then leaned down to murmur, “Sorry. It won’t work very well anyway. Not unless we get you a stool.”
“You calling me short?”
“Hell, yeah. Marsten’s not stupid. He knows you don’t quash a threat by tossing out warnings, maybe break a bone or two. Kill a few mutts and word gets around: don’t tread on Karl Marsten’s territory.”
“And in this case, Karl’s territory would be Hope.”
“But killing these kids doesn’t send a message to anyone except Hope and, as cold as that bastard can be, I can’t see him doing that. Could he have gone to scare the kid and things got out of hand? Maybe. Or if he felt that he could lose Hope to some kid she just met? Doesn’t sound likely, but who knows. You aren’t asking me if I thought he did it, but whether he could. Short answer: hell, yeah. Now, about this job Hope’s doing. Does Elena know?
’Cause she’ll feel out of the loop if—”
A whisper. Elena.
“One sec,” Clay said.
He didn’t bother covering the receiver.
“Time to go,” I heard Elena say. “Parent and tot swim starts this morning, remember?”
Clay let out an obscenity.
“Is that a no?”
“That’s a ‘why the hell can’t we just buy a pool?’”
“We can, but this has nothing to do with swimming lessons and everything to do with social interaction.”
Another, stronger epithet.
I considered hanging up, but if I did, Clay would call me back, annoyed, never understanding that I’d consider it rude to be privy to a private conversation.
“They love being around other children,” Elena continued. “Did you see them at the playground last week, Kate toddling after the older kids?”
“She was stalking them.”
A sputtered curse, from Elena this time. “She’s eighteen months old! She was not—”
“Classic stalking behavior.”
“And I suppose Logan hiding in the bushes was part of the ruse. She’d steer them into the trap, then he’d spring out—”
“Shit, I never thought of that.”
An exasperated groan, then a sharp “Hey!” from Clayton, probably as he got a poke or pinch. The phone line crackled.
“Lucas?” It was Elena. “Please excuse Clay’s rudeness, again.”
“That’s quite all right. Tell him I’ll talk to him later.”
“I’ll have him call you back…if spending an hour in a pool crowded with humans doesn’t traumatize him too much.”
“It makes me uncomfortable,” Clay said in the background. “It does not—”
“Bye, Lucas.”
“Good-bye, Elena.”
The line went dead.
HOPE: BIRTHDAY PRESENTS
I woke alone, and flashed back to that Valentine’s “morning after.” This had better not be another case of next-day jitters. While his explanation of that next day made the memory less painful, I wasn’t enduring round two.
As I pushed off the covers, the door opened. Karl walked in with coffee. Hot and fresh—from the same place he’d bought it yesterday. Even if there’d been a coffeemaker and supplies, he’d have gone out. Having tasted his coffee, I was grateful.
I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Mmm.”
“I bought a few groceries. Eggs, bacon, bread—presuming there’s a toaster.”
“You’re going to make me breakfast too? Wow.”
He gave me a look. “You know I don’t cook.”
“Well, I sure hope this means you plan to try. Expecting me to cook breakfast isn’t a good way to sell this mate business.”
“Does that mean I should cancel the offer on the cabin in the Poconos?”
I laughed and swung my feet out. “I’ll make you breakfast, Karl, but only because it’s your birthday…and because, in comparison to the cabin and baby-making, it seems relatively benign. First, though, I’m having a shower—” The rumble of his stomach cut me short. “Okay, first breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
I headed toward the closet, but Karl tugged me back. “You don’t need that.”
“If you’re asking me to cook you breakfast in the nude then, yes, it is your birthday, but no. Bacon spatter is very, very hot.”
He handed me the button-down white shirt he’d worn the night before.
“Oh, you want me to wear your shirt. Little show of property rights?”
“You can’t just humor me and put it on without comment, can you?”
“At least I didn’t accuse you of wanting your scent on me.”
He helped me into the shirt. “I believe I’ve already accomplished that.”
“Which is why I suggested a shower…”
“I wasn’t complaining. In fact—”
“Don’t say it. Please.” I looked down at the half-buttoned shirt. “Do I at least get to put on panties?”
“It’s my birthday.”
“Gonna milk that for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“Gonna try.”
I STARTED FRYING bacon and making toast. The toast would go cold before I put the eggs on, but this was only the first batch. Even without Karl’s grumbling stomach, his pacing would have told me he was starving. So I fed him two slices and that seemed to be enough to let him turn his attention to other matters…like getting his hands under my shirt as I stood at the stove.
At first he just moved his fingers over my thighs and rear, stroking and tickling. Then he eased his fingers between my legs. I flipped the bacon and shifted, and his fingers slid in. I stood there, spatula raised, bacon forgotten…until the stink of burning pork reminded me.
“Distracted?” he said as he pushed his fingers in deeper.
I bit back a moan. “Maybe. But you’re the one who wants breakfast, so if I burn it…”
“Not your fault.”
I arched onto my toes and wriggled. Then I felt something that definitely wasn’t his fingers. I leaned forward, lifting up—and caught a spray of bacon grease in the face.
He pulled me back, then leaned down to murmur, “Sorry. It won’t work very well anyway. Not unless we get you a stool.”
“You calling me short?”
