hand, she’d never promised him a rose garden, in the immortal words of Lynn Anderson. He’d known what he was getting into.
And his reaction to Faust—it had been over the top. At least, she thought so. Unless he was right, and her judgment was faulty. More likely he was just itching for a fight, and Faust was a convenient excuse. That was how Wyatt had been lately—edgy, moody, resentful. A man preoccupied. A man with something on his mind.
She was still agitated when she parked the Miata in the underground garage beneath the Wilshire Royal, the condominium high-rise in Westwood where she’d lived for the past ten years.
Near her reserved parking space was a second slot where she kept a beat-up old Hyundai Excel, the latest in a series of used cars she’d bought for undercover work. The Miata was too flashy to be a good surveillance vehicle, and its registration was in her real name, making it a poor choice of wheels when she was on assignment. The Hyundai was junky enough to pass unnoticed in most environments, and it was registered to a dummy corporation with the safely meaningless name of Consolidated Commercial Exchange.
From the Miata, she removed her purse and Faust’s memoir, which she’d checked out of the library after discovering, to her surprise, that she actually had a library card that was still valid. It wasn’t exactly the sort of book she liked to curl up with at bedtime, but she found herself wanting to know more about her latest client. No particular reason, just that Boy Scout motto again: Be prepared.
In the lobby, she waved hello to Vince and Gerry, the two guards who had manned the big mahogany desk roughly since the La Brea Tar Pits had been sucking down saber-toothed tigers. The doorman. Alec, was chatting with them. Unlike the guards, he was a new arrival, on the job for only three months. Abby hadn’t warmed up to him. She didn’t like the way he looked at her whenever she passed by. There was a reptilian quality to his gaze, a kind of cold, patient hunger, which wasn’t masked by his artificial smile and cheerful bonhomie.
That smile and that stare were both on display as he turned to her.
“Hey, Ms. Sinclair. Got some reading matter, I see.”
This was embarrassingly close to the winner of the World’s Lamest Pickup Line Contest: Whatcha readin ’ ? She wedged the book more tightly under her arm. The cover was hidden from anyone’s view—a precaution she’d taken without conscious thought.
“Alec,” she said coolly. She greeted Vince and Gerry in a warmer voice. “How are you guys doing?”
“Hanging in there,” Vince said.
“Not that we have a choice,” Gerry added.
Variations on this exchange had been played out almost daily over the last decade. The rote predictability of it pleased Abby. She liked to have some things in her life that were utterly dependable. There would always be traffic on the 405, there would always be Law & Order reruns on cable, and Vince and Gerry would always be stationed at their desk.
And Wyatt would always be there for her when she needed him—and only when she needed him.
Damn. That subject again. Her frown returned as she rode the elevator to the tenth floor and unlocked the door to unit 1015, the extravagantly overpriced one-bedroom cubbyhole she called home.
She opened the curtain over the glass door to the balcony, exposing her view of Wilshire Boulevard and letting in a cascade of afternoon sun. Then she sat in her overstuffed armchair and took another look at Faust’s memoirs. The slim hardcover volume had Faust’s face on the cover, below the title in jagged red italics: Tasting Blood . As far as she knew, Faust had not actually tasted Emily Wallace’s blood; the title no doubt had been chosen to reinforce his image as the Werewolf, the nickname bestowed on him after his arrest.
According to the cover, Tasting Blood had been “Newly Updated, with a New Chapter by the Author.” She glanced at the copyright page and
And his reaction to Faust—it had been over the top. At least, she thought so. Unless he was right, and her judgment was faulty. More likely he was just itching for a fight, and Faust was a convenient excuse. That was how Wyatt had been lately—edgy, moody, resentful. A man preoccupied. A man with something on his mind.
She was still agitated when she parked the Miata in the underground garage beneath the Wilshire Royal, the condominium high-rise in Westwood where she’d lived for the past ten years.
Near her reserved parking space was a second slot where she kept a beat-up old Hyundai Excel, the latest in a series of used cars she’d bought for undercover work. The Miata was too flashy to be a good surveillance vehicle, and its registration was in her real name, making it a poor choice of wheels when she was on assignment. The Hyundai was junky enough to pass unnoticed in most environments, and it was registered to a dummy corporation with the safely meaningless name of Consolidated Commercial Exchange.
From the Miata, she removed her purse and Faust’s memoir, which she’d checked out of the library after discovering, to her surprise, that she actually had a library card that was still valid. It wasn’t exactly the sort of book she liked to curl up with at bedtime, but she found herself wanting to know more about her latest client. No particular reason, just that Boy Scout motto again: Be prepared.
In the lobby, she waved hello to Vince and Gerry, the two guards who had manned the big mahogany desk roughly since the La Brea Tar Pits had been sucking down saber-toothed tigers. The doorman. Alec, was chatting with them. Unlike the guards, he was a new arrival, on the job for only three months. Abby hadn’t warmed up to him. She didn’t like the way he looked at her whenever she passed by. There was a reptilian quality to his gaze, a kind of cold, patient hunger, which wasn’t masked by his artificial smile and cheerful bonhomie.
That smile and that stare were both on display as he turned to her.
“Hey, Ms. Sinclair. Got some reading matter, I see.”
This was embarrassingly close to the winner of the World’s Lamest Pickup Line Contest: Whatcha readin ’ ? She wedged the book more tightly under her arm. The cover was hidden from anyone’s view—a precaution she’d taken without conscious thought.
“Alec,” she said coolly. She greeted Vince and Gerry in a warmer voice. “How are you guys doing?”
“Hanging in there,” Vince said.
“Not that we have a choice,” Gerry added.
Variations on this exchange had been played out almost daily over the last decade. The rote predictability of it pleased Abby. She liked to have some things in her life that were utterly dependable. There would always be traffic on the 405, there would always be Law & Order reruns on cable, and Vince and Gerry would always be stationed at their desk.
And Wyatt would always be there for her when she needed him—and only when she needed him.
Damn. That subject again. Her frown returned as she rode the elevator to the tenth floor and unlocked the door to unit 1015, the extravagantly overpriced one-bedroom cubbyhole she called home.
She opened the curtain over the glass door to the balcony, exposing her view of Wilshire Boulevard and letting in a cascade of afternoon sun. Then she sat in her overstuffed armchair and took another look at Faust’s memoirs. The slim hardcover volume had Faust’s face on the cover, below the title in jagged red italics: Tasting Blood . As far as she knew, Faust had not actually tasted Emily Wallace’s blood; the title no doubt had been chosen to reinforce his image as the Werewolf, the nickname bestowed on him after his arrest.
According to the cover, Tasting Blood had been “Newly Updated, with a New Chapter by the Author.” She glanced at the copyright page and
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