Chapter One
That morning, two hours after she received an
anonymous e-mail that included an address and a short message,
Maggie Wren boarded a flight from San Francisco to New York.
Accompanied by the hellhound that Maggie’s employer had demanded
she bring with her, she arrived at JFK in midafternoon. The address
led her to a brownstone in Brooklyn. Despite the busy streets and
the glaring sun that exposed her movements, she picked the lock at
the front door and dismantled the security system.
With a silent hand gesture, she instructed the
hellhound to check the first level. Upstairs, the first two
bedrooms stood open and empty, except for a shirt and jeans strewn
over the floor of the second. Maggie kicked through a third door
when she found it locked.
Her target—Geoffrey Blake—was sitting naked on the
wooden floor, handcuffed to a radiator. He’d drawn his knees up and
rested his back against the wall beneath a lace-curtained window.
Although her foot slamming against the door could have woken the
dead, his eyes remained closed.
Maggie swept the room with her gun before shoving
the weapon into the holster beneath her blazer.
She crossed to Blake’s side, retrieving her lock
picks from her jacket’s inside pocket. He wasn’t completely naked,
she noted. Her gaze skipped to his black briefs as she crouched and
reached for the handcuffs. Yellow smiley faces grinned up at her
from the elastic waistband.
“At least someone is happy to see me,” Maggie said.
Or maybe the smiley faces were just thrilled to be hugging his
muscled abdomen. Smug little bastards.
“I would be,” Blake replied in a deep, dry voice,
“if I could see you.”
He raised his head and opened his eyes, revealing
irises of light blue—and no pupils. From rim to rim, the color was
solid.
Maggie’s fingers twitched. The metal pick slipped
out of the keyhole and jabbed his wrist. Shit. She murmured an
apology, her mind racing.
Blind. Yet nothing in Blake’s dossier had indicated
it. How had he kept the disability unlisted on his official
records? Why keep it hidden?
And why hadn’t Maggie’s employer prepared her
before she’d flown across the country to rescue him? More than
that—what the hell had her employer been thinking by letting Blake
come to New York alone? Had he actually expected his nephew—a man
who couldn’t see, for God’s sake—to track down the woman who’d
disappeared from a New York hotel room two days ago?
That the woman was Blake’s sister was even more
reason not to have sent him. Caring too much led to carelessness.
Which, Maggie thought, was probably why Blake was handcuffed to a
radiator.
But at least his blindness explained why her
employer had insisted that she bring the dog.
“You didn’t know,” Blake said.
Maggie worked at the lock, pulling herself out of
assignment mode and slipping back into the deferential courtesy
required by her newest occupation: household management and
personal security.
Which, she’d often thought, was just a nice way of
saying that she was a butler with a gun.
She popped the first cuff, moved on to the second.
“Mr. Ames-Beaumont must have considered your blindness irrelevant
to my objective, sir.”
“Is it relevant?”
“No, sir.” She had to get Blake out of here, either
way.
“Sir?” His faint smile didn’t soften his strong
features. The beginnings of a dark beard shadowed his jaw. His
nose, Maggie thought, would have done a Stoic emperor proud. “If
you are calling me ‘sir,’ then you must be the recently
acquired—and, according to Uncle Colin, the already
indispensable—Winters.”
There was no point in correcting him. She’d been
called more offensive names before. And she didn’t know why
Ames-Beaumont had taken to calling her “Winters,” but considering
the salary he paid her, she’d decided that he could address her
however he wished.
The billionaire owner of Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals
had high standards for his employees—and the closer to his family
those employees were, the higher those standards were.
And he’d called her indispensable. Not easily
disposed of and replaced. She’d never been that before.
But she couldn’t afford to acknowledge the warm
glow the secondhand praise brought, or the despair that it would
change.
Yes, “Winters” was much better than what he’d soon
be calling her.
“You are correct, sir.” Despite the tightening of
her throat, her voice remained even. “I am.”
“Of course you are. And, of course, when we finally
meet, I am like this.” Blake gestured at himself with his free
hand. “Do you know why you’ve found me half-naked? Do you know what
this is?”
Finally meet? He’d said that as if they’d
communicated before. Maggie was certain they hadn’t. Blake had been
in Britain since she’d begun working for his uncle three months
ago. Before that, he’d traveled as often and as extensively as she
had, but they’d never been in the same place at the same time—with
one exception, four years ago. Maggie hadn’t seen him then; she
would have remembered. And he couldn’t have seen her.
So whatever he meant by “finally,” it had little to
do with her. More likely, it referenced a conversation between him
and his uncle—perhaps the one where she’d been described as
indispensable. “I don’t know, sir. What is this?”
“This is karma. This is every negative thing I’ve
done, coming back to take a big bite of my ass.”
The tightness in her throat eased. She strove to
match the light tone his response invited. “That is unfortunate.
Particularly as, in my professional opinion, the consequences of
your actions are worse than you imagine.”
“Why do you say that, Winters?”
“Because you are much more than half-naked,
sir. And although I have many talents, protecting you from mystical
kar mic forces is not one of them.”
He tilted his head, as if weighing that. “So
chances are, I’ll lose my shorts before we’re done.”
She ignored the little jolt in her stomach as his
smile widened, carving crescents beside his mouth. In the humid
air, his overlong hair had curled over his forehead and at his neck
and ears. Combined with the smile, his dishevelment was
unexpectedly appealing.
The job, Maggie. “We’ll try to avoid that,
sir.” Though unlocking the cuffs required touch rather than sight,
she focused on her fingers. “Your uncle sends his regrets that he
wasn’t able to come.”
“I could hardly expect a vampire to catch an
early-morning flight to New York.”
Perhaps not a normal vampire, no. Even if one could
rise from his daily sleep, he’d burst into flames at the touch of
the sun. But Colin Ames-Beaumont wasn’t a normal vampire, and so he
could have come—but his fiancée couldn’t travel during the day, and
the vampire would never leave his partner unprotected.
“I was the most expedient option,” Maggie
explained.
“How fortunate for me.”
Fortune had nothing to do with it. After reading
the e-mail, she’d convinced Ames-Beaumont to send her, citing the
same qualifications that had led him to hire her: a level head,
weapons expertise, and a history of successful troubleshooting
missions.
But Maggie hadn’t mentioned the “You can stop me,
Brunhilda” written in the e-mail beneath the brownstone’s address,
or that she had a very good idea who’d done this to Blake.
She grazed her fingers over Blake’s inner wrist as
she opened the second cuff. He was perspiring in the stifling room,
and his skin was warm. Warm, but not hot—and so not belonging to a
shape-shifted demon acting as a decoy.
Blake’s large hand caught hers. It was difficult to
remember that his eyes were sightless when he stared into hers with
such intensity. “It’s good to know that you’re who you say,
too.”
Maggie didn’t point out that she’d said her name
was Winters. “There’s a needle mark on the inside of your
elbow.”
Blake released her hand. “He took blood.”
That was . . . strange. “How much?” She didn’t
think it had been too much; Blake’s color was good beneath
his tan. “Can you walk? Were you drugged?”
“Yes. Some sort of sedative.” Blake lifted his jaw,
exposing a swelling on his neck the size of a bee sting. “I was on
the sidewalk outside my hotel. He pushed me into a taxi, told the
driver I was drunk. I blacked out after that.”
And his abductor hadn’t tried to avoid being seen.
Not a good sign. There were three primary reasons a criminal didn’t
hide his identity: he wanted to be caught, he assumed he’d never be
punished . . . or he already knew he wouldn’t get out alive.
“‘He’? You’re sure? And not a demon or a
vampire?”
“Yes. Male. Human.”
That’s what she’d been afraid of. Demons were
forbidden to physically harm humans, and so couldn’t do anything
except tempt and bargain. Vampires weren’t bound by the same rules,
but were helpless during the daylight hours.
But a human could be dangerous at any
time—especially if it was the man Maggie suspected it was.
She prayed it wasn’t James. If it wasn’t, that
meant she hadn’t made the wrong decision three years ago when she’d
let him go. But if James had sent her that e-mail, if he’d abducted
Katherine . . . she might have to really kill him this
time.
And then flee to save her own life. When
Ames-Beaumont discovered her deception and her connection to the
man who’d endangered his family, the vampire would kill her.
After she sent his nephew home in one piece,
perhaps he’d make it quick. And if she found Katherine, maybe
Ames-Beaumont would let Maggie go.
Or at least give her a head start.
“Your clothes are in one of the other bedrooms,”
she said, and stood. “Let’s get you dressed and head out.”
“Did someone come with you?” Blake asked.
Maggie glanced over her shoulder. Inside the
bedroom, Blake was hitching his jeans up over a backside that, even
chewed up by karma, still looked damn good. With his tall, leanly
muscled build, all of him looked good.
But not flawless. A puckered scar marred his upper
left shoulder. There hadn’t been a scar in front, so the bullet
hadn’t punched through. Removing it would’ve required surgery, yet
there were no gunshot wounds or hospital stays listed in his
medical history.
According to his profile and the pile of write-ups
from his supervisors, Blake did nothing at Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals
but dick around behind his desks and research stations. According
to his body, he did much more than that.
Maggie wasn’t surprised by the evidence his body
offered. Although she hadn’t anticipated his blindness, she’d
assumed there was more to Geoffrey Blake than his frequent
transfers between Ramsdell’s international subsidiaries suggested.
Even if nepotism and family connections had played a part in
Blake’s employment history, Ames-Beaumont would never have relied
on an incompetent man to lead the search for Katherine.
So Geoffrey Blake wouldn’t be inept—and no stranger
to dangerous situations.
“No,” Maggie finally answered. “Except for a dog, I
came alone.”
Blake cocked his head before giving it a shake. To
Maggie, his silence seemed to be of confusion rather than just
caution.
Or was it disorientation? She continued, “We’ll
have your blood tested to make sure the drug—”
“No.” Blake turned, pushing his dark hair back off
his forehead. “The Ramsdell offices in New York don’t have labs. We
don’t send my blood anywhere else. I’m fine.”
She couldn’t blame him for his paranoia, not after
he’d already had his blood stolen. “Very well. Are you
ready?”
As an answer, Blake walked unerringly toward her.
Guided by the direction of her voice, Maggie guessed. When he drew
close and stopped, she had to look up at him. That didn’t happen
often, whether she was in boots or bare feet.
Her gaze skipped from his knees to his ribs to his
throat. A single blow would eliminate her height
disadvantage.
But taking him out wasn’t necessary; getting him
out was. “Have you trained with guide dogs?”
His expression tightened, but she couldn’t read
anything in his face. “Yes. Uncle Colin sent one with you?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Maggie backed into the
hallway and called out, “Sir Pup!”
The hellhound trotted into view and clambered up
the stairs, his tongues lolling from each of his three enormous
heads.
“We need the harness,” Maggie said as he reached
the landing. “You’ll escort Mr. Blake downstairs and to our
vehicle.”
Sir Pup brushed past her hip and padded into the
bedroom, his black fur gleaming over heavy muscle. His middle head
looked Blake up and down. His right examined the room, and with his
left, he turned to glance over his shoulder at Maggie.
She had no doubt that the expression pulling at his
lips and exposing razor-edged teeth was a grin.
Her eyes narrowed. “You won’t take him anywhere but
to the vehicle and through the airport,” she ordered. “And you
won’t leave him anywhere, either.”
The hellhound’s grin lengthened. Oh, damn. Most
likely, she’d just added another idea to whatever mischief had
already been percolating in his heads.
She returned her gaze to Blake and frowned. His
skin had paled to a sickly gray. When he weaved on his feet, she
stepped forward and caught his elbow.
“Mr. Blake?”
He visibly gathered himself. His chest rose on a
long breath before he echoed, “Sir Pup?”
Maggie began to nod, then realized Blake wouldn’t
see it. “Yes.”
“The hellhound? The one that my uncle
watches from time to time?”
Actually, it was the other way around. Sir Pup was
the companion to Ames-Beaumont’s closest friend, and it was true
that the vampire sometimes let the hellhound stay in his mansion.
But it was the hellhound who watched over Ames-Beaumont; Sir Pup
helped Maggie protect the house on those days the vampire succumbed
to his sleep.
Demons were the only real threat to Ames-Beaumont
while he slept, and they had nothing to fear from Maggie’s gun—but
Sir Pup’s venom could paralyze a demon, and his massive jaws could
easily rip one apart.
Maggie was not willing to reveal the details of
Ames-Beaumont’s security, however—even to his nephew. She said
only, “Yes.”
“In his demon form?”
He wasn’t, thank goodness. But if Blake knew that
Sir Pup had a demon form, then it was no wonder he’d been so
pale a moment ago. Maggie was used to the three heads, but she
didn’t think she’d ever be comfortable with the giant, terrifying
hound he could become.
“No. Right now he looks like a three-headed black
Labrador.” A very large black Lab. When Maggie knelt beside the
hellhound, her eyes were level with his shoulder. “Once we’re
outside, he’ll shape-shift back to one head. Sir Pup, the
harness?”
The guide apparatus appeared in her hand. Sir Pup’s
invisible, formless hammerspace allowed him to store almost any
object, but even a hellhound couldn’t make a retriever-sized
harness fit over a bear-sized torso.
“And shrink, please,” Maggie said, rolling her
eyes. The hellhound was being a pain in the ass by forcing her to
ask him to shift into a smaller form.
Probably, she thought, so that Blake wondered
exactly how big the hellhound had been. Though Sir Pup was
friendly enough to be considered a bad hellhound by Hell’s
standards, he still enjoyed making people uneasy. He just had a
better sense of humor than most hellhounds—and was less likely to
tear out throats first, and eat the rest later.
Or so Maggie had heard. She’d never been to Hell,
and so she’d never met any other hellhounds. If her luck was
good—and if every negative thing she’d done in her life didn’t land
her in the Pit as soon as she bit the big one—she never
would.
And if her luck was very good, she’d never run into
another demon, either. After discovering that her previous employer
was one, she’d had enough of them to last her a lifetime.
She adjusted the last harness strap and gave Sir
Pup a scratch behind the ears of his left head. His dark eyes
glowed faintly crimson before rolling back in ecstasy. A freakishly
powerful and terrifying hellhound, sure—but pettings and food were
two things guaranteed to make him more biddable.
“Don’t leave him anywhere,” Maggie murmured, “and
I’ll see that Ames-Beaumont buys out a butcher shop for you.”
Apparently satisfied with that bribe, Sir Pup
pranced to Blake’s side. Blake curled his fingers around the
harness handle.
“Why would it be a problem if he does lead
me out to the middle of nowhere? You’ll be there.”
Blake had heard her? There was obviously nothing
wrong with his ears. “I won’t be,” Maggie said, moving into the
hall and gesturing for Sir Pup to follow her down the stairs. “I’m
taking you to the airport. He’ll accompany you on the plane.”
“What plane?”
Maggie stopped beside the front door and glanced
through the window. Her gaze skipped from vehicle to vehicle, from
person to person. She didn’t recognize anyone, and no one tripped
the instinctual alarm in her gut that, over the years, she’d
learned to trust.
Of course, it had let her down a few times, so she
kept her hand on her gun.
“Sir Pup, you have too many heads,” she reminded
the hellhound before answering Blake. “I’ll charter a plane to take
you back to San Francisco. Mr. Ames-Beaumont can look after you
while I—”
“Not a chance,” Blake said.
“—find your sister,” Maggie finished over
him.
“Find her where? Do you have information about
where he’s taken her that I don’t?”
She opened the door. “No.”
Not yet, anyway.