Under those circumstances, there was only one obvious place to go next: Max’s lair. It might not feature an official guest room, but it was basically an underground fortress, and not even SERC officials knew its location.
One quick phone call to the grumpy-sounding vampire later, Gwen and Hugh were headed back toward the Containment Zone. To their mutual relief, Hugh’s ID card still worked at the Zone entry gate. The guards stationed there didn’t descend on the car and seize him. And less than an hour later, Gwen was happily ensconced in Max’s über-modern kitchen, eating her body weight in gourmet cheese at his ginormous island.
After greeting his guests with mingled irritation and old-world graciousness, their host had reminded them that he didn’t have a guest room, so they’d need to stay in the only available semiprivate space containing a makeshift bed. Then he’d deposited a stack of clean linens and one of Edie’s spare nightshirts on his library’s couch and promptly returned to his bedroom to cluck over his girlfriend. Hugh sat on the stool next to Gwen’s in the kitchen, bent over their borrowed tablet as he worked on…something. Probably checking with his various contacts about the conspiracy and getting the latest information about the fire.
The entire home was blessedly quiet. Warm and safe, freshly showered, her stomach full, Gwen polished off one last sliver of membrillo-topped aged Gouda and slumped over the white marble countertop, contemplating a nap.
Hugh tapped the screen one last time. “There. Your antinausea amulet and healing spell should arrive later today. The witch who created them is a trusted supplier, and I’m having theitems delivered through unconventional means to preserve our privacy.”
He’d been sourcing medical assistance for her instead of doing his actual work? And gods and goddesses above, how much had his selected itemscost?
Overcome by guilt and anxiety—and possibly by the volume of all that glorious cheese in her belly—she propped her elbows on the table, covered her face with her hands, and groaned.
“Gwen?” His stool screeched, and a hot, gentle hand clasped her arm. “Are you well? Is your head hurting again?”
“No, I—” she began.
“I was worried that preeclampsia might be causing some of your headaches, so I did some quick research. As it turns out, you’re not far enough along in your pregnancy for that.” His lips rested against the crown of her head for a brief, sweet moment. “You’ll still require particular care and a great deal of rest, however. Especially since you’re…”
He hesitated.
“Go ahead and say it.” Her sigh hurt her chest. “I’m what?”
“Well…” His hand cupped her nape and gave it a comforting squeeze. “The official designation is ‘a pregnant person of advanced maternal age.’ ”
She groaned again, and his thumb stroked her neck in a soothing arc.
“At least it’s better than the term they used to use,” he offered helpfully. “That was even more insulting.”
Morbid curiosity compelled her to ask. “What was it?”
“Well…” He seemed to realize his mistake then, but it was too late. “Um…‘geriatric pregnancy.’ ”
Motherfucker. Now utterly dispirited, she let her elbows slideout to the sides so that her hands-covered face rested directly on the island.
“Is your head hurting that much?” The warm sympathy in his question almost salved her bruised ego. Almost. “I can go out to get a healing spell now, Gwen, if you need one.”
She rubbed her tired eyes. “My head’s not hurting. I’m just very unhappy about all the time and money you’re spending on my care and unsure if I can pay you back without entirely bankrupting myself. That’s assuming you’ll let me pay you back, which you probably won’t.”
“Correct.” His hand stroked over her hair and down her braid in a tender, affectionate gesture. “I’m glad we’re in agreement on that.”
“I’m also worried about our current situation. Annoyingly fatigued too.” She scowled into the dark privacy of her hands. “Not to mentiongeriatric.”
“I see,” he said, his tone cautious.
As his long fingers carded through the ragged ends of her braid, they brushed against her back. Each tiny touch was a small island of heat and pleasure, sending ripples outward.
When her breath hitched, his fingers stilled.
“I’m sorry.” A brief silence. “If it’s any consolation, my day has been terrible too. I’ve spent most of it terrified for your well-being, and I’d really like to hold you. Would that be acceptable?”
She was already pushing her stool back from the island. “More than acceptable.Welcome.”
“Where are you—” His brow cleared. “Apparently we’re moving to the couch.”
“Apparently we are,” she said, and essentially dove headfirst into its slightly-too-firm cushions, because he mightwantto hold her, but sheneededto be held.
As soon as he sat beside her and opened his arms, she flung herself into his embrace with a shuddering sigh of relief. He was so blessedly warm, his long, narrow hands so blessedly tender as they stroked down the length of her braid again and cradled the back of her head. She pressed her face into his neck, greedily inhaling his smoky, woodsy scent.
