“No. He’s the kid’s father. This drunk is a neighbor. But the father, who let the kid cross that busy street without supervision, and who wanted to kill us both just a month and a half earlier for arresting him for doing the same thing, and on the same damned street, starts shouting at us now about how we don’t do our jobs and stop speeders and drunk drivers in his area.
“Ack!” she exclaimed with disgust. “I wanted to plow the guy. But no, I had to be polite and take his abuse. And the whole time he’s yelling at me, I’m trying to comfort the little girl with a shattered pelvis and broken leg as we wait for the ambulance.”
When she sat back with a little exasperated grunt, Domitian said gently, “It sounds a very thankless job.”
“It is,” she assured him, and then added, “And it isn’t.”
“Which is it?” he asked with a faint smile.
Sarita smiled crookedly back. “Sometimes you can make a difference and really help someone. And sometimes they even appreciate it, and those days—” she blew out a long breath “—those days make up for all the crap days. But man, they are few and far between. I’ve only been on the job for a year and already feel like I’ve aged ten. Seeing the things people do to each other?” She shook her head sadly. “Sometimes I’m ashamed to be human.”
They were both silent for a minute. Sarita was peering thoughtfully down into her cappuccino cup. He was peering just as thoughtfully at her, thinking that her job sounded incredibly thankless and stressful. Most police officers no doubt got into it because they wanted to help people. But he suspected the things she’d described probably wore them down pretty quickly. He didn’t like the idea of her being worn down. And he wondered how much of the hard outer shell she presented to the world had been there before she’d become an officer. Perhaps they trained them to be that way. She was expected to be strong on the job, and in control in emergency situations. It would mean being tough he supposed.
Once he’d persuaded her to be his life mate, perhaps he should talk to her about changing her career and—
Domitian stopped his thoughts there and gave his head a little shake. If all he’d wanted was a Barbie doll to do as he thought best, he might as well have picked any mortal who caught his fancy. But part of the reason life mates were so special was because they could not be controlled. And the entire reason he’d left Sarita to grow up rather than claim her when he’d found her while so young was so she could grow into her own woman and hopefully wouldn’t be led by him.
No. He wouldn’t try to convince her to change her career. He would let her make her own decisions and simply support her in those decisions the best he could.
Sarita drank the last of her cappuccino, and set the cup back on the tray with a little sigh, then straightened her shoulders and glanced at Domitian. Judging by his expression, she’d depressed him as much as herself with her little rant. Time to change the tune of this conversation, she decided and said, “So, that’s me. Your turn. Let’s hear about you.”
Domitian jerked his head up and eyed her with surprise. “Me?”
She chuckled at his expression, and then teased, “What? A pretty boy like you has never had a gal want to stare into your dreamy eyes and hear all about your life?”
“Not that I recall,” he said with a smile.
Sarita snorted with disbelief. “Yeah right.”
“I am telling you the truth,” he assured her.
Sarita eyed him suspiciously, and then arched an eyebrow. “So what do you do on dates then? I mean most people at least tell a little about themselves.”
“I do not date.”
“Right,” Sarita said slowly and then shook her head. “Sorry buddy, no one gets as talented as you are in the bedroom, or should I say bathroom and lounge chair,” she added dryly before finishing, “without a couple thousand sexual experiences under their belt.”
“Ah.” Domitian murmured, and then shrugged mildly. “I have had sex, of course.”
“Of course. You just didn’t bother to first talk to the women you bedded,” she said with disbelief and then sat up straight as she realized that was how it had gone with her. She hadn’t known a damned thing about him other than his name and that he was an immortal when she’d jumped him in the bathroom.
“I undoubtedly did speak to the women I bedded as you so charmingly put it,” he said with amusement. “However, it was so long ago I don’t recall if they asked about my life first.”
That was sufficiently distracting to pull Sarita away from fretting over what she feared might be considered slutty behavior, and she eyed him now, wondering how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman. He was immortal—he could be two, maybe even three hundred years old. Had it been ten years? Twenty? Maybe even fifty years since he’d slept with a woman? As her father used to say, the only way to know was to ask, so she did.
“How long has it been since you slept with a woman? Before me,” she added quickly in case he tried to avoid the answer by naming the incident on the lounge.
“Hmm.” Domitian tipped his head, apparently having to think back a bit to remember, and then he nodded and said, “I believe it was when Auletes succeeded Alexander II.”
Out of cappuccino but still thirsty, Sarita had just reached over to pick up the glass of wine he’d poured for her. Straightening with it in hand, she glanced to him with confusion. “Who? What now?”
“Sorry,” Domitian said with a wry shrug. “I should have said when Ptolemy XII Neos Dionysos succeeded Ptolemy XI Alexander II as King of Egypt.”
Sarita stared blankly, and then simply said, “Huh?”
Domitian frowned and offered, “Neos Dionysos was also known as Auletes or Nothos, does that help?”
“Are you kidding me? Hell no, it doesn’t help! What are you talking about?” she asked with exasperation. “Egypt has presidents not kings, and right now it’s some guy named el Sissy or something.”
“El-Sisi,” he corrected with amusement. “And yes, they have presidents now, but the leaders were kings when I lived there. Or Pharaohs.”
“Pharaohs?” she gasped. “Seriously? Pharaohs?”
“Si.” He nodded, seeming fascinated with the expressions flittering across her face.
“But Pharaohs are—That was back before—Christ, you—”
“Si, pharaohs reigned before Christ,” he said with a nod. “Then the Romans invaded in about 30 b.c. and they carried the title of emperor for—What is the matter? Are you all right? Why are you gulping your wine?” he asked with concern.
Sarita just shook her head and downed the rest of the wine in her once-full glass. By the time she finished, she was gasping for air. Setting the empty glass on the tray, she gave her head a shake and then glared at Domitian for a minute as she regained her breath, before saying, “Please do not tell me that you are trying to tell me that—you’re telling me—”
“Concentrate, mi Corazon,” he encouraged. “You can get it out.”
“You are not telling me that you were born in 30 b.c.,” she said firmly.
“No,” Domitian agreed, turning to tug the sheet aside and grab the wine bottle off the bedside table.
“Thank God,” Sarita muttered, her body relaxing.
“Thirty b.c. is when I last enjoyed copulation with a female . . . other than yourself of course,” he explained, letting the sheet drop back into place and turning with the bottle. “I was born in 260 b.c.”
“No, you weren’t,” she said at once.
“Si, I was,” he assured her and began to pour more wine into her glass.
“No, you—Just give me the bottle,” she muttered and snatched it from his hand when he stopped pouring and glanced to her with surprise at the request. Ignoring that, Sarita raised the bottle to her lips to drink straight from it.
“The detective I hired did not mention a drinking problem,” Domitian said dryly as he watched her chug.
Sarita glared at him around the bottle, but then stopped chugging and lowered it. She held on to it, though, and simply stared at him for several moments.