Vincent (Vampires in America Book 8)

by D. B. Reynolds

  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.”

  Michael snorted. “And you’re an old man . . . my old man as it turns out. Weird. Okay, so I’ll ask the same question our lovely bounty hunter did. Where do we start?”

  “You think she’s lovely?” Vincent asked, more curious than anything else.

  “Hell, yeah. Can’t fake those cheekbones or those bee-stung lips. Not that she needs to fake anything with a body like that. Athletic. I like it.”

  “You like anything with a pussy, my friend. But hands off this one.”

  Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “She doesn’t seem your type at all, jefe.”

  “She doesn’t, does she?” Vincent said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  Chapter Two

  LANA WAITED UNTIL she was in her SUV and back on the highway before letting out the breath she felt like she’d been holding for an hour. Vincent Kuxim might be a powerful vampire, but as a man, he was positively nuclear. She’d never bought in to the whole pheromones and instant attraction bullshit, not when it came to people, anyway. But, damn, that man oozed sexuality. He was a walking, talking hazard to the female population.

  It had taken every ounce of the control she’d developed over years of working with her father’s testosterone-laden bounty hunters to keep her feelings hidden. She should have been immune to men like Vincent by now, especially ones with that Latin charm of his. She lived in Arizona and encountered Hispanic males on a daily basis in her work. And plenty of her skip traces took her across the border into Mexico, too.

  But she suspected Vincent’s appeal had more to do with being a vampire than his Hispanic ancestry. Or maybe his vampire talents had simply built on the Latin charm that was already there. He’d told her age didn’t equal power, but maybe power equaled charisma. He’d certainly used that power on her when she’d tried to leave the office. Or at least he’d attempted to. And he’d been surprised as hell when it didn’t work. For that matter, she’d been surprised, too. She’d felt something like a tug on her brain and had instinctively fought against it. But until she’d caught him staring at her like she was a two-headed calf, she hadn’t considered what that pull might be or where it had come from.

  Leighton had warned her when they’d first started working together that vampires had some weird talents and quirks, and, in truth, Lana had encountered too many to list. She’d reached the point where she simply wrote off anything weird that happened around vampires as just one more oddity. But she’d never encountered anything like that mind tug before. Of course, she’d never met a vampire as powerful as Vincent before, either. Maybe whatever it was inside her brain that had resisted his attempts to influence her was so strong that it had brushed off other, weaker vamps without her even being aware of it.

  If that was true, it seemed like a good thing. She’d have to think about it, but not until after this job was done. She had to work with Vincent to find Xuan Ignacio for Raphael. She could worry later about weird vampire powers and what it all meant.

  But now, she had an hour to kill, and her first priority was checking into a hotel. She was accustomed to running on caffeine and going without
sleep, but since she had the time—and since she’d spent hours in her car getting here—she was going to grab a shower and change clothes. She’d made reservations at the San Sebastian hotel. It was nicer than most and reasonably priced, as well as secure enough for a woman traveling alone. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t keep a knife or two at hand when she went to sleep, but odds were she wouldn’t have to use them.

  As soon as she got to her room, she locked the door and started to strip. On her way to the shower, she freed the heavy braid, combing her fingers over her scalp and letting her hair hang loose. It was a heavenly sensation, better even than taking off her bra, which she did a moment later. The bra was a black athletic style. It was on the tight side, but her breasts were no more than average—nicely shaped, but a B cup on a good day. Her hair, on the other hand, was thick and long and heavy, and gathering all that weight into a tight braid was a constant pull on her scalp. Wearing it down wasn’t an option when she was working, however, no matter what the movies showed. She could have cut it short—in fact, she probably should have—but it was her one concession to femininity. Besides, she loved it.

  The shower was hot, the water pressure weak, but she’d come to expect that in even the best hotels in these days of water conservation. The great thing was, she could stand there for as long as it took to soap and rinse her body, and then wash and condition her hair. When she emerged, the pale mocha skin she’d inherited from her Irish father and Mexican mother had a rosy tint and she felt a million times better.

  Unfortunately, the warm massage of the water had also reminded her that she’d slept only a couple of hours before hitting the road, so she popped the top on a can of Coke from the cooler she kept in the car. It wasn’t coffee, but it would do until she could mainline the real thing.

  Wrapping herself in one towel and her hair in another, she pulled down the bedspread and tossed it in a corner. She’d read somewhere that hotel bedspreads were havens for all sorts of unpleasant things, and that they were rarely washed. Her job required that she spend a fair amount of time in hotel rooms, so she’d taken it to heart.

  Propping all of the pillows against the headboard, she sat on the bed and opened her laptop computer. The hotel offered wireless Internet, so she logged on and went first thing to a website where one could pull up a sunrise/sunset table for just about anywhere in the world. She located the one for Hermosillo, downloaded it, then e-mailed it to herself so she’d have it on her cell phone as well.

  Switching back to the human world, she logged into her office voicemail and discovered several messages, including one from her dad. She’d called from the road and left a message on his home number, not wanting him to worry, but not wanting to argue with him about taking one of the guys along either. His message ordered her to check in daily, something she didn’t intend to do. And the rest of the messages convinced her that her dad wasn’t waiting for her to call either. There were . . . she counted . . . eleven messages from Dave Harrington, one of her father’s hunters, probably his number one hunter if she was honest. Dave was a big, handsome guy, with wild blond hair, and he was very good at his job. He was also very good friends with his boss, aka Lana’s dad. In fact, they were such good friends that the two of them had decided Dave should be Sean Arnold’s heir apparent, with Lana his princess, the one he’d marry and thus solidify his role as successor. As if.

  Lana had actually given in and dated Dave during her first year in college, mostly to please her dad. Dave had turned out to be sweet and attentive and full of plans for their future together. And she’d been nineteen and naïve enough to believe him.

  Until she’d discovered that the prince was just another dog who fucked a different woman in every town before coming home to his clueless princess.

  Lana had been a tomboy most of her life, so she hadn’t done much dating in high school. Dave had been her first really serious relationship. They’d gone out for a year and a half, and it had hurt Lana more than she wanted to admit to discover he’d been cheating on her the whole time. She’d had enough pride to make a clean break, but, predictably, Dave hadn’t understood the problem. Apparently, the woman-in-every-town routine was common among the guys in her dad’s office, including her dad himself. They were just men, after all, and away from home a lot. They had needs. What else were they to do?

  But that was seven years ago. Lana had long since moved on and never looked back, while Dave still persisted in introducing her as his fiancée. It was embarrassing to her, but she still had to work with Dave Harrington, so she skimmed through his messages, just in case one of them said something important. Unfortunately, they were all variants on the same theme. Predictably, her dad, the traitor, had told Dave what she was doing. Dave had therefore appointed himself her partner for the venture and was demanding that she stay right where she was until he could join her. Unfortunately—or fortunately from her point of view—he didn’t know exactly where she was, and so she was instructed to contact him immediately with the details.

  Lana rolled her eyes and deleted all of the messages unanswered. Dave Harrington was a good hunter and would probably make a horrible husband for some woman someday. But it wouldn’t be her. He was ten years older than she was, and about a hundred years out of date. He still thought women should clean the house, cook dinner, and have babies. And not worry when her husband strayed, as long as he came home on time.

  Lana, on the other hand, had discovered that she had no desire to clean a fucking house, she couldn’t cook, and if her dad and Dave wanted grandbabies, they’d better find another incubator, because that was not Lana’s idea of heaven. And when it came to her lovers, she had no desire to share.

  She dashed off a quick e-mail to her dad. No details, because he’d just pass them onto Dave, but she let him know she was okay and that the investigation was proceeding smoothly. Dave would find her eventually. Finding people was their profession, after all, and she wasn’t making any serious effort to avoid detection. Pinging her cell phone would be the fastest way. She’d paid cash for the hotel, but he could still track her e-mail back to the local network. She figured she had a day to get out of Hermosillo and on the trail of Xuan Ignacio before Dave showed up. She hoped Vincent was prepared to move fast. Otherwise, she’d leave him behind.

  She considered what his reaction might be when she told him that, and she smiled.

  An hour later, she was out in front of Vincent’s office for the second time that night. She’d changed clothes, but they were pretty much the same as what she’d had on before—a black long-sleeved T-shirt, black combat-style pants and jacket, and lace-up black boots. She had her favorite Sig holstered in its usual place, the shoulder harness hidden by her jacket, and her usual three knives concealed on her person—one in a custom sheath in her right boot, a second in her thigh pocket, and a small but deadly three and a half inch blade in her side pocket. Her hair was back in its tidy braid, still wet underneath, because the crappy hotel hairdryer hadn’t had enough power to dry it completely in the time she’d had to get ready.

  But the air in Hermosillo was warm. It would take care of her wet hair soon enough, and the cool dampness felt good against her freshly moisturized skin.

  As she grabbed her backpack and locked up, she noticed that the nightclub was now completely shut down. No lights, no music, no people crowded around the entrance. She could see light leaking from the closed door and shuttered windows, as if someone was inside, but there was no partying. Maybe they were cleaning up whatever mess had been created earlier—a mess she had no doubt Vincent and his bloodied knuckles had contributed to.

  The door to Vincent’s office clicked open before she got to the top step, proof that someone was paying attention.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Arnold,” the same receptionist said with a quick smile. “Go on in. Lord Vincent is expecting you.”

  Lana kept her surprise from showing. She’d
expected him to keep her waiting, simply because he could. Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible working with him after all. Except for that rampant sexuality of his, of course. She’d have to be on guard against that. And maybe switch to cold showers until this job was over with.

  VINCENT ROSE TO his feet when Lana Arnold entered his office and caught her quickly hidden look of surprise. But he’d been raised to stand when a lady entered the room, even when the lady was dressed like a soldier and wearing a gun. Hell, maybe especially then. Her long, dark hair was back in its confinement, although she’d washed it while she was gone. He could smell the shampoo and sense the lingering trace of moisture.

  He’d set Michael the task of working the phone list, trying to find a vampire in Hermosillo who’d actually known Xuan Ignacio. In the meantime, Vincent had gone on an Internet search seeking the dirt on Lana Arnold. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, there wasn’t much dirt to be found. She’d graduated from University of Arizona with a degree in biology—that had been a surprise—and was now employed by her father, Sean Arnold, in his reasonably successful fugitive recovery, aka bounty hunter, business. Sean employed three hunters full-time, including Lana, and subcontracted several more on a case by case basis. Most of their work was for skip traces, but they did other tasks as well, like tracking down the scions of rich families who’d gone astray and bringing them home to Mummy and Daddy. This current job of Lana’s, delivering a message to a long-lost vampire, wasn’t their usual fare, and he figured it was a one-time deal.