Ildaria tore her gaze away from G.G.’s and swallowed thickly, trying to remove the sudden lump lodged in her throat. It didn’t do much, and after another swallow she gave it up and shrugged. “Do you know Jess Stewart Notte?”
“Raffaele’s life mate. Yes,” he said, nodding. “I’ve met her a couple of times when she was up here with Raffaele visiting family. You lived with her in Montana, didn’t you?”
“Si. Her and Raffaele,” she added with a faint smile. Raffaele hadn’t been able to stay away from Jess once he’d found her. Not surprising for life mates. But it had meant the three of them living in the house Jess had inherited from her parents, instead of just the two of them. Ildaria hadn’t really minded after getting to know the man. She’d even ended up liking Raffaele as a person. Despite that though, she still wished Jess had chosen Ildaria’s old captain, Vasco, for her mate. She’d had the choice between the two, and Ildaria knew Vasco was a good man under all of his swagger. Besides, he’d saved her life more than once and was like family. Well, she supposed she hadn’t let him close enough to be family, but he was important to her. Shrugging her thoughts away, Ildaria explained, “Well, as you say I was living with Jess and Raffaele, but as new life mates they were pretty wrapped up in each other.”
G.G. nodded. “I’ve noticed that happens.”
“Si.” She sighed the word. She liked Jess. They had become good friends despite the little bit of time they’d actually spent together. “But that was okay. I made friends at the uni there. In my classes,” she added.
“Mortal friends you mean,” G.G. filled in for her, getting it.
Ildaria grimaced. “Si. I didn’t want to specify and sound racist or something.”
G.G. blinked. “By mentioning that your friends were mortal?”
“Well, you can’t call anyone anything anymore without offending someone. Every time I learn the rules, they go and change them.”
G.G.’s mouth twitched briefly with amusement, and then he pointed out, “So, you were explaining why you went vigilante?”
Ildaria grimaced, but nodded and said, “Well, as I said, I had mortal friends at uni. Three of them, like I have here.”
“You have friends at university here?” he asked, eyes widening.
“You needn’t sound so surprised. I’m a charming person,” she informed him a bit testily.
That brought a laugh and he shook his head. “I’m just surprised because you haven’t been here long.”
“Almost two months,” she told him and shrugged. “That’s long enough to make friends.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed soothingly.
“Hmm.” She eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to figure out if he was patronizing her, and then let it go and said, “Anyway . . . So, one of those friends was a lovely girl named Alicia. She was beautiful, sweet, funny and super smart. And she never missed class. I mean, never. She could be hacking up a lung and sneezing up a storm, Kleenex in every pocket and trailing her like bread crumbs, and she’d show up for class.”
When she paused briefly to take a sip of her drink, G.G. nodded to let her know he understood. Swallowing the sweet drink, Ildaria set down the glass and continued. “But then one Monday, she didn’t show up for our Business Analytics course.” Her mouth tightened at the memory. “I meant to call her that night to check on her, but . . .” Ildaria shrugged unhappily. “Between full-time classes and my full-time job waitressing, I forgot.”
“Life gets busy,” he said in an understanding rumble.
“Si, it does,” she agreed on a sigh. “But when she didn’t show up for the Thursday Mergers and Acquisitions class we had together, I headed straight for her dorm the minute class was done.” She ran one finger over the condensation on her glass again. “Apparently her roommate came back to the room after class on Monday to find Alicia’s things gone, and was told she’d dropped her courses and moved home.”
When she paused again, G.G. made a sound in his throat that was part growl and part hum. As if he suspected what was coming wasn’t good and he was already angry at whoever was at fault for this unexpected occurrence.
“Alicia’s family lived in a small town an hour outside the city,” Ildaria continued quietly. “I waited until the next day because it was so late, and then I drove out to see her. Her mother answered the door, asked me to wait a moment and then went to find Alicia. She came back a few minutes later and said very apologetically, that Alicia didn’t want to see anyone.” Ildaria swallowed at the memory. “I could tell she was upset. That she wanted to tell me something to soften the blow of her daughter’s rejection, but didn’t feel it was her right.”
“So you put the mind whammy on her,” G.G. guessed.
Ildaria turned to him blinking. “Mind whammy?”
“You know, when you immortals read and control us mere mortals to get what you want,” he explained, his voice a tad dry.
Ildaria grimaced at the description. Immortals could read the minds of mortals, as well as control them, although she did that as little as possible. For instance, she hadn’t tried to read G.G.’s mind yet and wouldn’t without a reason, and she was glad she hadn’t, since the man obviously had some resentment about the practice. Probably, she thought, because he’d been the victim of it a time or two what with owning not one, but two nightclubs that serviced immortals. And since she hated it when older immortals read her, she could understand, so she let his attitude go for now, and nodded unrepentantly.
“I read her mother’s mind to find out what was going on.” She didn’t leave time for him to comment on that and continued. “The Thursday before, after the last class we’d had together, Alicia had been attacked on her way back to her dorm. She was raped and beaten . . . badly. She’d fought back and earned a broken arm, cracked ribs, so much vaginal tearing they’d had to sew her up, and there was a question as to whether she’d see out of one eye again.”
“Christ,” G.G. breathed, sagging slightly next to her and setting his half-eaten second burger back on the plate. “Did they catch the bastard?”
Ildaria shook her head. “Not yet, and they probably won’t. There were no witnesses, and Alicia’s memory is messed up so she couldn’t give much of a description . . . If she even got a good look at the guy before he half blinded her with his beating.”
“Right,” G.G. said unhappily. “So she won’t feel safe on campus with him still out there.”
“No,” Ildaria agreed grimly, and then added, “Although I suspect she’ll never feel safe again whether they find the guy or not.”
“So she dropped out of her classes and retreated to her childhood home,” G.G. murmured, sounding sad.
“No. Alicia had only gotten out of the hospital the morning I went to the house. It was her mother and father who had packed up her bags, moved her things out of her dorm room, and signed her out of her classes,” Ildaria corrected him, and then added, “Although, probably at her request.”
When he grunted at this, she continued, “Anyway, at that time she had a long road of recovery ahead of her and while her mother knew Alicia would heal physically, she was afraid that she wouldn’t mend mentally and emotionally. Alicia was shutting down and shutting everyone out. Her mother was very scared for her.”
Ildaria took another drink of her Tahitian Treat, recalling the worry and fear of Alicia’s mother and her own rage and pain on learning what had happened.
“Did you fix her?” G.G. asked quietly.
She raised her head and eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”
He snorted at the question. “I know a lot of immortals. I know your abilities. Did you wipe the memory from Alicia? Help her get over it?”
Ildaria let her breath out on a gust of irritation and then shrugged. “I did what I could.” When he raised his eyebrows at that, she admitted, “I’m not old enough, or maybe it’s not practiced enough, that I was able to wipe her memory.”
“Practiced enough?” he asked with interest.
“I don’t read minds unless I have to,” she explained. “It feels . . . intrusive. Besides, some of the things you hear when reading the minds of others can be . . .” She paused and shook her head with disgust, and then explained, “Mostly the only minds I’ve read are those of would-be donors.”
“Donors?” G.G. asked, his eyes narrowing. “Immortals haven’t been allowed to feed off of mortals since shortly after the advent of blood banks. Not in North America anyway.” After a pause, he added thoughtfully, “And Punta Cana is in the Dominican Republic, part of the Carribean, which is also in North America.”
“Si, but the South American Council covers the Carribean, Central America, and South America too. Basically anything below the United States. It’s just called the South American Council to simplify matters,” she explained, and when he merely raised his eyebrows, she added, “But it’s not allowed there either . . . unless you take a boat out into international waters. Neither North American, nor South American rules apply if you’re in international waters.”
“Right,” he said grimly. “And you did that? Took people out on boats and fed on them rather than using immortal blood banks?”
They weren’t really questions, and he wasn’t looking very pleased at the thought. In fact, he was starting to look at her like he found her distasteful now. Ildaria didn’t know why that bothered her, but it did and she quickly explained, “Not by choice. The Dominican Republic has some pretty corrupt people, both mortal and immortal.” She paused briefly, and then added, “I suppose they have corruption here too, but the difference is that Lucian Argeneau isn’t corrupt. But down there, the head of the Council, Juan Villaverde, is very corrupt. And greedy. He owns a good portion of the beachfront property, but wants more, and inland property too if it’s in a lucrative area. Of course, he’s had no problem purchasing the property he wants from mortals. He just controls them and gets them to sell. But he can’t do that with the immortals who have owned and had shacks or huts on the land for ages. The other immortals would protest. Besides, some are old enough to be able to resist him and have held the property for a hundred years or longer. Long before they became tourist traps. So Juan has resorted to using other tricks to get what he wants.”
“Tricks huh?” G.G. said grimly.
“Yeah. Some work, some don’t, but the latest trick is that he bought up all the blood banks down there and has jacked up the prices on blood to the point that less affluent immortals are having to choose between buying the blood they need, or paying their mortgages, or taxes, or rents, or hydro if they have it. He’s forcing people out of their homes, taking them over and—” She broke off, shaking her head with disgust at the memory of what the man was doing to her neighbors and people she cared about.
Ildaria took in a deep breath, let it out, and then continued. “One of his sons, Vasco Villaverde, doesn’t agree with what his father is doing and wanted to help those of us the most affected by his father’s actions. So in an effort to get us the blood we needed, he geared up his old pirate ship, and—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” G.G. interrupted. “His old pirate ship?”
“Vasco’s five hundred years old or something and used to be a pirate back in the day,” she told him with a crooked smile, and then added, “Well, a privateer . . . maybe.”
G.G. was silent for a minute, his eyes dancing with interest at this news, but then grunted and waved for her to continue.
“So, he geared up his old pirate ship, welcomed any immortal who had trouble affording their blood to join his crew, and . . .” She hesitated and then sighed and said, “It’s kind of a tourist thing. There’s a program where people go out to swim with the sharks and stingrays. When they return to the landing site, they watch a sort of pirate dance/fight routine and are encouraged to buy from stalls with local goods,” she explained. “While they’re watching the show, our crew, dressed like sexy pirates move—”
“Sexy pirates?” he interrupted. His voice was serious, but there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.
Ildaria grimaced. “I wore black leather thigh-high boots, a black leather bra and matching short shorts or skirt, and either a pirate hat or a head scarf . . . and a sword of course.”
“Of course,” he murmured, his gaze sliding over her as if he were imagining her in the costume she’d just described and liking what he was seeing in his mind’s eye.
Ildaria wasn’t one to blush, she was too old for that, but she was quite sure she was blushing now under his gaze. She also felt oddly warm and a little breathless. Clearing her throat, she tried to ignore his attention and quickly added, “The guys usually went topless, or with an open vest, or an open peasant top with long sleeves, tight leather pants, boots, a pirate hat or head scarf, and a sword.”
“Right,” he said slowly, but didn’t sound all that interested in what the guys were wearing. She was quite sure he was still stuck on her costume.
Clearing her throat, she continued, “Anyway, the crew would move through the crowd, picking donors and inviting them on the pirate ship for a tour to feed the sharks.”
A lot of the twinkle left his eyes then. In fact, he looked a bit grim when he said, “The sharks, huh?”
Ildaria sighed and shrugged unhappily. “We did take them out to see and feed sharks if we could find any. We also served them cheese trays and punch made with really watered-down alcohol in it.”
“Watered down because you didn’t want to drink alcohol filled blood.”
He sounded angry again, but she ignored that and nodded.
“When did you feed on them?” he asked grimly.
Ildaria shrugged uncomfortably. “We weren’t supposed to feed on them until we reached international waters. That was the whole reason behind Vasco doing this. To get us the blood we needed without leaving us homeless, or having to go without it until we were so desperate that we inadvertently attacked a mortal on land and were executed.”
G.G. was silent for a minute, his gaze disapproving. “You weren’t supposed to feed on them until you reached international waters,” he murmured her words almost thoughtfully, and then said, “But you did, didn’t you?”
Ildaria’s mouth tightened. “What? Now you’re a mind reader?”
He shook his head. “No. But you said you ‘weren’t supposed to,’ not ‘we never fed on them until we reached international waters,’” he pointed out in a low rumble.
Ildaria’s mouth twisted at that and then she looked away and sighed. “I usually did wait. I always tried to. But there were three, maybe four times when one or the other of the idiot mortals managed to corner and try to rape either myself or one of the other women.” Her mouth firmed with anger at the memory, and she confessed, “Those ones I fed on early and in the most unpleasant way I could think of.”
G.G. didn’t comment at once, and after a moment she huffed out a breath, letting go of her anger as she said, “Unfortunately, I couldn’t leave the memory with them so it was really a stupid, useless thing to do that taught them nothing and endangered both myself, and Vasco, who didn’t deserve that kind of trouble.”
“Then why did you do it?” G.G. asked reasonably.
Ildaria hesitated and then shrugged unhappily. “I couldn’t help myself. I just . . . I really hate men who think they can just take what they want and rape a woman.”
Ildaria turned her gaze back to her drink then, staring at it grimly and refusing to meet his gaze after that admission. When he remained silent, seeming to be waiting, she added, “That’s why I decided to leave Punta Cana. So I wouldn’t make trouble for Vasco and the others anymore.”
“And you moved to Montana,” G.G. put in.
Ildaria nodded. “Jess invited me to stay with her while I figured out what I wanted to do. She’s the one who suggested I get a degree at college or university.”
When she stopped talking again, G.G. said, “And you chose accounting at university, but then your friend was raped.”
“Yeah.” She breathed the word unhappily. “I didn’t have enough experience to wipe her memories, but I did what I could to blur them for her. Soften them so she wasn’t so terrified and traumatized.”
“And then you went vigilante,” G.G. suggested, bringing her gaze sharply to his. Smiling at her expression, he shrugged. “Like I said, the Night Club is gossip central. I did hear a little of why you are now in Canada and being watched like a hawk by Lucian and the boys.”
Ildaria grimaced, and took a sip of her drink, but then nodded. “Yeah. Well, when I read her mother’s mind, I saw that they’d learned that Alicia wasn’t the first victim of this rapist. They suspected the same man was responsible for at least three other attacks. There was a serial rapist on campus, but they weren’t advertising it because they didn’t want the female students to panic, and risk female enrollment dropping,” she said bitterly. Angry that the school would choose profit over concern for its female students. “So, I donned leathers and started going out at night looking for the bastard.”
“Leathers?” G.G. asked, distracting her from her anger.
She blinked at him and then shrugged. “Injuries mean a need for more blood, and while I was working full time as a waitress, making great tips, and my rent with Jess was ridiculously low, university is expensive. I couldn’t afford a lot of extra blood,” she explained. “Short of a Kevlar bodysuit or something, leather is the best thing you can wear to avoid or reduce injury. So I bought black leather pants, a black leather jacket and whatnot, put my hair in a ponytail or bun to prevent it being used against me and went out looking for him.”
“Did you get him?” G.G. asked when she fell silent.
Ildaria shook her head slowly. “No. But I got a lot of other assholes up to no good.” A small smile played around her lips as she recalled the people she’d helped and the criminals she’d dumped in the hands of local mortal law enforcement. But after a moment, she sighed, and added, “Unfortunately, there are a lot of fricking people out there with cell phones happy to film anything and everything everybody is doing. I got caught on film once or twice, which was bad enough. But then one of the people I rescued was an FBI agent . . . and didn’t that just make them hot to catch me?” She rolled her eyes, thinking that was gratitude for you, and then said irritably, “Which, of course, caught the attention of the North American Council.”
“Ah,” G.G. murmured, picking up his own drink, but merely holding it as he said, “Which is how you ended up here in Toronto under Lucian’s eagle eye.”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “In truth, I was lucky. He could have had me executed. I was drawing attention that could have led to the discovery of our kind, and that’s a no-no with every Council so . . .” She breathed out unhappily. “I just wish I’d caught the bastard who attacked Alicia before Lucian caught on and came to Montana to shut me down.”
G.G. was silent for a minute, his expression thoughtful, and then he asked, “And what happened here?”
Ildaria turned to him in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Why did Lucian make you drop your night courses and switch to days?” he asked almost gently in that deep bass rumble of his. “Were you donning your leathers and—”
“No,” she assured him quickly. “Nothing like that. I do learn from my mistakes.”
He waited. Silent.
Ildaria could have refused to explain. It wasn’t really any of his business. But she found she wanted to. She didn’t want him to think she’d run off half-cocked and repeated her error. “I didn’t go looking for trouble this time. But a lot of bad stuff happens at night on campus, and I can’t just ignore someone’s screams for help. So . . .” She grimaced and admitted, “There have been three instances since starting my night courses here in Toronto where I’ve stumbled across someone in trouble and tried to help.”
She noted his wince at this news, and sighed inwardly, completely understanding it, but not sorry she’d helped. Pushing his reaction away in her mind, she continued, “One of those instances where I helped was apparently caught on camera.”
“Crap,” G.G. breathed.
Ildaria nodded, completely agreeing with that assessment of the situation. It was crap. “So, Lucian has decided that Vasco was right and I’m a trouble magnet. That being the case, Lucian has decided the best way to keep me out of trouble is to make me switch from night classes to day classes when there is less crime on campus for me to happen upon on my way to and from class.”
They were both silent for a minute, and then G.G. pushed his plate away and turned to face her. Ildaria waited warily, unsure what to make of the thoughtful way he was eyeing her, but then he said, “Marguerite said you were taking accounting at uni.”
Surprise sent her eyebrows upward, but she nodded. “I major in accounting, minor in business.”
G.G. nodded slowly and then said thoughtfully, “And my dog likes you.”
Ildaria tilted her head, trying to sort that one out. She wasn’t at all certain what one thing had to do with the other.
And then he said, “Would you like a job?”
Ildaria stilled, startled by the question, but after considering his comment about his dog liking her, asked, “Dog sitting?”
G.G. nodded. “And doing the books for the Night Club.” When her eyes widened in surprise, he added, “I’ll pay you for both. An accountant’s full wages, plus an extra twenty dollars an hour for looking after H.D. while you do.”
Her mouth dropped open at that offer, excitement building within her at the thought of being paid for two jobs in one, but then she frowned and pointed out, “Wait. You already have a dog sitter. They just didn’t come in today for some reason.”
“I had a dog sitter,” G.G. said dryly, and explained, “She quit yesterday after H.D. bit her. Walked out in the middle of the night without telling me and left him alone to eat holes in my clothes and chew the hell out of one of my running shoes.”
“Oh.” Ildaria blinked, wondering what clothes the little fur ball had chewed holes in.
“And I’ve been looking for a bookkeeper since I bought this place . . .” G.G. shook his head with irritation. “The fact that I can’t hire a mortal has made it impossible to find anyone.”
Ildaria completely understood why he couldn’t hire mortals. This club was for immortals. It served blood-based drinks, not alcohol. The accounts payable would be to various places but would include Argeneau blood banks. The drinks made were variations of blood, sometimes just different blood types: A+, A-, B+, B-, etc. Sometimes customers wanted specialized blood like that of people who were high on various drugs, or the sweet blood Marguerite had asked her to pick up on the way back from university. Sweet blood came from untreated diabetics and had a high sugar content. A rare blend to find since when the blood was tested on donation, the donor was advised that they were diabetic and should seek medical attention, reducing the donor base.
Sometimes, though, the blood was mixed with things to make it more interesting. Here a Bloody Mary was a true Bloody Mary, made with the standard Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, lemon juice, lime juice, black pepper as well as celery and a lemon wedge for garnish. But there was no tomato juice or vodka in the Bloody Marys here. That was replaced with blood.
Actually, she thought now, G.G. would have trouble explaining having blood banks on the accounts payable list to the tax people too and she supposed he had to cover with switching names out from blood banks for alcohol distributors. He probably had to keep two sets of books, she decided. An immortal was really the only way he could go when it came to hiring a bookkeeper. She didn’t know a lot of accountant immortals. Ildaria was sure there must be some out there, but considering the small pool to search from . . . well, finding a bookkeeper would be impossible.
“So?” G.G. prompted when she remained silent, lost in her thoughts. “Want a job? Or two jobs, I should say.”
“Si,” Ildaria said at once, feeling a lot of her stressors drop away like ashes crumbling in a fire. He was going to pay her for both watching H.D. and doing the books. It was like two full-time jobs in one. Her money troubles just went out the door. She’d be able to pay for the fall semester, get her own apartment, and maybe even buy furniture for it if she was careful. Damn. Things were looking up.
“Thank God,” G.G. said, relaxing in his chair and smiling at her. Shaking his head, he added, “Actually, I suppose I should be thanking Marguerite. She’s the one who suggested you might be able to help me.”
“Marguerite did?” Ildaria asked with surprise.
“Yeah. When she called this morning about the blood, we got to talking and I was telling her about H.D.’s sitter quitting and needing a bookkeeper and she mentioned that you were taking accounting and looking for a job. And then she suggested sending you to pick up the blood instead of my having it delivered so that I could meet and talk to you. I thought that would take care of at least one of my problems, but instead, H.D. likes you and it handles both of my problems.” He smiled widely at the realization that his troubles were over and then said, “I really need to send her flowers or something.”
Ildaria smiled faintly in response, but asked, “So this was a job interview?”
He grinned and nodded, the expression making him look ridiculously adorable. The man was a big teddy bear . . . with tattoos, piercings, and a bright green Mohawk.
“So when can you start?” G.G. asked abruptly, his expression serious again.
“How about now?” she asked lightly, and then paused to frown. “No. I guess I need to take the blood home to Marguerite first. And then I should probably change into something more professional, but I could start after that. Maybe in two hours?” she asked and then explained, “It’ll be rush hour traffic when I head back or I’d say sooner.”
G.G. smiled faintly, but shook his head. “Take the blood to Marguerite and relax tonight, get anything done that you think will need doing and you can start tomorrow,” he suggested, and then pointed out, “It’s nearly sunset, and I wouldn’t have time to show you the books and how they’re done before opening anyway. Tomorrow you can come in at say . . . four? Then we can go over the books so you know what you’re doing.”
Ildaria nodded easily, happy to start whenever he wanted.
“Good. Then I’ll go get that blood for Marguerite so you can be on your way.”
“What about H.D.?” Ildaria asked with concern as he stood up. “What will you do with him tonight?”
G.G. hesitated and then shrugged unhappily. “One night in my office won’t kill him. I’ll just make sure there’s nothing lying around for him to eat.”
“Or I could take him home with me,” Ildaria suggested quietly, and then added, “On the house.”
G.G.’s eyes flew up in surprise, but then he shook his head with regret.
Before he could say no, though, she added, “I don’t mind. Besides, I’d be upset thinking about him being stuck locked up in your office all night long . . . and I would bring him back with me tomorrow. That way he wouldn’t be on his own and get into anything.”
The large man hesitated briefly, but then considered aloud, “It’s usually 7 or 8 a.m. or so before I finish cleanup and go up to my apartment. All I do is take H.D. out for a pee break, and then it’s to bed. I sleep until three—” Pausing, he explained, “That’s why I suggested you return at four. It would give me time for breakfast and a cup of coffee before you returned.”
Ildaria nodded and then waited.
“So,” G.G. said thoughtfully, “all he’d miss is sleeping time with me and watching me eat my breakfast. That would work,” he decided, but then paused and suggested, “Maybe you should check with Marguerite first, though. She might not want the little runt running around her house.”
“I’m sure she won’t mind,” Ildaria said and was quite sure that was true. Marguerite loved dogs. Still, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, saying, “But I’ll call her to be sure.”
“Right.” He nodded. “I’ll get Marguerite’s package while you do.” Leaving her to her call, he picked up his plate and headed around the bar to pass through the swinging doors.
As she’d expected, Marguerite was more than happy to have H.D. come stay the night. The woman loved dogs almost as much as she did. Ildaria didn’t tell her that she had a job now, she merely said that the dog sitter G.G. had hired to look after H.D. had let him down and she didn’t want to leave the poor fur ball stuck in his office all night. Ildaria wanted to see Marguerite’s face when she told her that she’d got the job she’d recommended her for, plus the dog sitting position as well. She also planned to stop and pick up some flowers on the way home to give the woman as a thank-you for recommending her to G.G. and she wanted them to be a surprise too.
Ildaria was smiling to herself at the thought as she put her phone away.
“It’s all right with Marguerite then?”
A glance showed G.G. pushing through the swing doors, a medium-sized cooler in hand. Ildaria’s smile widened. “More than all right. She’s eager to give him cuddles. She thinks Julius will be grateful for the break.”
G.G.’s mouth dropped open at this and Ildaria grinned with amusement and explained, “Julius the dog, not Julius her husband.”
“Ah.” He smiled wryly. “I always forget she names her dog after her husband.”
“Do you know why?” she asked with interest. It did seem an odd habit to her, but she hadn’t got around to asking Marguerite about it.
“Yes, I do,” he said with a faint smile, and then carried the cooler around the bar, adding, “And I’ll tell you another time. I need to set up for tonight right now.”
“Oh. Of course.” She hesitated, her gaze sliding from G.G. to the cooler he held and then toward the bar. H.D. was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll grab H.D.’s leash, his favorite toy, and his food and treats,” G.G. announced, setting the cold container of blood on the bar.
“Right,” Ildaria said, relaxing and then she watched him slip back through the swinging doors. It didn’t take long before he had returned with two bags.
Moving to the cooler, he opened the lid and set one of the bags inside, saying, “This is H.D.’s food and favorite treats. There are three separate meals, each in its own container. I make his dog food myself from fresh meat and vegetables, so it has to be kept refrigerated and then microwaved before serving. The containers are microwavable, and I usually put them in for twenty-two seconds, but each microwave is different, so check it before you give it to him to make sure it isn’t too hot, because he’ll gobble it up the minute you set it down without checking it himself,” he warned.
“Okay. Check it first,” she said aloud.
“Right,” G.G. said as he closed the lid of the cooler. “He eats when he wakes up which is usually around 3 or 4 p.m., then again at 11 p.m. or midnight, and finally around 3 or 4 a.m. which is about four hours before bedtime, so three should do until you bring him back.”
Ildaria nodded, silently repeating the times in her head so she’d remember.
“As for his treats . . .” G.G. continued, and waited for her to meet his gaze, before saying firmly, “He gets no more than three in twenty-four hours. Too many treats and he becomes a roly-poly little sausage on legs and can’t jump up in his chair.”
Ildaria’s eyebrows rose at the “his chair” bit, but said solemnly, “No more than three.”
Apparently satisfied that she wouldn’t go wild and turn his dog into a roly-poly little sausage overnight, G.G. relaxed a bit and moved back around the bar, pulling a leash out of his back pocket. As she’d expected it was black leather interspersed with studs and miniature spikes, Ildaria noted before he bent, briefly disappearing from sight. He straightened again a moment later, H.D. in his arms, the leash already attached to his collar.
She watched the big giant of a man snuggle the small dog with a faint smile, and then picked up the cooler.
“I’ll get that,” G.G. protested, carrying H.D. around the bar.
“Nah.” Ildaria shook her head and led the way to the door. “I get to snuggle him up all night. You should do it while you have the chance.”
He didn’t protest further, but followed her to the door, murmuring to the dog about behaving himself at Marguerite’s, and telling him he’d miss him. It was really quite sweet, she decided as she shifted the cooler, balancing it on one hand to open the door and then holding it open with one foot for him to lead the way out.