The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance (Trisha Telep) (Kitty Norville 0.50)

I did direct Tiffany’s attention to the cigarette though.

“And that proves what?” she said. “He’s a vampire. No chance of lung cancer, emphysema, smoker’s cough. I bet he doesn’t even get nicotine stains. Why not smoke?”

Now the Nordic god was heading our way, three drinks effortlessly fitting into his big hands. Big square hands, workman’s hands, the kind with old calluses that would scratch deliciously against the skin as he ...

“He’s mine,” Tiffany said.

I shook off the lust attack and nodded. “I know, and I won’t interfere.” Like I could anyway, though Tiffany was kind enough not to point that out.

He handed us our drinks and Tiffany introduced me.

“Adrian,” he said, then excused himself and scooped a nearby table and chair, and set them up for us. A gentleman too.

“I hope you don’t mind me hiding out over here with you two,” he said. “This place is—” an almost nervous glance over his shoulder “—not exactly my speed.”

Tiffany shot me a knowing look, as if this proved he was indeed a creature of the night, desperately trying to convince us otherwise. When I asked whether he was local, he shook his head.

“I’m working with a construction crew on a big job up here. Just got in this morning, asked the motel clerk for a good place to grab a drink and he suggested here.”

And so we started to talk. And the more we did, the more I really wished I’d taken my hairdresser’s advice about that stylish new cut or splurged for that amazing dress I’d seen last week at the mall.

Adrian wasn’t just gorgeous. He was a real sweetheart, the kind of guy that usually only comes in a much plainer package. Of course, the cynical part of me tried to insist he was an actor, part of the ad campaign we’d seen earlier, but I’d been around enough actors in my career to know Adrian was just what he seemed - a good-looking, small-town construction worker looking for some company in the big city. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the one he’d chosen to play the role of “company”.

We’d been talking for about a half-hour when Adrian took the cigarette from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. He sheepishly joked about the bad habit, then asked Tiffany if she’d like to step outside for some air while he indulged. He was gentleman enough to extend the invitation to me, but in a way that said he was really hoping Tiffany would come alone. Naturally, I was gracious and said, “No, that’s fine.” He promised they’d only be a couple of minutes, and they left out the back hall.

Those couple of minutes turned into ten, then fifteen, then twenty. I tried not to think of how they might be filling those minutes, but of course I did, which only slid my mood dangerously close to self-pity territory.

I sipped the dregs of my beer, and eavesdropped on conversations that cheered me a little as they confirmed that at least I didn’t have the most boring life in the room. Even surrounded by fantasy and opulence, people just chatted about nothing -work, kids, the in-laws, the mortgage payments.

Then I caught something worth perking up for. Two words: “body” and “alley”, spoken in a male voice with a faint New Mexico accent. I rose from the lounge and followed it.

I tracked the voice into a back hall clearly marked NO entry. I entered - and crashed into “Agent” Carter as he left a room. He blinked, then gave a slow, crooked smile.

“Ms . . .” He pulled my card from his pocket and looked at it. “Mancini. Our good Samaritan. You’ll be happy to know the victim is recovering nicely.” He winked. “Suffering only from the lingering after-effects of professional humiliation. I told him you’re in the business.” He waved my card. “But he still takes it personally.”

“I take it that’s the manager?” I pointed at the room he just left, where a gruff voice was on the phone, ordering beer. “I was just going to pop in and give him my card.”

I tried to pass Carter, but he shifted, subtly blocking my path. “I’ll do that for you. He’s in a lousy mood.”

In other words, his employer wouldn’t want me going straight to the client. Understandable, and I didn’t argue, just nodded and made a move to head back into the bar. Again, Carter did that subtle sidestep, not exactly blocking me, but making my exit a little more difficult.

“Do you come here often?” he asked. When I arched my brows, he gave a short laugh. “Sorry, I meant, is this your first visit? In other words, did our little performance work?”

“I was already heading here, but yes, it’s my first time.”

“No offence to my, um, employer, but—” he leaned closer, voice dropping “—there’s a much better place a block over on South. Jazz, good drinks, great food.”

“Sounds more my kind of place.” I paused, then gathered the strength of three beers and asked, “Are you off-duty now?”

His eyes widened behind his glasses and he studied me, as if pretty sure I wasn’t implying what he thought I was. The start of a slow smile, then it vanished in a frown. “If you’re hoping for a job reference, I don’t carry that kind of clout, Ms Mancini.”

“Melanie.” I plucked my card from his hand and tore it in two. “Better?”

His smile sparked. “All right, then. I’m not quite off-duty yet, but if you don’t mind staying here for a drink.”

I didn’t mind at all. He shucked his jacket, loosened his tie and followed me into the bar. My chaise loungue was, of course, occupied. Carter found us a table, and was about to head to the bar when he stopped and looked around.

“Weren’t you with a friend? A blonde?”