“Kimberly Laine McAdams. You can’t go off with some biker you spoke to for five minutes in a bar and not expect us to be worried sick.”
“Oh my God. This isn’t Kenny. It’s Mom sounding like Kenny.”
“That’s not fucking funny.”
“No, it isn’t.” She hit the mute button. “Raze. Do you ride a bike?”
He glanced at her with brows raised.
“You know,” she elaborated. “Like a Harley.”
His grin flashed fierce and sexy as hell. “Heritage Softail.”
“Shit.” So he was a biker, after all. The thought made her hot and needy. Kim took the phone off mute. “I’m a big girl, Kenny.”
“Who is still dealing with walking into the murder scene of her best friend!” Ken growled, and in her mind’s eye, she could see him fisting his dark hair with his free hand and clenching his jaw. “You’re not the only one who’s freaked by what happened to Janelle. I worry about you all the damn time. You need to give me a break, Kim. Stop giving me gray hair. Now, what’s this guy’s name?”
“Why, so you can run him? Do you do a run on all your one-night-stands?”
“You’re not the one-night-stand type.”
“I am tonight. I’ll call you when I get home tomorrow. And tell Delia I’m gonna kick her ass.” She hung up, then powered her phone off.
“Everything all right?” Raze adjusted his position so that he was propped against pillows piled against the headboard. Sprawled like that, he was a sensual feast.
God. He was just what she’d needed. What she still needed.
She tossed her phone back in her bag and pulled his shirt over her head. “Everything’s great. And about to get better.”
8
Raze looked at the video feed of a blackish rose arrangement perched on Vash’s desk and pronounced, “Creepy.”
“They’re for you.” She pushed them aside. “Salem found them on your porch about a half hour ago. No card, but we know who it’s from, don’t we?”
“Yeah, we do.”
“She’s his wife, by the way. Of a couple hundred years. Torque traced Baron—previously known as John Schmidt, Baron Seagrave in his mortal life—back to the Regency period when he married Lady Francesca Harlow.”
“Torque’s the man.”
“Yes, he is. And you’re dealing with a woman who just lost the love of her life.” Vash’s fingers drummed on the table. “Take it from a woman who knows what that feels like: She wants your head on a pike and your nuts roasting on an open fire. She won’t let this go until one of you is dead.”
“I’m ready and waiting.” He glanced out the window at the gradually lightening dawn sky, then over at the closed bedroom door. “But I might be waiting in the wrong place if she’s gone to Raceport.”
“Torque traced the roses back to a florist in Chicago. She’ll know you’re hanging around there if she did her homework. But she doesn’t know where. She’s hoping this will rattle your cage a little.”
“I’ll get out more today. Be seen. I don’t suppose we’d be lucky enough to have confirmation that the baroness is the woman in the video. A photo match, maybe?”
“Working on it.” Vash rocked back in her desk chair. “Listen, I know you like to do your loner thing, but I’d feel better if you had some backup.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.”
“When I find the bastards who killed Charron, an army isn’t going to save them. Hell hath no fury like a woman whose mate has been stolen from her. You can’t understand. You haven’t been there. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
Raze’s hands clenched. “I’ve. Got. This.”
“Fine.” She tossed up her hands. “Watch your stubborn ass. I can’t afford to lose you.”
