Caridad Pineiro - Temptation Calls

She rose and shifted to work on another section of the border.

He followed, but didn’t crouch down beside her again. Instead, he pitched his plea while standing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his serviceable dark gray suit. He jangled his change as he spoke. “Your friend Ricardo wasn’t at the scene. That’s obvious from talking to him.”

She shrugged and continued digging. “Ricardo says he saw the car and the shooter.”

“I never said there was only one shooter.”

Peter watched as his words made her pause. She fumbled with the shovel before resuming her methodical planting. “Ricardo mentioned it to me.”

She was lying. He didn’t need to see her face to know it. He could tell from the tension in her body. The muscles in her shoulders had tightened beneath the pale blue long-sleeved T-shirt she wore with faded jeans that hugged every curve.

“A defense attorney will shred Ricardo’s testimony. That may create enough reasonable doubt for those killers to walk.”

She finally turned her gaze on him. Her earlier flush had faded. Now she looked rather pale. “I didn’t see what happened.”

“They’ll kill again, you know. They’re like animals. Once they get a taste of fresh blood, the urge doesn’t go away.”

His comment made her blanch even more and sway. He reached out to steady her, but she wrenched away. “Don’t touch me.”

Peter gritted his teeth and took a breath. “I’m sorry. Again.”

She glanced down at her hands before looking up at him and then beyond. He followed her gaze, but could see nothing since the sun was coming up over the roof of the building next door. Samantha tucked the last small pack of flowers beneath one of the low-lying bushes then hurried to the house.

Peter followed her, intent on pleading his case, hoping she would admit the truth.

Once inside, she tossed her hat and gloves on a small table then poured herself a cup of coffee. She didn’t offer him one.

Which disappointed him. First, because the lady made a mean cup of coffee. Second, because he knew she was blowing him off. He wasn’t about to let her get away with that. “May I have some?”

A small smile quirked her mouth. “Presumptuous aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been called worse.”

That dragged a chuckle from her. “I imagine you have, Detective.”

“Peter. You can call me Peter. Remember?” he said as he sat at the kitchen table.

Samantha eyed him intently, trying to get a read on the detective. Was the investigation making him linger, or was it something else? Despite her age, or maybe because of it, her womanly intuition was rusty. She intentionally hadn’t dealt with the man-woman game since escaping the vampire who sired her. That had been nearly one hundred and forty years ago.

“Detective,” she said now. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

“There’s no need, ma’am. Unless you have more of those square donut things.”

He dragged a smile to her lips again with his honesty and with his boyish grin at the mention of the beignets. Turning from him, she poured him a cup of coffee and microwaved a small pot of milk to warm it. When she placed both before him on the table, she finally answered him, “No beignets today, Detective.”

“Peter.”

“Just some buttermilk biscuits.”

“Homemade?” he asked with hopefulness.

She crossed her arms and smiled. “Are there any other kind?”

“Would you join me if I had one, or maybe two?”

She’d told herself not to encourage him to stay and yet here she was doing just that. And even considering his offer to join him, not that she had need of any food. While she might enjoy the tastes of what she prepared, only blood provided sustenance. Until the sun had entered the courtyard, Diego’s blood had energized her, but now that strength was beginning to fade. Once Sofia left for class and the good detective departed, she’d have to grab a snack from the small refrigerator in her room.

“I’m not really hungry, but I’ll keep you company. It’s the least I can do to thank you for the lovely flowers.”

“No, it was the least I could do to apologize for yesterday. For touching you. I shouldn’t—”

Samantha gave an angry slash with her hand to silence him and looked away. “That’s okay. I’d rather not discuss that.”

She almost jerked back when he cupped her chin and urged her to look at him. “I’m sorry. And you’re cold. Are you okay? You’re pale.”

She hated the concerned look on his face. “I think it’s time you left, Detective.”

He didn’t correct his name again, as if aware that it would do little good. Biscuits and coffee forgotten, he rose, and she walked him to the front door.

“Not all men hurt, you know.”

Samantha gripped the edge of the door, battling for control as anger rose in her. “And you know this because you’re an expert in what men do?”

All boyishness fled from his face. He motioned to everything around them. “I see it every day, Samantha. I know what some men do. But I know there are other men who want to make things right.”

Only nothing could ever be right with me, Samantha thought. No amount of goodness could change what she was or the undead life she lived because of the cruelty of men.

“Goodbye, Detective,” she said and closed the door on him. Hopefully forever.

The steel chains binding Meghan to the hooks in the cement wall were cold against her skin. The wall was rough against her body. The sicko liked to keep her naked, her feet barely touching the ground.

Meghan pulled at the chains feebly, weak from the need to feed and the daylight that snuck in through the window at the end of the day, searing her skin. She couldn’t recall how many times that sunlight had popped in to inflict its punishment. Had it been two or three days? she wondered.

It was becoming hard to focus due to her waning strength and the fear that touched her during the long bouts of being alone and confined. Fear that would roar to life once he’d come back to play his demented games.

She should have known better than to go with the old man. She’d thought he’d be an easy conquest. The weak usually were.

Only he’d turned the tables on her the moment they’d left the club.

Meghan hadn’t known what hit her. All she knew was that a sudden explosion of pain had brought her to her knees before she lost consciousness.

During her captivity, she’d learned that the perverted ol’ bastard had used a Taser on her. She still bore burn marks from the last time. Which was not good. She wasn’t healing anymore because she was too debilitated.

If the old man took any more of her blood, or played too many more of his sadistic little games, she wouldn’t survive.

Maybe that was for the best, Meghan thought. This wasn’t the kind of life she’d envisioned for herself. She’d been hoping for college in the city followed by a 9-to-5-rush-home-to-the-suburbs kind of life.

Thanks to Blake that would never be. Blake. That skanky-assed punk vampire.

Meghan swore that if there was one thing she’d do before she met her end—the second time—it would be to see that Blake got his for what he’d done to her.

The creak of the door alerted her to the old man’s arrival and thoughts of revenge were driven away by dread. Meghan pulled at her chains, but it accomplished nothing. He smiled at her foolish attempts, and picked up a scalpel.

Meghan bit back a whimper. She hated when he used the scalpel, but she refused to let him know. Her pride was the only thing she had left. Despite her intentions, however, she couldn’t control her involuntary flinch as the old man ran the flat edge of the blade along her midsection.