“Yep, me. Now, what’s the problem?” There was an edge in my voice you could shave with. Like Dawna, I had pretty much reached the end of my ability to put up with Ron’s abuse.
“I’m moving out! I can’t take any more of this. Terrorists! There are actual terrorists after you, with bombs. You being here endangers all of us.” He started to move forward, to try to use that big body to intimidate me, but Baker suddenly appeared just in front of him. She wasn’t aggressive; she barely even seemed to move. But she stopped him cold.
“Okay,” I said in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice. Because, truthfully, imagining Ron out of my hair really was just so incredibly pleasant.
He stood there, blinking a little as if we’d startled him. “Okay?”
I sighed. “Ron, actual terrorists have made viable threats. Any sane and rational person would get as far away from that as possible. I’m a little startled to find out you’re rational, but hey, good on you.” I heard a soft snort of what might have been suppressed laughter. Griffiths, I think. I didn’t look. If I did, Ron would notice and we’d have more of a fuss on our hands than we already did. “You want out of your lease, I’ll let you out. Hell, if you can get moved out by the end of the week and leave the place clean, I’ll not only give you back your deposit, I’ll refund this month’s rent as a gesture of good will.”
It took him a few seconds to take that in. He’d won. But he was Ron, and he was an attorney, he had to push for just that little bit more. “My moving expenses—”
“No.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “No.”
I turned aside and moved around both him and Baker, to the reception desk where Dawna had resumed her usual seat. I was not going to argue. If he took the offer, fine. If he didn’t, he was a fool. Either way, I was finished with it, and him. “When’s my client due?”
Behind me, Griffiths gave a polite cough.
Apparently, I’d been too involved to notice a new arrival. Just great. Peachy. I pasted a smile on my face and turned to greet the newcomer. Points to me, I was even able to hold on to the smile when I saw who it was.
Angelina Bonetti.
Oh, hell. This was so not my day.
“Ms. Bonetti.”
“You know my name.” She wasn’t happy about it. Her eyes had narrowed, her voice polite but chilly. She’d expected to surprise me, have the advantage.
“Bruno showed me your picture.” Oh, she didn’t like that, not a bit. It showed. Apparently he was supposed to keep her from me, like some deep dark secret. The woman he’d always hold a torch for, someone to be ashamed of still having feelings for. And maybe he would have kept her a secret—if I hadn’t found the picture. Or not. Because he’d had the whole day to plan our date. To clean up. Why keep an incriminating photo around if he was embarrassed?
I forced myself to keep smiling. “I understand you were his high-school sweetheart. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be with you in just a minute.” I gestured toward the lobby. I didn’t stay to see if or where she went. Whatever was going to happen next could wait. I was going to the bathroom. Now.
As I was washing up, I took stock of myself in the mirror. I was wearing a nice black suit with a white blouse. My hair was pulled back and my face was made up in my usual business-appropriate way. My bone structure has always been a little harsh, but that became more apparent after the bite—and even more so since I’d dropped weight in Mexico. I’ve learned to keep the fangs hidden most of the time. My skin doesn’t glow green unless I’m vamping, which isn’t often anymore. I could hold my head up at any business meeting in the city. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hold a candle to Angelina Bonetti.
I’ve known some gorgeous people. Vicki Cooper, my best friend since college, was the daughter of a pair of A-list movie stars, and was so beautiful that when she went out in shorts and a tank top she could actually stop traffic. Seriously, I honest-to-God saw a guy almost wreck his car because he was staring at her.
Angelina left Vicki in the shade. She’d grown into the face I’d seen in the photo. She was still petite, tiny even, but with dangerous curves that were emphasized by the crossover cut of the sapphire-blue dress she was wearing. The jewels she wore at her throat, wrist, and ears were sapphires as well, with just enough diamonds to add a little sparkle. Her long, dark hair had been swept back and to one side in a casually messy braid, a style that emphasized a heart-shaped face dominated by huge, doelike eyes and full, red lips.
She was overdressed for a simple business meeting and I doubted it was accidental. How I reacted would determine if she got the upper hand.
“She’s trying too hard. That means she’s nervous.” My reflection smiled at me. It wasn’t a happy smile. But I stiffened my spine, dried my hands, put a quick, glossy shine on my already pink lips, and went back to the lobby by way of the kitchen, where I fetched coffee for myself and my guest.
Baker was coming down the stairs as I entered the room. She gave me a brisk nod to let me know the office was clear. I acknowledged the gesture and turned to my client. “Ms. Bonetti, if you’d like to come upstairs? I hope you like coffee.” I extended the cup to her. “It’s black, but I have cream and sugar available in my office if you’d prefer.”
“Black is fine.” She stood, smoothing her dress with an automatic gesture before taking the cup from my hand. God, she was tiny. I felt awkward and huge standing over her. Normally, this kind of thing doesn’t bother me. Hell, Dawna had to be about this woman’s size. So what was the problem?
Attitude. Which meant I needed to adjust mine. Stat.
Baker took the lead up the stairs; Angelina, Griffiths, and I followed. The stairs to the third-floor office are steep. I’m used to them, and I knew the agents worked out. And it seemed Ms. Bonetti did, too, because she made it to the top without getting breathless or spilling her coffee. Point to her.
As we climbed, I remembered the night I’d gone to the winery in the Napa Valley for the debut of the new wine John Creede had helped create. Before that evening, Dawna, Emma, and I had spent several days in a spa. I’d been pampered and patted, trimmed and manicured. Hair extensions, smoking dress, and perfect makeup.
It took me a few minutes to channel the Celia I’d been that night, but by the time we reached my office, I was the woman John’s assistant had mistaken for a model. Point to me.
We took our seats, me at my desk, Angelina in one of the matching wing-backed visitor chairs. Baker and Griffiths waited outside the closed door.
“So.” I smiled with saccharine sweetness and grabbed the bull by the proverbial horns. “Shall we sharpen our claws, or should we just cut to the chase? I’d prefer the latter. I’ve got a lot to do today.”
She didn’t even blink. “I want him back.”
Wow, that was direct. I took a sip of my coffee before answering. “I’d say that’s up to him.”
“He wouldn’t be with you at all if it weren’t for you using your siren magic on him.” Her words were crisp, her back rigid. It was obvious that she was furious, and I hadn’t done a damned thing. I hadn’t deliberately worked siren magic against Bruno and I’d taken measures to protect him, but I couldn’t help having my siren abilities work against me with Angelina. It made me uneasy, since jealousy can be used to kill us.
I shook my head. “Nice try. But I gave him a charm that counteracts siren magic.”
“He doesn’t wear it.”
She stated it as a fact. There was no doubt in her voice, none, which I found very interesting indeed. She knew about the charm. Bruno might have told her, but I doubted it. No, I’d lay my money that Bruno’s mother was the source of her information. It made me wonder if talking was all Mama had done. The charm had been made with my hair—hair that could be used in all sorts of spells: tracking spells being first among them. Assuming, of course, someone was a witch or mage with a certain level of ability. Bruno’s mother is such a witch. He comes by his talent naturally.