Guilty Pleasures - By Laurell K. Hamilton Page 0,44

a fight unless you want violence.

"I'm sorry, Jamison." I don't know if he understood what I was apologizing for. He didn't say anything.

As I walked past him, he asked, "What are the files for?"

I hesitated, but he knew the files as well as I did. He'd know what was missing. "The vampire murders."

We turned towards each other at the same moment. Staring. "You took the money?" he asked.

That stopped me. "You knew about it?"

He nodded. "Bert tried to get them to hire me in your place. They wouldn't go for it."

"And after all the good PR you've given them."

"I told Bert you wouldn't do it. That you wouldn't work for vampires."

His slightly up-tilted eyes were studying my face, searching, trying to squeeze some truth out. I ignored him, my face a pleasant blankness. "Money talks, Jamison, even to me."

"You don't give a damn about money."

"Awful shortsighted of me, isn't it?" I said.

"I always thought so. You didn't do it for money." A statement. "What was it?"

I didn't want Jamison in on this. He thought vampires were fanged people. And they were very careful to keep him on the nice, clean fringes. He never got his hands dirty, so he could afford to pretend or ignore, or even lie to himself. I had gotten dirty once too often. Lying to yourself was a good way to die. "Look, Jamison, we don't agree on vampires, but anything that can kill vampires could make meat pies out of human beings. I want to catch the maniac before he, she, or it, does just that."

It wasn't a bad lie, as lies go. It was even plausible. He blinked at me. Whether he believed me or not would depend on how much he needed to believe me. How much he needed his world to stay safe and clean. He nodded, once, very slowly. "You think you can catch something the master vampires can't catch?"

"They seem to think so." I opened the door and he followed me out. Maybe he would have asked more questions, maybe not, but a voice interrupted.

"Anita, are you ready to go?"

We both turned, and I must have looked as puzzled as Jamison.

I wasn't meeting anyone.

There was a man sitting in one of the lobby chairs, half-lost in the jungle plants. I didn't recognize him at first. Thick brown hair, cut short, stretched back from a very nice face. Black sunglasses hid the eyes. He turned his head and spoiled the illusion of short hair. A thick ponytail curled over his collar. He was wearing a blue denim jacket with the collar up. A blood-red tank top set off his tan. He stood slowly, smiled, and removed his glasses.

It was Phillip of the many scars. I hadn't recognized him with his clothes on. There was a bandage on the side of his neck, mostly hidden by the jacket collar. "We need to talk," he said.

I closed my mouth and tried to look reasonably intelligent. "Phillip, I didn't expect to see you so soon."

Jamison was looking from one to the other of us. He was frowning. Suspicious. Mary was sitting, chin leaning on her hands, enjoying the show.

The silence was damn awkward. Phillip put a hand out to Jamison. I mumbled. "Jamison Clarke, this is Phillip...a friend." The moment I said it, I wanted to take it back. "Friend" is what people call their lovers. Beats the heck out of significant other.

Jamison smiled broadly. "So, you're Anita's...friend." He said the last word slowly, rolling it around on his tongue.

Mary made a hubba-hubba motion with one hand. Phillip saw it and flashed her a dazzling melt-your-libido smile. She blushed.

"Well, we have to go now. Come along, Phillip." I grabbed his arm and began pulling him towards the door.

"Nice to meet you, Phillip," Jamison said. "I'll be sure to mention you to all the rest of the guys who work here. I'm sure they'd love to meet you sometime."

Jamison was really enjoying himself. "We're very busy right now, Jamison. Maybe some other time," I said.

"Sure, sure," he said.

Jamison walked us to the door and held it for us. He grinned at us as we walked down the hallway, arm in arm. Fudge buckets. I had to let the smirking little creep think I had a lover. Good grief. And he would tell everyone. Phillip slid his arm around my waist, and I fought an urge to push him away. We were pretending, right, right. I felt him hesitate as his hand brushed the gun on