Chapter One

There’s an App for That 

“Do I really look like the kind of girl who would kill someone for just fifty grand?” I ran my fingertips up the stem of my champagne glass and tilted my head to the side, smiling sweetly. “And if you say yes, by the way, I’m going to punch you. Free of charge.”

Craig shifted, gaze darting around the restaurant. I’d picked a nice place I knew, all swanky and expensive. Low candlelight on the tables, classical music playing at just the right volume in the background, wait staff who seemed to disappear into the background and only reappear if something was needed. The hum of voices and occasional brief, lilting laughter from the other patrons was nonintrusive and no one could follow our conversation from the plush burgundy booth where we made our deal. Or attempted to make our deal. Tension had Craig’s shoulders hunched up and he glanced behind him again.

Icky, packed coffee shop or biker bar? Yeah, he probably would’ve thought nothing of it. But you don’t hire an assassin on behalf of your boss in a five star restaurant with the current face of Italian Vogue sitting three tables over next to her NBA boyfriend, and an up and coming director whose film was buzzed about at Sundance sitting in the corner.

Well, most people don’t. But I like to be on my own turf during negotiations so I have the upper hand when some douchetard tries to lowball me.

Like right about now.

I leaned back, plucked my champagne from the table, and took a sip. Sweet, dry, and bubbly. I watched my companion over the rim of the glass. Cocked a brow. Waited for him to finish fidgeting, which might take awhile.

Craig was short, square-shouldered, with very closely cropped dark hair and dark eyes that tried to be hard but failed utterly. A lightweight. He’d dressed well in steel gray Armani for our meeting but the sleeves of his coat were a touch too long and the pants didn’t sit right—bought off the rack, nothing custom tailored. Way over his head.

I set down my glass. Crossed my legs under the table, expensive dress pants shifting over my skin. Smiled again. The flickering candlelight played off the champagne bottle, danced between us. I was quite comfortable and could sit here all night; Craig, I suspected, had no such ability. That he hadn’t left when I said no to fifty grand told me he’d been given a lot more leeway. And that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing.

Of course, I hated it. My secretary had her own place with her girlfriend and while she put me in touch with people, she did fuck all to organize contracts for me now. Over a year of not having to do it and I forgot how much it totally sucked.

At least I was getting good champagne out of it.

Finally my companion leaned forward, table rattling under his elbows in a way that likely had the maitre d’ wringing his hands and prepping to run over. “I can offer up to five hundred.”

Once in awhile I did a charity case for that now. Rarely, though. “What are the particulars? Higher risk to me, higher the pay.”

The phone buzzed in my slim black clutch next to me. Lips twitched, hand clenched, but I held still. Whoever it was could wait. If it was Nic, I’d chew her out and fire her ass for not taking care of this herself.

“Look.” His voice pitched low as he leaned forward even farther, close enough that I thought he might lose his balance and flop on the table. I got a whiff of his cologne and it wasn’t pretty. “I can’t give out anything until you agree.”

Jesus H.— “I’m not agreeing to anything until I know the particulars. Especially not for that paltry sum. Five million? Ten? Hell, I’d do just about anything for numbers like that, including put my very fine person at considerable physical risk. But five hundred thousand doesn’t even cover the property tax I pay in a year. Try again.” I lifted the bottle of champagne from the bucket, ice clanking against the metal, and refilled my glass, then returned it. Took my glass stem. Sat back once more. Sighed dramatically. “Now. Let’s talk target. Who is it?”

Craig, I knew, was from a special organization. I wouldn’t go so far as to say mafia and all the images that idea incurred, but they were involved in crime and they had cash. Otherwise my contacts were all hushed about it. Craig was shit for brains, but his boss wouldn’t have sent a lackey to see me about it if it wasn’t serious.

“Clearly you want it untraceable to your boss or you’d get someone from within the organization,” I offered. “Is it a bigger boss? Someone higher up? Father, maybe?”

Craig’s mouth flapped wordlessly, sweat beading on his brow. He leaned back, shoulders deflating. “Older sister.”

My phone buzzed again. Irritation rose but I smoothed it back. “And what’s so tough about her?”

“She’s...special. Not...entirely human.”

Better and better. “Supernatural kills start at one million. Surely my secretary explained this to you.”

“But—”

“They’re higher risk. Again, my secretary would have told you all this.”

“But my boss—”

“You do not approach Zara Lain, attempt to procure her services as a killer-for-hire, and then punk out on your end of things”—Buzz. Fucking phone—“and continuing the conversation in this direction will, at best result in me leaving here without having a business arrangement with you, and at worst, result me in sending your head back in a box to your boss for insulting me. Now, why don’t you call your boss back—” Buzz. Oh, for fuck’s— “Just hold that decapitation thought for a minute.” I reached for my clutch, popped it open, and plucked out my phone. If it was Nicolette, I was going to—

I stared at the touch screen. Blinked.

Still stared.

Motherfucker.

Panic coated my insides, sudden gooseflesh rising fast and hard on my arms. My fingertips trembled so I shoved my hands down to my sides as I eased toward the edge of the booth. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait!” The table nearly flipped as he tried to follow, scrambling around the corner booth after me as I rose. “I need to tell my boss—”

Everywhere, the restaurant perked up, patrons at tables pausing to watch and wait staff shifting in case they needed to intercede, and I was too irritated to pretend to be embarrassed about the disturbance. Phone held so tightly the edges bit into my fingers, clutch gripped in the other hand, I wove around the tables for the door.

“But what do I tell—”

I spun, dancing backward, and shook my head. “Tell him you caught me at a real bad time.” My back struck the door and I stepped out into the warm summer air.

Shit shit shit SHIT. I held up my phone again as the attendant outside went for my car. Something had happened in the apartment. Jarred the coffin. Unhooked the wires.

It could be anything. Anything at all.

My stomach tightened and I swiped hair from my face as the wind blew it. Fucking Nicolette had to get her own fucking place with her fucking girlfriend when... Shit, there was no sense getting pissy about her. If I was out of town, she’d vampire-sit. It was our agreement. I wasn’t out of town—I was five miles from home. Closer to the apartment than she was, so no sense in calling her.

I glanced at the screen of my phone once more, red jerky lines and WARNING flashing at the top.

Have a boyfriend newly turned into a vampire, in stasis, with no way of knowing when he’d wake? There’s an app for that.

My deep sea blue metallic BMW convertible pulled up. The attendant passed me my keys and I slipped into the driver’s side, slamming my foot down on the gas before I even had my door closed. The engine purred like a sleepy kitten as I sped, quite the contrast to the violent thump of my heart and adrenalin soaked veins.

I hadn’t paid for my drink. Or tipped the valet attendant. Maybe Craig would. If not, I could call and give them my credit card. Or ask Nic to. Or...

Or for three blessed seconds I was thinking about something other than what waited me at home.

I rammed my foot down on the gas, speeding down the busy city streets, and I tried to will away the rising dread in my gut.

And failed miserably.