Vincent (Vampires in America Book 8)

by D. B. Reynolds

  Vincent felt a warmth drip over his chin and realized that somewhere along the way, he’d gotten a split lip. “Son of a bitch,” he swore and grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt, pulling it up to wipe away the blood as he turned to glare at the offending vampires, all of whom were now on their knees and more or less conscious.

  “Do I have to tell you how fucking stupid this was?” Vincent demanded. “All that pussy just waiting to be had, lining up at the fucking door, and you idiots come to blows over a piece of ass?”

  “She’s mine,” one of them mumbled. “He had no right.”

  Vincent stared at the talkative vamp. “Are you mated?” he asked quietly.

  The vamp’s mouth tightened briefly. “No, my lord.”

  “So when you say mine, you mean . . . what, exactly?”

  “I was dancing with—”

  “Silence,” Vincent snapped. If the vamp said another word, he was going to kill the fucker and save evolution the need to do it for him.

  “The five of you will pay for all damages. I’d ban you altogether, but you’d probably end up draining people on street corners and cause me an even bigger fucking headache than you already have. So, I’ll give you this warning. One more incident like this—one, gentlemen—and it will be your last. I’ll kill you myself.”

  He glared around the room, catching the eye of all five of the kneeling vamps, including the two still groaning in the wreckage of the bar. “You assholes got that?”

  “Yes, my lord,” they muttered more or less in unison.

  Vincent’s cell phone chimed from his pocket. He ignored it long enough to offer the vampires one last quelling look, then pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was a text from Louisa, telling him that Raphael’s bounty hunter had arrived. Great. Just fucking great.

  He searched the club until he found the manager in the crowd. “Take care of this. I want to open on schedule Thursday night. If you need muscle, these assholes will do.”

  At least the fuckers had decided to break up his club on a Sunday. They still wouldn’t be able to repair all of the damage before Thursday, but they could at least rig something functional and replace the broken glassware and spilled liquor.

  The manager was smart enough not to bring up any of those details, however, seeming to understand that Vincent wasn’t in the mood for practical discussion. His only response was a snapped, “Yes, my lord,” and a nod of the head.

  Vincent nodded in turn, then, motioning for Michael to follow, he strode back into the night. He even managed to conceal his grin until the two of them were well away from the scene.

  LANA SLID HER Yukon into the parking lot of a neat, Southwestern-styled office building. It was fairly new, no more than five years old by her guess, with the usual Pueblo-style accents added strictly for effect. She didn’t have a lot of experience with vampires, only what she’d gained through her business association with Cynthia Leighton, but she’d noticed that they were deadly serious about a couple of things. One was their personal security. They had top of the line security systems, and while their houses or office buildings might be designed to blend in with their surroundings, they were usually far sturdier than the norm. The other thing she’d been made aware of was their preference to remain apart from humans. They did business with them, they drank their blood, for sure, but they always lived apart, even if it was only a house with a bigger-than-average yard down the block. They didn’t live in apartment buildings and they didn’t have human friends. Some of them had husbands and wives—mates, they called them—but the human mate went to live with the vamp, not vice versa. And that suited Lana just fine. More power to them and may they live long and prosper. But she was happy to remain apart.

  She opened the door of her Yukon and climbed out, her attention immediately drawn off to the right where she could see the lights and crowd surrounding a busy nightclub. Except that on this particular night, the crowd seemed to have gotten out of control. People were pushing their way out rather than in, and she could hear the muted sounds of an altercation coming from inside the club.

  Whatever was going on in there wasn’t her business, though, so she shrugged, leaned into her SUV, and grabbed the backpack she used in lieu of a purse. Slipping it over one shoulder, she closed her door and locked it before walking around to climb the three stairs to an unassuming office door. There were no gold-engraved signs, no fancy embellishments, just an ordinary wrought-iron railing and three concrete stairs leading to a slightly deeper top level, where a small, plastic, engraved sign invited visitors to announce themselves. She looked around and found a basic speaker set-up. She pushed the button and heard a faint buzzer from inside.

  “Yes?” a woman’s pleasant voice inquired.

  “Arnold Recoveries for Vincent Kuxim.” She tried to pronounce the last name correctly. She’d been intrigued by the unusual name and looked it up, discovering that it was Mayan in origin, with the x pronounced as “sh,” like Kushim. She remembered from a college history class that the Mayan civilization had pretty well collapsed over a thousand years ago, so she thought it must be a family name passed down through the generations. Although, she supposed, anything was possible with a vampire.

  A new buzzer sounded, louder and harsher this time, and the door opened a couple of inches. Lana took that as an invitation to go in, so she pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped into the office.

  The evenings were cool this time of year, but it was even colder inside the office. She was glad she’d worn her long-sleeved T-shirt and short, black combat jacket.

  An attractive middle-aged woman whose appearance matched the pleasant voice over the intercom was sitting at a desk. Her eyes went wide when Lana walked in and she tipped her head a little, as if trying to see if anyone was behind her.

  “Is it just you then?” the woman asked.

  Lana gave a puzzled frown, pretending not to understand. When she’d called to make this appointment, she hadn’t corrected the secretary’s assumption that the Arnold who’d be showing up would be her father. The people she encountered in her line of business weren’t always the most law-abiding types, and she preferred not to advertise the fact that a woman was about to show up all alone.

  “Just me,” she confirmed. “I have a ten o’clock appointment?”

  “Yes, you do,” the woman agreed, a smile playing over her lips. “What was your name again, dear?”

  “Lana Arnold, Arnold Recoveries.”

  The woman’s smile grew. “Well, Ms. Arnold, Lord Vincent was called away for a moment, but he’ll be right back. I’ve already texted him to let him know you’re here. Can I get you anything while you wait? Something cold to drink? Or maybe a coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” The last thing Lana wanted after driving a caffeine-fueled 250 miles, nearly nonstop, to get here on time was more coffee. For that matter, she didn’t feel like sitting down either. But it would be rude to pace in front of the woman’s desk, so she wandered over to the farthest chair, sat down, and pulled out her phone. She and all the guys in her dad’s office worked often enough in Mexico that they each had a separate cell phone for when they were in-country. The farther one got from the U.S., the more necessary it became. Lana’s habit was to switch over as soon as she crossed the border, which was why she was able to sit in Kuxim’s waiting room and get some business done.

  She was scrolling through her e-mail, deleting most of it, when the outer door opened and something like an electrical current ran through the room, making the small hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She looked up to see a dangerous-looking male standing there. Dangerous not only because of his size—which was considerable, a couple of inches over six feet and most of that muscle—but because of the blood staining his fingers and still dripping from a split lip down his chin and into a neatly trimmed beard. He appeared to be in his late twe
nties and had a mustache to go with the beard, wavy black hair, and brown eyes with pretty flecks of color that she supposed would be called hazel, but they seemed more copper to her. And right now, those pretty eyes were giving the receptionist an irritated look which he almost immediately transferred to Lana.

  “¿Dónde está tu jefe, cariño?” he asked her in Spanish, which translated to Where’s your boss, sweetheart?

  Lana pocketed her phone, then stood and gave him a dry look. “I don’t have a boss, darling,” she said in deliberate English. “What I do have is an appointment with Vincent Kuxim. Is that you?”

  He stared at her with no expression for a long moment, then his eyes lit up and his lips curled into a sexy-as-hell smile. “Call me Vincent. But I gotta say, you don’t look like a bounty hunter.”

  “You have a lot of experience with bounty hunters?” she asked, knowing she should be more polite, because she needed this guy’s help. But she couldn’t stop herself.

  His smile widened into a grin. “More than I’d like. Come on into the office.” He moved out of the doorway, and she saw there was another man behind him, also a vampire, she assumed. He was just as big as Vincent, but the polar opposite in looks—blond with green eyes, his hair cut brutally short, his face clean-shaven, very all-American handsome. He gave her a brief once-over, then gestured for her to go ahead of him after Vincent. She would have preferred having both of them ahead of her, but she wasn’t about to admit that, so she nodded and followed Vincent into the office.

  “My lieutenant, Michael,” Vincent said, indicating the other vampire. “Have a seat.” He gestured at two heavy chairs sitting in front of a huge wooden desk that was obviously an antique. Its design was in keeping with the Southwestern theme of the building, but it wasn’t a new piece. It was heavy and old, the wood stained with age, and it was beautiful.

  “Forgive my appearance,” Vincent said, swiping at his chin with the hem of his black T-shirt and baring a smooth expanse of golden skin and gorgeous muscle in the process.

  Lana kept her face expressionless, but she didn’t think for one minute that the belly peepshow had been unintentional. She dealt with Latin males all the time. She knew the type. He was extraordinarily handsome and he knew it. He wanted people to think his longish hair was accidental, the result of skipping a haircut or two. But he probably spent an hour in front of the mirror getting it just right, not to mention the time he spent on the beard and mustache. He reached to open a drawer and she caught a glint of gold through the silky, black strands of his hair. He had an earring in his left ear, a simple gold ring, but thicker, like a cuff worn low.

  Michael reappeared from somewhere off to the right—probably a bathroom, because he handed Vincent a wet towel. Vincent used it to clean the blood from his hands, then swiped it over his face and tossed it back. A few moments later, he yanked off his bloodied T-shirt and dumped it in the trash. Despite her best intentions, Lana’s throat went dry. His body was perfect—sculpted muscle defined broad shoulders and strong arms, his chest was deep, and his abdomen ridged above a pair of low-slung jeans. As if that wasn’t enough, an intricate tattoo covered his left bicep, something colorful and pre-Hispanic, she thought. Mayan maybe, considering his name. She couldn’t tell for sure and didn’t want to stare long enough to figure it out. A guy who looked like that didn’t need the ego boost. Thankfully, he pulled a clean shirt on over his head and tugged it down, covering himself before she did something she’d regret. Like drool.

  Ugh. Had she been thinking she knew his type? She did, and she avoided them like the plague. They were far too much in love with themselves to play nicely with anyone else.

  She waved a hand at his obvious dishevelment. “I can come back if—”

  “No, no,” Vincent interrupted, settling back into the chair in his new, clean T-shirt. “There was a minor altercation at the club. And we heal fast.” He grinned at her, inviting her to share the joke.

  She simply gazed back at him.

  “Well,” he continued, sounding like he wanted to harrumph at her for ignoring his stellar humor. “How can I help you, Ms. Arnold?”

  “Call me Lana,” she told him, figuring if he was to be called Vincent, then she should return the favor. “My client wants a message delivered. I was told you could possibly assist in locating the recipient of that message.”

  “Who’s your client?”

  She didn’t answer his question directly, only said, “As I mentioned to your receptionist when I called earlier, it was Raphael who suggested I contact you.”

  “Raphael,” Vincent repeated, staring at her as though he could read the truth of her words written on the inside of her skull if he only stared hard enough.

  “I have a letter for you,” she said blandly, reaching for her backpack and pulling out the leather portfolio which held her notes on the case. “Would you like to see it?”

  Vincent blinked. He clearly hadn’t expected that.

  “I would, thank you,” he said, holding out a hand. She noticed his knuckles were torn and still seeping blood. Obviously, the fight had been a fairly brutal one. Which probably explained the fleeing crowds and the noise she’d heard coming from inside the club when she arrived.

  Vincent took the letter from her, clearly not bothered by the state of his hands. He scanned the note from Raphael with the same laser intent that he’d used to study her moments before. Then he turned it over to Michael, who’d taken up a position standing behind his left shoulder.

  “Okay, so let’s say I’m inclined to do Raphael a favor,” Vincent said. “Who’s the missing person?”

  “Xuan Ignacio,” she said, watching for his reaction.

  He frowned. “Xuan Ignacio? He’s a folk tale. The oldest vampire in Mexico, and blah, blah, blah. I don’t think he’s even real.”

  “Raphael thinks he is.”

  “So Raphael’s your client?”

  “Raphael knows I’m looking for Xuan Ignacio,” she hedged, still not willing to reveal any more than necessary. “And, as you see, he suggested you could help.”

  Vincent obviously noticed her careful language and scowled at her. She imagined he wasn’t used to being stymied like this. She knew from her conversations with Leighton that vampire social and/or political structure was fairly rigid, with power concentrated at the top. A vampire like Vincent, who ran a city the size of Hermosillo, would have a lot of power, at least in his own domain.

  “All right,” he conceded. “So where do we start looking?”

  It was Lana’s turn to scowl. “I thought you’d know,” she said, biting back her impatience.

  “Hey, you came to me. I don’t claim any special knowledge.”

  Lana pursed her lips in disgust. This was a fool’s errand. Vincent might be the prettiest male she’d ever seen, but he clearly wasn’t the sharpest. Or maybe he just didn’t want to help her and was playing dumb, being a pain in the ass to get out of the obligation without offending Raphael. And that was a major inconvenience for her. She’d rather have no help than drag a hulking vampire around with her like a reluctant teenager, but Raphael wanted this guy on the job. Damn. She considered her options. Vincent Kuxim might be a vampire, but he was also a guy. An alpha male guy. And Lana had a lot of experience with those. Hadn’t she all but grown up in her dad’s office surrounded by bounty hunters? You didn’t get much more alpha than that. So, she knew that the best way to get their cooperation was to pretend you didn’t need it. That was the one thing their giant egos couldn’t handle.

  She closed her portfolio with a snap, slipped it into her backpack, and stood. “Thank you for your time,” she said politely. “If I have any questions I think you can answer,” she said, not able to resist adding an ounce of snark, “I’ll give you call.”

  She made it all the way to the closed office door before she heard Vincent’s ch
air slide back on the tile floor. “Wait,” he said or, rather, ordered, that one word being laced with a touch of annoyance.

  Unfortunately for him, Lana didn’t take orders from anyone, except her dad on occasion, and certainly not from temperamental vampires who bloodied their knuckles fighting. She ignored him and reached for the doorknob.

  “I said wait.” There was a hell of a lot more than annoyance this time. And when Lana went to twist the door handle, it wouldn’t budge.

  A ripple of unease tickled her gut. She tried another discreet, and ineffective, twist, then spun around with a glare.

  “OPEN THE DOOR, Mr. Kuxim,” Lana Arnold demanded, and her dark eyes flashed with anger.

  It was the first real emotion Vincent had seen from her, and it both intrigued and relieved him. She’d been so controlled from the moment he’d walked into the office. She hadn’t responded to his charm at all, and, frankly, Vincent was used to women being swayed by him. Old, young, single, married—it didn’t matter. His entire life, even before he became a vampire, woman had always responded to him the way his assistant Louisa did. They blushed, they stammered, they pursued him left and right, but they always went along with what he wanted. Except for this one. If he hadn’t caught a brief reaction from her when he’d taken off his shirt—and that, no more than an involuntary widening of her eyes and a single jump of her heartbeat before she became the Ice Queen again—he’d have suspected Lana the Bounty Hunter favored women. He took a few seconds to indulge in the time-honored male fantasy of picturing the woman in front of him in the arms of another woman. Nice.

  But then he was back in the present with a very pissed-off Lana Arnold. Anger looked good on her. It made her much more attractive, more human. She wasn’t his usual type—too tall, too lean, and sure as hell too opinionated. He favored short, plump women whose goal in life was to make him happy. But Lana Arnold was a good-looking woman. Her height gave her a certain elegance, and her leanness was all sleek, taut muscle encased in a black T-shirt and combat-style pants. It was inherently masculine clothing, but the shirt clung to her chest, and the pants hugged her narrow hips and a firm ass. Not an ounce of fat, he’d bet. She had gorgeous bone structure with high cheekbones and a slender jaw, a sexy mouth with a full lower lip, and long black hair braided down her back. Her lashes were black, too, framing eyes that were an unusual pale brown.