I frowned considering him, considering the information. "Why would three men from the local council be visiting a place like Dante's when there are more upmarket venues available?"
He smiled. It was a luscious, hungry thing that swept across my senses as warmly as a caress. "As much as there are humans who do not wish their addiction known, there are also vampires who feel the same. Besides, Dante himself is a member of the council. Maybe they felt safer there."
Yet they obviously weren't. But I guess being on the council at a time when the general vampire population was extremely unhappy about the clubs and the laws surrounding them might just make them targets, especially if they were seen as hypocrites for patronizing the blood whore clubs. So was that what was going on here? A bit of retribution from the ranks?
Maybe the fact that all three murders happened near Dante's was some sort of warning to him. Maybe he'd pissed the wrong person off—which, according to Jack, wouldn't have been hard.
Still, if that were the case, why attack the other councilors in the first place? Why not go after him direct?
"How could you know all this?" I said, taking another sip of wine and feeling the mellowness grow. A dangerous situation, given the company. I put down the glass and added, "And why were you even there in the first place? We both know your monitoring equipment wouldn't be anywhere near Dante's."
And even if he'd cut into the feed from Dante's own security cameras, none of them had been pointing into the parking lot.
"I'm interviewing all Dante's regular cliental in an effort to get a clearer picture of my target's behavior." He shrugged, a casual movement that didn't match the intensity of his gaze.
"From what I saw in the club, that's a pretty useless exercise. The whores care for nothing more than their next fix."
He shrugged again. "Leaving nothing to chance is a rule I live by."
And something I'd do well to remember. "How can you be sure the three victims and Dante are—were—members of the local council?"
"I'm a siphon, remember, and stakeouts are boring. Let's just say that, when I'm in the club, I amuse myself by seeing how much information I can steal from a vamp's mind before he becomes aware." He contemplated me for a moment. "Haven's shields were nowhere near as strong as yours."
Starke had told me that Haven had been on vacation, and that his first night back was the night he'd been murdered. Meaning either Kye or Starke was lying. But which one? Right now, I had no flaming idea.
"Did you actually see anything the night Haven died?"
"A car taking off in a hurry. A blue Ford, tinted windows. Couldn't see the driver but I did get the plate number." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and slid it across the table to me.
I ignored it for a moment, meeting his gaze, holding it. "Did you kill Grant Haven?"
"No, I did not." There wasn't a flicker in the blue of his eyes. Nothing to indicate a lie. Part of me wanted to believe him—did believe him—yet I knew this man was a professional killer who could probably lie his way out of hell itself.
There was one way to find out for sure, and yet I couldn't force myself to take that step. Aside from the fact that he was a siphon and able to steal the use of my shields, I didn't really want to get into his thoughts and discover what he really felt about me.
I was too much of a coward to face the reality of that. It was far better for my own emotional stability to keep thinking that this was nothing more than a challenge—a game—to him.
The waiter came in through the side door and began clearing the table. I picked up the paper, taking care not to touch Kye's fingers. His writing was neat, careful—much like the man himself. I folded it up and slipped it into my purse.
"Do you wish dessert?" the waiter asked, once he'd finished clearing the dishes.
Kye glanced at me, eyebrow raised. I shook my head. "No, thanks. I really have to go."
A smile twitched Kye's lush lips, but all he said was, "Just make it the usual. Thanks, Joseph."
"Very good, sir." The waiter departed, closing the door softly behind him. Music drifted through the silence, its beat shifting from the gentle, erotic melodies that had accompanied our dinner to something more upbeat and danceable. I found my foot tapping, and stilled it abruptly.
"Anything else I should know about?" As a dangerous—and sexy—glint sparked in his eyes, I added hastily, "Anything else you might have seen or heard and forgot to mention?"
"Nothing I can think of."
"Then I need to go."
I rose and walked over to retrieve my shoe. But as I bent to pick it up, he slipped up behind me, his hand clamping around my hip and drawing me back against his long, strong body.
"Dance with me," he murmured, his breath stirring my hair and tickling my neck.
"No," I said, but it came out breathy as his other hand came around my hip and resting on the flat of my stomach. His touch was so hot it felt like he was branding me, and the fires that had been on slow burn during the meal exploded into life.
Slowly, rhythmically, he began to sway in time to the music, his body pressed against mine, guiding me, teasing me. I closed my eyes, knowing I needed to break away if I didn't want this to go any further and yet unable to stop myself from moving in time with the music and his body.
The sensible part of my nature might not want this, but my wolf wasn't always sensible, and she needed his touch as badly as I needed regularly doses of coffee.
His lips brushed the nape of my neck and my breath caught. He kissed me again, his mouth butterfly light and yet searing deep. Don't, don't, don't, part of me was screaming. And yet I just didn't have the will to pull away.
His right hand eased upwards, skimming the soft material of my dress until it rested underneath the swell of my breast. He paused, his breath quickening against my neck, matching the rhythm of my own. For several seconds, we moved to the music, my body trembling, waiting for his caress to rise, needing it to rise. But instead, he moved his hand down again. The shudder that rolled through me was unfulfilled longing and relief and disappointment all rolled into one.
His fingertips brushed down my belly, over the hand that held me against him so firmly, then continued on, skimming my pubic mound, sending another shudder of delight coursing through my body. But his caress didn't linger, sliding on down my thigh. When he could reach no further, his fingers began gathering the material, hitching up the hem of the dress until he could caress skin. Slowly, surely, he began making his way upwards again, his fingertips brushing my inner thigh, the heat of his touch branding me, making me ache, quiver. A moan escaped as he cupped my mound and let his clever fingers play along the silk of my panties.
And still we danced, moving to the music, our bodies molded together, his erection pressed against my butt, as heated as the rest of his flesh. I wanted that heat. Needed it.
No, the inner voice screamed, don't do this. But the voice of resistance was weaker, drowning under the myriad of sensations flooding through me.
I wanted this. I'd come here for this.
And we both knew it.
Even if I hadn't actually admitted it until right now.
The hand resting on the flat of my stomach moved upwards. His fingers found the edge of top and slid underneath, brushing lightly across my erect nipple. I shuddered and arched back against him. He chuckled softly, and kissed my ear, my neck, my shoulder. His teeth caught skin, nipping lightly, playfully. A tremor ran through me and the deep ache increased.
If you can't walk away, that inner voice said. Then seduce him. Don't let him be the aggressor. That way, he wins.