Blood Song

and finding it in the safe.

“What’s in the safe, Ms. Graves?” The man standing between Cassandra and me smiled when he

spoke. It was a good professional smile, charming, showing straight white teeth in a face that was

handsome but not excessively so. Like me, he hadn’t won the genetic lotto, but he hadn’t lost his shirt,

either. He had a strong jaw and good cheekbones, but his nose was a little bit large and hooked,

almost, but not quite, a beak. Eyes the color of honey met my gaze easily, and I felt him sizing me up in

ways that had nothing to do with sex but weren’t ignoring the possibility. His hair was his best feature,

or would have been if he hadn’t cut it so short. It was a warm light brown with golden highlights that

would’ve fal en in soft, unruly curls if he’d given it the chance. Instead, it was cropped short enough to

be kept under complete control.

I recognized him from their television ads. John Creede. Second bil ing on the letterhead, he was

rumored to be the real power behind one of the biggest personal protection agencies in the business.

When you care enough to hire the very best.

“It’s a weapons safe,” I pointed out drily. “What do you think is in it?”

“Impressive.” This time when he smiled he meant it, and it changed his whole appearance. Just that

smal change, but I felt my heart speed up just a little, my body suddenly becoming aware of him. The

smal hairs on my neck tingled, as did my fingers. I’d say it was his magic testing what I was, and that

might have been part of it. But there was more to it. A deep shudder coursed through me as he

pressed power against me more strongly. He noticed the reaction, of course, and his eyes started

sparkling with mischief. Damned if he wasn’t intentionally teasing me. I’d never felt anything like what

he was doing. It was primal, wild, yet absolutely control ed. His eyes started to glow lightly, liquid honey

that forced me to stare while his magic made my skin ache. The worst part was I was pretty sure he

wasn’t even trying.

Stil , he kept his voice even and professional when he spoke. “I don’t know what you have in there, but

I could feel the power almost a block away, through the building’s shielding. It takes something very …

special to capture my attention. Makes me want to check it out personal y, Ms. Graves.”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but I was saved the trouble by the timely return of one of the guards,

finished assessing my office for threats.

“You can come in, Ms. Meadows,” red tie announced. “It’s clear.”

Cassandra strode into the office, taking the visitor’s chair opposite the desk. She crossed her legs

with lazy grace, showing a long expanse of silk-stockinged limb. I suppose they were good legs—I’m no

judge of such things. But Lloyd’s of London had insured them for some outrageous amount during her

last picture. Whatever.

Creede gestured for me to precede him. It was a polite gesture, so I did it, but my shoulders were

tight and twitchy until I was in my chair with a wal at my back. I could tel he knew it and was quietly

amused.

“To what do I owe this visit?” I kept my voice pleasantly neutral. So far, things had gone pretty wel . If I

was lucky, we would politely detest each other for a few minutes, get whatever business done, and I

could get on with my day.

She looked at me across the desk as if miles separated us rather than a few inches of polished

wood. I stayed impassive as those amazing eyes took in the bloodstains and the injuries. I caught her

staring at my legs and tried to convince myself she was looking at my tattoo. Unfortunately, it was far

more likely she was staring at the very old, very nasty scars that I tried not to think about but knew were

just visible beneath the hem of my boxer shorts.

I watched her search for the right words and not find them.

“Were you and my daughter lovers?” I could tel it wasn’t the question she’d intended to ask, but it was

the one that made it past her lips.

I burst out laughing, which startled her. “No. We were just friends. She was seeing someone the past

few months. It was starting to get serious.”

“Friends.” She shook her head. It was a gesture of unconscious grace that made her shining dark

hair move like a living thing around her shoulders. Her eyes met mine and I saw them shining with

unshed tears. “Do you know that in my entire adult life I have never had a female friend?”

I wasn’t surprised. Friendships are usual y based on give-and-take between equals. Not many women

would be secure enough to consider themselves her equal, and I wasn’t sure she’d accept it if they did.

But saying that wouldn’t be polite, so I settled for something a little more neutral but no less sincere:

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She gave a rueful grimace. “I came here intending to raise hel —accuse you of seducing my

daughter to get her money and not even giving enough of a damn about her to arrange for a decent

cremation.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because”—she looked around her—“because of this office. Because looking at you right now, I find

that I can’t.” She sounded exasperated, frustrated. “My husband told me you weren’t using Vicki, that

you never had. He said that you were the one who saved her from the fire, that you visited her several

times a week at the hospital, that you cared. ”

Unexpected sorrow lanced through me. “Yeah. I do … did.”

A single glittering tear tracked down her perfect cheek. She sat up straighter in the chair and

uncrossed her legs. “I’m told that Vicki told you her wishes with regard to her funeral arrangements?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. Yes, she’d told me—and Alex and Dawna, after we’d finished our second

pitcher of margaritas at the little Mexican restaurant not a block from here. Fortunately, I stil had the

cocktail napkin I’d made Vicki write it al down on. Just a little square of paper covered in tiny, smudged

handwriting. I’d filed it in the same folder with the receipt for my pre-paid arrangements because Vicki

had made me promise not to lose it.

“What’s funny?”

“Just remembering.” It had been a good night, one of the best, with good friends, good food, and bad

karaoke. I scooted the chair back from my desk and got up. It was the work of a moment to find the file.

I pul ed out the cocktail napkin.

Cassandra laughed, then gave a startled, guilty look as if it was too soon. She was grieving, and

nothing should be funny.

“I’l go downstairs and make you a copy.”

“You’re going to keep the original.” She stated it as a fact.

I nodded. She was right. It was sil y and sentimental, but I’d do it. Because every time I ran across

that little piece of paper it would remind me of that night and the fun we’d had. I wanted to be reminded.

Because in the press of day-to-day life it was too easy to get caught up in the bad things, let the smal

joys slip away.

“You’re sentimental. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

I shrugged, my hand on the doorknob. “You don’t know me.”

Her eyes seemed to dim, the last of the humor draining away, leaving sorrow in its wake. “No. I don’t.”