"I'm eating," she said, as if it wasn't obvious. "Can it wait a friggin' ten minutes?"
The dead vampire-at least fifty years her senior on paper, her contemporary by appearances-inclined his head in a practiced motion to convey a sly sophistication mixed with a healthy dose of sex appeal. Soft black curls fell to frame his brown eyes, holding her attention. His small, boyish features and his tight ass made him look like a member of a boy band. He had the same amount of personality, too, unless he made an effort. But God, he smelled good, his aroma mixing with hers to set in play a series of chemical reactions that whipped her blood and sexual libido high. "I'll wait," he said, smiling.
Oh joy. He'd wait. Art's practiced voice sent a trail of anticipation down her back to settle at the base of her spine. Damn it all to hell, he was hungry. Or maybe he was bored. He'd wait. He'd been waiting six months, learning the best way to manipulate her. And she knew she'd more than enjoy herself if she let him.
Bloodlust in living vampires was tied to their sex drive, an evolutionary adaptation helping ensure an undead vampire would have a willing blood supply to keep him or her sane. Being "bidden for blood" imparted a sexual high; the older and more experienced the vampire, the better the rush, the ultimate, of course, being blood-bidden by a powerful undead undead.
Art had been dead for four decades, having passed the tricky thirty-year ceiling where most undead vampires failed to keep themselves mentally intact and walked into the sun. Why Art was still working was a mystery. He must need the money since he certainly wasn't good at his job.
The vampire breathed deeply as he stood on her threshold, pulling in her mood the way she inhaled a rare fragrance. Sensing her rising agitation, Art rocked into motion, rounding her desk and easing himself down in her leather office chair in the corner. Her face blanked as her pulse quickened. Art was the only person to ever sit there. Most people respected her attempts to avoid office friendships-if her sharp sarcasm and outright ignoring them weren't enough. But then, Art didn't like her for her personality but for the reputation he had yet to get a taste of.
Eyes on her immaculate desk, Ivy exhaled. He was dead, and she was alive. They were both vampires driven by blood: she sexually, he for survival. A match made in heaven-or hell.
Art reclined, smiling, with his long legs crossed and an ankle on one knee, managing to look powerful and relaxed at the same time. He brushed his hair back, trailing his fingers suggestively across his face kept at a clean-shaven tidiness as he tried to blend in with the younger crowd who would be more receptive to what he offered.
A shiver of anticipation rose through her. It didn't make any difference that it came from Art pumping the air full of pheromones rather than true interest. The desire to satiate herself was as much a part of her as breathing. Inescapable. Why not get it over with? The gossip was because she was resisting, not because it was expected. And that was why he sat there in his expensive slacks and shirt with his two-hundred-dollar shoes and that confident bad-boy smile. The dead could afford to be patient.
"Tying off some of your loose ends?" she said dryly, glancing at the packet of papers and leaning back. She wanted to cross her arms over her chest, but instead put her boot heels up on the corner of her desk. Confident. She was in control of herself and her desires. Art could turn her into a pliant supplicant if he bespelled her, but that was cheating, and he would lose more than face, he'd lose the respect of every vamp in the tower. He had to bid for her blood. Playing on her bloodlust was expected, but bespelling her would piss Piscary off. She wasn't a human to be taken advantage of and the paperwork "adjusted." She was the last living Tamwood vampire, and that demanded respect, especially from him.
"Homicide," he said, his teeth a white flash against his dark skin that hadn't seen the sun in decades. "We can get there before the photographer if you're done with your . . . lunch."
She allowed a sliver of her surprise to show. A homicide wouldn't come with that much information. Not anymore. She had pulled their solved ratio high enough that they were often among the first on the scene. Which meant they'd get an address, not a file. As her eyes returned to the papers he had set over his crotch, he moved them so she was looking right where he wanted her to. Irritation flickered over her. Her eyes rose to meet his gaze, and his smile widened to show a glimpse of teasing fang.
"This?" he said, standing in a graceful motion too fast for a human. "This is your six-month evaluation. Ready to go? It's clear across the bridge in the Hollows."
Ivy stood, part habit and part worry. Her work had been textbook exemplary. Art didn't want her moving up the ladder and out from under him, but the worst scenario would be a reprimand, and she hadn't done anything to warrant that. Actually the worst would be that he'd give her a shitty review and she'd be stuck here another six months.
Her job in homicide was a short stop on the way to where she belonged in upper management, where her mother had been and where Piscary wanted her to be. She had expected to be on this floor for six months, maybe a year, working with Art until her honed skills pulled her into the Arcane Division, and then to management, and finally a lower-basement office. Thank God her money and schooling let her skip the grunt position of runner. Runners were the lowest in the I.S. tower, the cops on the corner giving traffic tickets. Starting there would have put her back a good five years.
Confident and suave, Art brushed by her, his hand trailing across the upper part of her back in a professional show of familiarity that no one could find fault with as he guided her out of her office. "Let's take my car," he said, plucking her purse and coat from behind her door and giving them to her. A jingle of metal pulled her hand up in anticipation, and she caught his keys as he dropped them into her waiting palm. "You drive."
Ivy said nothing, her faint bloodlust evaporating in concern. That he was pleased with her evaluation meant she wouldn't be. Arms swinging as if unconcerned, she walked beside him to the elevators, finding herself in the unusual position of meeting the faces of the few people eating at their desks. She hadn't made friends, so instead of sympathy, she found a mocking satisfaction.
Her tension rose, and she kept her breathing to a measured pace to force her pulse to slow. Whatever Art had scrawled on her evaluation was going to keep her here-her family name and money had pulled her as far as they could. Unless she played office politics, this was where she was going to stay. With Art? The luscious-smelling, drop-dead gorgeous, but lackluster Art?