MORNING AT THE COTTAGE IS MY FAVORITE time. Sipping a cup of fresh-brewed coffee on the deck outside my bedroom is my favorite way to pass the morning-even a dark winter's morning like this one. It helps, too, that I'm blissfully sated from a night of blood and sex. It could be storming outside and I'd still be purring.
I reluctantly sent Culebra's "distraction," Lance, on his way a few moments before. Turns out he's an underwear model for Jockey and has an early morning photo shoot up the coast in Malibu. Seeing him in and out of underwear last night answered one of life's biggest questions. Are those bulges in the magazine ads real? I'm happy to report that they are-at least Lance's is. No padded jock straps necessary for that guy.
Turns out, too, that Lance has a last name, Turner, and a brain as agile as that lean, athletic body. He made me laugh, and he made me sweat. I'd like to see him again.
I'll have to find some appropriate way to thank Culebra.
Glowing from the infusion of healthy vamp blood, second only to a human's in restorative powers, and feeling comfortable in my skin for the first time since the fiasco with Gloria started, I sink into a deck chair and take in the view.
I live in Mission Beach, steps from the boardwalk. I was a sophomore in college when my grandmother died and left me her fifty-year-old cottage. I've lived here ever since, though I had the place rebuilt after the fire Avery set destroyed it a while back.
I love it here. Sometimes, in the summer, it's a bother to be interrupted by some half-drunk partier, leaning on the doorbell to ask to use the bathroom. When I was human, I'd threaten to call the cops. As a vampire, all I have to do is show my true face and I never have a repeat offender. Never.
In winter, however, it's different. I think it's odd that winter in San Diego is considered the off-season. True, there is the overcast and the fog, a blending of shades of gray that often makes it hard to determine where the sky ends and the ocean begins. But the air temperature seldom dips below sixty and while the water isn't warm, it attracts a better surfing crowd. Not the sun-worshipping, hard-drinking, noisy, young hordes of summer, but a mature, serious, respectful group who honor the ocean rather than attempting to beat it into submission with their boards.
Wow. I hold the warm cup in both hands and press it against my forehead. That was almost poetic. Must be a combination of the fog rolling in picturesque swirls off the water and the calm that comes from a satisfying night of sex.
I know this glow won't last long. Williams said the were Sandra was coming to see me. Then there's David and his angst. I don't want to think about what kind of mood he's going to be in. Hopefully, if he comes into the office, it won't be with Gloria in tow.
The telephone rings as I'm about to go back downstairs for a second cup of coffee. It's my cell phone. I grab it up and keep going, glancing at the caller ID. I expect to see our office number or David's cell number, but instead it's one I don't recognize.
"Hello?"
There's a moment of silence before it's broken by a breathy, "Anna?"
Great. Gloria. I resist the urge to disconnect and turn off the phone. "What do you want?"
"I need to see you."
"I don't want to see you. We have nothing to talk about. Are you with David? Does he know you're calling me?"
Another silence. "I haven't spoken with David since I left you both at the restaurant."
"What do you mean? Don't you know how worried he is? I can't believe you didn't call him as soon as you were released last night."
This time, the quiet at the other end of the line stretches on so long, I start to think we've been cut off, but then I hear a sharp intake of breath followed by a sob. "Gloria? What's going on?"
A small, shaky voice whispers, "I wasn't released. I've been arrested."
I don't have to ask for what. "Jesus, Gloria. Did you talk with a lawyer yet?"
"Yes. David sent his lawyer last night, and he referred me to a criminal attorney. A Jamie Sutherland. We meet this morning."
"So, why call me? You should be talking to David. He's probably crazy with worry."
There's a short, brittle bark of mirthless laughter. "No. He won't want to talk with me. You haven't seen the morning paper, have you?"
I'm in the kitchen now, and my eyes go to the front door. I hadn't bothered to pick up the paper yet, but I do now. The rubber band breaks in my haste to get at the paper and flies up to smack my chin.
"Damn it."
Gloria starts to whimper. "I know. I know. I've been such a fool."
She thinks I'm cursing her. Good. I shake out the front page and hold it up, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"Oh, fuck."
This time I am cursing her. The headline blares: "Gloria Estrella Arrested for the Murder of Billionaire Partner."
In slightly smaller print, the headline continues: "Wife of Rory O'Sullivan Says the Motive Is Love Affair Gone Bad."
"Love affair, Gloria? I thought you said you slept with him one time."
This time, when she doesn't respond, it isn't such a big surprise.