“Jagr.”
“What?
“My name is Jagr.”
“Of course it is,” she muttered. The name was just as hard, dangerous, and beautiful as the rest of him.
“I could force you to come with me.”
“Over my dead body.”
That hit-and-run smile touched his mouth. “Don’t tempt me.”
Regan stomped her foot, at the end of her patience. “Dammit, would you just go away?”
“No.”
“Fine.” She marched across the tiny room that had been decorated in the seventies, all hideous swirling blues and greens, with cheap furniture and fading prints of flowers on the walls. Reaching the door to the connecting bathroom, she wrenched it open.
“What are you doing?”
She turned her head to stab the intruder with a frustrated glare. “You’ve managed to turn a perfectly rotten day into a masterpiece of misery, so either you truss me up and haul me to Chicago, or I’m taking a hot shower.”
Jagr stood perfectly still as Regan stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door.
For the first time in centuries, he found himself…conflicted.
The grim logic—that was the only means of keeping his lethal fury in check—warned him to toss the Were over his shoulder and return her to Chicago. It was not only what he’d been commanded to do, but the sooner he was done with this stupid mission, the sooner he could return to his peaceful existence.
But another part, a part he hadn’t experienced in years and was not at all pleased to discover he still possessed, was reluctant to take such an irrevocable step.
It was nothing more than common sense, he was swift to excuse his odd hesitation. What was the point of hauling her to Chicago when she was bound to flee at the first opportunity?
The gods knew he wasn’t lucky enough for Styx to pick someone else to hunt her down.
Perfectly reasonable. Unfortunately, Jagr was too intelligent to entirely dismiss his chaotic reaction to the beautiful woman.
He was a vampire who preferred his life, his battles, and his sex uncomplicated.
Regan was anything but uncomplicated.
She was a tangled mess of fury, aggression, vulnerability, wry humor, and frustrated sensuality.
A sensuality that wakened a hunger that now roared through him with brutal force.
He wanted her. And he sure as hell wasn’t turning her over to Styx until he’d had a taste.
Or two.
Counting to a hundred, Jagr was prepared when Regan cracked open the door and peered back into the room. He hadn’t believed for a moment she intended to strip na**d and take a shower while a lethal predator stood just a few feet away. She was furious, not stupid.
Yanking open the door, she glared at him with impotent anger.
“Christ, are you still here?”
He regarded her in silence. He’d discovered over the centuries that it rarely took more to rattle an opponent. For a crazed moment she tried to match him stare for stare, then with a muttered curse, she marched forward to stand directly before him.
“What the hell is it going to take to get rid of you? Money? Blood? Sex?”