Kristin took out her wallet, pulled out a ten and tucked it in the tip jar. Good information was hard to come by and the man at her side was more a distraction than a good source. She forced her attention away from him and back to the bartender. “Have you worked here long?”
The bartender popped her gum as she sliced lemons and limes and dropped them into a container behind the bar. “Since they opened in October.”
The sharp smell of citrus overwhelmed some of the mouthwatering cooking scents, which were making Kristin’s stomach grumble. She’d forgotten lunch again.
She swizzled the straw in her crimson concoction, casting a glance under her lashes at the hunky guy beside her. “Yeah, I heard you had the best Halloween costume party in town.”
“We get some real characters in here,” the bartender confirmed.
As she took a sip of her drink, the fruit flavors burst on her tongue. A delicious combination of sweet and tangy. She glanced at the manager and gave him a little smile. “Hey, I think I like Vampires. Thanks for the suggestion.”
The bartender snorted.
“You say that now,” he said. The smoky quality of his voice both tempted her and put her on edge at the same time. “But watch out. They seem harmless, but they’ve got some serious bite.”
Kristin paused a beat. There was no point in seeming too eager to talk with him. She took another sip, then looked up at him. “I’ll try to remember that.”
“Welcome to Sangria.”
He sat down on the stool beside her, his focus on her so intense it wrapped around her like a warm down jacket. Comfortable. Heated. Welcoming.
“Interesting decor.” She glanced around, taking another sip of her drink, acutely conscious of him sitting beside her and how it was making her light-headed. Maybe it was the alcohol on an empty stomach, but somehow she doubted it.
“A place for the curious.”
“You mean vampire wannabes.”
His lips stretched into a subtle smile over very white, very even teeth. His eyes made her feel as if he was reaching inside her. Searching the deepest corners of her mind, her heart. “Not exactly.”
His wavy dark hair curled over the edge of his collar and she resisted the urge to slip a ring of it around her finger.
Maybe that Vampire drink was stronger than she thought. A wave of dizziness crashed into her and Kristin sucked in a gulp of air. She smelled the clean scent of starch, the spiciness of cloves and something darker, rich and sweet like brandy laced with dark chocolate. It reached out and coiled about her senses, both arousing her and making her wary of how relaxed she seemed to be.
“What are you really here for?” The tenor of his voice stroked her skin, making her shiver and, odder still, making her desire to tell him everything. Every secret she’d ever kept. Every thought she meant to be private. “A man?” His eyes glittered with invitation.
“No, information. I’m just curious.”
“So you’ve heard about the club.”
She nodded, then peered intently into his eyes. “Only a few stories. But I hear that you cater to people who are a little more exotic in what interests them.” “Really, like what?”
A rush of heat washed over her skin. Just how much should she reveal? Interviewing was a delicate balancing act. Give too much and you got nothing. Give a little and sometimes you got a lot more.
She turned and peered at the kaleidoscope of colors in the bottles that lined the back of the bar and wondered for a moment what exactly was in them. Some of the red ones appeared more dense and opaque. Her source had said people with vampire fantasies, or kids into cutting, were regulars at the club. Either way, blood was a big deal. It had seemed like the best place to find a lead to the weird Bloodless Murders, since the cop shop had been less than helpful. Again.
Perhaps she ought to go for broke. “Is that blood?” She indicated a bottle of opaque dark red liquid on the shelves behind the bar.
He didn’t even flinch. “We try to appeal to all our customers.”
Her curiosity spiked. “And is any of that from donors?”
Dmitri stiffened, turning guarded. Bingo. Her pulse sped up, this time not from attraction but from excitement. If she could score a lead on the Bloodless Murders, even just enough to write up one article, it would give her time.
“So you’re interested in the backroom activities we offer?”
“Perhaps. I’m a little picky about who I’d partner up with.”
He inclined his head. “Naturally.” “And I’d like to know a little bit more about what you offer before I decide if I just want to watch or would rather participate.”
Oh, God. Had she just said that? Smooth, Reed. Real smooth. She covered her flub by taking a last sip of the drink and found herself loudly sucking air instead.
“You really do like Vampires.” He motioned for the bartender to refill her glass.
Kristin held up a hand. “Oh, I don’t need another right now.” His eyes bored into hers, searching, weighing, but revealing nothing. Kristin gave what she hoped was a smile rather than a grimace. “So, about these other activities?”
“Of course.”
He held out his hand. Grasping it, her hand tingled. She slid off the high bar stool, and quickly released his hand. What was up with that? Sure, she’d met cute guys before, but her body was in overdrive and it shocked her. Grabbing her purse, she slung the strap over her shoulder and tried to cover how flustered Dmitri Dionotte seemed to make her. He led her to the row of crimson-draped rooms on the far side of the club. “These would be our tasting rooms.”
“Tasting what?”
“Our clientele is interested in unusual vintages. Hard to obtain wine like, say, a 1945 Mouton Rothschild Pauillac that retails for about nine thousand dollars a bottle, if you can find it.”
“Oh.” Who had swung by and stamped a giant L on her forehead? Her reporting career seemed to be shriveling before her eyes and her tongue was completely uncooperative. For some insane reason, she’d hoped she would stumble upon a solid connection to the murders, a lead that could take her somewhere with the story and save her ass in the process. Her editor, Rex Hollander, had been very specific—get a front-page investigative story or get a pink slip.
Dmitri lifted one of the heavy velvet curtains aside and gestured her ahead of him. As a last resort she straightened her shoulders and tried the vapid smile that got her far more information than direct questioning ever had. Especially from a guy like this—cool, reserved, with just enough swagger to think, or rather know, that he was worth a second look.
“It’s pretty,” she said, keeping her voice artificially high-pitched, shaving another ten points off her IQ. She glanced around the room, pressing as many details as she could into her memory. Honestly, it was more like some Goth sitting room tricked out in crimson faux leather on the walls, soft black leather couches and lounge chairs, chrome-and-glass tables, with an enormous flat-screen television on one wall. A tall black lacquered cabinet stood in one corner.
“What’s in there?”
“Supplies. Glassware, napkins, trays.” “May I see?”
He moved his hand with a flourish. “But of course.”
He didn’t move to open it, so she took it upon herself to do the honors.
The doors hid a bit more than napkins and glasses. Hermetically sealed razor blades, tubing, individually wrapped packets of gauze, tape. She picked up a plastic-encased blade between her fingers. “And this would be for slicing …”
“Olives.”
“Riiight.” She tapped her finger on the cabinet door.
“They make the best practice,” he added, his lips tipping up in the corners in a knowing way.
Kristin’s stomach dropped to her shoes. “Come again?”
“If people are interested in blood activities, we have them first practice on olives, or grapes. Either tends to simulate the necessary balance between pressure and precision that’s required.”
“For.” Krist
in rolled her hand, wishing she could pull the words out of his mouth faster.
“Some people like to drink blood.”
“Annnnd we’re back to the vampire wannabes.”
He stepped closer, making the room seem all of a sudden way too small and intimate for her taste. “Not all of them.” He slipped the cabinet door from her fingers and lightly closed it, the clicking sound echoing through the hollow in her chest. Kristin could feel her heartbeat fast and thick in her throat.
His lips twitched and his eyes seemed to take on a golden glow. A trick of the light, Kristin was sure.
“Some are wannabes. Some, my dear Miss Reed, are the real thing.”
Chapter 2
“Are you telling me there are honest-to-God, actual vampires in this city?”
“Would you rather I lie to you?”
Suddenly Kristin found it hard to breathe. Her brain swarmed with thoughts, buzzing and insistent like mosquitoes on a hot summer night. Deep down she suspected if Tall, Dark and Delicious was telling her this, it was either because he was trying to hit on her or he was hiding something else. Or he had a rich fantasy life that involved a thing for vampires and wished he was one.
Since she was absolutely certain a guy like this didn’t need to hit on women, so much as beat them off with a stick, option one made no sense. Chances were good he was hiding something; after all, everybody had secrets. So option two was looking credible. Vampires, of course, weren’t real. And if she tried to slip that little ditty into her editor’s in-box she’d get hit in the head with a pink slip the instant she turned around to walk out of his office. Scratch option three.
“Um. No. It’s just that—” “You don’t believe in vampires.”
“Well, yes, that and—”
“You’re afraid.”
Kristin crossed her arms. She was perfectly capable of finishing her own damn thoughts. “No. If vampires really existed, I’d be more concerned that they were responsible for our recent rash of Bloodless Murders.”
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptively. “Just exactly what do you do for a living, Miss Reed?” The way he said her last name left enough chill in the air to bite into her skin.
“I’m a reporter for the Pacific News Tribune”
Kristin tilted her chin up a bit.
He leaned forward, his broad chest nearly brushing her breasts, his sexy as hell mouth just a few inches from hers. Kristin couldn’t stop the quick inhale of surprise or the quick uptick in her pulse. He was definitely in her personal space.
“I see. So are you here because you really are interested in the club, or are you here for a story? No. Wait. Don’t answer that.” His feral smile made her legs feel decidedly unstable. “I already know the answer.”
Before she could stop him, he grabbed her hand and led her out of the tasting room toward the front door of the club. “I can’t tell you anything about the Bloodless Murders. But if you’re interested in finding out the truth about vampires in this city, call me.” He let go of her hand and with a flick of his fingers reached inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket, pulling out a business card that had the same intertwined three-circle logo emblazoned on it in dark red.
With his free hand he yanked the door open. The filtered early-evening sun seemed unnaturally bright after the dim interior of the club, and the rattle of car engines, squealing bus breaks and shush of tires across pavement from rush-hour traffic at her back seemed suddenly deafening.
He stepped toward her, and Kristin stepped backward in response. She snatched the card and found herself outside on the curb, staring at a firmly closed door. Perfect. Just perfect.
Now she was going to be late on her deadline, and she had nothing to go on except a funky club, a place where people pretended they liked to drink blood and a gorgeous club manager with some whacked-out notion that vampires really existed.
No matter how you sliced it, she was screwed.
Her pocket vibrated and she dug out her phone, walking to her car as she read the incoming text message: STAFF MEETING IN 5. WHERE R U???
Damn. She’d gotten too distracted to keep track of time.
Fortunately, the newspaper office was only a few blocks south. Driving through the five o’clock traffic was a challenge, but she got there as fast as she could. She tossed her keys to the lot attendant who knew her, and ran flat out, up six flights of stairs and through the heavy metal door, her cell phone buzzing at her hip. The third page in five minutes. Who needed a gym membership when they worked for the most demanding editor at the Pacific News Tribune?
The visit to Sangria had potential, but Rex Hollander wouldn’t care. When he set a meeting for five, you damn well better be there at 4:55.
Out of breath, and with a stitch in her side, she barreled through the narrow walkways created by the labyrinth of gray cubicle partitions, and headed straight for the glassed-in office on the opposite side. Phones rang, people chattered and printers whirred, the noise echoing off the concrete ceiling and industrial fluorescent lights. The newsroom operated in a constant state of controlled chaos, so no one even noticed her rushing by.
She sucked in gulps of air laced with the scents of stale coffee, fresh newsprint and the sugary fat-soaked temptation of doughnuts. But there was no time to stop despite the fact that her stomach gurgled in protest to the alcohol without any food. Hollander was waiting.
“Where in the hell is she?” His booming voice rattled the sheets of tinted glass that made up his office. Around the table the news staff fidgeted. Only one chair sat conspicuously empty.
Kristin smoothed down her blond flyaways and made sure her shirt was tucked into her slacks right before she slid into the back of the room, her heart pounding in her ears.
Hollander speared her with a no-nonsense glare, which competed with the blinding glare of the early-evening sun shining through the window behind him and bouncing off his balding pate. “You’re late, Reed. Take a seat.”
She nodded, and did what he said, but didn’t comment. It had taken only a week on the job to learn that she-who-commented got her head bitten off. That had been six years ago.
“People, I’m going to be blunt. We’re in trouble.” Hollander sighed, brushing his hand over his fleshy face. “The bean counters downstairs don’t want me to tell you this, but unless we can bump up our sales, we’re headed down the can. I need some stories. Great stories. Something that’s hard-hitting and will make Associated Press sit up and take notice. Something that will make papers fly off the newsstands. What’ve we got? Think, people. Think. Anderson?”
Arthur Anderson, the mid-forties man sitting next to her, with a heavy beard and a penchant for sucking down three packs a day, twitched. “Working on a piece looking at attacks of zoo animals on their keepers.”
“Weak, but work on it. Peters?”
The late-twenties golden boy of the newsroom grinned. Daddy had bought Bradley Peters a job on the paper and he took every advantage of it he could. “Looking into the closing of stores in the market, seeing how the economy is affecting Pike Place as a local icon.”
Yeah. And he was likely shopping on the clock at the same time, Kristin thought as she shifted in her seat.
“Great. Reed?”
Kristin flipped open her notepad. It pissed her off that Hollander played favorites, but she’d earn her kudos by her own work. “Working on that bakery piece about how their recipe for rye bread was picked up by a major national retail chain. Feel-good story for the week and ties into local economy.”
Hollander frowned, his bulldog jowls sagging even farther. “Ditch it. I need something hard-hitting. What about the Bloodless Murders? I thought you and Blake were working on that.”
“He’s been out with the flu. I’m still investigating and I should have a draft by Monday.”
“You’d better. Thomas?”
Kristin raised her hand as Dillion Thomas, the dark-haired skater kid who was interning, started rising up out of his slouch. “Yeah, I’v
e got a story—”
Hollander interrupted. “What is it, Reed?” “I could get you a draft tonight if you didn’t mind it being on a parallel line of investigation.” “Like what?”
“Vampires in Seattle.” The awkward moment bloomed into a full-on tragic episode. Kristin could feel the weight of every stare in the room firmly fixated on her and even hear a few snickers.
“Did you say vampires?” There was no mistaking the skeptical edge to Hollander’s voice. “Yes, sir.”
Hollander paused, cupping the back of his head, then ran his hand over his bare scalp. “We’re looking for a concrete lead on the murders, not fiction fantasies. What’ve the cops said?”
She knew that the cops weren’t going to tell her anything. The blonde girlie reporter wasn’t smart enough to follow along, which had led to her being pissed and burning more than a few bridges. More like left her stranded on a desert island. “Sir, I just think—”
Hollander leaned forward, his entire head turning an unhealthy purplish shade of red. “You aren’t paid to think, Reed. You’re paid to investigate and report. Now get the damn story on the murders, or you’ll be holding a pink slip instead of a pay stub!” Damn.
Why in the world couldn’t she have been a sportswriter? Kristin swallowed past the sickeningly huge lump that had welled up in her throat and nodded. Because sportswriters didn’t win Pulitzers. That’s why, she reminded herself.
She tugged on the cuffs of her shirt as Hollander grilled the remaining staff on their story assignments and continued his irritating habit of talking in clichés and snapping pencils between his thick hands.
For as long as she could remember, Kristin had craved a Pulitzer. Her father had run a small-town paper and she’d grown up in the offices. While other kids drew pictures of their dog, she drew mockups of her own imaginary newspaper. She didn’t sell Girl Scout cookies; she’d sold subscriptions. And when she was old enough to ride a bike, she’d taken on a delivery route, and been the only girl doing it.
If they opened her up, they’d probably find a half-and-half mix of printing ink and blood in her veins. Pulitzer was the golden ring. With it, her dad could never again tell her that she ought to settle down. He could never dispute that she was just as good, and just as hard-hitting, as any male reporter.
The Truth about Vampires Page 2