Chapter Two
“I tell you, Sera, I’m never going back to Meiers Corners.” I spoke into my Bluetooth headset as I skimmed through the glass doors of 26 Federal Plaza, hitting the Broadway-side concrete concourse at the height of the lunchtime rush.
A pizza delivery guy ran toward me like a bullet. I dodged him then played do-si-do with a nanny shepherding three identically dressed little boys clutching brand-new balls.
One bright red ball slipped from chubby fingers, getting kicked away by oncoming traffic. The youngster’s face clouded. Before his thunderstorm could burst, I twisted and lunged, my rainbow bracelets jingling like bells, and caught the ball on a bounce. Tossing it back to the nanny earned me the boy’s bright grin, totally worth my getting knocked around by a pair of freight-train pedestrians. I pinballed off a couple traffic bollards before melding with the wonderful, harrowing, organic experience that is New York City foot traffic.
“Never, Brie?” The voice in my ear was warm and compassionate, my friend and, until I’d gotten my job with the FBI and moved, one of my roommates, Serendipity Braun Thorsson. “But it’s Oktoberfest. And there’s beer.”
Practically a microbrewery on every corner. Settled by German immigrants in the 1800s a healthy distance west of Chicago, Meiers Corners had been artisanal before the word was chic. But while Chicago moved into the twenty-first century, the seven thousand souls in the Corners had stayed stubbornly old-world.
As I crossed the street, I admitted, “That’s tempting. Not tempting enough.”
She knew why I’d left the Corners. Cheating ex and stifling small town might be cliché, but add in the fact that the ex was a vampire? And the town was ambitiously folksy, to the point that my high-school job was making sculptures out of cheese and summer sausage? I was exhausted living with all that day in, day out. New York was the first place I could breathe. “Brie, I miss you.” I winced. Temptation punch crowned by guilt KO, the specialty of every Meiers Corners matron. Sera must’ve learned it from her mother.
“Brie, I miss you.”
I winced. Temptation punch crowned by guilt KO, the specialty of every Meiers Corners matron. Sera must’ve learned it from her mother.
“I miss you, too. Why don’t you visit me here? We can take in a Broadway show, go dancing—Oh, shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Her voice went high, breathless.
I’d been heading for a hot dog cart near the corner and had just spotted a man standing in line. He stood unmoved by the bobbing masses, literally head and shoulders above the crowd.
Only one man I knew that stunningly tall—Special Agent Seb Rikare.
Or rather, not man. I guessed Rikare was a vampire.
“Brie?” Sera prompted.
“It’s nothing. A ping on my asshole meter.” My last boyfriend had been a vampire. It had not ended well, like a marshmallow Peeps party held in a microwave. I’d vowed never to get involved with another fanged male.
Naturally, Fate, who was a snarky bastard, molded the very next guy I met into my idea of perfection—gleaming black hair, granite jaw, bedroom eyes, and muscles like bowling balls, plus a brain that catapulted him to top agent with the FBI.
I’d have tapped that in a second except for the likelihood that, along with his shield, Rikare carried the extra-large V-size condoms in his wallet.
I wasn’t absolutely sure about that. The vampire thing, not the condoms. Except for folklore and guesses, I didn’t know a lot about them. Until April, when Sera met and married her mate, I wasn’t even sure they were real. Even now, I only had superficial details. They were incredibly sexy. They couldn’t be out in the sun for long. They could hypnotize most anything, unless that thing was immune. They had fangs and bit humans.
Bites were orgasmic.
Yeah, my ex and I—we didn’t talk a lot, but I got that much from experience.
Seeing Rikare, towering over all the ordinary people, his unearthly beauty shining bright, sent a shaft of lust through me. Mr. Perfection was a temptation I could barely resist. I wanted to plaster myself to his impressive chest and offer my neck as craft brew on tap.
Traipsing down that path had led to tears. Traveling it a second time, expecting different results, was the very definition of insanity. So I’d been avoiding Rikare at all costs.
Under my breath, I muttered, “Damn it, I just want to grab a sandwich. I don’t want to deal with him now.”
I changed my destination midstride and midblock, nearly running into a bunch of red-faced, suit-wearing businessmen lurching out from a three-martini lunch.
Skirting the clusterfuck of suits, I dropped off the curb to dart through a lucky gap in traffic.
Just as an Audi convertible squealed around the corner—headed straight for me.
For just a moment, I was mad at myself. Damn it, I’d been so wrapped up in escaping Rikare I’d forgotten this wasn’t safe-as-cotton-balls Meiers Corners. Then the heat from the Audi’s grill billowed onto my skin like the snorts of an angry bull. I was about to be grievously injured—or worse.
Bright terror splashed through me. Time slowed as my brain went into overdrive. A spotlight seemed to halo the Audi, the day darkening around it. The car braked hard, and I pitched myself toward the far curb. In my heightened state, I could tell neither effort would be enough.
In my ear, Sera was yelling, “Brie, what’s wrong, what’s going on?” She sounded far away, muffled by the hammering of my heart in my ears.
A brick wall hit me, popping me into the air. I landed on concrete airbags. I expected to see the driver’s alarmed face as I crashed into the Audi’s windshield.
Shockingly, it was Rikare’s stern face, mere inches away.
The car hadn’t hit me. Rikare had, scooping me up. He rushed to the opposite curb, where he set me staggering on my feet.
In Meiers Corners, I’d have landed amid a sea of horrified faces, matronly expressions grim with censure. Here, no one was even paying attention. Perversely, I was disappointed.
“Thank you for the assist—”
“What was that?” Rikare’s hand engulfed my elbow and urged me into motion, cutting off my thanks. Heat penetrated the thin fleece of my hoodie to raise goose bumps on my skin. His growl sounded right in my naked ear.
Some voices are like blue satin, some are like squeaky chalk. Rikare’s was smooth whiskey with a bite. Like moonshine. Midnight moonshine.
His low words were accompanied by the soft touch of his breath, a warm caress that aroused the sensitive lobe of my ear and tousled the hair around it. Damn it, think of anything other than how sweet that touch of breath feels. I changed my hair color frequently in fits of artistic expression—maybe it was time to change up my candy-apple red streaked with caramel-brown to purple or green or the bronze of Rikare’s skin—Damn it.
Then he hissed, “What the hell did you think you were doing?”
It drove home I’d behaved like a small-town noob. Embarrassment and anger at myself made me snap, “Crossing the street. Thank you for rescuing me. Now if you’ll excuse me…” I tugged my elbow out of his grip.
He straightened. It revealed a set of washboard abs just visible against a thin tee between the panels of an open leather jacket. My gaze rose. A truly spectacular chest jutted at my eye level, when at five-foot-eleven, my perspective was usually around a guy’s receding hairline.
“Brie.” Sera’s voice squeaked in my ear. “What’s happening? I heard a man. Is it a mugger?”
I startled. I’d forgotten I was on a call with her. I spun and walked away. “It’s a guy I work with.” In no way did I work with Rikare. I was in support, and he was in super-special-agent land.
“Is he sexy?” Sera breathed in my ear.
“Yeah. Like my ex was sexy.” I sliced a glare over my shoulder at Rikare. It only managed to ricochet off his stony Punisher eyes and cliff of a jaw.
“You had some good times with Derek.”
“And you’re my friend?” I glanced back. Thankfully, Rikare wasn’t following.
…
The instant I returned to my desk, my supervisor, Mr. Boosey, called me into his office.
“My one-month evaluation?” I tucked my backpack under my desk and trotted after him, hoping for a glowing report. Though currently working support, I wanted to get into forensic art or even become a visual information specialist. Boosey’s glowing recommendation would go a long way toward that.
He didn’t answer, heading into his office. Stomach dropping, I followed. He pointed me at his guest chair, then sat in his executive behemoth. Putting his desk between us, a distancing tactic.
That was a bad sign. My stomach began to churn.
“I need you to go to your hometown of”—he consulted his smartphone—“Meiers Corners. Tonight.”
Yikes. Was he channeling Sera? “During Oktoberfest? Why?”
“I need you on an undercover operation.”
Okay, I have to admit that sounded sexy. Brie Lark, undercover agent. “I’m interested. I’m no special agent, though.”
“No, but you have specialized knowledge. Ties to the town. You’ve been specifically requested by the special agent in charge of this case, because he needs that knowledge and those ties.”
“He?” An unpleasant suspicion arose.
“Yes. Special Agent Rikare.” He motioned toward the doorway.
A frisson of awareness, like a cool ocean breeze on a sweltering day, raised tiny goose bumps on my flesh. I twisted in my chair.
Rikare glided into the room, black head bent to clear the doorway.
The man was as big as the headache he was giving me. Against the backdrop of skyscrapers, he’d been tall, broad shouldered, and well-muscled. Here, he filled the office.
His huge body displaced nearly every molecule of oxygen in the room. I tried to pull in what was left with a small breath. I deny it was a gasp.
A curl of masculine scent teased me. My churning slid lower, splashing intense awareness into my sex. I stifled a groan.
He cut me a glance. Not flirtatious or seductive or any of the things I might expect from a vampire.
Penetrating. Considering. The look a man might give a gnarly chessboard—just before he declared, “Checkmate.”
Another frisson rumpled my skin, a combination of arousal and wariness. However superficial his vampire charisma, this was a trained agent. The FBI harvested the cream of the crop. He had to be intelligent, quick, and deadly when called for.
“Okay.” Inside, I was seething. I’d done my best to avoid him, and now I was working with him? Undercover? And didn’t that just conjure up images of rumpled sheets and satisfaction? “Um, what are we investigating?”
“This is a special case.” My boss thumped a big manila envelope on his desk. “A serial killer who’s posing bodies to incite fear. A terrorist.”
“In Meiers Corners?” Good grief, I’d just been talking to Sera. Why hadn’t she mentioned a rampaging murderer?
“Not in the town itself, but we think the killer comes from there,” Rikare said. “That’s not general knowledge, by the way.”
Rikare leaned close. The special agent’s voice was a dark burr that raised delighted hairs on my nape. Stupid hair.
He continued, “You need to keep this absolutely secret, not just for our investigation’s sake. We’ve contacted the mayor. He knows, no one else, and he doesn’t want to alert the media. Not until he knows for certain that the killer is local. He doesn’t want any adverse publicity, especially during Oktoberfest.”
The information jibed with what I knew about Mayor Meier. He lived for tourism and squashed anything that got in the way, stomping it with his award-winning Bavarian Schuhplattler—or shoe-slap dancing—in his special iron-soled Schuhe.
And yeah, the mayor wouldn’t be happy with a murderer ruining his tourism around Oktoberfest, the Corners’s equivalent of Christmas. Still, Rikare was a too-tempting vampire, and I tried to wriggle out of it. “Why not use the Chicago field office for help? It’s closer.”
“Nearby agents might be recognized, which would compromise the mission,” Rikare said. “I’m a complete stranger to the area. No one will know me.”
My objections were struck down one by one, a vampire-shaped box closing in around me.
“It’s a simple assignment.” Boosey pushed the manila envelope across his desk toward me. “Special Agent Rikare will do all the work. You simply have to get him into the city and confirm his alias with the locals.”
“Which is?” I didn’t take the envelope.
Rikare answered. “Your lover.”
I twisted to glare at him. He’d straightened from arousing my nape hairs, and I had to adjust my glare up several feet.
“Don’t worry. The ruse need only extend to the hotel room door.”
“There are no hotels in Meiers Corners. There’s only Otto’s B&BS.”
“You mean B&B,” Boosey said.
“Yeah, sure.” Except Otto and his wife ran a bed and breakfast smorgasbord. And if I went there with Rikare, the danger wasn’t simply me losing my mind and jumping in bed with him. While the Corners had many, many good points—it was safe, clean, and was big on feeding people—townsfolk were also big on gossip.
If I showed up with Rikare as my “lover,” the honeymoon suite would be made up, the sheets would be turned down, and Cox World, the local sex shop, would send free samples of his and hers lube.
What a dilemma. Take the assignment and share a romantic bedroom with Seb Rikare, who was strong, enigmatic, and could probably give me an orgasm big enough to last a lifetime? That was a can of worms I’d opened, cut myself on, and thrown away long ago. I had no desire to get botulism again.
Or turn down the assignment? Without Boosey’s recommendation, that job advancement wasn’t coming easily or soon. If I ever wanted to have more than a New Jersey efficiency and five-days-a-week mac and cheese, I’d better convince myself pronto I could handle both MC and Rikare for a few days.
With muscles galvanized by hostility, I stood and swept the envelope from Boosey’s desk. “Fine. I’ll do it.” I spun to escape—and lurched into Rikare.
I shoulder-bumped him. He moved, slowly enough that it was obvious he’d given way only because he’d decided to.
As I passed him, I glared into his black eyes. I might have been co-opted into sharing a room with him, but I was never going to bed with him.
He raised a single black brow.
Aware, competitive, and smart.
Fuck me. I hoped he hadn’t taken that as a challenge.