There was more to this one than looking like some delicate, ethereal flower. And he was busy royally screwing up any chance he might have had at getting his hands on her in any meaningful way. He was charming, damn it! She was supposed to notice!

Of course, she might have if his mouth hadn’t gotten in the way.

She motioned to the bartender, who brought her a check that she glanced at quickly before slipping a few bills out of the slim black clutch resting on the bar. Damien watched, feeling an unfamiliar hunger when she managed a brilliant smile for the bartender, who all but melted in return. Damien’s lips thinned. So she’d smile for a worthless mortal, but not for him…

She appeared to be collecting herself to say something, and when she finally turned her attention back to him, Damien saw he’d been right: There was absolutely nothing delicate about the wounded fury that blazed at him. There was plenty of power beneath the pretty trappings, too, easily seen now that her control had slipped just a little. The question was whether she really knew how to use it. He’d never met a vampire who’d seemed quite so innocent at first blush, so sheltered.

It was a puzzle he couldn’t begin to figure out, and one he knew he’d be turning over in his mind long after she walked away from him… which she seemed in a hurry to do.

“You think you’ll find Sam because they’re paying you. But I know I’m going to find him, because I actually care.” Her voice quivered slightly, but there was steel in her eyes.

Another first for him: strong emotion from a Grigori. Interesting.

“Kitten, I hate to tell you this, but caring doesn’t count for much. It tends to be more hindrance than help.” Damien heard the sound of regret in his own voice and immediately tried to pull it back, lock that part of himself back down. Sympathy, empathy… they had no place in his life. In any vampire’s life. He was telling her the truth, even if she didn’t want to hear it.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not a kitten, and I’m not your pet,” she snapped. “It doesn’t matter what you think about it. I wouldn’t expect a man like you to understand.”

It stung him, another surprise, and an unpleasant one. A man like him? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Damien watched her rise, feeling a little like she’d just slid a sharp blade between his shoulders. The pain was just as sharp, and just as unexpected.

He caught her hand in his before he could think better of it, rising to stand only inches from her. Her skin was cool and silken, and Damien pulled her closer. She was surprised into compliance, and Damien used the momentary advantage to move in, murmuring directly into her ear.

The desire that made him shiver at her nearness was nonsensical. He knew it. But Damien could no more fight the sudden attraction than he could just let her walk away. And once again, he found himself using that gentle, unfamiliar tone.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Don’t go storming off. You… surprise me. Grigori aren’t exactly known for their deep emotional attachment to one another, you know.”

He could feel the tension thrumming through her, but she made no move to break away from him. She turned her head slightly to respond, and Damien knew that to an outsider, the two of them looked like lovers, about to go home and do unspeakable things to one another.

I wish, he thought. Instead, he now had the very sharp point of a small dagger biting insistently into his abdomen.

“You know nothing about my kind,” she said, “and you underestimate me. Try and turn me in if you want, Mr….”

“Damien,” he said, amused again at her formality. “Damien Tremaine. It’s not ‘Mr.’ anything. And if you make me bleed on my new shirt, I’m going to be very put out.”

“Damien, then,” she continued. “You can try to turn me in, but they won’t catch me. This is too important. I don’t know what’s going on, but I intend to find out… whether or not you try to get in my way.”

“I believe you can count on that… kitten. And next time we meet, I’ll be stealing that terrible wig.”

She pulled back just enough for him to see her eyes flash angrily as she yanked her hand out of his. He caught just a glimpse of silver as she slipped the dagger back into… gods above and below, was that a garter?

“My name is Ariane, not kitten,” she hissed. “You won’t find me so amusing if our paths cross again. Good night.”

With that warning, she spun on one sexy, spindly high heel and clipped away on those long legs of hers. Damien watched her go, hungrily taking in every tight little swish of her ass as she headed out the door. He wasn’t alone either. There wasn’t a man in the place who wasn’t drooling into his lap over her.

Bemused and frustrated, Damien settled back onto the bar stool to finish his martini. Her scent lingered around him like a ghost. Ariane, he thought. A pretty little kitten with intriguingly sharp claws. He looked forward to “getting in her way,” as she put it. She might want to avoid him, but he planned to show her just how tenacious he could be when he wanted something.

He wanted to win.

And right now, he wanted her.

Chapter Four

SHE’D HOPED to sleep him off.

Two nights after her initial encounter with Damien Tremaine, Ariane finally had to admit it wasn’t working. Between her fruitless search for Thomas Manon, who seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth, and restless dreams full of a slim, sandy-haired devil whose mouth she had an unholy fixation on, nothing was going the way it was supposed to. And she’d thought she’d planned for setbacks.

With a frustrated sigh, Ariane adjusted the wig on her head, then stepped back to take a good look at the picture she presented. A little severe, she decided, looking critically at the violet-eyed wraith staring back at her. She’d really prefer another dress like the one she’d borrowed the other night. The black leggings, black V-neck tunic, and black boots were supposedly stylish, but with her coloring and the wig from hell—and damn that obnoxious vamp for being right about it—she looked a little… pale. Still, the dark color kept her less noticeable. She needed to be able to blend in.

As though that was going to happen.

With an angry little huff of breath, Ariane dragged the hated wig off her head and threw it across the room. She felt an unexpected surge of pleasure. Sure, throwing things was childish, and she’d probably messed up the stupid thing beyond what she could repair, but…

Just getting angry and expressing it had felt good. It was a luxury she’d never before had.

“Enough,” she muttered, deciding the wig was staying on the floor. Either she’d find a better one, or she’d just walk around au naturel. It wasn’t like she’d been so successful at going incognito anyway.

A quiet knock at the door sounded just as she’d dug her fingers into her hair, freeing it from the tight coil she’d flattened against her head and sending the platinum locks tumbling around her shoulders.

“Ari? You in there?”

The husky voice was both familiar and welcome, spurring Ariane into action. She moved quickly across the small room to answer it. She opened the door a crack and peered out, her face brightening as soon as she saw the petite brunette waiting at the threshold.

“Elena! Come in!”

Elena Santiago, the vampire who ran this safe house for some other vampire called Strickland, one of the more successful lowblood power brokers in the city, lounged against the door frame. Her exotic beauty—waist-length waves of rich chocolate hair, café au lait skin, and curves that could stop traffic—was a convenient cover for a woman who was as tough as the claws she could extend without warning. Ariane undid the heavy chain that provided a small—very small—barrier to anyone trying to barge in uninvited. Even as inexperienced as she was, she understood that the chain was more of a psychological reassurance than anything. It wouldn’t do a thing to slow a determined vampire. Elena’s eyes, a striking pale green and decidedly feline, widened as the door opened the rest of the way.

“Something wrong?”

Elena blinked and shook herself slightly. “No. No, it’s just… the hair. It caught me off guard. I guess I sort of forgot that the wig was a wig…” She trailed off for a moment, her eyes skimming over every pale wave. “Damn. For a bloodline that’s so big on keeping to itself, the Grigori have an awful lot of ‘look at me’ going on.”

Ariane shrugged, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. “It’s not on purpose. Believe me.” She stepped aside to allow Elena entrance.

Elena sauntered in, and Ariane watched her with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. The Cait Sith with the sultry smile and the ferocious temper was already as close a female friend as she’d had in her life… not that that was saying much. Within days, she’d been simply “Ari” to Elena, who shared random tidbits of gossip gathered from the ever-changing residents of the safe house and was a veritable encyclopedia of tips to help Ariane avoid getting killed whenever she walked out the door.

Ariane had a bad feeling this visit was going to involve more lecture than gossip. Sure enough, as soon as she’d shut the door, Elena spun on one heel to look at her with a stern expression.

“Doesn’t matter what you look like anyway. You shouldn’t be so friendly, Ari,” Elena said. “I told you not to unlock anything until after you’d gotten a look at who’s on the other side of the door. This building is full of sketchy vamps in hiding for one reason or another. See that window?” she asked, jerking her head in the direction of a single, small rectangle letting in the light and sound of the city beyond.

Ariane nodded.

“If one of them knocks on your door, use it.”

Ariane fought back a smile despite her frustration. Gods, she must look helpless. It was something she could probably turn to her advantage, provided she could stop being so irritated by it.

“I can take care of myself, Elena,” Ariane said.