Darkness Devours (Dark Angels 3)

“You can’t. I’ve already checked, and they’re sold out.”

Which was good for the foundation but not so good for us. “So what do you expect me to do? Beat someone over the head and steal their ticket?”

He grinned, and it lit up his entire face, making that stubbornly stupid bit of me ache. “Well, as a last resort, maybe. But I figure that maybe you should try some of your mom’s contacts first. Surely with all the work she did for charities, someone somewhere would owe her—or her daughter—a favor or two.”

“Nice of you to remember how many charities she supported. Shame it didn’t reach the damn article.”

He patted my hand lightly. “Now, now, you know that’s not true. I did mention it, if only in the introduction.”

“Generous of you,” I muttered, and once again slipped my hand from under his.

Amusement glittered in his dark eyes. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, the bastard. A thought confirmed by his next statement.

“The spark is still there, Ris.”

“That spark is nothing more than werewolf nature,” I said with determination. “And it’s not something I’m about to give in to, so stop playing games.”

“That’s hard when—bruises aside—you look so damn good.”

I was half tempted to look down just to see how hard it was, but I resisted. That sort of action would only encourage him—and was no doubt precisely why he’d chosen those words. “Then maybe you should have thought a little more about that story you wrote.”

He was shaking his head before I’d even finished. “We both know I’d sell my soul mate for the right story, and we certainly weren’t soul mates.”

And that one sentence encapsulated why I—even if I could forget about the past—wasn’t about to revive my relationship with Jak. I didn’t need another relationship with a direct line to nowhereville.

And yet, even as that thought crossed my mind, a voice deep inside was whispering, Liar.

He added, “So, do you know anyone who might be able to wrangle some tickets? Otherwise, I’ll have to resort to trying to interview him outside the venue, and given that I normally report on paranormal oddities rather than galas, that might raise suspicions in the wrong quarters.”

I opened my mouth to say he was out of luck, that I didn’t know anyone, but then I paused. Mike—the accountant who looked after the financial side of the café as well as having been my mom’s financial adviser and now mine—had said a few days ago that if I ever needed help with anything outside of financial matters to give him a call. And while I’m sure he wasn’t actually referring to tickets to a gala fund-raiser, it was worth a shot.

“I might.” I slipped off the barstool. “Wait here while I go call him.”

I made my way to the front of Chrome and stood to one side of the entrance, where it was less noisy, to make the call.

“Risa,” a plummy, feminine voice said, “What can I do you for?”

“Hi, Beatrice,” I said. “I’d like to speak to Mike if he’s available.”

“Just a moment, and I’ll check.”

Music came on the line as she switched over, but a second later Mike’s low and pleasant voice replaced the music. “Risa, is there a problem? I wasn’t expecting to hear from you until the next business activity statement was due.”

“There’s no problem. I just wondered if you could do me a small favor.”

“You already know I will if I can. It’s the least I can do in honor of your mother.”

He and Mom had been lovers for more years than I could remember, although they were never seen together and seemed content to keep the relationship totally secret. So secret, in fact, that until Mike had all but confirmed it last week by his unusual offer to help me any way he could, I wasn’t entirely sure their relationship wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

“It’s nothing major, as I said. I’m just looking for tickets to the FMFFC ball tomorrow night.”

“The gala?” he said, surprise evident in his voice. “I wouldn’t have thought that sort of thing was your style. Your mother’s, certainly, but not yours.”

“It’s not,” I admitted. “But I have a friend who is doing a story on several people who’ll be there, and he can’t get tickets.”

I felt bad about lying—or half lying—but giving him the truth might be dangerous, and I’d endangered enough people as it was.

“So why is this your problem?” he asked.