“Shrapnel,” I said, recognizing him from that night in Tampa. He bowed, which struck me as odd. Normally Vlad got the bows, not me.
“How can I assist you?”
I resisted the urge to compliment him on how pretty the indoor garden was. “Do you know if Maximus got back with the sketch artist yet?”
“He arrived with her an hour ago.”
“And where are they?” I prodded.
His expression closed off into a polite mask. “I’ll let Vlad know you’re awake.”
“He knows,” a cultured voice stated from across the room.
I turned, my pique at Shrapnel’s evasiveness fading when I saw Vlad walking toward me. His wine-colored shirt was a vivid contrast to his black jacket and pants. Both colors accented his emerald-ringed, coppery eyes, but as usual, only his face, neck, and hands were bare. The rest of him was covered, the elegant cut of his clothes simultaneously flaunting and concealing that lean, muscled body.
A body that was now mine to explore and enjoy. All of a sudden, I wished the sketch artist hadn’t arrived.
The sly smile that curled Vlad’s lips said he’d overheard my thoughts—and liked them. Then he pulled me close, one hand twining through my hair while the other stroked my back.
“Good morning,” he murmured before his lips closed over mine.
I’d wondered if he would be reserved with me in front of his people. Obviously not. By the time he lifted his head, my pulse had tripled and my body felt flushed. I’d also slid my arms around his neck without thinking, my right hand flexing against his shoulders. A week ago, I’d never
“Good morning, yourself,” I said huskily.
He gave me another, far shorter kiss before releasing me. Then he looked over my shoulder.
“Shrapnel, let it be known that henceforth, no one needs my permission to tell Leila where I am, or where anyone else is, either. If she has a question, answer it.”
I turned in time to see Shrapnel bow, first to Vlad, and then to me. Then he walked away, disappearing into one of the many rooms in this house.
“Tell me sleeping with you didn’t automatically upgrade me to bowing status,” I said, uncomfortable.
Vlad’s chuckle was confirmation enough of my suspicion.
“Really?” How twisted.
His arms slid around my waist as he leaned down, pinpricks of emerald in the coppery depths of his eyes. “Of course my people will now treat you with the utmost respect. I told you; I don’t take many lovers. You’re also the only one I’ve shared my bed with, and the first to sleep in the room adjoining mine.”
I didn’t know what to say. A tiny part of me thought it was chauvinistic that Vlad had had sex with those other women, yet hadn’t deemed them worthy to share his bed or the closest room. That, however, was overshadowed by the fluttering of my heart and the sudden urge I had to pump both fists into the air.
But maybe he had another reason. A practical one. Vlad might not want me to relive images of him with other women if I touched the wrong item in one of his usual tryst rooms.
His lips curled. “How admirably jaded of you to think that, but I could always change out the furnishings in another room if I didn’t want you to see such things.”
That was true.
“Sorry. You know I’m winging all of this, but even if I’d been a through dozen prior relationships . . . I don’t know if any of them would’ve prepared me for being with you.”
“They wouldn’t,” he said with complete assuredness.
His arrogance really would take some getting used to.
“Then let me say what I should’ve said in the first place.” I placed my hands on his chest and stood on tiptoe. “I’m glad,” I whispered near his ear before kissing it.
His arms tightened around me, one hand sliding down to press my hips to his with the same sensual authority he’d shown last night. But we weren’t in his bedroom anymore—we were in the large hallway where at least a dozen vampires lurked nearby.
“Stop,” I said, glancing around to see if anyone saw that.
When I looked back, Vlad’s gaze more than half glinted with emerald. “If that sketch artist wasn’t here, I wouldn’t stop.”
Then he let me go, his eyes changing back to deep copper. “But Hunter’s death needs to be avenged, as does your treatment. Come. Her name is Jillian, and she’s in the library.”
The sketch artist was a petite woman with deep laugh lines and blond hair that had mostly faded to white. Maximus bowed when we came in, but Jillian didn’t even seem to notice. She was too busy looking around with the same dazzled expression I’d probably had when I first arrived. The library was two stories tall, a spiral staircase leading to the second level and a massive stone fireplace with crimson Louis XV furniture in the center. Thousands of books filled the shelves, some regular-sized, some so enormous that they must weigh thirty pounds each.
“
Vlad’s hand rested on my waist. Even through my sweater, I felt his temperature suddenly spike. I glanced over, puzzled, but when he addressed Jillian in the same language, he sounded perfectly relaxed.
I smiled at her while thinking that I should’ve studied French instead of Spanish in school. Vlad must have told her not to shake my hand because she didn’t make a move toward me, but smiled back while speaking in heavily accented English.
“Happy to make your meeting, Leila.”
“You too,” I said, getting the gist of what she meant.
Several sentences in French were directed at Maximus while she gestured to the chairs by the fireplace.
“She wants you to be comfortable while you describe who you saw,” Maximus translated. Then he smiled sardonically at Vlad. “And she wants to be paid in gold instead of euros.”
Vlad flicked his fingers as if he could care less. I sat in the place indicated. Then I glanced over at Vlad.
“I’ll describe him better if I’m holding one of the bones.”
“Maximus,” Vlad said, with a nod at the door.
He left. Jillian pulled a large pad and several charcoal pencils out of her satchel, humming to herself. Maximus returned moments later with what looked like a femur. Her brows rose, but Vlad said something to her in French that seemed to pacify her.
“I am ready,” she said to me.
Vlad stood behind my chair, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Speak normally. I’ll translate.”
I took the bone and placed it on my lap. Then I ran my right hand over it, closing my eyes until I found the man who’d ordered the attack.
“He has short dark hair with streaks of gray,” I began, “and a square jaw, kinda like comic book heroes have . . .”
An hour later, Jillian handed me her pad.
“Is him?” she asked.
Staring back at me was a man with ash-streaked hair, wide forehead, generous mouth, and piercing eyes of indeterminate color. All set off by a handsome face with lines that on men were called “character” and on women were considered cause for a Botox appointment.
“That’s pretty close,” I said, pivoting to hand the picture to Vlad. “Well? Do you recognize him?”
Chapter 25
Vlad looked at the picture, his brows drawn together. After a long moment, he exchanged
