by Juliet Lyons
“Money troubles?” Esme asks in disgust. “That’s the best you can do? I’ve had money troubles since the crash of ’29.” She inhales. I get the impression she’s smoking. “I’m beginning to wonder what it is you do all day long, Ronin. Perhaps you’re losing your touch.”
My voice little more than a growl, I say, “Why not come over and investigate Roger’s death for yourself, since you’re so cut up about it?”
“Maybe I will. Lately I’m growing rather tired of New York. A change of scenery could be just the tonic.”
Her thinly veiled threat against my territory is as clear as day, but I keep my cool. Anger is futile against such a woman as Esme. “Good for you. By the way, I believe your precious necklace is probably residing at a pawnbroker. Maybe you can pick it up when you’re over.”
She snorts in derision, but I hang up before she can reply, smacking the phone into its cradle with such force that it almost smashes to pieces.
I sigh, leaning back in the chair as I gaze around the office. The room hasn’t changed in all the time I’ve been here. A few years back, when the club was redecorated, I decided to leave this room as it is—a sense of continuity in an ever-changing world. With its red carpet and windowless walls, the huge black fireplace surrounded by worn leather chairs, it’s always felt like home. I’m as much a part of the furniture as the buffed walnut desk I’m sitting at.
Until now, I’ve never considered being anywhere else. I’ve never needed to.
By rights, I should be livid at Esme for making threats. I should be flinging some of my own right back at her, but a sense of apathy is settling around my shoulders like a heavy blanket. If she took over London, would I miss it? My gaze snags on the tiny bag again. If it wasn’t for Catherine, I wouldn’t be feeling this way—like an abandoned pinball machine suddenly fired up, steel balls rattling off every corner, lights whirring.
I’ve fallen in love a few times in my life, but it’s never changed me. At my core, I’ve always remained the same—selfish, impulsive, indulgent. Catherine makes me think differently. For her, I want to be more than an ancient demon who rules London’s undead.
Maybe it’s her past. After all, we have more in common than she realizes.
I’m so deep in thought it takes me a moment to realize that the pile of papers on my desk has a note on top, Charlie’s barely legible handwriting scrawled all over it. I drag the pile toward me and begin to read.
Boss,
Lauren Baxton turned up very little of interest. Ordinary life, but I’ve included her social media account links overleaf. The CEO of Baverstock & Marshall, however, is the reason for the pile of papers. George Whinny was once a high-profile criminal with links to the mob. He has since reinvented himself as a professional businessman, living a relatively quiet life down in Surrey with his son. Press clippings and details inside.
C.
My mind drifts back to the conversation with Roger Devine’s girlfriend on Saturday. Hadn’t she said Roger’s CEO adored him? That they’d even visited him at his house in Surrey? I thumb through the file, pulling out a photo of George Whinny taken from a local newspaper. He’s giving a talk at a business seminar, hands splayed as he delivers a speech. He looks to be around fifty years old—gray hair with a receding hairline, dark, heavy-lidded eyes. He doesn’t look like an ex-criminal mastermind, but then, who does?
I settle back into the chair with the pile of information and begin leafing through the pages, disappointed to see they’re mostly printouts of news articles. The lack of solid leads isn’t Charlie’s fault, or even mine for that matter. Despite the internet, we’re often as helpless as we were twenty or thirty years ago. We just don’t have the resources or the contacts to delve deeper. We need someone on the inside, someone with access to files and archives.
Once upon a time, I had such a contact—a vampire named Vincent Ferrer, who I turned during the French Revolution. In fact, it was his now-wife, Mila, who I helped save from the clutches of a serial killer. Now there’s a man who owes me a favor.
Actually, come to think of it, he owes me two…
I open my laptop and pull up Vincent’s details from my contacts before tapping the number into my phone.
He answers on the fifth ring. “Ronin McDermott,” he says smoothly, as if he hears from me every day.
“Vincent Ferrer,” I reply, already smiling. “It’s payback time.”
Chapter 15
Cat
Rather than face the wrath of Mrs. Colangelo, I go straight to the office, where I sit staring blankly at my oversize computer screen, nudging the mouse every now and again to stop the screensaver from appearing. Though I’ve halfheartedly clicked into an accounts spreadsheet, I’m absorbed in the memory of Ronin—his ripped body suspended above me, his eyes intense as he begged me to stay in the moment with him.
I shiver, an electrifying tingle zipping up my spine. What the actual fuck was that, anyway? Is he so much of an expert lover that he manages to deliver exactly what a woman needs, in exactly the way she needs it? Or has he always been this quietly sensitive individual who thrives on hearing other people’s life stories? Suddenly, it’s as if there are two Ronins in the world: the one I want to throw under a bus and the one I want to do bad things with.
Of all the people I’ve met over the years, how did I end up telling Ronin McDermott about my past? The man who stole my last chance at a normal life. The utter shit bag who’s been trying to sabotage my business.
I am pathetic. All these years believing myself a feminist and then allowing an arrogant twat to swan in and validate my past. A demon who could give Hugh Hefner a run for his money in the morality stakes.
I glance up at the clock, my stomach flipping with excitement. Thank God there’s only six or seven hours before I get to go home and do it again.
I’m just about to Google the meaning of mo chridhe when the noise of the buzzer crashes into my daze. Shit. I arranged to have lunch with Sandy today. I dive off my swivel chair, pushing the entry button next to the glass door.
“Come up,” I say, staring down at my crumpled sweatshirt and jeans. Sandy will know what’s happened in a heartbeat. For a human, she’s incredibly perceptive.
Sandy Townsend is a photographer who used to rent the office space on the ground floor. Then the recession hit, and she rather wisely decided to kill her overhead by doing location-only work. Now she mainly shoots weddings and engagements. With her blond pixie crop and tattoos all over her body, she is the last person you would expect to be a wedding photographer. She looks more like a biker.
Waiting by the door, I bend a knee, arms above my head. With any luck, she’ll think I’m having an impromptu yoga session.
“Hey,” I say as she swings open the door.
She does a double take, missing nothing. “Why are you dressed like that?” she asks, pointing at my clothes with a black-painted fingernail.
“Yoga,” I say.
She shakes her head, narrowing her kohl-lined eyes. “You’re in last night’s makeup too.”
I sigh. I suppose getting it off my chest might be cathartic. “I had sex,” I say in apologetic tones.
A smile unfurls at the edge of Sandy’s mauve-painted lips. “At fucking last. For a while there I thought you were headed for the sisterhood.”
I scoff. “Yeah, because the Catholic church is crying out for vampire nuns.”
Sandy chuckles, kicking the door shut behind her and folding her leather-clad arms across her chest. “So, who was it? That cute guy next door you mentioned in your text?”
“Er, no, actually. It wasn’t him.”
“Then who? A one-night stand? Someone from the website? That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you look like Pollyanna caught with her hand in the till. You’ve been abusing client confidentiality?”
“Not a client either,” I murmur.
&n
bsp; “Who?”
“Ronin McDermott.”
Sandy’s jaw drops. “Ronin McDermott?” she repeats in disgust. “The tyrannical asshole whose grave we plan to waltz on someday?”
“Yep. So where do you want to go for lunch?”
She shakes her head vigorously. “But isn’t he the one who’s been putting on speed-dating nights at his club to steal your clients?”
Like a cornered rat, I slump back into my swivel chair. “I don’t know how it happened,” I say, groaning. “He’s hot and sexy, and we talked—like, really talked—and it’s been so long…”
“Bastard sex,” Sandy says with a smirk, “is always hot.”
I screw up my face. “That’s the thing. Though it started off as bastard sex—arguing, insults, clothes ripping—it ended up somewhere completely different. The bastard made love to me.”
Sandy’s brow knits. “Do you think he maybe likes you? Or is this part of some grand scheme to ruin your life?”
I sigh. “Unless he is truly evil, I don’t see what he’d get out of destroying my life.”
“But he’s a demon. I’m guessing they’re not typically into caring and sharing.”
I slump onto the desk, resting my chin on my forearms. “I don’t know anymore.”
We’re silent for a few seconds.
“What did happen to the cute neighbor?” Sandy asks.
I wave a hand dismissively. “Crap kisser.”
She tuts her tongue, perching on the edge of my desk. “That’s a shame. But it’s like I always say: if a man is still single by the time he’s twenty-seven, there’s something wrong with him. Now, let’s go have lunch, so you can tell me all about the luuurve-making.”
I lift my head up. “Okay. But promise me you won’t refer to it as luuurve-making again.”
Sandy quirks a smile. “Promise.”
* * *
I drag out lunch for as long as possible, only returning to the office afterward to switch off my computer and lock up. Talking about Ronin with Sandy does little to ease the knot of confusion in my chest. If anything, it gets me even more excited at the prospect of seeing him again.
When I arrive back at my apartment building, the sky has turned a deep shade of blue and the streetlights are on, long shadows stretched across the glittering pavements. There’ll be a heavy frost tonight.
I take the stairs slowly, preparing myself for a Mrs. Colangelo assault, but the corridor outside her flat is empty and silent, no halo of light glowing around the front door. It feels like centuries have passed since I yelled at her in front of Peter.
I let myself into my apartment, greeted by the high-pitched meows of Wentworth as he lunges across the room toward me. Shit. He hasn’t been fed since yesterday afternoon.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, tickling beneath his chin as I mentally add ‘cat starvation’ to my list of things to feel guilty about. “I got a little preoccupied.”
Once I’ve fed Wentworth, I take a long, hot shower and wash my hair, combing through conditioner to untangle all the Ronin McDermott–made knots. Afterward, standing in front of my open wardrobe, I experience a similar outfit crisis to the night of my date with Peter. There is not a single casual yet sexy outfit in my entire repertoire—not one damn floaty dress. I really have been living like a nun these past few decades.
In the end, I select a cream, collarless shirtdress with tiny navy birds on it. With any luck, it won’t be staying on for long anyway. I pause at my chest of drawers, hand poised over the neatly rolled-up bras and panties. The thought of Ronin touching me in my intimate areas sends a violent tingle of anticipation pulsing through me. I picture how his blue eyes might look as he realizes I’m not wearing underwear—fierce, blue flames burning through ice.
It’s a look I want to see.
I slam the drawer closed and slip the dress over my head commando. I’ve just finished buttoning up when there’s a loud knock at the door. I whip my head around to the digital clock on the nightstand. Just after six. He’s certainly keen.
Hurriedly combing fingers through my wet curls, I cross from the bedroom into the lounge. At the door, I tug my dress down, wiping the ridiculous smile from my face and replacing it with one of cool indifference.
With a deep breath, I fling open the door.
Peter is standing on the other side, shoulders hunched. He straightens when I appear, pushing his black-framed spectacles farther up his nose. My heart crashes in disappointment. Just a few days ago, I opened the door to him and felt excited; now I only feel guilty.
“Peter, hi.”
He rubs the back of his neck, staring over my shoulder into the flat. “Cat, may I come in?”
My eyes widen as I desperately try to think of an excuse. There isn’t one. “Yes, of course.” I wave him inside, closing the door behind us.
“How’s the cat?” he asks, staring down at Wentworth. The cat, with his belly full, is stretched out, sleeping on the sofa. “Attacked anyone lately?”
I grimace. “I am really sorry about that.”
He gives a nervous chuckle. “It’s fine. Honestly.”
An awkward silence falls between us. We both end up speaking at the same time.
“About yesterday in the hall…”
“I just came over to say…”
“You first,” we say in unison.
In some other Ronin McDermott–less universe, there’s a high chance we’re soul mates.
“I just came over to say,” he continues, his smoke-gray eyes wide behind his glasses, “that there are no hard feelings about what I heard yesterday when you were yelling at Mrs. Colangelo.”
“I wasn’t exactly yelling,” I mumble.
“If you’re involved with someone else, it’s completely fine,” he continues, ignoring me. “I mean, we only went out once. It’s not like we’re dating. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’d hate for us to have to avoid each other just because you don’t want to see me again. I’d rather us move on and be friends.”
The speech sounds a tad rehearsed, but it’s enough to make relief pound through my veins. “Peter, I really am sorry.”
He holds up his hands. “It’s more than fine. I’ve just come out of a relationship anyway, and dating my next-door neighbor probably isn’t the best idea in the world.”
“A vampire one at that. I’m surprised Mrs. Colangelo hasn’t nailed a giant crucifix to her door.”
Peter frowns. “Those don’t work, right?”
I smile. “No.”
He flashes a grin. “I haven’t actually seen her since last night. Maybe she’s decided to hang out in her flat instead of the hallway for a change.”
“She’ll be plotting my demise, no doubt. Rounding up the priests and silver.”
Just then, I catch the distant clunk of the front door downstairs opening and closing. I listen carefully, expecting to hear footsteps on the stairs. It’s only when there’s a soft rapping on the door that I realize it’s no ordinary visitor. I stare between the door and the man before me in dismay. Ronin and Peter are about to meet. A mixture of dread and morbid curiosity grabs me like a cold hand.
“Maybe that’s her,” Peter quips.
“Actually, I’m expecting a friend.”
Peter’s face drops. “Oh.”
I wrench open the door, my breath catching in my throat at the sight of Ronin on the threshold. He’s wearing the suit I left him in this morning, the dark-navy material stretching over his broad shoulders as if it were designed just for him, a pastel-blue shirt open at the collar. His hair is russet in the stark light of the hall, slicked back off his forehead. My knees literally weaken at the sight of him, every one of my senses hopping on board the Ronin train. He’s carrying a tiny bag in his left hand.
As he registers Peter standing behind me, his fist clenches around the rop
e handles, and his eyes turn cold with anger.
“Ronin,” I say in a perky voice. “This is my neighbor Peter.”
Ronin doesn’t appear to have heard me. He glares at Peter with such menace I’m surprised the whole room doesn’t burst into flames.
Peter glances between us. “I was just leaving, actually. I only popped in to tell Cat something.”
“Catherine,” Ronin growls, a brief flare of red lighting up his pupils. “Her name is Catherine.”
I cut Ronin a scathing look. “Most people call me Cat, but whatever.”
Ronin blinks a few times, stepping inside the apartment. “Good to meet you, Peter.”
Peter edges toward the door like a horse ready to bolt for the hills. “You too. I’d better be off. Cat, I’ll let you know if I hear from Mrs. Colangelo.”
“Okay, thanks, Peter.”
As soon as he’s out of the apartment, I close the door and spin around to face Ronin. “Where do you get off telling people what to call me?”
“That’s the guy who kissed you,” he says, eyes flashing red again.
I fold my arms across my chest, suddenly regretting my decision not to wear underwear. I feel exposed, vulnerable, like we’re right back to the old us and I don’t want him to know how much I want him. “So what? You’ve probably kissed half the female population of London, if not the world. Do you think I get jealous of them?”
He scoffs, shoving a hand in his pocket. “Do you?”
I do, but instead of admitting it, I emit a low hiss through my teeth. “No, I don’t. Also, what gives you the right to show up at my apartment and make my guest feel unwelcome? One night together doesn’t mean you own me, Ronin. I’m not about to join your harem of women happy to sit around and wait for scraps of attention flung out whenever you fancy it.”
The tension leaks out of his shoulders, a corner of his mouth twitching into a half smile. “God, I missed you today.”
My heart somersaults in my chest. “Don’t change the subject.”