Raphael didn't know whether the other angel meant that literally. Some long-mated angelic pairs were rumored to share an effortless mental link, untrammeled by time or distance, but if they did, none ever talked about it. "Then you are indeed blessed."
"Yes." Elijah leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. "How could this have happened with Uram? Why did no one see?"
Raphael realized the other man truly had no idea. "He wasn't mated and Michaela cares for no one but herself."
"Harsh." But he didn't refute the summation.
"You have Hannah to tell you if you're getting close to the edge. Uram was alone."
"There were servants, assistants, other angels."
"Uram was never merciful," Raphael said. "He rewarded any show of spine with torture. As a result, his castle was filled with those who hated him and those who feared him. It didn't matter to them if he lived or died."
Elijah looked up, his eyes clear, almost human. "There's a lesson for you there, Raphael."
"Now you are acting like my big brother."
Elijah laughed, the only archangel aside from Favashi who ever did such a thing and meant it. "No, I see in you a leader. With Uram gone, the Cadre of Ten has the potential to fragment-you know what happened the last time we splintered."
The Dark Age of man and angel, when vampires bathed in blood and the angels were too busy warring with each other to care. "Why me? I'm younger than you, than Lijuan."
"Lijuan is . . . no longer of this world." Frown lines creased his forehead. "She is, I think, the oldest angel in existence. She's gone beyond petty problems."
"This is no petty problem." But he understood Elijah's meaning. Lijuan no longer looked upon this world. Her sight was focused somewhere far in the distance. "If not Lijuan, why not you? You're the most stable of us all."
Elijah fanned out his wings as he thought. "My rule in South America has never been challenged. It's true I have a steel hand with dissent, but," he said, shaking his head, "I have no desire for killing or blood. To hold the Cadre together, the leader must be more dangerous than any other."
"You call me brutal to my face," Raphael commented softly.
Elijah shrugged. "You inspire fear without Astaad's cruelty, or Michaela's capriciousness. It was why you clashed with Uram-you were too close to taking what was his. The leadership is already yours, whether you know it or not."
"And now Uram is being hunted." Raphael saw, in that vision, his future. To be tracked like an animal. By a woman with dawn-colored hair and eyes as silver as a cat's. "Go home to your Hannah, Elijah. I will do what has to be done." Draw blood, end the life of an immortal. But that, of course, was a misnomer. An archangel could die . . . but only at the hands of another archangel.
"Will you rest this night?" Elijah asked as they both stood.
"No. I must speak to the hunter." To Elena.
Elena finished her preliminary research on Uram and sat back, nausea a pulsing fist in her throat. Uram had ruled-and as far as the rest of the world knew, still ruled-parts of eastern Europe and all of neighboring Russia. Oh, just like America, those countries had their presidents and prime ministers, their parliaments and councils, but everyone knew that true power rested in the hands of the archangels. Government, business, art-there was nothing they didn't influence, either directly or indirectly.
Uram, it appeared, was a very hands-on sort of guy.
It had been the first story she'd found-a news article about the president of a tiny country that had once been part of the Soviet Union. The president, one Mr. Chernoff, had made the mistake of defying Uram publicly, calling for citizens to boycott the draconian archangel's businesses, as well as those of his "vampire children," and patronize those run by humans. Elena didn't agree with the president's rhetoric. Being humancentric was a kind of prejudice, too. What about all those poor vampires who were only out to make a living for their families? Most vampires didn't automatically gain power with the transformation-that took centuries. Some would always remain weak.
After reading the first few paragraphs of the article, which summarized President Chernoff's policies, she'd expected the story to end with a notice of his funeral arrangements. To her surprise, she'd discovered the president was alive . . . if you could call it that.
Soon after his inflammatory comments, Mr. Chernoff had suffered an unfortunate car accident-his driver had lost control of the wheel and crashed into an oncoming semi. That driver had walked away without a scratch, a feat labeled "miraculous." El presidente hadn't been so lucky. He'd had so many broken bones the doctors said he'd never regain full use of his limbs. His eye sockets had shattered inward, destroying his eyes. And his throat had been crushed just enough to ruin his vocal cords . . . but not to kill him.
He could no longer hold a pen or type.
He could no longer speak.
He could no longer see.
No one had dared enunciate it, but the message had come through loud and clear. Defy Uram and you would be silenced. The politician who'd stepped in to take Chernoff's place had pledged allegiance to Uram even before he took the oath of office.
Say what you would about Raphael, she found herself thinking, but at least he was no tyrant. She had no illusions about the fact that he ran North America with an iron fist, but he didn't meddle in inconsequential human affairs. A few years back, they'd even had a mayoral candidate who'd pledged to flout the archangel should he be elected. Raphael had let the campaign run, his only response a slight smile when some reporter dared approach him.
That smile, that hint that he found the whole situation ridiculous, had sunk the mayoral hopeful's chances as surely as the Titanic. The man had slunk off, never to be seen again. Raphael had achieved victory without drawing a single drop of blood. And he'd retained his powerful status in the eyes of the population.
"That doesn't make him good," she muttered, worried about the direction of her thoughts. Raphael might shine in comparison to Uram, but that wasn't saying much.
It was Raphael who'd threatened to harm little Zoe, no one else.
"Bastard," she muttered, repeating Sara's imprecation. That threat put him in the same league as Uram. The European archangel had reportedly once destroyed an entire school full of five-to-ten-year-olds after the villagers asked him to remove his pet vampire from their midst.
Elena would have frowned on such a request had the vamp not been taking blood forcibly. He'd violated several of the village females, left them broken. The villagers had turned to Uram for help. He'd replied by killing their children and stealing their women. That had been over three decades ago and none of those women had ever been seen again. The village no longer existed.
He was, without a doubt, a very bad man. And she was-
Something tapped on the plate-glass window.
Hand sliding down to retrieve the knife hidden under the coffee table, she glanced up. Her eyes locked with those of an archangel. Silhouetted against the glittering Manhattan skyline, he should've appeared diminished, but he was even more beautiful than in daylight. It was a measure of his control that he barely had to move his wings to maintain position-the sheer power of him buffeted her even through the glass.
She swallowed and stood. "That window doesn't open," she said, wondering if he could hear her.
He pointed upward. She felt her eyes widen. "The roof isn't-" But he was already gone.
"Damn it!" Angry at him for catching her unawares, for inciting this assuredly fatal edge of attraction, she slid the knife back, closed the laptop, and left the apartment.
It took her several minutes to get to the roof and push open the door. "I'm not coming out there!" she called out when she didn't see him. The top of her building had been designed by some avant-garde architect who believed in form over function-a series of uneven, jagged peaks spread out in front of her. It was impossible to walk on them without sliding and falling to your death. "No, thank you," she muttered, feeling the wind whip her hair off her face as she waited with the door partly open. "Raphael!"
Maybe, she thought, the architect hadn't been avant-garde at all. Maybe he'd simply hated angels. That sounded good to her about then. She might admire their wings, but she had no misapprehensions about their inner goodness. "Inner goodness. Hah!" She snorted and suddenly he was landing in front of her, his wings flooding her vision.
She backed up a step without meaning to and by the time she recovered, he was inside and closing the door. Damn it, she hated that he could make her react like a green recruit tracking her first vamp. If it went on like this much longer, she'd lose all respect for herself. "What?" she asked, folding her arms.
"Is this how you welcome all your guests?" His mouth held no hint of a smile, yet it was sensuality personified, lush and ultimately seductive.
She took another step backward. "Stop it."
"What?" A hint of genuine confusion in those blue, blue eyes.
"Nothing." Get a grip, Elena. "Why are you here?"
He stared at her for several long seconds. "I'd like to talk to you about the hunt."
"So talk."
He looked around the confines of the landing no one ever used. The metal stairs were rusted, the single lightbulb yellow and on the verge of going out. Flicker. Flicker. A two-second stretch. Then flicker, flicker. The pattern kept repeating, driving her half crazy. Raphael was obviously not impressed either. "Not here, Elena. Show me to your rooms."
She scowled at the order. "No. This is work-we'll go to Guild headquarters and use a meeting room."
"It matters little to me." A shrug that drew her attention to the breadth of his shoulders, the powerful arch of his wings. "I can fly there within minutes. It'll take you at least half an hour, perhaps longer-there has been an accident on the road leading to your Guild."
"An accident?" Her mind flooded with the gruesome details of the "accident" she'd just been reading about. "Sure you didn't arrange it?"
He gave her an amused look. "If I wished to, I could force you to do anything I wanted. Why would I go to the trouble of such maneuverings?"
The bald way he pointed out his power, and her lack of it, made her fingers itch for a blade.
"You shouldn't look at me in that fashion, Elena."
"Why?" she asked, prodded by some heretofore unknown suicidal streak. "Scared?"
He leaned a fraction closer. "My lovers have always been warrior women. Strength intrigues me."
She refused to let him play with her like this, even if her body disagreed. Vehemently. "Do knives intrigue you, too? Because touch me and I will cut you up. I don't care if you throw me off the nearest balcony."
He seemed to pause, as if thinking. "That is not how I would choose to punish you. It'd end far too quickly."
And she remembered that this was no human male she was parrying with. This was Raphael, the archangel who'd broken every single bone in a vampire's body to prove a point. "I won't let you into my home, Raphael." Into her haven.
A silence weighted with the crushing pressure of a hidden threat. She remained still, sensing she'd pushed him far enough tonight. And while she knew her worth, she also knew that to an archangel, she was, in the end, expendable.
His blue eyes filled with flames as power crackled through the air. She was an inch away from taking her chances and trying to outrun him in the narrow confines of the stairwell, when he spoke. "Then we'll go to your Guild."
She blinked in wary disbelief. "I'll follow you by car." Her ride was a Guild vehicle-like most hunters, she was out of the country so much that keeping her own wasn't worth the hassle.
"No." His hand closed over her wrist. "I don't wish to wait. We'll fly."
Her heart stopped. Literally. When it kicked back to life, she could barely speak. "What?" It was an undignified squeak.
But he was already opening the door, tugging her along.
She dragged her heels. "Wait!"
"We fly or we go to your home. Choose."
The arrogance of the command was breathtaking. As was the fury. The Archangel of New York did not like being told no. "I choose neither."
"Unacceptable." He pulled.
She resisted. She wanted to fly more than anything, but not in the arms of an archangel who might drop her in his current mood. "What's so urgent?"
"I won't drop you . . . not tonight." His face was so perfect it could've belonged to some ancient god, but there was no compassion in it. Then again, the gods had hardly been merciful. "Enough."
And suddenly she was on the roof, with no knowledge of having taken the steps from the landing. Rage flowed through her in a jagged wave of white lightning, but he wrapped his arms around her and rose before she could do much more than part her lips. Survival instincts kicked in. Hard. Locking her arms around his neck, she held on for dear life as his wings gained momentum and the roof fell away at dizzying speed.
Her hair whipped off her face, the wind bringing tears to her eyes. Then, as if he'd gained enough altitude, Raphael altered the angle of his flight, sheltering her against the wind. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose, then realized she was falling into the trap of trying to humanize him. He wasn't human. Not even close.
His wings filled her vision until she dared turn her head and look at the view. There wasn't much to see-he'd taken them above the cloud layer. Goose bumps broke out on every inch of her skin as the cold seeped into her bones. Her teeth threatened to chatter, but she had to speak, had to let the anger out before it carved a hole in her soul. "I told you," she gritted out, "not to mess with my mind."
He glanced down. "You're cold?"
"Give the man an award," she said, breath misting the air. "I'm not built for flight."
He dived without warning. Her stomach went into free fall even as wild exhilaration raced through her bloodstream. She was flying! It might not have been by choice, but she wasn't going to cut off her nose to spite her face. Holding on tightly, she absorbed every second of the experience, tucking away the sensory memories to savor later. It was then that she realized she had no reason to fear an accidental fall-Raphael's arms were like rock around her, unbreakable, immovable. She wondered if he even felt her weight. Angels were supposed to be far stronger than either humans or vampires.
"Is that better?" he asked, lips against her ear.
Startled at the warm timbre of his voice, she blinked and realized they were now skimming just above the high-rises. "Yes." She wouldn't thank him, she thought mutinously. It wasn't as if he'd asked her permission before launching them heavenward. "You didn't answer me."
"In my defense"-an amused comment-"it wasn't so much a question as a statement."
Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you continue to push into my mind?"
"It's more convenient than wasting time waiting while you talk yourself into something."
"It's a kind of rape."
Chill silence, so cold the goose bumps returned. "Be careful with your accusations."
"It's the truth," she persisted, though her stomach was shriveling into a terrified little ball. "I said no! And you went in anyway. What the hell else do you call it?"
"Humanity is nothing to us," he said. "Ants, easily crushed, easily replaced."
She shivered, and this time it was out of pure fear. "Then why allow us to live?"
"You amuse us occasionally. You have your uses."
"Food for your vampires," she said, disgusted at herself for having seen anything human in him. "What-you keep a prison full of 'snacks' for your pets?"
His arms squeezed, cutting off her breath. "There's no need. The snacks offer themselves up on silver platters. But you'd know that-your sister is married to a vampire, after all."
The implication couldn't have been clearer. He'd as much as called her sister, Beth, a vamp-whore. The derogatory term was used to describe those men and women who followed groups of vampires from place to place, offering their bodies as food in return for whatever fleeting pleasure the vampire deigned to give. Every vamp fed differently, hurt or pleasured differently. Some vamp-whores seemed determined to taste, and be tasted by, each and every one of them.
"Leave my sister out of this."
"Why?"
"She was with Harrison before he became a vampire. She's no whore."
He chuckled, but it was the coldest, most dangerous sound she'd ever heard. "I expected better from you, Elena. Doesn't your family call you an abomination? I thought you'd have sympathy for those who love vampires."
If she'd dared let go of his neck, she might just have clawed her nails down his face. "I won't discuss my family with you." Not with him, not with anyone.
You disgust me. Almost the last words her father had said to her.
Jeffrey Deveraux had never been able to understand how he could've birthed a "creature" like her, an "abomination" who refused to follow the dictates of her blue-blooded family and sell herself in marriage in order to expand the sprawling Deveraux empire. He'd told her to give up the vampire hunting, never listening, never understanding that to ask her to stifle her abilities was to ask her to kill something inside of her.
Go, then, go and roll around in the muck. Don't bother coming back.
"It must've been . . . interesting when your brother-in-law chose vampirism," Raphael said, ignoring her words. "Your father didn't disown either Beth or Harrison."
She swallowed, refusing to remember the pitiful hope she'd felt when Harrison was accepted back into the family fold. She'd wanted so desperately to believe that her father had changed, that he'd finally look at her with the same love he lavished on Beth and the two younger children he had with his second wife, Gwendolyn. His first wife, Marguerite, Beth and Elena's mother, was never spoken of. It was as if she hadn't existed.
"My father is none of your business," she said, voice harsh with withheld emotion. Jeffrey Deveraux hadn't changed. He hadn't even bothered to return her call-and she'd understood that Harrison had been allowed back because he was the scion of a major corporation that had deep ties with Deveraux Enterprises. Jeffrey had no use for a daughter who chose to indulge in her "disgraceful, inhuman" ability to scent vampires.
"What about your mother?" A dark whisper.
Something snapped. Letting go of his neck, she kicked out with her legs at the same time that she lifted her arms to do some damage to his oh-so-pretty face. It was a suicidal act, but if there was one topic on which Elena wasn't rational, it was her mother. That this archangel, this immortal who cared nothing for the firefly span of human life, dared use Marguerite Deveraux's ephemeral existence against Elena was unbearable. She wanted to hurt him in spite of the futility of the goal. "Don't you ever-"
He dropped her.
She screamed . . . and came to a hard landing on her butt, hands braced against the rough caress of expensive tile. "Ummph." Swearing inwardly at the bitten-off sound of surprise, she sat on the ground, trying to catch her breath. Raphael stood above her, a vision out of a painting of heaven and hell. Either. Both. She could see why her ancestors had seen in his kind the guardians of the gods, but she wasn't sure he wasn't a demon. "This isn't the Guild," she managed to say after much too long.
"I decided we would talk here." He held out a hand.
Ignoring it, she pushed herself to her feet, barely stifling the urge to rub at her bruised tailbone. "You always drop your passengers?" she muttered. "Not so graceful after all."
"You're the first human I've carried in centuries," he said, those blue eyes almost black in the darkness. "I'd forgotten how fragile you were. Your face is bleeding."
"What?" She lifted a hand to a tingling spot on her cheek. The cut was so thin she could hardly feel it. "How?"
"The wind, your hair." Turning, he began to walk toward the glass enclosure. "Wipe it off unless you want to offer the Tower vampires a nightcap."
She rubbed it off using the sleeve of her shirt, then fisted her hands, looking daggers at his retreating back. "If you think I'm going to follow you around like a puppy . . ."
He glanced over his shoulder. "I could make you crawl, Elena." No trace of any humanity in his face, nothing but the glow of such power that she wanted to shade herself from it. It was an effort not to take a stumbling step backward. "Do you really want me to force you onto your hands and knees?"
At that second, she knew he'd do exactly that. Something she'd either said or done had finally pushed Raphael beyond his limits. If she wanted to survive this with her soul intact, she'd have to swallow her pride . . . or he'd break her. The realization burned going down and sat like a rock in her stomach. "No," she answered, knowing that if she ever had the chance, she'd stab a knife in his throat for the insult to her pride.
Raphael watched her for several long minutes, a cold standoff that turned her blood to ice. Around her burned a million city lights, but up on this roof, there was only darkness-except for the glow coming off him. She'd heard people whisper of this phenomenon but had never thought to witness it. Because when an angel glowed, he became a being of absolute power, power that was usually directed to kill or destroy. An angel glowed just before he tore you into a thousand pieces.
Elena stared back, unwilling-unable-to give in. She'd gone as far as she could. Anything else and she might as well crawl.
Get on your knees and beg, and maybe I'll reconsider.
She hadn't done it then. She wouldn't do it now. No matter the cost.
Right when she thought it was all over, Raphael turned and continued on to the elevator cage. The glow faded between one breath and the next. She followed, disgustingly aware of the sweat that had broken out along her spine, the sharp taste of fear on her tongue. But overlaying that was a deep, deep anger.
Raphael the Archangel was now the most hated person in her universe.
He held the door open for her. She walked through without saying a word. And when he came to stand beside her, his wings brushing her back, she stiffened and kept her eyes locked on the elevator doors. The car arrived a second later and she walked in. So did Raphael, his scent like sandpaper against her hunter-born senses.
Her knife hand was itching for a blade, almost painfully needy. She knew the feel of cold steel would center her but that sense of safety would be an illusion, one that might put her in even more danger.
I could make you crawl, Elena.
She clenched her teeth so hard her jaw protested. And when the elevator doors opened, she strode out without waiting for Raphael-only to come to an abrupt halt. Corporate decor sure had changed if this was considered business-appropriate. The carpet was a lush black, as were the gleaming walls. The sole pieces of furniture in her line of sight-a couple of small decorative tables-were also in the same exotically rich shade.
It shimmered with hidden color, with possibility.
Bloodred roses-arranged in crystal vases perched atop the small tables-provided a lush contrast. So did the long rectangular painting along one wall. She walked to it, mesmerized. A thousand shades of red in a fury that was somehow coolly logical, sensual in a way that spoke of blood and death.
Raphael's fingers on her shoulder. "Dmitri is talented."
"Don't touch me." The words dripped off her tongue like blades of ice. "Where are we?" She swiveled to face him, making a concerted effort not to go for a weapon.
Blue flames in his eyes but no violence. "On the vampire floor-they use this for . . . well, you'll see."
"Why do I need to? I know all there is to know about vampires."
A faint smile on his lips. "Then you won't be surprised." He offered her his arm. She refused to take it. His smile didn't falter. "Such rebelliousness. Where did you inherit it? Certainly not from your parents."
"One more word about my parents and I don't care if you break me into a million f*cking pieces." Said through gritted teeth. "I'll cut out your heart and serve it to the street dogs for dinner."
He raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure I have a heart?" With that, he began to move down the corridor.
Not wanting to follow a step behind, she caught up so they walked side by side. "A physical one, probably," she said. "An emotional one? Not a chance."
"What does it take for you to truly fear?" He seemed genuinely curious.
Once again, it appeared she'd skated the thin edge of danger and come out alive. But it had been a close call-she wondered how forgiving Raphael would be after she completed the job and was no longer of use. She wasn't going to stick around to find out.
"I was born a hunter," she said, making a mental note to organize an escape hatch. Siberia sounded good. "Not many people know what that means, the inevitable consequences."
"Tell me." He pushed through a glass door and waited until she'd passed before closing it. "When did you realize you had the ability to scent vampires?"
"There was no realization." She shrugged. "I could always do it. It took me until I was about five to understand it was something different, abnormal." The word slipped out, her father's word. She felt her mouth thin. "I thought everyone could do it."
"As a young angel might think everyone can fly."
Curiosity spiked out of the anger. "Yes." So there were child angels. But where? "I knew our neighbor was a vampire before anyone else did. I accidentally ratted him out one day." She still felt bad about that, though she'd only been a child at the time. "He was trying to pass as human."
Raphael's face settled into lines of displeasure. "It would've been better had he given the chance to someone else. Why accept the gift of immortality if you wish to be human?"
"I gotta agree with that one." She shrugged. "Mr. Benson was forced to move out after a neighborhood uproar."
"Not a tolerant place, your childhood home."
"No." And her father had been at the head of that intolerance. How it had humiliated him that his daughter was one of the monsters. "A few years later, I felt Slater Patalis brush by as he murdered his way across the country." Her heart froze in her chest, chilled by the secret horror connected to that name.
"One of our few mistakes."
Not really a mistake, she thought, not if he'd been normal going in. But she couldn't say that without betraying Sara. "So you see, I'm used to fear. I grew up knowing the bogey-man lurked outside."
"You lie to me, Elena." He stopped in front of a solid black door. "But I will let it pass. You'll soon tell me the truth of why you dance with death so eagerly."
She wondered if he had Ariel and Mirabelle's names in his files, if he knew the truth of the tragedy that had destroyed her mother and turned her father into a stranger. "You know what they say about being overconfident."
"Exactly." A small nod. "So tonight, I'll show you why those you call whores seek their vampire lovers."
"Nothing you do or say will convince me to change my mind." She scowled. "They're little more than drug addicts."
"Such obstinance," he murmured, and pushed open the door.
Whispered sounds, laughter, the tinkle of glass. It flowed out like an invitation. Raphael's eyes dared her to step inside. Fool that she was, she accepted the challenge and-slipping a knife from an arm sheath into her palm-walked in, piercingly aware of the archangel at her back, the naked vulnerability of her spine . . . until her mouth dropped open in shock.
The vampires were having a cocktail party.
She blinked, taking in the muted, romantic lighting, the plush couches, the hors d'oeuvres accompanied by slender flutes of champagne. The food was clearly for the human guests, male and female, who stood talking, laughing, and flirting with their vampire hosts. Dinner suits lay snugly over lithely muscled shoulders, while cocktail dresses ran the gamut from long and slinky to short and sexy, the overriding themes black and red, with the occasional daring splash of white.
Conversation stopped the second they saw her. Then their eyes flicked behind her and she almost heard the collective sigh of relief-the hunter was on the archangel's leash. Stifling the childish urge to show them different, she slid the knife discreetly back up into the sheath.
None too soon, too, because a vampire was walking toward her, glass of wine in hand. At least she hoped it was wine-the dark red liquid could as easily have been blood. "Hello, Elena." The words were said in a beautiful, deep voice but it was his scent that was truly intoxicating-rich and dark and luscious.
"Doorvamp," she whispered, throat husky. It was only when she found herself pressed against the living heat of Raphael that she realized she'd backed away from the clawing beauty of the invisible caress.
"My name is Dmitri." He smiled, displaying a row of sparkling white teeth, not a fang in sight. An old vamp, an experienced vamp. "Come, dance with me."
Heat uncurled between her legs, an involuntary reaction to Dmitri's scent, a scent that held a very special-and highly erotic-allure for the hunter-born. "Stop it or I swear I'll make you a eunuch."
He looked down at the blade now pressing against his zipper. When he raised his head, his expression was more than a fraction annoyed. "If you're not here to play, why come at all?" The scent dissipated, as if he'd drawn it into himself. "This is a place of safety and enjoyment. Take your weapons elsewhere."
Flushing, she got rid of the knife. It was obvious she'd just committed a major faux pas. "Raphael."
The archangel curled his hand around her upper arm. "Elena is here to learn. She doesn't understand the fascination you hold for humans."
Dmitri raised an eyebrow. "I'd be happy to show you."
"Not tonight, Dmitri."
"As you wish, sire." Giving a small nod, Dmitri walked away . . . but only after wrapping a tendril of scent around her as a parting shot.
His slow smile said he could scent her response, knew she was weak-kneed with it. But the effect faded with every step he took, until she no longer craved the sensual pain of his touch-Dmitri's scent was as much a tool of mind control as Raphael's abilities. But for the first time, she began to understand why some hunters became sexually-even romantically-intertwined with the very creatures they hunted.
Of course, they didn't hunt the ones like Dmitri. "He's old enough to have repaid the hundred-year debt several times over." Not to mention his considerable personal power-she'd never met any vampire with that much sheer magnetism. "Why does he stay with you?"
Raphael's hand was a brand on her upper arm, burning through the material of her shirt to stain her skin. "He requires constant challenge. Working for me gives him the opportunity to fulfill his needs."
"In more ways than one," she murmured, watching as Dmitri went to a small, curvy blonde and put his hand on her waist. She looked up, enraptured. Not surprising, given that Dmitri was wet-dream beautiful-silky black hair, dark, dark eyes, skin that spoke of the Mediterranean rather than cold Slavic climes.
"I'm no procurer." Raphael was openly amused. "The vampires in this room have no need of such services. Look around, who do you see?"
She frowned, about to snap back a sharp rejoinder, when her eyes widened. There, in that corner, that leggy brunette . . . "No way." She squinted. "That's Sarita Monaghan, the super-model."
"Keep going."
Her eyes drifted back to Dmitri's curvy blonde. "I've seen her somewhere, too. A TV show?"
"Yes."