by Jessica Lee
Guerin flipped the collar up on his coat. “Not really.” He turned and made his way out onto the cobblestone.
“Bastard,” Ana shouted behind him.
In every sense of the word, yes, he was. And if Eve proved to be anything like her mother, she was about to meet the biggest bastard of her life.
Chapter Two
The vodka slid down Eve’s throat on a fiery trail and erupted inside her chest like a volcano. Yes. This was exactly what she needed to burn off the chill that had infiltrated her bones tonight.
“Mistress Fallon.” Eve lifted her gaze from her shot glass to the full-figured blonde who neared her table. She could almost hear her shift manager squeak as she approached wrapped in a black latex bodysuit. The outfit squeezed her ample breasts like pressure-filled balloons.
“Ja, Ingrid.”
“A man is at the bar asking to speak with the owner,” she said, her German accent turning her “thes” into “zees.”
Eve scanned the area in front of the massive brass-and-wood bar. “Which man?”
Ingrid pushed a lock of platinum-blond hair behind her ear and nodded in the direction of the tall man leaning against the far end. “That one,” she said. “Black leather coat and shoulder-length dark hair.” His back was to Eve, preventing a glimpse of his face. “I haven’t seen him here before, Mistress. But I would be happy to take care of our visitor any way you’d like.” A knowing grin spread across her lips.
If the male was one of Seth’s spies, turning him away would only ignite more suspicion. Besides, Eve knew how to handle nosy scouts.
“No.” Eve poured herself another shot. “Send him over.” She tossed another dose of heat to the back of her throat. It was a shame the bitter liquid never made her drunk. To experience one night of bliss-filled oblivion and have all her problems disappear would be nice. But no matter how much of the stuff she filled her gut with, it only provided a little warmth. That, too, was a rare find outside the bottle.
Eve ran her fingers through the long tresses of her red wig as the stranger rounded the bar and headed in her direction. The male strode toward her to the beat of Rihanna’s “S&M,” slicing through the crowd of dancers as though he owned the place. His body language screamed alpha male. A female didn’t have to be a two-hundred-year-old vampire to recognize a male who took what he wanted and made sure the woman enjoyed every minute of the taking.
Her nipples hardened into sensitive peaks. They brushed the lace of her bra with each breath, sending electric pulses straight to her sex. Eve crossed her legs, and her grip tightened on the empty shot glass.
The mere sight of a handsome man should not have her squirming in her thong. But males who looked like him didn’t stroll through her club every night, and her bed had been empty for much too long. Unfortunately, finding a lover—one she could trust when her eyes were closed—was a difficult task. And the anonymous sexual games played at the Rose’s Thorn had long since lost their appeal.
On a deep breath, she reached inside her mind and repressed the part of her DNA courtesy of her mother. He wasn’t close enough yet to detect if she was a vampire or not. But he was a stranger, asking for her, and Eve couldn’t afford to be careless and wave her hybrid ancestry around like a red flag. Except for her mother, whom she hadn’t heard from in far too long, she was alone in the world. So her best defense was offense. No one could hurt her if they couldn’t find or detect her. And with her secret heritage suppressed, any vampire within sniffing distance would register a human.
He came to a stop at her booth, his long black leather coat brushing against the dark jeans at his calves. The metal buckles on the sides of his boots glinted in the halogen spotlights that circled the perimeter of the club’s ceiling.
Eve slowly lifted her gaze. The layers of leather, denim, and cotton did little to hide the strength of the man beneath.
“Like what you see?”
The deep rumble of the question jerked Eve’s attention from her perusal. She glanced up and into a lopsided smile. The man’s dark complexion hinted at a Mediterranean descent, and wavy, dark-chocolate hair curled along the sides of his face. Long sooty eyelashes framed eyes the color of rich molasses—eyes that held a depth of wisdom well beyond the thirty-something years his appearance led one to believe.
Mysterious and provocative.
A lethal combination.
Not for him, but for the many women she was sure he lured into his bed with those looks.
She cocked a brow in his direction. “As a matter of fact—I do.” Eve tilted her head and tossed him a smile. Over the past two centuries, she’d been accused of a lot of things, but coy wasn’t one of them. She despised that particular quality.
If you liked something—wanted it—be woman enough to admit it.
“That’s nice to hear. Then perhaps this could be the path to a beautiful friendship.” He reached out, took her hand, and lifted it to his mouth, yet stopped as the warmth of his breath heated her skin. His gaze moved from their fingers and connected once more with hers. “And I do mean beautiful,” he uttered, before lowering his head and brushing a kiss over the surface of her knuckles. Her breath hitched at the contact, and Eve captured her lower lip between her teeth.
Damn. He was good.
She could easily imagine him scratching her itch in every conceivable way or position.
Eve tugged her hand from his grasp and went for her bottle of Stoli, doing her best to squelch the tremble rolling from her stomach to her fingers. Shit. He was already starting to piss her off. No one got under her skin, especially a man. And the fact that this one had from the moment he’d walked across the room was unsettling her.
“So how can I help you, Herr…?” She poured another shot and returned the bottle to the table.
“Lombardi. Guerino Lombardi.”
“Herr Lombardi.” Eve gave a slight nod and brought the glass to her lips for a sip. The lingering spicy scent of man and sandalwood drifted off her fingertips. Eve inhaled deeply—and froze.
Son of a bitch.
How in the hell had she missed the unmistakable pheromone?
He was a creature of the night. She knew he was too good to be for real. Eve was slipping. She should have picked up on the scent of her own kind—or half her kind—the moment he’d stopped at her table. But she’d been too enamored by the whole alpha male aura and good looks. A mistake that could have had deadly consequences.
Oh, she had plans for this rogue.
“So what brings you to my table?” Eve downed another sip of vodka, then licked the remaining traces of alcohol from her lower lip. She didn’t have to look to know he watched her every move. She could feel it.
“I’m looking for a woman.”
Curiosity killed the cat. But just wait and see, Guerino Lombardi, what happens to overly inquisitive vampires.
Eve glanced up. “And you need my help? Strange,” she said. “I would have taken you for a man who didn’t need the help of others in that matter.”
“Smart and beautiful. I appreciate those traits in a woman.” He smiled and placed his hand on the back of the seat opposite her side of the table. “May I sit?”
She nodded.
He slid onto the cushion, and the confined space of their two-seater booth showcased his large build. Yum. Such a damn shame he had to be one of Seth’s scouts.
“You think I can help you find this woman, Herr Lombardi?”
“Please, call me Guerin,” he said, and propped an arm along the length of the backrest.
“Guerin?” Eve quirked a brow in his direction. “Hmmm… Friends already, are we? My, you do work fast.”
He released a short but deep chuckle. “A less formal approach is a much nicer way to communicate. Don’t you agree, Mistress Fallon?”
“Yes…it can be.” She smiled. “On occasion.” Eve moved forward, resting both arms on the table and lacing her fingers. “So tell me, Guerin, who is this woman you’re looking for?”
“Eve Devonshire.” Guerin dropped his arm and placed his forearms on the table. “Can you tell me where to find her?”
“Eve Devonshire…” She shook her head. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the name.” Eve held his gaze. She knew from years of practice that hers remained unreadable. After spending more years than she cared to remember on her own and in hiding from those who wanted her either dead or only alive long enough to take her apart piece by piece, she’d learned how to mask her expressions and her emotions. “Can you describe her?” She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ve seen a woman who might match the description.”
“No. Unfortunately, I can’t.”
“You’re searching for a woman, but you have no idea what she looks like.” Eve eased back, placing some distance between them. “Sounds like you are searching through quite the haystack for that proverbial needle.”
“True.” Guerin stroked the dark shadow of a beard at his chin. He studied her, his dark eyes drinking her in, sliding over her skin like warm melted chocolate, making her feel just as decadent. “But for some reason, Fallon, I get the feeling you might be the one person who could narrow the search.”
“Do you, now?” Eve lifted her brows. “Then I suggest you see someone about those…‘feelings,’ because they’re leading you astray.”
“Well, damn.” Guerin slowly shook his head. “Guess a man’s instincts can’t be right all the time.” He rose from the table with a nod. “It’s been a pleasure.” A smile tugged at his lips as he turned and moved toward the bar.
Eve’s gut twisted. Would it never end? She scanned the club for Ingrid and found her a few tables over with one of the regulars. As if sensing she was needed, Ingrid’s gaze drifted in Eve’s direction. With a lift of her chin, Eve called Ingrid to her table. Eve grabbed the bag sitting beside her on the bench. She reached inside and pulled out a notepad and pen. Quickly, she jotted down a message—one that was short and to the point.
“Ja, Mistress,” Ingrid said as she neared Eve’s side.
“Remember our visitor who wanted to speak with me a moment ago?” Eve checked to the side of Ingrid, making sure she wasn’t being watched by the man—vampire—of whom she spoke. She spotted him tossing back a shot at the bar, his attention tuned to the crowd and not in their direction.
“Ja. How could I forget?”
Eve ripped the note from her pad and folded it in half before handing it to her manager. Ingrid clasped the slip of paper between her fingers and glanced back at Eve with an inquisitive look.
“In a few minutes, I want you to give this to tonight’s bartender and ask him to place it in the hands of our handsome guest. “Do not”—Eve gripped Ingrid’s hand—“I repeat, do not say it’s from me. If asked, tell the bartender to say that perhaps the gentleman has a secret admirer.”
Ingrid nodded and tucked the paper inside one of her long bloodred gloves. “Right away, Mistress.” She turned on her heel and weaved through the crowd.
Eve poured another round for herself, and without hesitation, tipped it to her lips. The slow burn rolled over her tongue and down her throat. If only the fire could incinerate the empty feeling inside. Or at least numb her mind, so she didn’t have to endure the ugliness that was about to be her life once more. There were times she hated her other side. But if she wanted to stay alive…unleashing that beast was an unavoidable evil.
…
She was good.
Very good.
But Guerin had been playing the game a hell of a lot longer, and he knew when someone was trying to shovel a lie his way. The moment he’d mentioned the name Eve to Mistress Fallon, tension had swelled so thick and sour he could’ve tasted it in the air. Her heart rate and respiration never changed, though. Highly unusual for a human who was lying. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something didn’t seem right. She knew more than she was willing to share.
Guerin turned his beer up for another swig as the bartender stepped up to the counter. He leaned in, the halogen beams bouncing off the silver loops piercing his nipples. Without a word, he pushed a folded slip of paper his way.
“What’s this?” Guerin held it up between his fingers.
“Secret admirer,” the other man replied, his words thick with a heavy German accent. “Maybe, ja?”
“Right…” Guerin unfolded the note and gazed down at the lines of red ink.
If you want to know about Eve…
Meet me in five minutes.
Behind the club. Alone.
Adrenaline slammed into his system, kicking his heart rate into a pounding percussion in his head. Guerin shoved the slip of paper in his coat pocket and cranked his head around in Mistress Fallon’s direction. She appeared engrossed in a stack of work an employee must have placed in front of her.
Had she sent him the note?
He fisted his beer, then tossed back another swallow. Guerin pulled out his cell, checked the time, and section by section, continued his survey of the crowd around him. Most of the club’s patrons were focused on the various activities available in one of Nuremberg’s hidden fetish nightspots. The others, a couple of women and a few men who’d met his gaze, looked more interested in coaxing him to play than divulging information. He shoved his cell back inside his coat’s interior pocket.
The sound of leather cracking across flesh split the air of the club and sent a chill down Guerin’s spine. A loud moan followed, and Guerin jerked his head toward the pleasure/pain-filled utterance. His gaze landed on a St. Andrew’s cross that stood spotlighted in the back corner of the club. Shackled to each upper limb of the device hung a blindfolded, shirtless man with his back to the crowd. His thin pale arms, wet with sweat, glistened in the harsh light. A crowd formed a semicircle around the display, fixated—mesmerized—by the petite bare-chested brunette and her submissive.
Before Guerin realized he’d even moved, he found himself working his way to the front of the group of voyeurs.
Crack.
The whip sang out before its Mistress hit her mark with expert precision across her sub’s right shoulder blade. The man writhed and groaned as another red welt blazoned to life across his back, followed by a trickle of blood from the thin slice in his flesh.
Arousal rolled off the humans in waves, mixing with the sensual and haunting melody emitting from the sound system like a hypnotic spell. His cock swelled to life. At that moment, a songstress crooned something about the devil making us sin. Shit. If Satan were the only thing he had to worry about, Guerin’s existence would be much less complicated.
But there were darker creatures of the night that didn’t exist merely in the fiery pits of hell. They walked the streets and were capable of getting inside your head, creating a craving within your soul that even a century-long abstinence could never cure.
Crack.
The single tail uncurled through the air once more and struck its target. The sub shuddered, threw his head back, and released a loud groan. Guerin’s pulse roared in his ears. His breathing was reduced to pants, and his fingers curled at his sides into tight fists. Christ. He had to get the hell out of here.
Swinging around, he barreled through the crowd, heading straight for the club’s main entrance. Beads of perspiration formed on his brow, and he swiped them away with a muttered curse. How many decades had to go by before he could let go of his past? Before the sights and sounds of what he’d just witnessed didn’t crawl under his skin and press every one of his fuck-me buttons.
Focus.
He had to stay on track. Remember why the hell he was there in the first place. Guerin jammed his palm against the club’s front door lever and stepped into the cold night.
Five minutes, the note had said. He reached inside his coat, pulled out his phone, and glanced at the display. Right on time: 1:15 a.m. The cell vibrated in his palm, signaling an incoming call. The screen lit with a single name: Arran. Guerin shook his head. Dammit. He didn’t have time to deal with the warrior right now. Guerin slid his index across the lower ha
lf of the screen, answering the call.
“What?” he barked into the cell.
“What do you mean, what?” Arran growled. “You were supposed to report two hours ago.”
“Well, excuse the fuck out of me, Daddy.” Guerin spat the words out through clenched teeth. “I’ve been a little busy.” He sucked in a calming deep breath. He knew Arran was in an ugly situation as well, keeping their secret from Kenric. Not an easy task. Silence lingered between them for a few tense moments, each man reining in the need to lash out. Guerin was about ready to chew out an “I’m sorry” when the sound of a prolonged exhale reached through the phone, and Arran broke the ice.
“Where are you?”
“A club called the Rose’s Thorn on the outskirts of Nuremberg. The female Markus arranged for me to meet said this was the last place she’d seen Eve.” Guerin shoved his hand in his pocket, going for the crumpled note inside. “At least the asshole has been good for something besides a fucking knife in our back.”
“Solid lead, then?”
“Maybe…” He tightened his grip on the thin slip of paper. “When I know more, you’ll be the first.”
“Guerin, how long—”
“I can’t do this right now.” He was already late. “I gotta go.” Guerin tapped end call, not bothering to wait for a reply. There wasn’t time for an explanation. He dropped the cell back inside his pocket and flipped the collar up around his neck, eliminating some of the cold bite of air against his exposed flesh. If all went well in the next few minutes, he’d have something to call home about.
Rolling his shoulders, Guerin attempted to loosen the knot of muscles between them and headed toward the rear of the club. His boots thumped against the damp concrete, but there was no reason to mask his presence. This particular informant had sought him out, knowing Guerin wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.
The question was: if this meeting wasn’t with Mistress Fallon, how the hell did he or she know he’d come looking for Eve?
No one in Germany was aware of his exact reason for being in the country except for…Ana. His mind raced back to the cinnamon-haired vampire from the previous night. But if it was Ana, why the game? The female could have told him all she’d known twenty-four hours ago.