Keeper of the Moon - By Harley Jane Kozak Page 0,34
by the publicity machine that operated in the world of the Others. Did the Elven have their own PR firm? Why hadn’t her father filled her in on this?
The fact was, Rafe Gryffald hadn’t expected to be appointed to the International Council. He’d figured on working in L.A. for years, letting his daughter live her life, see the world, pursue her artistic aspirations. Which, up until yesterday—
“Ms. Gryffald?” a woman said. “This way, please.”
Sailor followed her down the hall. The woman wore a silver wrap dress that hugged her perfect, fat-free body and indicated an intriguing absence of underwear. Her gray heels were very high, making her ability to walk an art in itself. She showed Sailor to an anteroom and asked if she wanted coffee, water or Diet Coke. Apparently no actor in the history of GAA had requested regular Coke. Sailor wanted to compliment her on being so sexy, but she had a dim idea that this might not be taken well and it might be best to say nothing, even though she felt really chatty all of a sudden. And hot. Damn. Here we go again.
The assistant moved off, and a man approached, elegant and grave, introducing himself as Joshua LeRonde—a higher class of assistant, as he was allowed a name—and told her that Darius would see her, if she would please follow him.
And on they went, to the inner sanctum.
The office was like a hotel suite, tasteful and spacious, with a wraparound view of both Century City and downtown. The view was obscured at the moment, windows shrouded with translucent curtains, protecting Darius from the piercing sunlight he found so unpleasant.
He wore a white shirt and pressed black pants with a snakeskin belt, and a Ulysse Nardin watch. Sailor had never seen him in anything he couldn’t wear to officiate at a wedding or a funeral, and she’d known him her whole life. He was taller than she was, with dark hair with a touch of gray, beautifully cut, very pale skin and extraordinary hands, with long, graceful fingers. He looked fifty, but of course he was far older.
“Here you are,” he said, coming from behind the desk to kiss her on both cheeks in the European way.
“Godfather.”
He smiled. “Godchild.” He peered at her, still within kissing distance, which made her as wary as if his fangs were extended, and then he removed her sunglasses with the gentleness of an optician. It was an intimate gesture. She felt a stirring inside. How could she be finding Darius so appealing? Handsome, aristocratic, yes, but good grief, he had at least a hundred and fifty years on her. Plus he was her godfather.
“Ah.” His hazel eyes stared into her own. “What have we here?”
“I had a—an incident. Yesterday. An encounter.” She gestured to her chest, but she was wearing a dress that buttoned nearly to her neck, and she wasn’t about to unbutton it. It was very bad form to do that with a vampire, unless you were inviting him to feed.
“Really? Have a seat and tell me.” He tucked her sunglasses into the pocket of her dress, another gesture she found intimate and almost erotic. He then moved behind his desk as though ascending a throne, which in a previous century had probably been the case.
She told him of the attack, of being found by Alessande. She left out the part about the shapeshifter posing as Vernon the stockbroker, because that would make her look slow.
“But no lasting effects, other than your remarkable eyes?”
She reported the sharp vision that occurred every few hours, the visual beauty of everyone she encountered. “It happened just now, in fact,” she said. “And then there’s sleepiness. If Alessande hadn’t given me síúlacht, I wouldn’t have made it off her sofa.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Would that explain your passing out some hours later at the Snake Pit?”
“Okay, that wasn’t actually—how did you hear about...”
Darius half smiled. “Have you any idea how many people are employed by this agency? Young people, with after-hours habits similar to yours?”
“Which they discuss with you the morning after?” She tried to picture the receptionists chatting him up over cheese Danish in the GAA kitchen.
“My business is my clients. Knowing their predilections, who’s capable of sustaining a TV series or six months on location, who needs rehab. Useful information, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I suppose.” Were the assistants on the clock after midnight as spies?
“And why do you think I invited you to come and see me today?” he