A ripple of unease tickled her gut. She tried another discreet, and ineffective, twist, then spun around with a glare.
“OPEN THE DOOR, Mr. Kuxim,” Lana Arnold demanded, and her dark eyes flashed with anger.
It was the first real emotion Vincent had seen from her, and it both intrigued and relieved him. She’d been so controlled from the moment he’d walked into the office. She hadn’t responded to his charm at all, and, frankly, Vincent was used to women being swayed by him. Old, young, single, married—it didn’t matter. His entire life, even before he became a vampire, woman had always responded to him the way his assistant Louisa did. They blushed, they stammered, they pursued him left and right, but they always went along with what he wanted. Except for this one. If he hadn’t caught a brief reaction from her when he’d taken off his shirt—and that, no more than an involuntary widening of her eyes and a single jump of her heartbeat before she became the Ice Queen again—he’d have suspected Lana the Bounty Hunter favored women. He took a few seconds to indulge in the time-honored male fantasy of picturing the woman in front of him in the arms of another woman. Nice.
But then he was back in the present with a very pissed-off Lana Arnold. Anger looked good on her. It made her much more attractive, more human. She wasn’t his usual type—too tall, too lean, and sure as hell too opinionated. He favored short, plump women whose goal in life was to make him happy. But Lana Arnold was a good-looking woman. Her height gave her a certain elegance, and her leanness was all sleek, taut muscle encased in a black T-shirt and combat-style pants. It was inherently masculine clothing, but the shirt clung to her chest, and the pants hugged her narrow hips and a firm ass. Not an ounce of fat, he’d bet. She had gorgeous bone structure with high cheekbones and a slender jaw, a sexy mouth with a full lower lip, and long black hair braided down her back. Her lashes were black, too, framing eyes that were an unusual pale brown.
Eyes that were glaring daggers at him from across the room. He noticed the fingers of her left hand going bone white as they tightened on the strap of her backpack, while her right hand, which had been holding the doorknob . . . Uh oh. Time to stop gazing at the bounty hunter before her fingers found the knife sheathed inside the thigh pocket of her nicely-fitting combats. He’d been so busy admiring the way they hugged her hips and ass that he’d ignored the perils. Talk about being blinded by sexual attraction. Even if he wasn’t actually attracted to her.
“Sit down, Lana,” he said gently, putting all of his persuasive skills into it, and maybe cheating with a touch of vampiric push.
Her glare redoubled its ferocity. “Don’t you dare try to force me against my will.”
It was Vincent’s eyes that went wide this time. She shouldn’t have been aware of what he was doing. Either he’d gotten rusty—which he hadn’t—or Lana Arnold was unusual indeed.
He raised his hands in surrender. “I apologize. It was automatic.”
“Don’t do it again.”
He gestured at the chair she’d vacated. “I won’t. Sit down . . . please.”
She gave him a long, distrustful look, then moved her hand from where it had been creeping toward her weapon and crossed slowly back to the chair. She sat without ever taking her eyes off of him.
Vincent sank slowly into his big chair, watching her as one would an unpredictable and wild animal. He didn’t know about the wild part—although, let’s face it, she was a female bounty hunter, so not exactly timid—but she was absolutely unpredictable. He’d never met a human who was immune to the persuasive power of his vampire blood. It was the one ability that every vampire possessed to some degree, because it was a major part of what made them successful predators.
“I don’t know where to find Xuan Ignacio,” he told her carefully. “But,” he added, holding up a hand to forestall her objection, “that doesn’t mean I can’t find out. There are vampires older than I am, including several in this city.”
She tilted her head curiously. “I got the impression from my client that you were the master, or whatever you call it, of Hermosillo.”
“I am Lord Enrique’s lieutenant,” he corrected evenly. “As such, I spend much of my time in various cities on his behalf. Although Hermosillo happens to be my favorite,” he confided with a wink that was meant to be engaging.
She didn’t react other than to pull out her portfolio and a pen to make a note of some sort. Cursed woman.
She looked up from her notes. “If there are older vampires than you in this city, then why are you in charge?” she asked.
“Age does not equal power for a vampire,” he told her. “There are some who are born, or reborn, to power, and some who will never attain real power, no matter how long they live.”
She made a little moue with her mouth, as if intrigued by this tidbit of vampire lore. “All right,” she said. “So where do we start then?”
Vincent didn’t know what to think about her quick assumption that they’d be working together. His plan had been to question a few of the older vamps and give her a call. She was watching him carefully, though, and there was just a hint of challenge there, as if daring him to prove he was up to the task of solving her puzzle. Fine, then. Two could play that game. He knew he could survive in her world; he’d been doing it for over 150 years. Let’s see if she could survive in his.
“I’ll need to make a few phone calls,” he told her. “Give me an hour.”
She nodded once, then put her things away again, and stood. “Thank you. I’ll be back then.”
Vincent stood with her. “You’re free to wait here,” he said quickly. “Louisa could arrange some refreshments. Dinner if you’re hungry.”
She studied him for a moment, giving away nothing. “Thank you, but no. I have arrangements of my own to make.” She walked over to the door and didn’t even hesitate in reaching for the handle. It opened easily, of course. He’d already decided to take a different approach with Lana Arnold.
She opened the door and looked at him over her shoulder. He thought he saw the tiniest bit of amusement in her pale eyes. “I’ll be back in one hour,” she told him, then walked out of his office.
He followed the tap of her footsteps across the tiled lobby, heard the door open and close, and then the sound of a vehicle starting up and driving away.
“So what do you think?” he asked Michael, who was now sitting in the chair next to the one the bounty hunter had occupied moments before.
“At least you knew this Xuan Ignacio existed—even if only in fairy tales. I’ve never even heard of him.”
“That’s because you’re still a toddler with fangs.”