The trip to the bank to exchange notes was easy; the trolley took Rory directly there. What was not so easy was getting back on the right trolley that would take him closer to Hollywood, which he was told was many miles away.

Los Angeles was huge, far larger than he’d ever imagined. Once they left the port and headed toward the distant hills, he saw the city stretched on and on in all directions. The journey from the shipyards to the bank had been a long ride of at least twenty miles, with many stops along the way, and he had farther to go.

Rory asked four different people about the fastest way to get to where he needed to be, and he got four conflicting answers. In frustration, he splurged and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled over, he climbed in, leaned over the seat, and said, “The Fairbanks Hotel, Hollywood.”

The cab pulled into traffic and crawled along a busy boulevard. The back seat reeked of tobacco, and the ashtray overflowed with snuffed cigarettes.

The cab driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Marine, Seabee, or Flying Tiger?”

It took a moment to process the man was asking him a direct question. “Neither. Royal Navy, then merchant marine.” And not even that now he was ashore.

The driver tilted his head to better see Rory in the rearview mirror. “You’ve been to Hong Kong.”

“No, the cargo ship I served on came through Singapore.” Like so many other lost souls at the close of the war, wanderlust struck and he had found himself taking the long way home. With a bit of good luck, he’d heard about a cargo ship sailing west, the Ravager, in need of crewmen. The tipster was an RAF pilot, and being a true Good Samaritan, generously offered to fly him to the docks in a British Spitfire, all to ensure he boarded before the Ravager launched from the Adriatic Sea.

With a quick adjustment, the cab driver repositioned the mirror so that it was aimed at Rory. “That large red-and-black label on your suitcase is from Hong Kong. I’ve seen it before.”

He glanced at the suitcase’s many labels. It featured an intriguing mix of Asian destinations. “I didn’t know that. This is a friend’s suitcase.”

“You better watch out. That’s an Iron Dragon insignia on the front of the case.” The man said it as if the meaning was obvious.

Was this guy offering a legit warning or was he just a know-it-all? “Is there something significant about that?”

“First time in LA?”

“Yes.”

The driver snorted. “Are you sure this guy’s your friend?”

“Yes. I’m running an errand for him.”

“That may not be all you’re running.” He snorted and pantomimed puffing a pipe.

With a flick of his finger, Rory knocked a rogue cigarette butt that had rolled onto the seat back into the tray with its brethren. “I’m not following. What are you implying?”

“Come on. The Iron Dragon is a criminal ring. It’s been all over the news. The mayor says that now that the war is over, LAPD is ready to come down like a sledgehammer on drug smugglers.”

That sounded overly optimistic. Crime usually got worse after a war ended. “You think I’m a smuggler?” He’d been called far worse.

The driver snatched his gaze away from the rearview mirror. “Forget it. It’s none of my business. I never said nothing, okay?”

Rory sniffed the scent of fear on the man’s skin. He reached over the seat and tapped the driver’s shoulder. Fairly certain of the answer, he asked anyway. “Do I look like someone who would work for the Iron Dragon?”

The man flinched and turned with eyes wide. “I meant it! I won’t remember your face or say anything, buddy. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Fine.” He sat back and watched the cityscape creep past at walking speed. This was going to be the slowest cab ride of his long life. Kind old Captain Tomlinson didn’t seem like the sort of fellow to get involved in an opium ring, but then again, you never know what someone is really up to. His own life was a glaring example of that.

Hollywood Boulevard proved entertaining at any speed. The place was packed with people, some engaged in tasks and some standing idle waiting to be noticed. Several women on the sidewalk called out to men in passing cars and looked suspiciously like prostitutes. This was the city of angels, so where were the angels?

A slender tower, painted the palest shade of pink, thrust above the rest of the buildings. Scaffolding on the roof displayed the name “Fairbanks Hotel” in giant red letters. “That’s it.” Rory reached for his money. “How much do I owe you?”

The cab pulled in front of the hotel and stopped. “Gimme a buck and we’re square.”

He handed the man a dollar and change, then got out. A crescent-shaped driveway lined with palm trees led toward the front of the hotel. A valet hurried to open the lobby door, motioning for him to follow a crimson carpet runner to the front desk.

A concierge in a chocolate-brown suit stood sentry behind a massive carved counter embellished with grape vines and dancing nymphs. He glanced at Rory’s duffel bag with disdain. “Sir, this is the Fairbanks Hotel, a place of quality patronage. Perhaps you were looking for more modest accommodations at the YMCA?”

“I don’t believe I am.” He hated snobbery and had already seen more than his share of it. “I’m looking for a resident of this hotel, a Mr. Bill Boven.”

The concierge cocked his head. “Is Mr. Boven expecting you?”

“I’m not sure, but I have something to deliver to him.”

The man walked from behind the desk. “You can give it to me. I’ll make certain Mr. Boven receives it.”

He held the case tightly. “I was instructed to deliver it in person.”

“Very well.” The concierge picked up a phone and dialed. “Connect me with the penthouse, suite three.”

They waited for the hotel’s telephone operator to connect the call.

A white limousine pulled up to the front curb and a fleet of bellhops streamed past to help unload luggage.

Ignoring the bellhops, a slender woman with her face hidden beneath a red headscarf and dark glasses exited the limousine’s back seat. Photographers surrounded her with flashing cameras, calling out garbled words. The woman rushed away from the chaos, entered the hotel lobby, and made a beeline for the elevator, the bellhops scrambling to keep up.

Like an irate hornet protecting its nest, the concierge bolted from behind the desk and railed at the encroaching photographers. “Get out of the lobby! Stay behind the yellow line or I’ll call the cops.”

The woman looked familiar, but Rory couldn’t place her. He was certain he’d seen her standing thirty feet tall on the silver screen in some movie, but couldn’t say which one. “Movie star?” he mumbled.

“That’s none of your business.” The concierge’s attention returned toward a rolodex. “Our guests’ privacy is our utmost concern.” He appeared absorbed in the task of reading the cards.

Rory drummed the counter with his fingertips. He knew it was annoying the concierge, so he drummed louder. How long did it take to make a damn phone connection? Glancing around, he admired the vaulted Spanish-style ceiling and the colorful murals on the plaster walls depicting early California’s Ranchero days. A monstrous wrought iron chandelier as wide as a truck hovered overhead.

The concierge set the phone back on its rocker with a click. His mouth pinched as he spoke. “Mr. Boven is sending an associate downstairs to escort you to his suite.”

Good, he was ready to get this lousy errand over with. The Fairbanks wasn’t the sort of living situation he had in mind.

Too public.

Too ritzy.

He needed someplace low-key where no one would notice him coming or going. Having a pack of watchful photographers milling around the driveway was far from ideal. Rory paced the lobby. After what felt like a long wait, the elevator arrived and its spotless chrome doors opened.

A woman with suntanned legs, dressed like she was ready for a tennis match, stepped out. Attractive and confident with glossy black hair pinned away from her forehead, she approached him with a cool, detached expression. Fire-engine red lips drew his eye, but his gaze lingered on the dimple in her chin that was ever so slightly off-center, and somehow made her delicate oval face so much more intriguing for its flaw.

If he weren’t in her direct line of sight, he might have thought she intended to stroll past him with a regal air, but as she got closer, she smiled. Her face lit like a searchlight and her entire demeanor was transformed to goddess-like splendor. His chest tightened, and he found it hard to breathe.

The photographers outside the hotel saw her too. They stampeded to the door and flashed their cameras through the lobby glass, but dared not cross the forbidden line. The barrage of flashbulbs lit the woman’s eyes a vibrant golden green.

She came to a halt in front of Rory and laughed. For a woman, her voice was smoky and deep. “Those poor suckers out there think I’m Ava Gardner, and I’m going to let them go on thinking that. Is that wrong of me?”

For some reason he found himself grinning like a fool, but unable to talk.

She pointed to the duffel bag and suitcase. “Is this all?”

He wasn’t completely sure what she meant. “All?”

“Is this everything you have for Mr. Boven?”

Shaking his head, he tried to focus. The woman glowed with vitality, and her skin looked satin smooth. An almost blinding wave of bloodlust came on strong. “The duffel bag is mine.”

Her smile flashed as bright as a Pepsodent ad. “I can tell from the accent, you’re not from around here.”

“I literally just got off the boat.” He laughed, but she didn’t.

“Welcome to LA. Most people here aren’t from here either.” She squinted and rose a little higher on her toes, as if she intended to look him level in the eye. “Is there personal stuff in the duffel bag? If there is, you should leave it at the front desk.”

At the mention of the duffel bag, the concierge turned away with a look of disgust, as if he’d just noticed he’d stepped in dog shit.

The Ava lookalike smirked. “Floyd, don’t be that way. You’re such a terrible snob.”

Rory clutched the duffel bag. “I better hang on to it.”

“Fine, but just remember you were warned.” The woman turned and motioned for him to follow her into the elevator. Once they were inside, she pressed a white button with a P for penthouse.

He became aware of her delicate perfume. As the elevator made a smooth ascent, he discreetly leaned over her nape to get a better whiff of the blossomy fragrance.

She turned to face him. “It’s White Shoulders from Evyan. It’s new. Do you like it?”

The rich floral undertones swept him under a spell. He nodded.

With a flick of her hand, she dismissed his token of approval. “Enough small talk. We know why you’re here. Set the bags down. Arms out.”

Her harsher tone snapped him to attention. This kitten could roar. He was in no mood to argue, and instead enjoyed her boldness. “Why?”

“Pat down.” A hint of confrontation shone in her eyes as she thrust her hands inside his pockets. “Spread your legs. Don’t try anything funny or you’ll be sorry.”

Rory set the suitcase on the floor and allowed the duffel bag to slide from his shoulder, then extended both arms. He stood frozen as she whisked her dainty hands over his torso and moved down his legs. “What are you looking for?”

Her hand grazed his inner thigh and almost touched his cock, which was already hard from being in close proximity to a woman’s warm body. Her voice was breathy and full of insinuation. “I’m looking for concealed weapons.”

Would she think to look in his mouth? His fangs ached to descend. Poor thing, she had no idea.

She knelt, and with a featherlight touch too precise to be casual, her hand almost cupped his balls, but not quite. “Found one.” She winked. “But we don’t need to tell Big Bill about this loaded pistol, do we?” With grace, she rose and stood so close, he felt her moist breath pass through the fabric of his shirt.

Tilting his head downward, he looked at her. Even though he towered over her, there was no fear or hesitation evident on her face. Whoever she was, she seemed to relish gaining the upper hand with men and making them uncomfortable. His stomach fluttered. Her technique had worked easily enough on him. “I know you’re not going to tell me what all this is about, but after fondling my inseam, shouldn’t we be on a first-name basis?”

Amusement shone on her face. “My name’s Madelyn.”

For a moment, time stopped. He stared at her, silently repeating her name in his mind. Madelyn.

Alluring and confident, she gazed back at him with the faintest of smiles.

Had he been away from women for too long, or was Madelyn something different?

The elevator stopped. The door opened with a ping, onto a carpeted corridor lined with doors.

Madelyn stepped away, allowing him to claim his luggage unencumbered. As he slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, he was tempted to grab her instead. He fought the impulse to toss Madelyn over his shoulder, kick down a random door, and ferry her into a private room where he could kiss her, undress her, and drink from her throat at leisure. The craving for blood and touching soft skin hammered at what little was left of his self-restraint. He’d not given in to anything like that in ages, and this wasn’t the day to start. A ragged sigh rattled past his lips.

“Don’t complain. We search everybody.” Madelyn pointed to a red door at the end of the hall. “Number three.” When they reached the door, she knocked.

The latch on the peephole was drawn. Light shone through, then went dark.

Madelyn huffed. “Hank, you know it’s me. Just move aside and open the damn door.” It opened and a hulking man, wide as a delivery van, blocked the way.

The titan spoke. “Maddy, use the guest room. We’re busy in the front.”

Madelyn pointed the way. “Second door.”

Hank served as a human blockade, obstructing Rory’s view of a black-and-gold Art Deco–style room with tall windows facing the Hollywood Hills. In front of the longest window was a large desk with a distinguished-looking man in a gray suit seated behind it. Piles of ledgers and neatly stacked bundles of money covered the surface. The man glanced at Rory and frowned.

“Keep going. Nothing to see here.” Hank urged Rory forward.

Madelyn entered the guest room and sat on a round bed with a sky-blue satin cover buried in matching cushions. “Stand here.” She motioned for Rory to wait beside a vanity table.

Once they were inside, Hank closed the door, leaving them alone. There was some discussion and heavy footsteps in the hall.

Madelyn remained silent. Rory glanced around. After being aboard a dreary cargo ship for so many months, this place looked like a crystal candy dish. The modern furniture was upholstered in pale pearlescent brocade. The walls were papered powder blue. Sparkling golden sconce chandeliers lit every corner. A gold tray filled with lipsticks, bobby pins, and a fluted bottle of perfume took a place of honor on a vanity table. He walked to the table, picked up the pink-capped bottle, sniffed it, and instantly recognized the amber and floral notes. Turning, he looked at Madelyn. “This isn’t a guest room. This is your room, isn’t it?”

With a guileless expression, she crossed her legs. “No comment.”

The door opened and the man in the gray suit walked in. Except for a crooked boxer’s nose that hinted at a tough-guy past, he appeared to be the face of middle-age respectability. With his hands clasped in back, he loomed over Madelyn. “Did he give you any trouble on the way up?”

Madelyn smiled at Rory. “No, Mr. Boven. He behaved like a gentleman.”

Bill’s voice dropped. “Was he cooperative?”

She cocked her head and allowed her gaze to skim across Rory’s crotch. “Very.”

“Did he give any smart lip to Floyd?”

“None.” She overpronounced the word, and he wondered if that was significant.

Bill extended his thick hand in greeting. “Ravenscroft? It’s nice to meet you. I’m Bill Boven. Big Bill is fine. Tomlinson had nothing but good things to say about you. I’ve not seen the captain in ages.” His eyes twinkled. “Tell me the truth. Did he get fat and go bald?”

No doubt this was a weird character test of sorts, but what kind? Was this a test of loyalty to Tomlinson, or personal honesty? He couldn’t tell. Conflicted thoughts churned in his head, but honesty won. “Captain Tomlinson is as round as a beer keg, but he still has some hair.”

Bill laughed. “I knew it!” He reached for the suitcase. “This is mine, am I right?”

Rory nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you for bringing it to me.” He crossed his heavy arms in front. “Madelyn, empty Mr. Ravenscroft’s duffel bag onto the bed and search it. I want to make sure nothing of mine accidentally slipped into his bag.”

What was this about? Rory stood back. “That’s not necessary, but go ahead. I have nothing to hide.” He didn’t.

Madelyn unknotted the drawstring holding the duffel bag closed, pried it open, and shook the bag’s contents onto the bedcover. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

A manila envelope, a few dog-eared paperbacks, denim pants, a canvas jumpsuit flecked with oil stains, a wadded jacket, woolen shirts and socks full of holes, and a locket were all he possessed.

She reached for the locket, toying with the old-fashioned latch. “Personal?”

What effect was she going for? Were they trying to provoke him? He fought the impulse to snatch the locket from her crimson-manicured hands. “You know it is.”

“I wonder whose picture is inside.” Madelyn grinned. “Your eyes flashed like a guard dog’s when I touched it.” She allowed the locket to swing like a pendulum from her fingertips before setting it down. “Don’t worry. No one is going to take it from you. I won’t even open it, even though I’m pretty sure Big Bill would let me if I wanted to.”

Bill shrugged, as if to say whatever.

His temper simmered. It would be so easy to grab Madelyn, tip her chin back, and bite her delicate throat. Part of him fantasized about how good she’d feel locked in his arms, surrendering. When he realized he was grinding his jaw, he stopped.

He couldn’t let them get the better of him. Pointing to his meager belongings spread across the bed, he shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I got. Do you see anything there that belongs to you? No, of course you don’t. So put it all back in the damn duffel bag and let me leave.”

Glancing at Madelyn, Bill grumbled, “Be patient, Mr. Ravenscroft. We’re not done yet.”

Madelyn picked up one of the paperbacks and confronted Rory with it. Something about her cockiness did a number on him. “W. Somerset Maugham.” She lingered over the title. “The Razor’s Edge. Did you actually read this?”

He had, twice. Why was she asking? “With relish.”

“You enjoyed it?” She tossed the book back onto the crumpled pile of clothes. “That’s hard to believe.”

Was she trying to piss him off? A second blood feeding sounded real good right now. His gums ached from consciously holding his fangs back from descending.

“Well?” Bill had a pronounced underbite that lent his broad jaw the unfortunate look of a salmon swallowing a baited hook. “Maddy, will this work for you?”

Madelyn leaned back on her elbows. The pointy tips of her white cotton bra thrust against the snug knit fabric of her shirt. “Maybe. A haircut is a must. He can’t wear these clothes, that’s for sure. His socks are holeyer than a strainer, and everything in the duffel bag smells like diesel. Call Geno, get him up here to measure this guy for a monkey suit.”

What sort of fucking insult was this? “I won’t wear a bloody monkey suit!”

“Tux.” She wet her lips. “You can’t be my driver and dress like a bum.”

“Are you offering me a job?” What the hell was wrong with these people? “I don’t remember asking for one. And who said I could drive?”

She straightened and uncrossed her legs. “For sure you need a job. You just came ashore. This is LA. You could wander a long time before you found what you needed. We got it all here at the Fairbanks: food, lodging, and a damn good paying job. You told Tomlinson that you drove a taxi in London before the war. Isn’t that true?”

It was. He had. “But I don’t know this city.”

“Lucky for you, I do.” Madelyn’s eyes twinkled. Was she flirting with him or enjoying flexing her power? “You’ll manage. Just remember to drive on the opposite side of the street.” She turned toward Bill. “I like him, especially the dreamy voice. Clean him up and I’ll take him.”

“No.” Rory shook his head. “Take me for what? An idiot?”

Madelyn rose from the bed and approached him. She stood toe-to-toe with him as she tucked a straggling curl of his hair behind his ear. “Mr. Ravenscroft, I need someone smart, attentive, and above all trustworthy to be my driver and bodyguard. Tomlinson said you don’t drink or fall asleep on the job, ever. I need someone like that.”

Standing this close to her was becoming a problem. It was all he could do not to react or pounce. “What makes you think I’d make a good bodyguard?”

Her hand stroked the side of his cheek. “Your handsome features are hiding a certain coldness. You don’t fool me. I can sense it. I know a scrapper when I see one. You’re fast with your fists, am I right?”

She was. When he had to, he preferred to inflict punishment swiftly and precisely, but never more than was needed.

When she smiled, her lips slid across her pearly white teeth so smoothly, it was like watching a scarlet curtain rise above a stage. “So, does a C-note a week sound fair to you? That’s a lot of cabbage for not a lot of work. The mornings are yours, but you’ll be on call every night as needed.”

He knew some American slang from hanging out with sailors. A hundred dollars a week? It was twice what he earned as a merchant marine. Was she mad? There had to be a catch. Plus, how the hell could he trust himself alone with this luscious lamb chop of a woman? His gaze swung uneasily between Madelyn and Big Bill. Could he handle the temptation? “I suppose we can try.”

Madelyn waved her hand in a shooing motion. “We agree. Good. Now get out of my bedroom.”

A pleased expression warmed Bill’s face. “Sorry we had to put you through that, Mr. Ravenscroft. Tomlinson’s cargo was proprietary, and I had to make sure you had not helped yourself to anything inside the case.”

The Ravager had made many ports of call during its year at sea, but its most closely guarded cargo had been gathered, or more likely looted at the start of the journey from a castle in Romania. The RAF pilot had spilled that secret. Captain Tomlinson had kept the crew away from the many heavily secured crates protected from casual perusal by iron straps. Being a basically honest soul, he’d never thought to look inside any of them, but now he wished he had.

Bill pointed toward the door. “Your room is down the hall. Let’s go.”

Rory walked into the corridor. Bill followed, watching. Madelyn shut the door and locked it the moment they exited.

With a broad stride, Bill jumped ahead of him. “You get the butler’s room.” A faint smile simmered on low. “’Cause we ain’t got no butler. You’ll have to share a bathroom. Hope you’re okay with that.”

He nodded. Except for his love of a warm shower to take the chill off his skin, it wouldn’t make much difference.

The last door in the corridor opened onto a small room that contained little more than a cot, nightstand, and a tiny dresser. It had a sliding glass door for a window and a fire escape balcony that overlooked the hotel pool. The view of Los Angeles stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see.

“Wait here.” Bill lingered in the doorway. “I’m going to call Geno and get you set up with some decent threads and stompers. There’s a barbershop at the end of the block. Go there and—”

“Don’t bother.” Madelyn stood in the hall holding a little black satchel and a bottle of shampoo. “I got it.” She opened the satchel and removed a slender pair of shears and a comb. “I’ll cut Rory’s hair.”

Bill appeared displeased with her request. “Maddy, you got other things to do. He should go down the street and see a real barber.”

She ran her fingers along her silky locks. “Don’t be a grouch, Bill. I cut my own hair. I can certainly cut his.”

Bill thrust his jaw forward as if about to protest.

Madelyn kept her argument rolling. “Look at it this way. If it’s not okay for me to be alone with him for a haircut, it’s not okay for him to drive me around town at night.”

Rory tried to read Madelyn’s and Bill’s body language, but couldn’t. What was up with these two?

With his mouth drawn taut, Bill backed down. “Okay. I’ll call Geno.” He left, and the door shut behind him.

Taking charge of the situation, Madelyn paced the small room like a panther in a cramped cage, opening drawers and the sliding glass door. A warm breeze floated in. The sounds of car horns echoed between the buildings.

“Come here.” She entered the shared bathroom, folded a towel, and set it on the edge of the sink. “Take your shirt off. Bend over and get your hair wet. I want to wash out the smell of diesel.”

“I can wash my own hair in the shower.”

She tsked. “I’m not getting in the shower with you, but I suppose a fellow can dream.”

Could he bear to have her so close and still remain in control of his bloodlust? “I’m not a child. Why do you want to do it?”

“Friendship. It can be lonely up here on the eleventh floor.”

Sweet offer, but completely unconvincing. “That’s not why you’re doing it.” He unbuttoned his woolen shirt and stripped it away, but left on the white tank that had been bleached so many times the cotton had worn thin. He turned on the faucet, leaned over the sink, and thrust his head beneath the cascade, rubbing his hands across his unruly waves.

“I’ll do that.” Cupping her palms, she allowed them to fill with water and splashed it onto his hair, soaking him. Then she twisted the cap off the bottle and poured a bit of amber liquid into her palm. “This stuff really lathers.” The moment the shampoo came in contact with water, an overblown citrus scent filled the air. Madelyn slipped her fingers between the strands of his hair, lovingly massaging his scalp like he was a spoiled pet. “See? Is this so bad?”

It was probably a mistake to allow this, but she sure felt good. Her touch overrode his defenses. “Are you Bill’s girl?”

“That information is above your pay grade, sailor.”

Except he was a driver now, and being paid an obscene amount for it.

Her fingernails lightly scratched his scalp in soothing little circles. “I’m a grown woman, and I’m nobody’s girl.”

“You know what I mean.” His voice went husky. “You’re not in the penthouse for no reason. Am I going to catch a bullet in the back of my head because you like to flirt and rub your thighs against my leg?” He wasn’t even sure a bullet in the head would kill him, and if it did, would that be so bad?

“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I should let some suds get in your eyes.” She pushed his head farther under the faucet and rinsed the shampoo from his hair.

There was something in her tone that reminded him of someone. And then it all came flooding back.

* * *

FANNY KNELT AND LOOKED him in the eye. “Rory, for my sake, you’ve gotta to be a good boy today. Do what Mr. Gilhooly tells you to do. If Jack asks a question, be polite and answer. If he buys you something, say thank you, sir.”

Rory was delighted at the prospect that Jack might buy him treacle candy or something fun. It would make up for the sour gloom the man brought to their cottage whenever he visited. “Ma, why do you like Mr. Gilhooly?”

“Sweetie, you’re too young to understand.” Rising, Fanny walked to the stove to remove a large kettle of boiling water. She poured the steaming liquid into a tin tub that already had cold water in it. The result was not a warm bath, but water that had lost its chill. “Hop in. Let’s give you a good scrub.”

Dropping the woolen blanket he wore like a cloak, he climbed into the tub and sat hip deep in cool water with his teeth chattering, hoping she’d make the task quick.

Fanny dipped a wet cloth into a jar of slimy yellow soap and rubbed him down. The lye in the homemade soap burned a scrape on his knee.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry, love.” She rinsed the soap away. “You are dirty as a spring potato and you’ve got to come clean. Sometimes getting to the other side of things means accepting a sting of discomfort.” She scrubbed the soles of his feet with a boar-bristle brush so stiff, he wanted to jump out of his skin. “Mr. Gilhooly promised me that he would buy you a winter coat that fits, and that is why I like him.”

A coat? He was disappointed. “No treacle?”

“For God’s sake, you cheeky imp, a warm jacket is better than treacle! Knock some sense in your wooly head. If you’re a good boy, maybe Mr. Gilhooly will take us on as his, and we can all be a family. Wouldn’t you like that?”

* * *

MADELYN SHUT OFF THE faucet and reached for a towel to dry Rory. “We’re done. I’m going to cut your hair on the patio.”

His neck ached from being stooped over the sink. He took the towel from her and rubbed it vigorously against his head. Having this much female attention after months of drought was exciting and annoying at the same time.

She walked past the bed and picked up the scissors and comb.

Following her in silence, he noted she had a considerable amount of muscle on her shapely legs. Madelyn was no weakling. Maybe she actually did play a good game of tennis? He thought it funny that as a vampire, simply admiring human beauty wasn’t enough; he often caught himself looking at attractive people and assessing how much of a fight they might offer. Obviously, Madelyn could never win in a showdown against him, but she could offer resistance and a hard chase. He wiped the thought from his mind. Why the hell was he even thinking this shit?

The moment she stepped onto the tiny balcony, a breeze whipped Madelyn’s dark hair around her face like a halo. “I should probably have cut your hair dry and then washed it. I wasn’t thinking.”

Joining her on the narrow balcony, he looked down at the shimmering turquoise pool ringed by palm trees, and red clay tennis courts shaded by flowering gardens. Everything was so pleasing to look at, a far cry from the endless days on open ocean beneath a foggy sky.

Madelyn stood close with her face tilted upward. In daylight her eyes were true green, as lush a shade as coiled baby ferns. “You’re tall. You should sit.”

“I’ll get a chair.” He walked into the room, grabbed a box stool designed to be a shoe polishing station, returned with it, and sat.

She stood over him as she ran a comb through his hair.

When Rory’s damp curls straightened, his hair grazed his shoulders.

“I wish my hair had this much body. It’s a shame to cut it.” Choosing a lock above his forehead, she moved it aside. “I’m going to leave a pony forelock in front, so it shades those puppy-dog eyes of yours.”

He took hold of her wrist, bringing her actions to a halt. “What’s going on? All the flirting, grooming... I’m a stranger, and I already have a room down the hall from yours. Why?”

Biting her lip, she glanced away. “Already looking your gift horse in the mouth? That’s not wise.”

Being a vampire had its advantages. He’d become a master at reading the hidden meaning behind the flick of a brow or a smile that faded too quickly. His grip on her wrist tightened ever so slightly. “Are you a gift horse? Did Bill put you up to it? Did he instruct you to be a friendly little welcome wagon?” If that proved true, she and Bill were playing with fire.

A frown creased her pretty face. “I don’t know why Bill does what he does, and I am definitely not his girl. Just for the record, he’s got a mistress who lives in San Pedro. He doesn’t need me—not in that way.”

Her eyes misted when she said it. Was she sorry she wasn’t Bill’s mistress? Perhaps she had been in the past? With all his skill, he couldn’t read her at all. “Then what are you?”

Her brows buckled. “I’m a business asset.”

Did he really want to know? “What does that mean?”

“You look like a smart guy. Figure it out.” Using the scissors and the comb, she isolated a lock of damp hair and clipped it.

He sat motionless while she worked.

Her hand smoothed the stubble on his jaw as if she were calming a cherished Persian cat. “Honey, you need a shave. Should I get a razor?”

The way she touched him was meant to incite, but why? “Don’t bother. I can manage.”

“Suit yourself.” She leaned closer; her blouse grazed his back. Madelyn’s soft hands on his nape and a hint of skin-warmed perfume almost overwhelmed him. The scissors clicked near his ears as lock after lock of damp hair fell to the floor.

“What I wouldn’t give to have curls like these,” she mumbled.

Still hungry for blood, he was badly distracted by Madelyn’s stunning sensuality. How long could he control himself in her presence? For the first time in ages, he was vulnerable and in danger of losing control.

“Are you carrying a torch?” Her voice was as rich and gritty as brown sugar.

He had no idea what she meant.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

His first love, Allison, was now a grandmother living in Dublin. Not wishing to shackle her to an undead man, he’d allowed Allison to believe he’d perished in the trenches of Belgium, but a piece of his heart had always stayed with her. “I had a girl, but I enlisted, went away, and she married someone else.”

“I’ve heard that story before. The war broke up a lot of sweethearts.”

He allowed her to believe he was referring to WWII.

A fresh breeze rustled the palm trees. Madelyn’s stomach growled. She laughed. “Holy smokes! That sounded like a bear. Excuse me. I haven’t eaten since noon yesterday.”

The penthouse looked like the definition of luxury, and not a place he’d expect a girl to go hungry. “Why is that?”

She stalled. “I was working. I never have an appetite when I work.”

“Working for Bill?”

“Yeah. I was working for Bill. Don’t forget, you work for him now too. Some nights, I drink my dinner, if you know what I mean.”

He was pretty sure her idea of liquid dinner and his were completely different. “I think I do.”

“I don’t have a problem or nothing like that. It’s just sometimes I need a little liquid courage in me to go through with it.”

What the hell was Bill asking this poor baby to do that she had to get pissed first? One guess....

Madelyn finished cutting his hair and combed it into place. “I’m going to leave it long on top so you can comb away from your face like Tyrone Power. I think he’s a dreamboat.” She studied his profile. “You have a similar look. Have you ever considered acting?”

“Never.” He laughed.

“That seems like a waste. You’ve got such a great face.” She fussed with a lock of his hair, moving it twice. “Hey, would you mind if I took your picture?”

Contrary to folklore and rumor, vampires did show up in photographs. He had a passport and other photos to prove it, but there was always something a little off about them. The skin looked too waxen, and the eyes rarely reflected light. “Why would you want my photograph?”

A bright smile blazed across her ruby lips. “You’re a good-looking guy, and right now, your hair is perfect. I have a scrapbook of haircuts, makeup, that sort of thing. I add to it all the time. Maybe someday if acting doesn’t pan out, I can get work doing something creative. I have a lot of ideas.”

So this, whatever this was, living in a penthouse with bodyguards and night drivers, was temporary. “Do you go on auditions or work for Bill full-time?”

Madelyn’s smile faded. A tense silence hung in the air. “Why don’t I call downstairs and have Floyd bring us some sandwiches from the Brown Derby. They have these big, fat pastrami on sourdough rye that are thick as your fist.”

A sandwich was the last thing he wanted, but it was obvious Madelyn was done talking and needed to eat. “Don’t let me stop you.”

She set the scissors down. “I’ll call from my room. I have a direct line. What do you want?”

The drunk at the harbor hadn’t satisfied him, but she looked delicious in every sense of the word. “I already ate. I’m fine, for now.”

She shrugged. “Don’t go hungry. You gotta have something. Word to the wise, don’t expect anybody around here to remember that you have to eat or, God forbid, take a day off. If someone offers you something you need, take it.”

If she only knew. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll be right back.” Madelyn stepped into his room and disappeared down the hall.