Predatory (Immortal Guardians #3.5)(75)

She sighed. Or had it?

Had it just been an excuse? Had he grown tired of either work or her son’s presence constantly impeding their desire to become more intimately involved?

At a loss, she decided to seek John’s advice. Her son was popular with the girls and had dated far more than she had in her lifetime, so . . . why not? “Should I read anything into it that he canceled two nights in a row?”

If he thought it odd that his mother wanted his opinion on her love life, John hid it well. “I don’t think so, considering the line of work he’s in.”

“But? I hear a but in there.”

“But I do think it’s odd that he always comes over here and hasn’t taken you to his place yet. I mean, you have dinner together every night. I would think he would be getting tired of me being a third wheel on the nights he doesn’t take you out.”

“He said his nephew lives with him. So it wouldn’t be any different at his place.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I mean, maybe you should suggest it . . . just to make sure he isn’t one of those guys who cheats on his wife and doesn’t tell his mistress that he’s married.”

Her heart sank.

“Don’t look like that,” John said quickly. “I’m probably just being paranoid. You’re my mom. I’m suspicious of every man you date.”

“Like there have been that many,” she muttered.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “It’s probably what you said. Or maybe he’s a slob and doesn’t want you to see.”

That made her smile. “He isn’t a slob.” Richart was always meticulously groomed and dressed. She couldn’t imagine his home being less so.

“Hey, you never know. A friend of mine—”

A large dark figure suddenly loomed in Jenna’s peripheral vision.

Letting out a surprised shriek, she jumped up, bumping the table and knocking over her glass of tea.

John grabbed his steak knife and leaped up to confront . . . “Oh, shit!”

Jenna’s eyes widened. Her breath stopped. Shock immobilized her.

Richart stood in the middle of their living room, having appeared out of thin air.

She swallowed, mouth dry.

His eyes glowed a brilliant amber. They glowed. His breath was labored, soughing in and out of parted lips that exposed gleaming fangs. His hair was windblown, his face splattered with—

“Is that blood?” John asked shakily, moving over to stand protectively close to Jenna.

She nodded. Nearly all of Richart’s dark clothing glistened with the ruby liquid and sported numerous cuts and tears. There even appeared to be a bullet hole in one shoulder.

Richart said nothing, just swayed where he stood.

“Richart?” she asked, voice and body trembling as tea slithered over the table’s edge and hit the floor with a tap tap tap.

He turned toward her, but didn’t seem to see her.

“Richart?” she repeated and took a step toward him.

John grabbed her arm. “Stay back.”

Jenna shook him off and slowly forced her feet to carry her forward.

Swearing, John stuck close to her side, his steak knife at the ready.

“Richart,” she called again when she stood only a few feet away.

The glow in his eyes began to fade, returning them to the warm brown of which she had become so fond. The fangs receded, disappearing into his gums as if they had never been.

He mumbled something in French.

Jenna consulted her son. “Do you know what he said?”

He shook his head. “I’ve forgotten most of the French I learned in high school.”

Richart blinked and dipped his chin. He seemed to be having a hard time focusing. “Jenna?”

“Yes.”

Panic danced across his face as he lunged forward and grabbed her upper arms.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa!” John tried to intervene, or at least to break the bruising grip, but couldn’t.

“What are you doing here?” Richart demanded, his accent so thick and his words so slurred she had difficulty understanding him. “It’s too dangerous. You must go.”

Jenna gently clasped his arms. “Richart, we’re in my apartment. Do you understand me? We’re in my apartment.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, heart pounding in her chest.

His brows drew down in a deep V. “Your . . . ?” He glanced around. Releasing one of her arms, he rubbed his eyes and looked around again.

She could feel him trembling. The hand that gripped her shook violently. And he began to slowly press downward as if he had to use her to prop himself up.

Jenna watched him take in the sofa, the stained coffee table, John, and their abandoned dinner.

Relief softened his features as he swayed. “We made it out? I got us out?”

Before she or John could ask out of what, Richart looked around again. “Where is Ami?”

Jenna felt the sharp glance John sent her. “Who is Ami?” she asked.

His frown returned, as did the alarm. “What?”

“I don’t know who Ami is, Richart. You just . . . appeared . . . out of nowhere. Alone.”

“She wasn’t with me? I left her there?”

John stepped forward. “Left her where? Who’s Ami? What the hell is going on?”