****
Smug, the Party Crasher’s confident gaze followed Cole as he prowled through the alley. He hadn’t figured it would take quite this long to get his message across. The fact that Cole had been the one to figure it out was vaguely insulting, and 32
yet satisfying too. Even if the TFRA had provided him little entertainment, Gunnarrson was proving to be a worthy adversary.
Now, not only did he get the prestige of showing the TFRA for the fools they were, but he also got the added bonus of going head to head with an ancient warrior whose reputation among the Vampyre Nation had reached near godlike status.
He’d show them all.
Like the ancient relics Cole surrounded himself with on his precious estate, Cole himself was outdated, obsolete.
That’s right, Gunnarrson, you think you’re so
smart. Keep looking for those clues. You won’t find
any. I’m too good for that.
Cole stopped in his tracks, peering into the shadows. Did he sense the malicious eyes upon him?
Do you know how close I am? How close I’ve
always been?
So close I could rip your throat out…
33
Odin’s teeth! That damned female was
stubborn!
Slamming his foot onto the accelerator, throwing his phone on the seat beside him, Cole sped down the interstate. He’d spent the better part of two weeks on the phone with his agent, pacing and railing, threatening and bargaining.
He hadn’t had to work this hard since he’d escaped the French Revolution, and that time he’d damned near lost his head…literally.
Talking Alexandra Sinclair around had been an exhilarating, frustrating endeavor, and he wasn’t through. After weeks of pursuit, she’d grudgingly agreed to come to the estate to give it a trial run. She’d consented to three weeks—
three
paltry weeks
—to get a feel for things. To see if writing again was even viable for her.
However, when the three trial weeks were up—then and only then—would she even consider discussing a contract. And he’d be back to square one. He’d only had that one, brief conversation with her on the phone, all other communication had been through Tommy, and yet he looked forward to haggling with her over the terms of her contract with an odd sense of giddy anticipation. He refused to even let it cross his mind that in three weeks she might just walk away without so much as a backward glance.
By the gods, he should have just gone to her office and
made
her agree. He should have looked deep in her eyes and told her she wanted nothing 34
more than to work with him. But he wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt. This unnatural conscience of his was a real drag sometimes. Of course,
convincing
her like that would have taken all the fun out of the chase. His lips curved, dangerous and cunning. When you were a cold-blooded predator, it was all about the chase.
Where in the hell had he put that damned address anyway? Steering with one hand, at speeds that would have made a NASCAR driver twitchy, he reached over and riffled through his glove box. Papers fluttered this way and that until he couldn’t tell which one he’d already looked at, and which one he hadn’t. Pointing his car toward the off ramp, he eased up on the accelerator.
So what if he’d retained a sliver of his conscience—that small bit of humanity—through the centuries, something few others of his breed could boast…or curse. He rarely let his conscience interfere with his day-to-day activities anyway, and, in all fairness, he sure as hell couldn’t complain about what he’d gained from the transformation all those centuries ago.
Superhuman strength and speed, finely tuned preternatural senses, and the ability to heal in mere minutes from wounds that would be fatal for a Human were nothing to scoff about, and, contrary to popular belief, he could tolerate brief stints in sunlight. Granted, creature of the night that he was, p
rolonged exposure to direct UV rays
caused serious
ly painful burns, debilitating weakness, and, ultimately, an
excruciating, sizzling death. All of which he understandably went well out of his way to avoid.
Of course, now that he was considering the pros and cons of being w
hat he was, the ability to fly wouldn’t have been
half-bad.
And
35
shapeshifting would have been cool. Those were two marks myth has missed by a long shot. Too bad, that. He could have saved himself the trouble of getting a pilot’s license, and the cost of a Lear.
Cursing himself for being such a stubborn, hardheaded cuss, Cole riffled through the papers once more as the needle on the speedometer jumped well past eighty. His call with Tommy nagged at the edges of his mind. It irritated a bit that he’d had to rely on the agent to close the deal with Alex Sinclair. Loki take it, what was done was done. She was on board now, that should be all that mattered. He should have learned his lesson by now. His obsessive tenacity had gotten him into more than one boiling pot of trouble.
Nevertheless, he’d managed to convince himself the band needed Alexandra Sinclair. She was a brilliant lyricist, after all, and he…they…they wouldn’t settle for anything less.
As a result, he’d put himself in a tenuous position. He was probably lucky Tommy had been the one to deal with her. She could have asked for the moon and stars, and he’d have plucked them from the night sky for her in a New York minute.
Provided she met his expectations, of course.
Then again, if she proved to be even half as alluring as her voice promised, he was completely screwed.
Ah-hah. Pulling a crumpled note from of the clutter, Cole scanned t
he wild scrawl then tucked the paper in his
pocket.
With
Ssteady
determination, he turned off on one side road after another until he came to his destination, a new nightclub on the south end of the city.
Easing from the car, he slipped through the crowd, angling not for the door, but for the shadows around the corner of the brick, two story 36
building. Smiling with grim resolve, he swaggered toward the darkened alley, armed to the fangs for hunting. Then again, when a Vampyre went hunting, that alone was all he needed…his fangs.
It didn’t take long to search the musty, smog and grime stained pavement. The small puddles of murky water, lingering reminders of a late afternoon shower, were a nuisance, but his worn combat boots didn’t mind. There were no vagrants to question, and the rats scurrying beneath the dumpster, scrabbling inside it, offered little in the way of information. The darkened interior of the thriving nightclub was minimally more informative, but not by much. As soon as he entered the rear door, Cole scented Vampyre, in outrageous numbers. However, by the faded scent trail, it didn’t take Cole long to determine that none of his kind had been on the premises in at least two days, if not a little longer.
Frustration was mounting, and time was running out. The case had gone on far too long as it was. Wallowing in pride, the TFRA had dragged their collective feet before bringing Cole and Styx on board. Now the waters were too muddy for any solid clues to float to the surface, yet they expected Cole and his band to be the hook and the bait. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that when the killer struck again—when, not if—
Stolen Innocence would be the ones left holding the empty net. Bastards.
A feral snarl of aggravation slipped past his lips as he ducked back out the door and prowled around the side of the building. Then his nostrils flared. Female. Human. Separated from the pack.
Predatory instincts engaged.
Hunger sat up and took immediate, rabid notice. He’d been without a hot meal for a long time now, having instead chosen to forego a fresh 37
vein for the cold, bagged variety. That pesky conscience thing again, free will and all that.
Warm blood wasn’t the only thing he’d been living without. Somehow, after
centuries of willing, nameless
wom
en, he’d found the entire
process…stagnant.
He’d wanted—needed—
something more. The problem was he just couldn’t quite put his fang on the pulse of the problem, couldn’t figure out exactly what it was he craved.
The female wasn’t a raving beauty by anyone’s standards. Her clothing blended with those of the crowd near the door, yet she held back as if hesitant to enter the club. Her hair hung limp, a dull, dishwater blonde. Her features were unremarkable, though her eyes listed toward a mite too small for her long, oval face.
She wore too much make-up. But she smelled clean, and she had a certain naïve hopefulness about her.
Cole tensed, prepared to leave without a backward glance. The wind shifted, carrying her scent to him once more. His eyes drifted to her, slow and considering. His nostrils flared again, his chin lifted, and his lungs dragged her in. His mouth watered.
It wouldn’t be that difficult. He wouldn’t take more than he needed. He wouldn’t hurt her, and in exchange for her…donation…he would give her a
Kiss
—the thrilling, heady pleasure without the memory of that initial, unavoidable sting. He’d probably be far safer than anything else she might pick up inside a place like that. A simple suggestion sent on the winds.
Come to the
shadows.
Then the ball would be in her court. If she walked away, so be it. If she was too weak minded to resist, was it his fault?
He knew it was the hunger talking, the primal 38
beast inside taunting him with an easy excuse.
He hadn’t let the beast rule him in five centuries.
But that beast was getting harder and harder to resist, prodding at him with startling regularity lately.
It really had been so very long. Almost half a century. One meal from her, that’s all. One meal, and no attachment, just the way he liked it. He never drank from the same woman twice. That was another rule on his dismally short list of regulations. Somehow, on some level, drinking from the same Human more than once equated to a personal intimacy. One he would never risk.
She would remain faceless, nameless. A one night drink, so to speak, no risk of attachment.
No danger whatsoever.
Cole gave a resigned shrug. Everyone fell off the wagon once in a while.
He held to the shadows, a shade in the night.
She couldn’t see him from where she stood, not that she was looking, but he had an unobstructed view of her. He sent out a mental feeler, and smiled with hungry anticipation when she followed his suggestion to take the restraining clip from her hair.
Licking his lips, he sent another suggestion, though he was careful to temper the force of his will, his conscience poking at him to give the female one last chance to refuse. As if in a daze, she wandered to the side of the building, slipping into the shadows and straight into Cole’s waiting arms. His burning eyes probed hers, staring with determined intensity, swirling her mind into a realm of blissful pleasure and oblivion. Then he lowered his head, fangs sharply extended, and pierced her vein. The female stiffened for half a second, then sagged against him, her body limp, yet vibrating with the rapture of a Vampyre’s 39
Kiss
.
****
Alex pulled up outside the iron gates surrounding Cole Gunnarrson’s estate, and, for the hundredth time, she doubted her sanity. With relentless determination, Gunnarrson’s agent had hounded her until she’d finally caved. Somehow, despite her adamant refusal and serious reservations—and she was still trying to figure out just how he’d done it—he’d convinced her to give Stolen Innocence a chance. Now here she was, kicking herself for her stupidity. Her gaze ran over the intricate wrought iron scrollwork adorning the top of the gate. Security cameras peered back at her from dual vantage points.
She cringed.
Did she really want to plunge back into
that
world? She groaned aloud and shook her head.
What had she been thinking? She’d sworn never to set foot in the music industry again. Although, thanks to the self-defense classes she’d taken, she’d made certain no one would ever be able to take physical advantage of her again, at least not without sustaining serious personal injury himself. Emotional scars were more difficult to overcome.
Why hadn’t she been smart enough to walk away this time? She was a fool, plain and simple.
Panic rose up to clog her throat. She shouldn’t be here. She should turn her car around and head back to the city. No, better still—she would go straight to the airport. She could fly somewhere nice, like the Bahamas…or Italy. She’d always wanted to see Rome. Anywhere was fine, just as long as it was far,
far
away from here. She should’ve hung up on that damned agent, and not gone anywhere near this whopping mistake-40
in-the-making. Was she doomed to forever make the same mistakes, over and over?
Her grip tightened on the steering wheel, one hand reaching for the stick shift when a scratchy voice crackled through a speaker beside the security camera. “Can I help you?” Cursing herself for not escaping while she’d had the chance…hating the long ingrained need to stand by her word…Alex leaned toward the window. “I’m Alex Sinclair. Mr. Gunnarrson is expecting me.”
“One moment please.”
Alex leaned back against the seat with a resigned groan. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she lifted a hand to her hair and could have screamed her frustration. Instead, she cursed beneath her breath.
She’d left the windows open so she could enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, and she hadn’t given her hair a second thought. The tight, practical knot she habitually wore to the office had come undone. Her long honey-blonde locks now floated about her in wild, wanton disarray.
Alex pushed her fingers through the tangles, then dug through her glove box in search of a hair tie.
No such luck.
Drilling her fingers against her temple, grimacing at the vicious little spikes of pain, she let out a long-suffering sigh and rummaged through her handbag for her new best friend…the economy-sized bottle of extra-strength Excedrin.
Too bad they didn’t make industrial-strength. The way she’d been popping those little green and white suckers lately, it would have been more efficient to keep them in her pocket in a Pez dispenser. She drew out the tidy white bottle, giving it a hollow, rattle-free shake. Empty…
Of course
.
41
The gate swung open, and the scratchy voice returned. “Have a nice day, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at the camera through gritted teeth and squared her shoulders.
Shifting gears, she let the powerful muscle car devour the long lane from the gate to the house. Pulling into the circular drive, she parked among a long line of vehicles that easily out-priced her Shelby, and one beat up old truck.
Trying not to let herself think about what waited for her on the other side of those wide double doors, she withdrew her keys from the ignition and deposited them inside her sleek black purse.
Alex ran a hand through her hair once more, trying to tame some of the wildness. She stole one last, fleeting glimpse in the rearview mirror, and then closed her eyes.
Cowboy up, Alex, it’s show time…
She slid from the car and tread across the loose pebbles with extreme caution, wishing she’d worn more sensible shoes. Gravel and spiked heels did not mix. She ascended the steps, and, with a slight tremor, lifted her hand to ring the doorbell. Then Alex waited, nerves strung tight as watch springs.
And she waited.
Frowning, Alex rang the bell once more, nerves relegated to the back burner. And still no response. Music drifted from somewhere near the back of the house. Gunnarrson had enough cars in the drive to start his own dealership. His agent had assured her he’d be expecting her today.
Somebody
could at least answer the damned door. She jabbed a finger at the doorbell one last time, scowling now.
Evidently she’d set the old expectation bar a little too high in assuming he’d at least strive to make a good impression, given that his agent had 42
stalked her with such diligence.
Grinding her teeth together, she let
annoyance get the better of her. Backing off the front steps, she looked first to one side of the house, then to the other. Stiffening her spine, she set off around the north corner, and skidded to a stop, grimacing.
He
would
have to live in a house the size of a bloody football stadium. Squaring her shoulders, bracing herself for an unpleasant afternoon, she began the trek to the back of the house, aiming for the heavy blast of music.
As she tramped across the lawn, her eyes trailed over the scrupulously groomed grounds, skimming down the classical lines of the house itself with grudging appreciation. Roses and jasmine, lavender and lilies adorned the many flower gardens sprawling throughout the estate. A gardener knelt in one such paradise near a monster of a garage, tending the thriving foliage with gentle hands. Gunnarrson possessed some sense of taste, at least. But then, out of sheer spite, she decided to reserve judgment until she had the chance to view the inside of this mausoleum, convinced it was nothing more than party-central…a puffed up, moneyed version of a frat house, swimming in empty alcohol bottles and half-naked women.
Alex smoothed her hand over the hip of her trim, black skirt, suddenly wishing she’d worn a pair of slacks instead, or a skirt with more of a conservative hemline. She’d just always liked this skirt, with its feminine lines and daring slash up the front right thigh, and she’d wanted to feel at the top of her game when she faced the determined stranger who’d uprooted her nice, tidy, content life.
Groaning aloud, she screwed up her courage.
43
She was being a coward. She was overreacting, finding fault with anything and everything, just looking to find any excuse why this wouldn’t work. There was nothing wrong with her clothing.
She’d worn this outfit half a dozen times to the office—granted, she often wore a jacket to cover the sleek, red silk blouse, but it was just too hot today. There’d been nothing wrong with the security gate, a perfectly reasonable security measure for someone of Gunnarrson’s position.
And there was nothing wrong with Gunnarrson’s house. It wasn’t
overly
flamboyant or sexist, nor was it creepy, although the fact that all the windows were securely covered did give her pause.
Why then did a chill skate down her spine, as if an icy hand had feathered a warning over her back?
Run, while you still can…
No, she’d made this commitment—at least for the next three weeks—and she would damned well see it through. Determination lifted her chin.
She’d be damned if she’d let them see how much the mere idea of this project had shaken her up.
That legendary Sinclair steel stiffened her spine.
Her grandfather would have been proud…even if Lily wasn’t. Alex drew a deep breath, and took the last few steps around the back corner of the house.
She froze, appalled.
There were women
everywhere
. In the pool, lounging beside it, dancing on the patio, draped across the bar. They were…
everywhere
. Not a one of them wore enough to allow a Barbie the slimmest illusion of modesty.
To think, she’d been concerned
she
was underdressed. It took her a moment to find the men in the bevy of buxom beauties. There weren’t 44
many.
A tall, sleek man with long, scruffy black hair leaned casually against the bar with a busty blonde tucked beneath each arm. Another man sporting a blond crew cut and boyishly charming good looks lounged on a chaise by the pool, cuddling a little brunette on his lap while he nuzzled his face against the swell of her over-ripe breasts. She writhed in his arms in a poor imitation of a lap dance.
Alex shot the couple a look of disgust.
Hope
he asks for his money back…
Across the way, two men sat inside a gazebo, absorbed with a massive flat screen TV. They cheered as players streaked across the display, groaning intercepted plays and cursing fumbled balls. The women didn’t seem interested in interrupting the male bonding session. Alex couldn’t say as she blamed them. She’d rather have teeth pulled—minus the anesthetic—than get anywhere near that gazebo.
Chewing the edge of her lower lip, she searched for someone who looked even remotely responsible. She came up sadly empty-handed.
Drawing herself up, she sucking in a deep, grim breath
. Bar-guy it is.
Then, as she took a bleak step forward, another man pushed through the ornate French doors. All but jogging across the patio, he vigilantly shielded his face from the sunlight with his forearm. He was slightly shorter than the others…but extremely muscular. Silky hair the color of fine rich sable flowed to his shoulders, unbound. His skin glistened a dusky olive. An expertly trimmed goatee gave him an iniquitous air, alluring and faintly sinister. He looked like a matador minus the props of cape and bull.
Zeroing in on the likely, unclaimed target, 45
Alex made a beeline for the newcomer. “Excuse me…”
The crash of drums and roar of guitar from hidden speakers were too loud. He gave no indication he’d noticed her. Forced to repeat herself at a near yell, she instantly gained the attention of every person in the back yard—with the exception of the two sports enthusiasts, of course, who continued to whoop and heckle.
Forcing a swallow, pasting on a cool smile, Alex stepped in front of the dark, attractive man.
A wide grin spread over the sensual curve of his lips. Eyes the color of smoky amber swept down the length of her with blatant interest.
Tall, dark, and dangerous purred, “Hel-
lo,
Slim.”
Alex bit the inside of her lip. Oh, God,
please
don’t let this be Gunnarrson, please, please, please. Not with
that
attitude. She thrust her hand forward, stiff with formality. “I’m Alex Sinclair. I’m looking for Mr. Gunnarrson.” Intrigued curiosity spiked through his amber stare. Offering her a rueful smile, he enveloped her hand in his. “That bastard always gets the best ones.”
Alex’s eyes flared. She shook her head, impatient to clear the air. “No, you don’t understand. I’m here because I’m—”
“I know who you are.” He refused to relinquish her hand; instead, he tucked it gallantly in the crook of his arm, shooting her a mysterious, wicked grin. Just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent colored his speech as he steered her inside the house. “I’m Styx, by the way. Like the river, not the wood.”
“It’s a—a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Styx.” Alex granted him a tight, guarded smile.
“No mister, just Styx.” Speculative, Styx tilted 46
his head and eyed her. Then he ducked his head, grimacing as he shielded his face with his forearm again. “Come on, hotter than hellfire out here.” She couldn’t argue there. He led her into the shade, down a long, cool hallway and around a corner. Alex extracted her hand from his arm with a polite, no-nonsense smile. She followed close on his heels and gave up counting the doors they walked by, already hopelessly lost. Her heels clicked on the chilled marble beneath her feet, her eyes widening with every priceless artifact and painting they passed. She’d been way off base, thinking this place a frat house. It wasn’t the Waldorf, but it was damned close. Then again, the friggin’ Louvre might have been more on point.
Styx’s
voice
trailed behind him
conversationally as he swaggered, unaffected, past a gorgeous Renoir. “So, you’re the new lyricist, huh?”
“Possibly,” she allowed, distracted by the glory surrounding her. A priceless Monet floated by, and she stumbled, fighting the urge to stop and gawk.
“Hear you gave up the music biz for the exciting world of journalism.” He tossed the leading statement over his shoulder, and let silence hang.
Fully acquainted with the attitudes of critical musicians who believed she’d betrayed her talents, Alex’s gaze swerved away from the paintings, determined to offer cool composure.
“Yes,” she hedged, unwilling to take the bait.
Undeterred, Styx shot her an assessing look over his shoulder. “Cole filled us in on the arrangement. Boy, you sure made him sweat it out, waiting for your answer.” She mumbled a noncommittal, “Hmm.” 47
Styx halted in the middle of the hall, so abruptly in fact, that she bounced off his broad back. Turning to face her, he raised an eyebrow.