“Because you never call on your own. Papa calls, and you talk.”
“Pfft. You think you’re so smart.”
“I am smart. I’m your daughter. Tell me.”
“It’s your papa. He’s . . . ”
Alarm spiked. “He’s what? Is he sick? Did something happen?”
“No te preocupes, mija.”
“Don’t worry? What do you mean? Is there something to worry about?”
“Oy, I should never have called.”
“Mama,” Layla said sternly. “It’s too late for that. What’s going on?”
“He won’t admit it,” her mother said reluctantly, “but there’s something wrong. He’s so tired, and I think . . . ” She sighed. “I think his chest hurts sometimes.”
Fear hardened to a rock in Layla’s chest. “What does the doctor say?”
“Laylita, would I be calling you if the old fool had seen a doctor?”
Of course not. “I’m coming home,” she declared. “We’re not busy here. Brian can handle it.”
“I don’t know—” Her mother’s voice cut off as the familiar deep tones of her father sounded on the other end of the call. “It’s Layla, mi amor. She called to talk.”
Ah ha, so that was the way of it. Her father obviously didn’t know her mother had done the calling. The big question was whether he knew her mother suspected he was having chest pains. Chest pains, for fuck’s sake!
“Layla, mija.” Her father’s voice was as warm and loving as always, no sign of stress. “I was about to call you. How are things among the French, and that foolish billionaire who hired you to do nothing?”
“The same. I was just telling Mama that I’m coming for a visit. We’re all going crazy here. It’s too boring.”
“You never should have signed that stupid contract. You’re too good for what he has you doing.”
“That’s what Brian says. I can’t disagree.”
“Hmm. How much longer does he own you?”
“Brian?”
Her father tsked loudly. “Your billionaire.”
“Wilkerson, right. One more year, maybe less. He wants us to sign another contract, but I’m not sure. He needs security, but he doesn’t need us. I’m beginning to think he considers my team a trophy he can boast about to his guests.”
“You could come back here. I’d love to retire and play with my grandchildren instead of going up and down the battlement stairs.”
“What are you doing up on the wall? The damn gates are always open.”
“Not so much lately. A bad element has moved in.”
“Inside the Fortalesa?”
“No, no. Lord Xavier would never permit such a thing, you know that.”
Privately, she thought Lord Xavier was worst element of all, but she wouldn’t say so to her father. “You don’t have any grandchildren,” she reminded him instead.
“I know. I still hope. But for now, I’ll settle for advice. When are you coming?”
Layla’s eyes squinted in thought. First her mother, with the SOS about her father’s health, and now he, himself, was pushing her to visit soon. Something was up for sure, and if she wanted to know what it was, she’d have to talk to them in person. Damn it. She loved her parents, but Barcelona was the last place on earth she wanted to be. She’d convinced them to visit her in France last year, but apparently that wasn’t an option this time.
She clenched her jaw. Time to suck it up. “I’ll fly in tomorrow. Don’t pick me up. I’ll get a car.”
“Tomorrow,” her father said to her mother.
“Tomorrow, then, mija. Safe travels,” she called happily.
Chapter Four
Sant Andreu De Llavaneres, Barcelona, Spain
XAVIER WOKE ABRUPTLY as he always did, going from sleep to sharply awake in the space of an eye blink. It had taken him some time to grow accustomed to that aspect of being a vampire. He’d always preferred the Spanish way—the slow, leisurely awareness of voices and aromas drifting up from the kitchens, followed by long, slow muscle stretches, until finally, he’d open his eyes. He sighed. He missed that most, he thought. That and the sunlight warming his bedroom, before his valet knocked and discreetly entered the chamber. He’d never understood how the man knew the moment he woke, or later on, when he’d occasionally entertained an overnight guest, how the valet had known he was alone. He’d searched the entire room for spy holes once, when he’d been a teenager with too much energy, though he’d found nothing.
But such things no longer concerned him. He slept in what had been the dungeon of the fortress he’d taken over and made his own. The space no longer deserved the approbation associated with the word, however. It was closer to an elegant hotel than a dank prison, with his quarters larger and more elegant than any of the others. But it was, at the heart of it, still a dungeon, and he felt the cold earth chilling his bones no matter how many lush rugs or elegant tapestries layered the walls and floor. It wasn’t the stone or the earth beyond that made it cold. It was a bed that was too big and most nights too empty for one man. Or vampire.
For all that, he was hardly a monk. He’d fucked his share of beautiful women and had sucked the necks of a hell of a lot more. He didn’t really have a choice on that last part . . . unless he wanted to become a monk in truth and drink blood from plastic bags. He snorted. Not likely. Celibacy didn’t suit him.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet immediately engulfed by the deep rugs. “Right,” he muttered, then spat out a long curse in Spanish and faced the night, which brought plenty of problems of its own. He’d been all but unconscious through the day, but that didn’t mean he’d been unaware of what was going on. He was a vampire lord. In his own and some others’ estimation, he was also the most powerful vampire in Europe. Especially since Raphael from America had done him the favor of destroying that French bitch Mathilde, and then taken out the few others who’d either supported her suicidal scheme, or tried to succeed her when it failed. He’d have to thank Raphael for that, if he ever met him.
That brought a smile to his face, one more cynical than cheery. He’d been in the same room with the powerful western vampire lord, just over a century ago. He’d never felt such overwhelming power from another vampire, and had no desire to cross paths with him again. In point of fact, it was that desire which was at the core of his strategy for Europe.