Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [33]
“Well, I don’t live here in Seattle. I’ve made arrangements for myself and Cal downtown.” He named a high-end, high-rise establishment, and I complimented him on his taste. He said, “Thank you. Yes, it’s quite nice. You can find me in room number twenty-one sixty-seven.”
“I’ll be there in an hour,” I told him.
I was there in forty-five minutes.
By then, I wasn’t quite such a wreck. I let the thought of seeing him again serve as distraction and comfort. I know, I know. He wasn’t good “friend” material just because he was pretty and he couldn’t see me very well. I’d learned the hard way, through the trial and error of almost a century, that other vampires and I are simply not meant to hang out.
So what was I doing knocking on his door, feigning a business call, using him as a safe zone to bail myself out of a psychic meltdown?
I have no excuse except for my own weaknesses, though when he opened the door, I was prepared to amend that list of excuses to include Ian’s cheekbones.
He was wearing black slacks, soft leather slip-on shoes, and a fitted shirt with three-quarter sleeves. The effect was rich-guy casual, and it did a beautiful job of showcasing the long, lean lines of his torso.
“Please, come in,” he said—and I was glad someone had said something, because I’d just been standing there with my mouth hanging open. As a second thought, I was also glad that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, because that meant he hadn’t seen me standing there with my mouth hanging open.
Selfish? Yes, very. But also practical. Silver lining, and all that.
“Thank you,” I said as I slipped in past him, because all this politeness was cheering me up and I felt like participating. I thought about my list of questions and how I’d left them at home beside my bed, but that was all right. I remembered what I wanted to know.
Inside the suite the décor was exactly what you’d expect from accommodations that cost a few thousand dollars a night—understated luxury on a taupe palette with maroon and silver accents. The bed was offset by a pair of folding double doors, and a lovely sitting room ensemble was parked off to the side of a full kitchen. A fruit-filled gift basket sat ignored on the granite counter.
“Could I offer you some wine? You preferred white last night, is that correct?”
“That’s correct, and thanks for the offer, but no. I’ve still got a long night ahead of me.” And I didn’t add that I was feeling kind of stupid about coming down to see him in the first place. You’d think I’d learn, eventually—panic attacks pass. They pass, and I always feel ridiculous for whatever escape measures I took while attempting to rid myself of them.
“Then I hope you don’t mind if I indulge,” he said, retrieving a crystal goblet from a track above the sink.
“By all means.”
“And won’t you have a seat?” He waved a lovely hand at the settee, and I gratefully—but gracefully—dropped myself into it. The brocade cover was posh and lumpy. I settled against it while he poured himself a glass. He took the seat across from me, where I noticed a slim white cane had been left propped against the arm. He must’ve gotten to know his temporary quarters exceedingly well for how easily he navigated them. If I hadn’t known, I would’ve never guessed that he was blind.
He said, “You had some questions for me?”
“I did, yes. I mean, I do. I’ve gone through the information in the packet. I’m still in the process of tracking down a few of the finer points of this project, but I think it might help if you could tell me a bit about what happened to you—and where you were.”
He didn’t exactly frown, and he wasn’t exactly upset with me. But he didn’t want to talk about it, that much was apparent. “As I understand it,” he said, “the documents are not housed at the place where I was … kept.”
“That’s true, or it looks like it’s true. But in case Cal didn’t fill you in on the blocking out, more than half of the info in that paperwork has been declared ‘sensitive’ by the feds, so any scrap of fact you can throw my way will be helpful.”
Ian took