you need a break?” John, the PR director queried, although his lips curved in the smallest of smirks. “Maybe you’ve come back too soon.”
Vivianne forced a smile as she strolled around the sleek curve of the glass and chrome board table. She had her suspicions about John. He was good at what he did. Always on message. Particularly if it was his own message, like a leadership gambit. She also suspected he’d had something to do with tipping off the lycans and allowing them access into Nightwing in order to abduct a murder suspect—one who turned out to be innocent of the charge. Either way, her border had been compromised by the wolves, but only with inside help. Not that she could prove her suspicions. Still, he was challenging her, in a very subtle way, one that she couldn’t let slide if she was to restore control and calm to her colony.
“You know, I think you’re right, John. I think I do need a break,” she sighed as she patted him on the shoulder. Quick as a flash, she grasped his chin and shoulder, then twisted, hearing the satisfying crack of bone. Her momentarily dead PR director slumped over in his chair, his forehead landing with a distinct crack on the glass table, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. When he revived once again, he’d have a hell of a headache.
“Anyone else think I need break?” she inquired calmly and glanced at each district guardian in turn around the table. All of them quietly shook their heads. She nodded with satisfaction. She was older than most of them. Stronger, too. Hopefully that killed any suggestion that she was not fit to work, or to hold the position of Vampire Prime for the Nightwing Colony. “Then let’s stop wasting time. I want that river access reopened by the end of the month. Now, Jimmy, what’s happening over on the west coast?”
She resumed her seat, crossed her legs, and continued to chair the meeting.
* * *
Zane Wilder bared his teeth as the Marchetta prime held court. That little—she’d called him a mangy mutt. A measly little mongrel. He held up his fisted hands. He felt so damn ineffectual. Nobody could see him. Nobody could hear him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he didn’t like it. He certainly didn’t like being attached to the stone-cold heartless head of the Nightwing vampire colony.
Everyone knew of Vivianne Marchetta, heiress to the vast Marchetta Empire. Ruthless, relentless and strategic, the daughter of a Reform senator, Vivianne’s reputation was widely known, and in some cases, feared.
Not by him, of course. No. She was a vamp. She was walking worm food, just like that vicious, feral brother of hers. Zane rubbed his neck. He couldn’t feel any markings, but there was still a shadow of pain from where he’d been bitten by Lucien Marchetta. After that, he had no recollection, not until he awoke, along with the Marchetta prime, in an underground clinic. Since then he drifted around with this stone-hearted corporate crocodile, an invisible, silent shadow. He’d watched her rule over her colony. He’d watched her hunt. He grimaced. She always gave them a fighting chance, no sneak attacks, but every single one of them seemed mesmerized by the little pocket-sized beauty and would succumb without much of a struggle at all. Surprisingly, though, it was always men, no women, no children—no easy prey.
He eyed her as she concluded the meeting. Every now and then, he thought he was getting through...like just before. She’d heard him laugh. He was sure of it. She tried to ignore him, but every now and then she’d crack. Her eyelids would flicker when he spoke, or...she’d peer under the table for him. He chuckled. That had been a good one, he had to admit.
Vivianne glanced about, then rose from the table, effectively dismissing her minions. She collected her bag and notepad—she’d occasionally surprised him with her old-school practices. Most everyone else was using a device, but she used the old-fashioned method of notetaking—pen and paper.
One of the guardians waited for her at the door, stepping aside as the others filed out. Zane couldn’t help noticing that nobody moved the guy with the broken neck. He shook his head. Vampires were nasty. So little regard for life. Still, the guy was annoying, and Vivianne had been quite effective in silencing him. He liked effective. Not that he liked Vivianne. Hell, no.
Zane’s gaze dropped to Vivianne’s hips as she halted at the doorway, and he folded his arms, leaning against the jamb. Much as he’d like to get the hell out of Vamp Central, he’d discovered he couldn’t range far from Vivianne. The voluptuous little vampire was exhausting. Constantly on the go, from one meeting to another, although how she managed to do it in those killer heels all day, he had no idea. He eyed her legs. Her slender, golden-skinned legs...the top of her head barely grazed his shoulder, but she had the figure of a pocket Venus, all curves and hollows and smooth skin, dark chocolate eyes and lips that were full and pouty. He frowned. If you were into that sort of thing.
“Uh, look, I realize you’re probably busy, getting back into the swing of things, and all,” the guardian began. Zane noticed it was the one who told her about his death. Death. But not...quite. He didn’t feel dead. He didn’t know what death was supposed to feel like, though, but he didn’t think it was this. He was...aware. He always thought death was supposed to be peaceful. Being somehow anchored to Vivianne Marchetta was not peaceful. His eyes widened. Maybe he was in hell. Yeah. A werewolf being stuck with a vampire for all of eternity sure sounded like hell to him, especially if that vampire was Vivianne. The woman brought a whole new level to the world “cool”. Arctic, maybe.
“I’m fine, Mike. Really,” she said, her tone confident.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Mike said, lifting his chin to indicate the slumped-over vamp. “I just thought, with everything that’s happened while you were on your ‘break,’” he said meaningfully, “that maybe, if you needed to be quietly brought up to speed, I could help.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” Zane muttered. He could see the thinly-masked appreciation in the guy’s eyes.
Vivianne stiffened next to him, and he saw her eyes shift, just a little. She tilted her head, and her dark hair slid across her back to brush Zane’s arm. He glanced down. She had dark, wavy curls that he’d learned were all natural. Pretty. He frowned and moved to create a little more distance. He didn’t need no sexy, alluring vamp to rub herself up against him, with her tempting hair and—he inhaled—damn it, not even her scent was soft or comfortably, florally, feminine. No, it was zesty and spicy and sexy all at once and was becoming part of his natural breathing, no matter how hard he fought it...
“What are you suggesting?” Vivianne asked, her voice low and husky.
Zane frowned. “You’re not falling for this, are you?”
Vivianne tilted her head forward, her expression hidden behind that ebony, wavy curtain of hair.
“Perhaps dinner?” Mike suggested. His voice had lowered, and there was a definite glint in the guy’s eyes.
“I think I’m going to puke,” Zane muttered. “Get me out of here.” Watching vamps flirt was about as much fun as being skinned alive, he was sure of it.
“I think dinner could be a good option,” Vivianne agreed evenly. “You can fill me in on anything else I’ve missed.”
“I’d be happy to fill you in,” Mike said, winking. Zane made a gagging noise. The guy was not subtle at all. “I’ll pick you up—seven?”
Vivianne nodded, then watched as Mike left the room, whistling. At least, Zane thought that’s what he was trying to do. It came out like a little wheezy whine.
“This is definitely hell,” Zane said, nodding. Watching these
