"Okay," I said.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Anita," Richard said.
"If we are all going to go down in a bloody mess, let it be over something more important than a kiss."
"You want to do it," Richard said. "You want to kiss him." He didn't sound pleased.
What was I supposed to say? "What I want most right this moment is to go to bed, alone. I want some sleep." That at least was the truth. Maybe not all of the truth, but enough to earn me a puzzled frown from Richard, and an exasperated sigh from Jean-Claude.
"Then if it is such a distasteful duty, let it be done quickly," Jean-Claude said.
We were standing so close, he didn't have to make a full step to press the line of his body against mine. I tried to put my hands up, to keep our bodies apart. My hands slid over the bare skin of his stomach. I jerked back from him, balling my hands into fists. The feel of his skin clung to my hands.
"What is it, ma petite?"
"Leave her alone," Richard said. He was standing beside the couch, hands in loose fists. Power prickled along my skin. His power creeping outward like a slow-moving wind. His hair had spilled over one side of his face. He looked out through a curtain of hair. His face had fallen into shadows. Light gleamed along his naked skin, painting it in shades of grey, gold, and black. He stood there looking suddenly primal. A low, spine-brushing grow trickled through the room.
"Stop it, Richard."
"He is using his powers on you." His voice was unrecognizable. A low, bass growl that was sliding away from human. I was glad for the shadows. Glad I couldn't see what was happening to his face.
I'd been so worried about Jean-Claude starting a fight, it hadn't occurred to me that Richard might pick one. "He isn't using powers on me. I touched his bare skin. That's all."
He stepped forward into the light, and his face was normal. What was happening inside that smooth throat, behind those kissable lips, to make his voice sound monstrous?
"Get dressed and get out."
"What?" His lips moved but that growling voice rolled out. It was like watching a badly dubbed movie.
"If Jean-Claude isn't allowed to attack you, then you sure as hell aren't allowed to attack him. I thought he was the only monster I had to deal with. If you can't behave like a human being, Richard, get out."
"What of my kiss, ma petite?"
"You have both pushed it about as far as it's going to go tonight," I said. "Everybody out."
Jean-Claude's laugh filled the shadowed dark. "As you like, Anita Blake. I am suddenly not so worried about you and Monsieur Zeeman."
"Before you start congratulating yourself, Jean-Claude -- I revoke my invitation."
There was a sound like a low sonic pop. A great roaring filled the room. The door smashed open, banging against the wall. A wind rushed in like an invisible river, tugging at our clothes, flinging our hair across our eyes.
"You don't have to do this," Jean-Claude said.
"Yes," I said, "I do."
It was as if an invisible hand shoved him through the door. Slamming the door shut behind him.
"I'm sorry," Richard said. The growl was slipping away. His voice was almost normal. "It is too close to the full moon to get this angry."
"I don't want to hear it," I said. "Just go."
"Anita, I am sorry. I don't usually lose control like this. Even this close to the full moon."
"What was different tonight?"
"I've never been in love before. It seems to break my concentration."
"Jealousy will do that to you," I said.
"Tell me I don't have reason to be jealous, Anita. Make me believe it."
I sighed. "Go away, Richard. I've still got to clean my guns and knife before I can go to bed."
He smiled and shook his head. "I guess tonight didn't reassure you about how human I am." He walked around the couch and bent over, retrieving his sweater from the floor, where it lay neatly folded.
He pulled the sweater over his head. He pulled a ponytail holder from his jeans pocket, and tied his hair back. I could see the muscles in his arms work even through the sweater. He slipped his shoes on, bending over to tie them.
His coat was long, falling to his ankles. In the half light it looked like a cape.
"I don't suppose I get a kiss, either."
"Good night, Richard," I said.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Good night, Anita."
He left. I locked the door. I cleaned my weapons and went to bed. After the show that Richard and Jean-Claude had put on, the Browning was about the only thing I wanted in bed with me tonight. All right, the gun and one stuffed penguin.
Chapter 32
The phone was ringing. It seemed to have been ringing a long time. I lay in bed listening to it ring, wondering when the hell the machine would pick up. I rolled over, reaching for the phone. It was missing. The ringing was coming from the other room. Shit. I'd forgotten to bring it back in last night.
I crawled out of the warm covers and staggered into the living room. The phone must have rung fifteen times before I got to it. I sank to the floor with the receiver clutched to my ear. "Who is it?"
"Anita?"
"Ronnie?"
"You sound awful."
"I look worse," I said.
"What's up?"
"Later, why are you calling at" -- I glanced at my wristwatch -- "seven o'clock in the freaking morning. This better be good, Ronnie."
"Oh, it's good, all right. I thought we should catch George Smitz before he goes to work."
"Why?" My face was throbbing. I lay down on the carpet, cradling the phone against my ear. The carpet was very soft.
"Anita, Anita, are you there?"
I blinked and realized I'd fallen asleep. I sat up and leaned against the wall. "I'm here, but I didn't hear a word you said after something about needing to talk to Smitz before work."
"I know you're not a morning person, Anita, but you've never fallen asleep on me before. How much sleep did you get last night?"
"About an hour."
"Oh, God, I am sorry. But I knew you'd want to know. I've found the smoking gun."
"Ronnie, please, what are you talking about?"
"I have pictures of George Smitz with another woman." She let that sink in for a moment or two. "Anita, are you there?"
"I'm here. I'm thinking." The last was harder to do than I wanted it to be. I am never at my best first thing in the morning. After an hour's sleep I wasn't even close to my best. "Why do you say it's a smoking gun?"
"Well, a lot of times a spouse will report the other spouse missing to divert suspicion."
"You think Smitz offed his wife?"
"How poetically you put it, but yes, I do."
"Why? A lot of men cheat on their wives, most of them don't kill them."
"Here's the clincher. After I took the pictures, I talked to a few gun stores in the area. He'd bought some silver bullets at a store near the butcher shop."
"Not very bright," I said.
"Most murderers aren't."
I nodded, realized she couldn't see it, and didn't care. "Fine, looks like Mr. Smitz isn't the grieving widower he pretended to be. What do you want to do about it?"
"Confront him at home."
"Why not go to the cops?"
"The store clerk isn't exactly positive it was George."
I closed my eyes. "Great, just great. You think he'll confess to us?"
"He might. He's shared a bed with her for fifteen years. Mother of his children. There's got to be a lot of guilt there."