Richart had not roused once. Not when she had finished undressing him. Not when she had sponge-bathed the blood from him. Not when she had attempted to clean his sticky, bloody hair. And not when she had worked a pair of John’s boxers up Richart’s long, muscled legs and over his . . .

Her gaze darted to his lap, covered now with a clean blanket.

She hadn’t seen a naked man up close and personal in years. She had hoped to see Richart naked when the day had begun, but not like this.

She rested her hand on his bare chest.

Warm. Weren’t vampires supposed to be cold to the touch?

His chest rose slightly, then fell still once more.

The front door opened and closed. “I’m home,” John called. Moments later he entered the room, jacket zipped up tight against the cold, a shopping bag dangling from each hand.

“Did you get everything you need?” she asked.

Setting the bags down, he unzipped his jacket and tugged it off.

“Yes, but I didn’t get everything he needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he’s a vampire—”

“Please stop calling him that. It’s just too weird.”

“I know. But, if he is one, he probably needs blood more than anything else.”

Jenna eyed Richart with dread. Did he really drink blood?

“Has he moved at all?” John asked.

“No. But he still has that slow, faint pulse.”

He spilled bandages, tubes, and bottles onto the bed. “I’m gonna go wash up, then we can get started.”

Chapter Four

Yawning, Jenna focused gritty eyes on the clock again. It would be noon soon.

John slept in his bedroom. He had a final exam tomorrow and Jenna had insisted he get some rest.

Richart’s chest rose and fell in another barely detectable breath.

He still hadn’t stirred. Nor had his wounds miraculously healed as they often did in movies.

Was John right? Did Richart need blood?

She thought of all the films and TV shows she’d seen in which a human had slashed his or her wrist and held it over a vampire’s mouth until he latched on and began to drink.

She was so not going to do that.

Not yet, an inner voice murmured.

Not ever, she insisted, but wondered if she would feel the same way if Richart still hadn’t awakened by . . .

By when? Tomorrow? How long could they wait without trying something else?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Jenna jumped at the loud pounding on the front door.

Frowning, she rose and headed for the living room.

John shuffled out of his bedroom, sweatpants and T-shirt rumpled, hair sticking up on one side. “Is he awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Was that—?”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She nodded and continued into the living room and over to the door. Rising onto her toes, she peeked through the peephole.

A tall red-haired young man who looked to be her son’s age stood there, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

“Yes?” she called.

He straightened, eyes fastening on the peephole. “Hi. I’m looking for Jenna?”

“And you are?”

“Sheldon Shepherd, ma’am.”

Who the hell was that?

“Do you know him?” John whispered.

“No.”

“What do you want?” John demanded in a deep, hostile voice.

Jenna peeked through the peephole again.

Sheldon went still. “I . . . ah . . . I’d just like to talk with you for a moment, ma’am, if that’s all right. We . . . ah . . . we have a mutual friend who . . . with whom I’ve lost contact and . . .” He glanced around, frustration written all over his face.

Jenna lowered her heels to the floor. “He must be a friend of Richart’s,” she whispered and reached for the lock.

John caught her hand. “Or he could be one of the people who hurt him.”

“If he’s a friend, maybe he can help him.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Hello?” Sheldon called.

“Just a minute,” Jenna called back.

“Hang on,” John said and hurried from the room. When he returned, he carried one of Richart’s daggers. “Just in case. No way am I going to let whoever cut him up cut you up.”

He casually slid his arm a little behind his back so the blade wasn’t visible.

Nerves jangling, Jenna opened the door.

Sheldon looked down at her. “Hi. Jenna?”

“Yes.”

He offered his hand. “I’m Sheldon. Nice to meet you.”

Jenna shook his hand, not getting any kind of danger vibes from him, but still on guard.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but”—he looked to John, then met Jenna’s gaze again—“may I speak with you privately for a moment?”

“No,” John said before she could answer.

Jenna shot John a warning glare. “What is this about, Sheldon?”

He looked from side to side and down to see if anyone was outside who might overhear them. Leaning forward a bit, he murmured, “It’s about Richart. I don’t want you to worry, but . . . something happened last night and I’ve lost contact with him. I—”

“What is your relationship with Richart?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’m his nephew.”

Relief rushed through her. Richart had mentioned his nephew several times, but she didn’t remember him ever calling him by name. “Come in.” She stepped back so Sheldon could enter and closed the door behind him. “This is my son, John.”

Sheldon offered his hand to John, who shook it with reserve.

“What’s going on with Richart?” she asked.

“I’m not at liberty to go into detail. It’s highest level clearance only. In fact, I shouldn’t even be here, but . . . Richart was . . . out on assignment last night and some problems arose. The situation deteriorated quickly. There was a lot of confusion and . . . I’ve lost contact with him. I hoped you might have heard from him.” He glanced around the room, his words slowing as he noticed the splintered coffee table, the bloody fistprint on the wall. “I really need to talk to him.”

“He’s here,” she announced, hoping her instincts were correct when they insisted he was friend and not foe.

Relief blanketed his features, though some wariness remained. “Is he okay?”

She shook her head and motioned for him to follow her back to her bedroom. “He collapsed shortly after he . . . appeared.”

“Do you mean arrived?” he asked carefully.

“No, I mean he just appeared. Out of thin air.”

“Oh, shit. Okay. There’s an explanation for that.”

“Of course there is,” John drawled, bringing up the rear. “He’s a vampire.”

“He isn’t a vampire!” Sheldon denied. “Wait. You guys believe in vampires?”

“We sure as hell do now,” John answered.

Jenna nodded as they entered the bedroom. “It’s hard not to after seeing Richart’s glowing eyes and fangs.”

Again he swore. “Yyyyyyeah. There’s an explanation for that, too.”

They surrounded Jenna’s bed.

“Has he regained consciousness?” Sheldon asked as he leaned down and drew the covers back. Bandages and butterfly closures decorated most of Richart’s torso.

“No,” Jenna answered.

“Are his wounds still bleeding?”

“No.” Had she not seen Richart’s fangs and eyes, she would have puzzled over that. She had not even needed to apply pressure to them. The bleeding had just . . . stopped.

Sheldon peeled back one of the bandages. The wound beneath was a few inches long with ragged edges held together by butterfly closures. A dark, ugly bruise surrounded it. “Is this how it looked when you cleaned it?”

She nodded. “Should it have healed by now?”

He replaced the bandage and straightened. A full minute passed while he stared down at Richart. “You know what?” he said finally. “Screw protocol. Screw the rules.” He met Jenna’s gaze. “Yes, it should have healed by now. All of them should have at least partially healed by now, especially if you . . . I mean if he . . .”

She raised her eyebrows. “Drank my blood?”

Heavy pause. “Yes.”

“He didn’t.”

Sheldon spun on his heel and left the room. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he called over his shoulder. A moment later the front door opened and closed.

John brought the dagger out from behind his back and slipped it in the bedside table’s drawer. “This just keeps getting more and more surreal.”

Jenna nodded and sat on the bed. “It was weird hearing him confirm it.”

“Actually he said Richart wasn’t a vampire.”

“Then he asked me if Richart drank my blood and said his wounds should have healed by now.”

“Yeah. I don’t get it either.”