I bolted for the window, intending to yank it up and dive through the opening. Otherwise, I’d be caught, and all of my careful surveillance of Damian Rivera and the other Circle members would have been for nothing.
But I’d forgotten about the white velvet bow hanging from the window frame, and I ran straight into it. Even worse, the fabric decided to stick to me, like an octopus clutching at my clothes.
“Shit,” I hissed, trying to peel off the clinging velvet and open the window at the same time. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“Gin?” Finn’s voice rang in my ear, sharp with worry. “What’s wrong?”
I finally slapped the bow away and grabbed hold of the frame. “I thought you said that Rivera was attending some charity dinner tonight?”
“He is. According to my sources, he RSVP’d several weeks ago. It didn’t even start until eight o’clock, so the dinner shouldn’t be anywhere close to being finished.”
“Well, tell that to Rivera,” I muttered. “Because he’s right outside the office.”
“Get out of there, Gin.” Finn’s voice crackled with even more worry. “Get out of there right now.”
I hoisted up the window, wincing at the faint screech it made. “Way ahead of you.”
As soon as the glass was out of the way, I ducked through the opening and stepped out onto the roof.
At least, I tried to.
My foot caught on that stupid bow again, and my leg stuck straight out in midair, as though I were doing a complicated yoga pose. I ground my teeth and yanked my foot free of the clutching fabric. The sudden, violent jerking motion pitched me forward, but I managed to stagger away from the window and catch myself before I did a header onto the roof or, worse, fell off it completely.
The second I regained my balance, I whipped around and hurried back over to the window, reaching for the frame to push it down.
Across the office, the antique crystal knob turned, and the door rattled, as though someone was putting his shoulder into the wood to force it open.
“Damn door always sticks,” a deep male voice said.
The crystal knob turned again, and the door finally swung open. I grabbed the frame and shoved the window down as fast as I could. But I didn’t have the best grip on it, and I didn’t manage to close it all the way. I grunted, trying to force the window down that final inch, even as a man stepped into the office.
If I could see him, then he could see me, so I abandoned the window and lurched to the side to get out of sight. My heart hammered in my chest, beating up into my throat, and I snapped my hand down to my side, palming a knife and waiting for the inevitable shouts of surprise and discovery.
One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . .
Ten . . . twenty . . . thirty . . .
Forty-five . . . sixty . . . ninety . . .
I counted off the seconds in my head, but more than a minute passed, and no alarms blared. Instead, something else echoed out of the office and through the slightly open window to me.
Tinkle-tinkle.
The distinctive sound of ice cubes dropping into a glass, followed by the crack of a bottle opening and a steady glug-glug-glug of liquid, eased some of my worry. Still gripping my knife, I dropped into a low crouch, crept forward, and peered through the glass.
Sure enough, Damian Rivera had come home early from his charity dinner. He looked the same as in all the glamour shots on the fireplace mantel—black hair, perfect teeth, trim figure poured into an expensive gray suit. The only things that the airbrushed photos didn’t show were the red flush that stained his bronze cheeks and his slow, exaggerated movements. Someone had already had a few too many.
And he was intent on having even more. Rivera tossed back his Scotch and poured himself another, filling his glass almost to the top, like he was dying of thirst. He took another healthy swallow, draining half of the Scotch, before turning and gesturing at someone.
“Well, don’t just stand out there,” he said, his voice a suave purr. “Come in and have a drink.”
A long-suffering sigh sounded, and another man stepped into my line of sight. With his black hair and expensive suit, he could have been an older, fifty-something clone of Damian Rivera, if not for the black goatee that clung to his chin and the displeased pucker of his lips. And unlike Rivera’s sloppy state, this man’s black eyes were sharp and clear and fixed in a cold, flat stare that I knew all too well.
Hugh Tucker, the Circle’s number one vampire enforcer and my nemesis.
I sucked in a breath, my fingers curling even tighter around the knife in my hand.
“Gin?” I heard Finn’s voice in my ear again. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered. “I got back out onto the roof in time. Rivera’s inside the office now. Tucker’s with him.”
“Be careful,” Finn said. “If Tucker sees you—”
“I know, I know. Quiet now. I want to hear what they’re saying.”
A faint sound came through my transmitter, as though Finn had started to deliver another warning, but he fell silent. I scooted forward, tilting my head so that my ear was close to the window opening for optimal eavesdropping.
Tucker joined Rivera at the bar, although he didn’t sit down on one of the padded stools. Instead, he watched his companion grab a second glass and fill it with ice and Scotch. Rivera pushed the glass across the bar to Tucker, but the vampire didn’t deign to pick it up.
Rivera grinned, not bothered in the least by the other man’s obvious hostility. He raised his own glass in a silent, mocking toast, drained all of the amber liquor inside, and smacked his lips. “You really should try the Scotch. It’s Brighton’s Best, straight from Bigtime, New York. Costs a fortune, but it’s worth it.”
Tucker’s reply was a decidedly noncommittal “Mmm.”
Rivera poured himself a third Scotch and moved away from the bar. He staggered across the office and flung himself down onto one of the brown leather couches, making it creak under his weight.
“So, Hugh,” Rivera said, his voice slurring just a bit. “What was so important that I had to leave my dinner and my lovely lady and rush back to meet you?”
Instead of answering, Tucker headed over to the fireplace, moving down the line of photos and staring at each one in turn, just as I had done. His nostrils flared with disgust as he eyed all of Rivera’s glamour shots, but he quickly moved past those, stopping at that picture of Richard and Maria Rivera standing with their son. Tucker’s nostrils flared again, as though something about the photo greatly displeased him, and he nudged the frame with his index finger, so that it was crooked and out of line with the others.
“You know exactly why I’m here.” Tucker crossed his arms over his chest and turned to face Rivera. “It’s the same problem that I brought to your attention several weeks ago. One that you have done absolutely nothing to correct.”
Rivera shrugged. “That’s because I don’t see it as a problem.”