“Fine, but I expect payment for trailing after a bunch of stinking curs.”
Jagr grasped one of the stunted horns and hauled Levet up to glare into his wide eyes.
“Your payment is that you get to keep your wings. Understood?”
“Hey, let go.”
Jagr dropped the demon back to the ground. “Don’t return until you’ve found the curs.”
“Goth bully.” With a flick of his tail, Levet turned to waddle away.
Jagr grimaced. No doubt both Darcy and Shay would rake him over the coals when he returned to Chicago. They possessed a bizarre fondness for the gargoyle. But for the moment, all he cared about was finding the curs and ending their threat to Regan.
At his side, Regan raked a glance over his large body. “Why does he keep calling you a Goth? I’d say you’re more…ghetto chic.”
Ghetto chic?
“I was once a Visigoth chief.”
“Christ.” Her eyes widened in shock. “Exactly when did you get changed into a vampire?”
With a flinch, Jagr turned to enter the cave, the bags of clothing banging against his legs. The night of his turning was something he never discussed.
Not with anyone.
With a snort of disgust at his retreat, Regan followed on his heels.
“Hello, Mr. Freeze. What the hell are you doing now?”
“I need to speak with Salvatore.”
The elegant bedroom in the St. Louis mansion was a decadent feast for the senses. Gold-veined marble walls reflected the glow of the priceless chandelier, the lacquer furniture was designed for accommodating the most adventurous sexual fantasies, and even the high ceiling was painted with naughty satyrs seducing Rubenesque angels.
Lying in the middle of the Olympic-sized bed drenched in gold satin and black velvet, Salvatore Giuliani was jerked from his fleeting pleasure by the persistent buzz of his private cell phone.
His hand reached for the phone even as the woman straddling his naked body prepared to impale herself on his stiff erection.
“Don’t answer it,” the beautiful cur with long crimson hair and pale green eyes moaned, her lips trailing over his chest. “Please, lover.”
“Get off, Jenna,” he growled, his golden brown eyes glowing as the wolf inside him stirred with anger.
“Call them back later.”
“Get the hell off.”
With a sweep of his arm, Salvatore knocked the cur aside, rising from the bed in one smooth motion.
“Bastard,” Jenna rasped, sprawled spread-eagle across the rumpled sheets, her eyes sparkling with excitement at his rough treatment.
“You have no idea,” Salvatore drawled.
Turning his back on the woman, he reached for the phone, his brows drawing together at the unfamiliar number. Only a handful of people were allowed to dial his private line. Those who called without permission usually found themselves missing their throat. And occasionally their spleen. Flipping open the phone, he held it to his ear. “Who is this?”
“Jagr.” The cold, dark voice was edged with the revolting arrogance that was as much a part of a vampire as his fangs. Filthy leeches. “I was sent by Styx to retrieve the Were.”
“Did you find her?”
“Of course. We’re in Hannibal.”
Salvatore curled his lips at the smug response. Cristo. He hated vampires.
“And?”
“And I want to know why your curs tried to kill us.”
“Curs.” With quick strides, Salvatore was standing beside the heavy desk across the room, clicking through the files on his laptop. “There is no Were pack near Hannibal.”
“Then you have some strays taking potshots at the tourists.”
Salvatore clenched his fist, his eyes glowing with fury. As King of the Weres, he kept his rules simple. Obey or die. No room for confusion.
“A problem easily corrected. I will be there tomorrow night.”
“Once we locate them, I need at least one left alive to question.”
Salvatore clenched his teeth at the cool command. One day soon…
“I make no guarantees.”
With a flick of his wrist, he snapped shut the phone and headed toward the door.
“Aren’t you coming back to bed?” Jenna whined.
Salvatore didn’t bother to glance in her direction. “Get your clothes on, and get out.” Reaching the door, he jerked it open to gesture toward the massive, shaven-headed cur that stood guard in the hallway. “Hess.”
Dropping to his knees, the cur pressed his forehead to the crimson carpet in proper deference. “Yes, sire?”
“We have a problem in Hannibal. I want you to gather up three of our best soldiers, and pack the Humvee with enough arsenal to clean out a pack of rogue curs. We leave after my lunch with the mayor.”
Chapter 5
Regan watched as Jagr slipped the cell phone into the pocket of his jeans. Jeans that hung low on his hips and clung to his powerful legs with yummy determination…
Crap.
Tilting her chin, Regan tried to ignore the constant awareness that buzzed through her like an electric shock. Okay, the damned vamp was the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen. And he oozed sex from the top of his golden head to the tips of his shit-kicker boots. And his kisses were making her so randy she thought she might scream if she didn’t have relief soon.
But he was still the most obnoxious, arrogant, unpredictable, pig-headed brute it was ever her misfortune to encounter.
“If you intended to call Salvatore, then why did you send Levet to look for the curs?” she demanded, her voice sharp with…hell, she’d might as well admit it, if only to herself. Sharp with frustration.
He shrugged. “Salvatore has no greater ability to sense magic than I do. A gargoyle is a creature of magic. There’s no spell, no matter how powerful the demon or witch, that he won’t be able to track.”
“Well, I’m not just waiting in this cave for Levet to return.” She folded her arms over her chest, ready (no, aching) for a fight. “As you pointed out, we don’t even know if Culligan is with the curs.”
He flicked a golden brow upward, tossing her bags of clothing into a far corner. Clothes he’d bought for her just because he knew she wanted them. Her frustration became downright painful. Damn the vampire.
“And what is your plan?” he mocked. “To roam the streets, and hope you stumble over the imp?”
“Do you have a better idea, chief?”
“Yes. I think we should find the RV. The curs might be capable of hiding an imp, but they wouldn’t expend the magic to hide his vehicle.”
She snorted. “What does it matter if he isn’t in it?”
“Culligan was no doubt in a hurry to disappear. He might have left something behind that will reveal why he chose Hannibal.”
Against her will, Regan recalled those chaotic hours after her rescue. She’d been certain Salvatore Giuliani must be some sort of gorgeous guardian angel sent to free her from Culligan’s clutches. It was exactly what she’d dreamed of for years.
Until, of course, the freaking Were had allowed Culligan to escape, followed by her being informed that she had an extended family who obviously hadn’t given a damn that she was being used and abused, and then topped it off with the news she was worthless to him since he could smell her infertility.
Bastard.
“Why would Culligan be in a hurry?” She didn’t bother to hide her bitterness. “Salvatore made it clear he wasn’t going to waste his time tracking down a mere imp to punish him. Not when I’m barren and worthless.”
His lips twisted. “Culligan wasn’t afraid of the damned King of Weres. He was afraid of you.”
“He should be,” she muttered.
His artic gaze flicked over her tense body. “Do you need to feed before we begin?”
She was starving, but she wasn’t about to admit as much. Allowing this vampire to take care of her needs was…disturbing.
“I will later.”
His eyes flashed with annoyance. “That’s no answer.”
“Well, too bad, because that’s all you’re getting.”
“If you need to feed, then you’ll do it now. You’re no good to me weak.”
Regan snapped. There was no other word for it.
One moment she was standing near the entrance of the cave, and the next she was flying through the air to tackle the six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty-pound vampire.
When they tumbled to the hard ground, Regan wasn’t certain who was the more astonished, her or Jagr.
She did know who recovered first.
She’d barely managed a smirk at the realization she’d landed on top when Jagr gave a low growl, and with one smooth motion had rolled her beneath him, his body pinning her to the hard dirt.
Regan felt her breath being squeezed from her lungs. Of course, who wouldn’t suffocate with a massive vampire squashing them?
It didn’t have anything to do with the thick hair that had loosened from its braid to tumble about them like a curtain of gold satin. Or the scent of raw power flooding her senses.