"Laurell K. Hamilton - Anita Blake 08 - Blue Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hamilton Laurell K)

adventure.
I would raise the dead, one way or another. I had no choice. But I had
enough reputation that I could go freelance. I'd need a business manager, but
it would work. Trouble is, I didn't want to leave. Some of the people who
worked at Animators Inc. were among my best friends. Besides, I had had about
as much change as I could handle for one year.
I, Anita Blake, scourge of the undead -тАУ the human with more vampire kills
than any other vampire executioner in the country -тАУ was dating a vampire. It
was almost poetically ironic.
The doorbell rang. The sound made my heart pulse in my throat. It was an
ordinary sound, but not at 3:45 in the morning. I left my partially packed
suitcase on the unmade bed and walked into the living room. My white furniture
sat on top of a brilliant oriental rug. Cushions that caught the bright colors
were placed casually on the couch and chair. The furniture was mine. The rug
and cushions had been gifts from Jean-Claude. His sense of style would always
be better than mine. Why argue?
The doorbell rang again. It made me jump for no good reason except it was
insistent and it was an odd hour and I was already keyed up from the news
about Richard. I went to the door with my favorite gun, a Browning Hi-Power
9mm, in hand, safety off, pointed at the floor. I was almost at the door when
I realized I was wearing nothing but my nightgown. A gun, but no robe. I had
my priorities in order.
I stood there, barefoot on the elegant rug, debating whether to go back for
the robe or a pair of jeans. Something. If I'd been wearing one of my usual
extra-large T-shirts, I'd have just answered the door. But I was wearing a
black satin nightie with spaghetti straps. It hung almost to my knees. One
size does not fit all. It covered everything but wasn't exactly
answering-the-door attire. Screw it.
I called, "Who is it?" Bad guys usually didn't ring the doorbell.
"It is Jean-Claude, ma petite."
My mouth dropped open. I couldn't have been more surprised if it had been a
bad guy. What was he doing here?
I clicked the safety on the gun and opened the door. The satin nightie had
been a gift from Jean-Claude. He'd seen me in less. We didn't need the robe.
I opened the door and there he was. It was like I was a magician and had
thrown aside the curtain to show my lovely assistant. The sight of him caught
my breath in my throat.
His shirt was a conservative business cut with fastened cuffs and a simple
collar. It was red with the collar and cuffs a solid almost satiny scarlet.
The rest of the shirt was some sheer fabric so that his arms, chest, and waist
were bare behind a sheen of red cloth. His black hair curled below his
shoulders, darker, richer somehow against the red of the shirt. Even his
midnight blue eyes seemed bluer framed by red. It was one of my favorite
colors for him to wear, and he knew it. He'd threaded a red cord through the
belt loops of his black jeans. The cord fell in knots down one side of his
hip. The black boots came almost to the tops of his legs, encasing his long,
slender legs in leather from toe to nearly groin.
When I was away from Jean-Claude, away from his body, his voice, I could be
embarrassed, scratchy with discomfort that I was dating him. When I was away
from him, I could talk myself out of him -тАУ almost. But never when I was with