“Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” Ildaria murmured and when Marguerite raised an eyebrow in question, explained, “It was the first movie Jess and I watched when I moved to the States. I gather it was first made in nineteen fifty . . . something, remade in the seventies, and then renamed just Body Snatchers and remade again in the nineties. It’s about these pods, from space I think, or maybe from the damage caused by pollution or something. I can’t remember, but when near sleeping humans they grow perfect replicas of them that then kill them and take over that person’s life.” She noted Marguerite’s wide-eyed expression and grimaced as she realized it didn’t really matter what had influenced his dreams about his mother. “Never mind. Go on.”
Marguerite nodded, took a moment to regather her thoughts, and then said, “At any rate, the memory was there all along, influencing him subconsciously, even if he couldn’t consciously remember it. So, trying to remove it . . .” She shook her head. “It could have damaged him terribly.” She paused briefly, and then added, “Besides, now that he knew about immortals, now that she’d explained them to him and he understood what he’d witnessed, it was a less horrifying memory.”
“But he still refused to turn,” she said, knowing that was the case, because the man was still mortal.
“Yes,” Marguerite said unhappily. “He claims he just has no wish to be immortal. He’s happy and fine being mortal, but I think what he witnessed is still affecting his choice. He does not wish to go through what he saw his mother suffer.” She met her gaze. “Mary was terribly upset when he refused her offer to turn him. No mother wants to lose her child and his not turning meant she would have to watch him age and die. So Robert bought the Night Club in London as a birthday gift for G.G. His hope was that with so much exposure to a varied number of immortals, G.G. would meet one he would be a life mate to and change his mind about the turn. But I do not think it is going to be as easy as that.”
Expression becoming grave, Marguerite warned, “I really think you need to take this slowly. If you cannot read him, keep it to yourself as long as you can. Hopefully, once he falls fully in love with you, which—as a life mate—he will not be able to resist doing . . . Hopefully then he will agree to the turn.”
“And if not, I get to watch him age and die alongside his mother and have to go on without him,” Ildaria said dryly, and then raised her head to the ceiling and growled loudly, “Argh! Why does everything in my life have to be so damned hard? Just once, couldn’t you let something be easy?”
Marguerite cleared her throat, and when Ildaria dropped her gaze back to her, said, “I assume you are talking to God?”
“Who else?” she asked, flicking a glare toward the ceiling.
“Yes, well . . . perhaps you should consider that you are very young to find a life mate. Most immortals are not this lucky and have to wait millennia.”
“Si, but—”
“And perhaps you should consider that all these difficulties, your troubles in Punta Cana, and then Montana, and now at university here . . . well, they did all work together to land you at the Night Club to meet G.G,” she pointed out gently.
A small smile tugged at the corner of Ildaria’s mouth at Marguerite’s pointing out the bright side to the hell that had been her life, but then she said, “Actually, you sent me to the Night Club to meet G.G., but I get your point. Quit my bitching. I’m lucky to have a problem like this.”
“Basically,” Marguerite agreed with a smile.
“Right,” she breathed and then stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll take H.D. upstairs to my room and ponder ways to make G.G. fall in love with me without revealing that we’re possible life mates.”
“It might help to consider the things he loves best in life,” Marguerite suggested.
Ildaria had started to turn away from the table, but paused and swung back now, her eyebrows rising. “Do you know what that might be?”
Marguerite nodded. “His dog, food, and women.”
Ildaria’s jaw tightened. “Women? In the plural?”
Marguerite shrugged. “It’s why women love him. He understands them, appreciates them, admires and loves them; all shapes and sizes and personality types. G.G. loves women.”
“Great,” Ildaria breathed and bent to scoop up H.D., muttering, “Come on, buddy. You’re sleeping with me tonight. Or, at least, you’ll get to sleep. I’ve got some thinking to do.”
G.G. was on his third cup of coffee when he heard the knock at the Night Club’s front door. Setting his cup down, he walked around the bar and headed for the door, moving at a quick clip.
Purely because he was eager to see H.D., G.G. told himself. It had nothing to do with the beautiful and charming Angelina Ildaria Sophia Lupita Garcia Pimienta. Even if just thinking her name made him smile.
Shaking his head at the thought, he quickly moved through the tables and chairs littering the center of this room of the club and unlocked the front door. The moment he opened it, H.D. started barking and launched himself at his legs.
Chuckling, G.G. bent to scoop up the little fur ball, crooning, “Hey buddy. How was your night? Did you miss me?”
“Of course he did.” Ildaria’s voice, soft and a little husky, brought his eyes to her and his smile widened as he took her in. She’d gone for a professional look for her first day on the job, donning a slim black pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her long, dark hair was up in a bun at the back of her neck, and while she wasn’t wearing any foundation or blush on her face, she didn’t need it. All immortals had a perfect complexion, but she seemed to have a soft glow to her skin as well. Maybe from years sailing the seas under the Caribbean sun with the wind in her hair, and salt spray peppering her body in the sexy pirate outfit she’d described to him.
All right, he acknowledged, she probably hadn’t spent much time in the sun. She was immortal after all. But damn, did she glow. And while she wasn’t wearing the face paint most mortal females depended on, she was wearing a bright red lipstick that drew the eye to her pouty lips, as well as a bit of eyeliner that accented her large, gorgeous deep brown and gold eyes. She looked beautiful, he acknowledged, and then realizing he was blocking her from entering the building while he stood gawping at her like a love-struck teenager, G.G. cleared his throat, muttered a gruff, “Morning,” and turned away to head back to the bar, leaving her to follow.
“How was traffic?” he asked as he claimed one of the high-back bar stools, settled H.D. in his lap, and reached for his coffee.
“It started to pick up at the end of the drive, but was good most of the way,” Ildaria said lightly, taking the seat next to his.
It put her close enough that he could smell her perfume, a mix of vanilla and spice. It made him think of muffins, which made him hungry. And then he became aware of the heat coming off her body, and realized that if he shifted just the tiniest bit to his left, his arm would rub against hers. It made G.G. think perhaps they had too many bar stools along the bar. Maybe a few should be removed and the remaining stools spaced out farther to give customers more personal space.
“How was your night?” she asked.
Fighting the urge to shift a bit to his left to better feel her heat and perhaps even rub up against her, G.G. took a sip of coffee before answering. “Good. Busy as usual. Thanks for the pictures,” he added, recalling the photos she’d sent him during the course of the night and morning. The first had been of H.D. cuddled up with Julius on a dog bed, the pair both sleeping. The next had been of H.D. curled up against Ildaria’s legs on a bed. The picture had focused mainly on H.D. and had only shown her legs from mid-thigh down, but they’d been bare, and he’d found himself staring at them and wondering what she wore to bed, if anything. The next two pictures had been waiting for him when he’d woken up this morning, one of H.D. and Julius playing in Marguerite’s large backyard. The other of H.D. and Julius, side by side, gobbling up their breakfast. The last picture she’d sent had been just a little more than half an hour ago and had been of H.D. standing on the front passenger seat of the car, looking out the half-open window, his fur blowing in the breeze. Which reminded him—
“You shouldn’t be taking pictures while you’re driving. You could have got in an accident.”
“We were stopped at the end of Marguerite’s driveway, waiting to turn onto the road when I took that picture,” she assured him with a faint smile, and then explained away the windblown effect by adding, “It’s windy today.”
“Oh.” He nodded, but the tension in him didn’t ease much. He just couldn’t seem to relax for some reason. G.G. had no idea why. He wasn’t usually tense around women.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” she asked suddenly, and he glanced her way in surprise, and almost wished he hadn’t looked. Damn, she was smiling at him so sweetly, her luscious lips curved up, red and wet, as if she’d just licked them, and he had the sudden urge to lick them too.
“No,” he said finally, forcing his gaze away from her lips. “I slept in. I’ve only been up half an hour or so. Took a shower, made coffee . . .” He shrugged.
“And fixed your hair,” she teased lightly, her gaze sliding up to the Mohawk he’d tended to and formed after stepping out of the shower. He’d had the Mohawk so long, that fixing it every morning was second nature, and now took only a couple of minutes to do. G.G. was used to the looks he drew with it, and hardly noticed them anymore. Usually. But right now, with Ildaria examining the tall straight strands, he found himself shifting uncomfortably and wondering—not for the first time—if he wasn’t getting too old for the style. But when he felt his face heat up a bit and realized he was actually blushing like a kid, he slid off the bar stool and started away from her, heading for the swinging doors, muttering, “I should grab some toast or something.”