loved his Porsche too much to risk it at that speed on these roads. And you know how slim the odds are of a vampire actually getting drunk, despite the headlines.”
Playboy Dies Living Fast and Hard. Sam swore. “He might have been drugged. Can you do a tox screen?”
Winspear’s mouth was a grim line. “The body was badly burned, but if it’s possible, I’ll get the information we need.”
He looked stricken, and for a moment Sam felt sorry for him. It didn’t seem right that he had to do an autopsy on a friend, but who else had the expertise to examine dead vampires? Not the city morgue.
Sam shifted impatiently. “You have any theories about all this yet?”
Winspear stood, folding his arms. “I don’t like to speculate before I have all the facts.”
“Jack had a lot of enemies. We all do. We need some way to narrow down the list.”
Winspear shrugged. “What stands out? What was Jack up to during the last month?”
“I don’t know.” The Horsemen had been taking a short break from the job and from each other—a necessary thing when so much of their work was all about death and carnage.
“I can’t answer that, either—I was out at my cabin. It was just by chance that I’d arrived back in town when you called.”
Sam grunted in irritation. Patient deduction wasn’t his forte. He liked the part where he got to hit things. “Jack seems to have been close to his niece. He might have mentioned something. Small details can provide clues.”
“Maybe.” Winspear looked away.
Sam understood his doubts. The Horsemen were the only ones who knew who and what Jack really was. The rest was all playacting, learning to fit in with the latest slang and electronic gadgets. Remembering to hide every second of every day.
An unexpected jolt of melancholy hit Sam. He swatted it away with an answering annoyance. “I’ll ask some questions. A few odd things have come up in the estate.”
Winspear raised a dark brow. “Such as?”
“He left his niece a wedding dress.” The image of Chloe and the dress came back, along with that strange, restless feeling.
“A dress hardly seems alarming. Unless it was, as I have heard human girls exclaim, a dress to die for?”
Sam closed his eyes, fighting down a sarcastic retort. “Never mind. It’s a puzzle piece I can’t make fit.”
“Then I would talk to the niece. Maybe there’s a dressmaker or a delivery company that can provide a clue.”
Sam gave a small, ironic salute. “Shall do.”
Winspear looked dubious. “Can you talk to—what’s her name? Chloe? Or do you want me to do that?”
“I think I can handle her.” In fact, handling her sounded like a solid plan—he could spend hours executing that particular mission, if he left his scruples at the door.
A faint trace of a smile lurked in Winspear’s face. “I’d be careful if I were you. She looks like the smart, quiet type. They’re dangerous.”
“I’m a vampire. She’s just a wedding planner.”
Winspear gave a rare, low laugh. “So was Cinderella’s fairy godmother. Don’t underestimate her.”
Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I’ll steer clear of mice and pumpkins.”
* * *
It took little time for Sam to track Chloe down. She had taken the dress from Jack’s suite to the room where she was staying. The door was ajar, allowing Sam to pause a moment before he had to knock. He used the time to study the location, as he always did before mounting an assault. It was a large chamber, one window, sparse furniture. Definitely a feminine space, with flowery prints on the walls and bedspread.
Chloe was standing in the middle of the room with her back to the door, looking sleek and polished from her high-heeled shoes to the twist in her dark blond hair. She was staring at the dress. It was hooked to the front of a huge, mahogany wardrobe, the dark wood showing off the white foam of lace.
Sam knew nothing about gowns, but he was pretty sure this one was exceptional. There was something in the proportions and detailing that said this wasn’t some off-the-rack number.
The same could be said for Chloe. The curve of her spine drew his eyes, his gaze lingering on her exposed neck. Ever since he’d arrived at Oakwood, she’d drawn him. Sam desired women and had them, well and often, but few provided more than a moment’s interest. War was not prone to the softer emotions—they were anathema to everything he was.
This woman, though, brushed his senses like the scent of a delicate perfume. She was pretty, but it was a sense of poised energy that made her remarkable—like an arrow about to fly. He couldn’t help watching, expectant for the moment, wondering what would happen if she finally sprang loose.
Sam imagined that release of energy, feeling it with his whole body. It would be exquisite. The thought made his fangs descend, and he quickly began thinking of dull paperwork instead. She’s not for you. Women like her die around creatures like you.
She turned, her brows drawing together when she saw him there. “Something I can help you with?” Her words were quiet and low, but her voice resonated right through him.
You have no idea. A sudden stab of hunger pushed to the fore, reminding him again of what he was: a weapon meant for blood sports. She looked soft and delicious, as if she would taste of summer. Once again, his body tightened in anticipation.
Sam swallowed hard, wrestling himself as he had Kenyon’s wolf, holding back the snapping jaws of the beast. Small talk. Make small talk.
“I can’t help wondering what Jack was doing with that.” He nodded toward the dress.
She relaxed a bit. “Me, too.”
“It’s good quality, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” She folded her arms and walked toward it. Sam trailed after her, using the moment as an excuse to get closer. The room was redolent with her perfume—something that reminded him of sunshine and lemonade.
He realized he was stalking her, and forced himself to stand still. “Should it be out of the safe?” he asked.
“Maybe not, but I can’t learn anything about it when it’s locked away.”
Sam nodded. She had a point. “That’s right. You’re the wedding expert. Any insights?”
With a professional air, Chloe eyed the dress. “There’s no label, but I’m sure it’s made to order. The beading is hand-done. It’s probably unique.”
“Expensive?”
“It’s worth a fortune. That’s Italian silk or I’m a duck.”
Sam slanted a glance at her. She was definitely not a
