Blake stood at the mouth of the service alley for the restaurant, resplendent in all his punk glory. His black leather jacket strained against the broad width of his shoulders. Beneath the jacket, a black shirt encased the lean muscles of his upper body while wickedly tight jeans hugged the perfection of his long muscled legs.
He wasn’t tall, but he had amazing legs. Come to think of it, most of him was fairly magnificent, which was what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
She had fallen for the sexy, dimpled grin and the crystalline blue gaze. Not to mention all that perfectly defined muscle.
Plus, he had made her laugh with his insolent charm and self-confidence. That had been her ultimate downfall—that he could make her laugh. If she had learned one thing from her parents, it was that laughter lasted long after the passion of youth had fled.
But not even Blake could make her laugh tonight, Meghan thought, as she looked up to the window of the private dining room that held the grisly remains of the two dead vampires.
Smeared blood marred what had once been the pristine glass of the window. In her mind flashed the sight of their bodies writhing together and the sound of the sick sucking noises they had made before death forever stilled them.
Blake tracked her gaze and as he noted the sight, worry slipped into his normally cocky features. He took a step toward her but then stopped, clearly unsure of his reception, as well he should be.
She’d had more than a taste of Blake and was sure she didn’t want yet another.
For all his charm, he wasn’t trustworthy.
She had learned that the hard way and had no intention of dealing with him yet again. She rose from the step and walked toward him, her pace brisk.
Blake watched as Meghan approached, anger evident in every short and determined stride.
He could tell that much. She was not only upset by whatever had happened up in that room with the blood-smeared window, she was mad. He didn’t need to ask if she was pissed off at him.
She was always pissed off at him.
“What are you doing here?” She stopped sharply before him and jammed her hands onto her hips. The motion strained the fabric of the white chef’s jacket covering her ample breasts.
“Out for a stroll. And you, love?” He jerked his head in the direction of the bloodied window. “Having a bit of fun?”
She slapped him hard, rocking his head back with the strength of the blow, surprising him with the force of her vehemence.
“Don’t you respect anything?”
He rubbed his jaw and snorted. “’Course I do, love. Motherhood, apple pie and Chevrolet.”
Meghan whipped her hand forward to strike him again, but he snagged it midslap.
“Don’t,” he said, then immediately added in a softer tone, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot.”
“Wrong is all we ever do, Blake. Don’t you get that by now?” She jerked her wrist out of his grasp and rubbed it, as if to wipe away something dirty.
Irritation flared up in him, but he tamped it down. There had already been too much violence and hostility between them, although there had been other things as well. Good things.
“We managed to do some things right.”
She sighed roughly and smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped her French braid. “Why are you here, Blake? Why tonight?”
He didn’t want to admit that the cute blond chit earlier that night had satisfied one hunger but whetted another. With a negligent shrug, he said, “Heard a rumor that Diego and Ryder were still hiring.”
“As if you know what it is to earn an honest day’s wage.”
He arched a brow and disdainfully raked his gaze over the chef’s attire she wore. “Want to make a little wager, love?”
She snorted and crossed her arms again. Leaning forward slightly in challenge, she said, “A wager? With you?”
“’Fraid you’re wrong about me? ’Fraid I might prove I’m not the kind of man you think I am?” He stepped close to her, raised his hand and was about to cup her cheek when she took a step back out of his reach.
It might have hurt less if she had hit him again.
“Chicken,” he taunted, and sauntered away.
The Blood Bank, New York CityThree years, eleven months and ten days earlier
Meghan and her friends had heard about the Goth bar rumored to have the kinds of men and pleasures in which good little Midwestern farm girls didn’t get involved.
All the more reason for her to check out the place, she’d thought, when one of her more world-weary college classmates had dared her to go to the hangout. After having spent the last four years in New York City as a good girl, she knew this was her last opportunity for a walk on the wild side before she headed home.
Her Midwestern parents expected her to do as they had done—a nine-to-five job, marriage by twenty-five, followed by kids and a nice home in the suburbs. The only problem with that American dream was that it wasn’t her own.
Meghan loved the whole Manhattan vibe and could easily imagine herself staying here, continuing to explore the kinds of things only Manhattan could offer.
Like this supposedly dangerous Goth bar.
It had taken the better part of the day to prepare for the senior dare.
She and her NYU friends had spent the morning searching a variety of vintage stores near Washington Square, rounding up accessories for their Goth getups. Two of her friends had even bought temporary black hair dye to make the look complete.
Meghan, however, had opted to keep her blond locks, thinking that her black clothes would be more than enough.
As she walked through the door of the Blood Bank, she reassessed that thought.
Black was definitely the one and only theme.
Everything and everyone in the bar was swathed in darkness.
The floors and walls were black, as were the surfaces of all the tables and booths scattered throughout the club. The dark color swallowed up the overhead spotlights that panned the sea of bodies on the dance floor and at the tables.
As the light swept the far end of the bar, however, she caught sight of one glaring platinum-blond head. The daring of that one brave individual brought a grin to her face before she forced it away and tried to adopt a serious glare in response to the threatening looks being sent her way by the patrons.
She
