She sketched his face, noting the details. A knife scar, a tiny mole on the curve of his lip, and the way his beard shadow rode over his cheeks. She was erasing a stray mark when he opened an eye and lifted one bushy eyebrow.
“Why are you drawing a picture of me?”
Clare crumpled up the paper and shoved it under her thigh. “I wasn’t drawing you. I was doodling.”
“You were doodling me.” His gaze lasered in on her face, did the penetrating stare alpha males did, then wandered quite forcefully down to her lips before taking an intimate tour of her chest.
Clare wished she’d covered herself with a blanket, but she was already hot underneath her leather-laced tunic and the semi-rigid plastic armor which made her breasts appear to be cones.
“What are you looking at?” Her voice came out too quivery, and she crossed her arms, which only had the effect of jutting her pointy cones out farther.
“I know better than to comment on those,” he said. “But why are you wearing wilted vegetables around your waist? And a belt of nuts? Are you sure you’re going to pass agriculture inspection? Hope you’re not going to start another potatofamine.”
“Are you done with the interrogation?” Clare grabbed her coat from the floor and pulled it over her wilted cabbage and romaine lettuce girdle. The leaves, which had died a natural death, had been blessings bestowed on her by a group of lettuce worshipers.
“I’m curious, that’s all.” The insolent man refused to remove his eyes from raking her body. He pointed to a bundle ofhazelnut charms. “Is that your in-flight snack?”
“Actually, they’re fertility charms and bigger than the ones between your legs.” She twirled her eyes, hoping to loosen his gaze from the area right below her breastplate.
“I knew it. You’re one of those nature freaks.”
“How do you know I’m not a witch?” She stuck her tongue out at him.
“Imagine that, a redhead witchwho burns easily. Let me guess, you carry your own stake and ties.” He scoffed and stuck his tongue back at her.
“I’ll never let you tie me up, stake or no stake.” Her face sweltered at the unbidden image of his pointy, wet tongue and the direction south her thoughts had flown.
His eyes sparkled with glee at her discomfort. “Don’t need a stake when I’ve got an iron bed.”
“Feck off, gobshite.”
“Ha, ha, got your red up,” he chortled to press his advantage. “Tell me, little witch, are you going to put a hex on me?”
“You’re not worth it, but I’ll write you into one of my books. As the knave.”
“The knave? That’s not a word I’ve heard lately. So, you’re a writer. Guess you’ll kill me off, too.”
“In the most horrid, grueling, and shameful way.”She narrowed her eyes and snarled.
“Wonderful,” he said, shaking his head as if her baring of teeth was unworthy of reaction. “Too bad it won’t work.”
“What do you mean it won’t work? I’ll put a spell on you, stick some pins into your heart, and tie you up over a slow, roasting fire. Or I’ll bury you from the neck down in the desert right over a fire ant nest. Or you’ll be capturedby evil fairies who keep you alive and eat slivers of your flesh.”
He winked as if everything was a joke. “My, my, what a fertile imagination, and nothing I haven’t tried before.”
“What do you mean tried before?” Clare didn’t want to appear too curious, but this was one of those rubbernecking moments with a naked man standing on the rooftop of his truck, pounding his chest.
“You can kill me six ways to Sunday, but I always wake up the next morning. I don’t die. In fact, you humans might call me undead.”
“You’re a vampire?” She recoiled and hit her head against the window shade.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” the man said. “That would be way too simple. If I were a vampire, I would have to play by vampire rules. I’d have to suck your blood. I can’t eat garlic and goout in the sun. I’d hate mirrors, and I’d sleep in a casket. You’d try and kill me with a silver bullet or drive a stake in my heart. Just warning you, all have been tried, and I still woke up.”
“You’re kidding me.” Clare wasn’t going to suspend disbelief in real life, especially on an airplane high above the continent. “You figure I’m a writer, so you tell me tall tales.”
“Onlya writer, not a witch.” He shook his head and snickered softly. “Too bad. I could have used your services.”
“Who says I want you to use me?” Clare huffed. “You’re a liar and not that handsome. Quite useless to me.”
