Page 12 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

De Luca blinked. He seemed to notice for the first time that Bastian’s bare chest was exposed. His robe had parted in the scuffle, revealing his smooth pecs and small, pink nipples. His blond hair spilled loosely over his shoulders. De Luca grunted and stepped back, still holding the stake.

Bastian was surprised by the twinge of disappointment he feltas the inspector’s groin vacated his thigh. His body hummed with a quiet need that was completely inappropriate in that moment.

“Where are the cuffs?” De Luca growled.

Bastian waved a hand. “Whitby tossed them out the window. I shall have to apologize to Commissario Zappa. But you honestly have nothing to worry about, Inspector. I really am a vegetarian vampire. I mean you no harm.”

De Luca remained tense. His gaze flickered over Bastian’s attire—a thigh-skimming, banana-print robe cropped at the elbows and knees, his legs and feet bare. Compared to De Luca in his blue ball cap and fitted polizia polo shirt, Bastian was practically naked.

De Luca cleared his throat and brought his scalding gaze back up to Bastian’s face.

“If you try anything,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will stake you.”

“Absolutely,” Bastian said. “Understood, De Luca. Now come have some coffee, it does wonders for a bad mood.”

6

Sunlight pooled in the kitchen, which, Bastian saw as he entered, was rapidly filling with smoke. He threw open the balcony doors and hurried to the stove, where a piece of salmon sizzled in the pan. He took it off the flame and scraped the fish with a spatula.

“Just in time, Whitby. A little citrus twist and this will be beautifully flavorsome.”

“Good morning, Inspector. I trust you slept well?” Whitby greeted from her cat bed as De Luca appeared in the doorway. Her bed was shaped like a giant disco ball and rested by a wooden dresser in the corner of the room. A book of spells was propped open on the floor in front of her, and Whitby had spent the past ten minutes muttering to herself while Bastian cooked, her eyes narrowed in concentration.

De Luca looked sternly at the cat, then dismissed her, training his gaze back on Bastian instead.

“Coffee’s on the table,” Bastian said, squeezing lemon on the fish in the pan. “Help yourself.”

The inspector remained silent.

“Cat’s got his tongue,” Whitby muttered, easing herself from the bed and stretching out her front legs, her butt in the air.

“Breakfast is served!” Bastian announced. He twirled in time to the music as Kate Bush played on the stereo. Performing a brief arabesque, he dished the salmon from the pan into a cat bowl by the balcony door. Whitby shot forward to attack the fish, and Bastian smiled as she ate.

“Remarkable how they bounce back,” he said to De Luca, who was still haunting the doorway like a character out of anopera seria.“You would never know the stress she’d been through last night.”

De Luca said nothing. He stared at the dirty pan on the counter, his brow crinkled with what looked like displeasure.

“Please, De Luca,” Bastian said, tying up his hair and taking a sip of pig’s blood through the straw of his Bonnie Tyler flask. “Help yourself to coffee.”

“No,grazie.”

“At least tell him to sit down,” Whitby said between mouthfuls. “He’s putting me off my food.”

“Here, let me take this,” Bastian said, reaching for the cap on De Luca’s head.

The hand caught Bastian’s wrist so fast, Bastian reeled. His grip was surprisingly strong for a human, and Bastian winced as De Luca scraped the raw flesh. He heard the inspector’s heart beat a quick patter, blood racing. He determined to ignore it.

“You’re stuck here for at least another day,” Bastian said softly. “I thought you might like to get comfortable.”

De Luca’s eyes shone blue steel. An unusual color for this part of the Mediterranean, almost otherworldly.

After a moment, he released Bastian’s wrist. His face remained tense as he removed his cap to reveal lightly mussed black hair.His ears were slightly too large, sticking out like antennae from the sides of his head.

“Isn’t that better?” Bastian said. “Make yourself at home. You must ache after sitting in that wooden chair outside my bedroom door all night.”

De Luca’s cheeks colored slightly as he went to stand by the burnt pan on the counter in silence. He seemed to be about to say something, then he glanced around the room instead.

Bastian had to admit it was a good kitchen. Sunflower yellow walls. Colorful tiles above the oven. Exposed beams along the ceiling. Cooking utensils gleamed from hooks, and display cabinets were stacked with painted crockery—antique jugs, delicate teacups, large dinner plates, and fish platters adorned with swirling sea-foam motifs.