Like a hammer to his chest, the hard beat of the music pulsed through him, reverberating all the way down to his toes. Glistening bodies gyrated on the dance floor to the hip-hop tune, noxious perfumes tangled with colognes, stifling his nostrils.

Keeping to the darkened fringes, Marcus scanned the throbbing club. It was here Jaime Tuturo trolled the waters like a bottom-feeder. His prey? Impressionable women. The kind most guys wouldn’t give a second look. The kind that were so desperate for attention they’d go anywhere with anyone.

The kind that never came back.

Marcus curbed a primal growl, sensing his mark was near. He could feel the man’s arrogance. It taunted him like waving a red flag at a bull.

On so many levels it would be his pleasure to end the cocky bastard’s life. It wasn’t because Jaime Tuturo was a predator—that Marcus understood; it was what Tuturo did to his prey that provoked Marcus’s sense of right and wrong. The last girl he’d seduced from this club had ended up floating in Lake Michigan, naked, violated and mutilated, cut up like bait. Jaimito had picked the wrong girl that night. And Jaime’s eldest brother Chava had had enough. Tuturo senior’s instructions had been simple: “Make it look like he had it coming. Make it public. Make it permanent.”

Hell, even if Chava hadn’t contracted him to take out his little brother, Marcus would have done this job pro bono. As it was, Chava had already paid him a fat down, once the job was complete, he’d swing by the downtown gym he’d joined last week and walk out with the two-hundred large Chava would deliver to his locker there.

Marcus scanned the dance floor again, watching, making mental notes. Through the gyrating haze of bodies, his focus narrowed on a short, fat, sweaty gangbanger dressed in a thousand-dollar suit. He could be wearing custom Versace and Jaime Tuturo would still smell like the turd he was. Marcus shook his head. The slick threads were working. Jaime swayed on the dance floor with a large, innocent-looking blonde. She smiled adoringly up at him, her triumph of finally being noticed as transparent as Jaime’s sweaty leer. Marcus could see it in Jaime’s face, the way he licked his thick lips. He probably had a boner already and was visualizing all the ways he was going to hurt that girl. Anger pricked Marcus’s gut. He never had liked bullies.

Marcus planned something special for Jaimito. He’d given his death careful consideration and settled on a garrote. Quick but excruciating. While he was slicing Tuturo’s neck from front to back, he’d tell little brother it was big brother who’d hired him, and why. If he couldn’t get him alone, he’d single out one of the types Tuturo liked to prey on, give her a whirl on the dance floor, get close to Jaime, and puncture his heart with one precise jab of his custom ice pick switchblade. He’d disappear before his mark fell dead to the floor. Neither the crowd nor Tuturo’s friends worried Marcus. The adrenaline junkie in him liked a little public display of affection once in a while. But only as a last resort. He hadn’t survived as long as he had by being arrogant. He was cautious. Always.

Tonight he would blend in. When the cops showed up, no one would recall the person standing next to them, much less Marcus, who, though taller than most men, had dressed to bore.

“Excuse me,” a deep, sultry voice said from behind him. Instantly Marcus’s acute senses alerted, and his focus went from his mark to his dick. The full swell of breasts pressed against his back as a soft hand trailed across his shoulders. He stiffened, fighting the primal reaction to the voice, the tits and her musky perfume. She smelled exciting. Like a wild roller-coaster ride. He turned as she passed to his left, and looked down into two liquid, dark-chocolate-colored eyes. Full red lips smiled, showing straight, pearly white teeth. She moved past him toward the bar and his gaze followed. His cock thickened. She was one long drink of water. Her languid gait called to him to follow, automatically he took another step forward.

He caught himself after two steps.

What the hell was he doing?

He was here to do a job, not get laid. Still, as he watched the slow roll of her hips and the way tendrils of thick crimson-colored hair slipped from her topknot to tease the back of her neck, he imagined coming up behind her, slipping his hands around her hips to her belly and losing himself in her heat.

And she was hot, from her shiny red hair, to the short, fiery-as-hell red dress that hugged her J-Lo ass, to her shapely legs accentuated by strappy stilettos. He’d give his right arm to have those heels digging into his back.

As if she’d read his mind, the woman in red half turned and looked over her shoulder at him, giving him enough of a view of her chest that his dick lurched against his slacks. Damn. He had to hand it to her—unlike the low-cut back, the front of her dress clung to but covered every inch of her tits, making him and every other man in the place fantasize about licking and sucking them.

Son of a bitch! The last time he’d been this affected by a woman, he’d been thirteen and had lost his virginity to Ramona Steele, a cougar by today’s standards, but to a thirteen-year-old horn dog of a kid, she’d been a goddess. He would have stood on his head, naked in the middle of the rez, if she’d asked him to. He scoffed at the memory. Mona wasn’t his first lesson in manipulative women. Suspiciously, he eyed the woman in red.

He shook off the heat. He wasn’t here to score, and he wasn’t a dumb kid led around by his hormones. He was here to reduce Chicago’s population by one. Dragging his gaze from the siren’s retreating backside, he cursed when he lost sight of his mark. Spinning, he scanned the dance floor again for Jaime Tuturo. He stiffened when he saw the punk, the little blonde struggling to keep up behind him, strutting up to the bar, his ever-present posse flitting around him like flies on a turd. Every one of them flying their colors with a black-and-red silk shirt. Even with his flashy threads, his slicked-back hair, and the flash of gold on his thick fingers and thicker neck, Jaime Tuturo still looked like the gang banger he was.

Marcus smiled. He fingered the yellow bandana in his trouser pocket. All hell would break lose when he left it on Jaimito’s body. The Reza cartel boys would get the blame for what he was going to do to Jaimito, and what happened after that was none of his business. He watched Jaimito stop in his tracks, his gaze fix and hold. The lady in red strutted across the dance floor toward the bar as if she was Cleopatra and everyone else in the room were mere slaves to do her bidding.

Although this chick was way out of Jaime’s league, the gangster was arrogant enough to think all he had to do was snap his fingers and she’d roll over for him. Marcus was not surprised to see Jaime send one of his lackeys over to the lady in red. Marcus smiled. Coward. For all of Tuturo’s bravado, he was afraid of being shot down in front of his posse.

Marcus grinned as the lackey stopped in his tracks, then turned back to Jaime when she snubbed him with an imperious air of disdain. A few minutes later, he watched another gangbanger attempt to plead Tuturo’s case to the lady in red.

Cold as an icicle, she reached for her drink and casually let it tip and pour on the guy’s snazzy suit. Marcus growled when the prick raised a hand to her. She stood her ground, daring him with narrowed eyes to touch her. Slowly he lowered his hand, and as he did, she turned her lovely back on him. The dude stood for a long time, rigid, angry, insulted, his machismo squashed. Finally, the guy backed off. Marcus had to hand it to her. She had balls of steel. Most chicks would have scampered away happy to have been spared. But not this one. He liked that. He bet she was a tiger in bed.

Before he could further contemplate her sexual prowess, the music changed abruptly from the one-two punch of hip-hop to a spicy salsa. Intrigued, Marcus moved around to the other side of the bar. She stepped onto the dance floor. And she did not disappoint.

Marcus stood rooted to the floor and watched, mesmerized by the slow, seductive sway of her hips and the way the little fringes on the hem of her dress rocked back and forth. The crowded dance floor thinned as those around her stopped and watched her one-woman show.

Her lush body swayed, offering illicit promises, then taking them back. Jaime materialized beside her, watching, his beady eyes blazing in lust. Turning toward him, she backed away from him. He stepped deeper onto the dance floor. Like a starved puppy, he followed. Away from his posse, away from the pouting blonde and into Marcus’s territory. Incrementally, Marcus moved closer.

Marcus scoffed at the man’s macho attempt to look suave on the dance floor. His stubby body bucked and shimmied while he tried to look tough. Did women really dig that shit? To Marcus, Tuturo looked like the fool he was.

But damn, he could not blame Jaime for putting on the struts for the redhead. She was prime. He sucked in a harsh breath when she dug her hands up into her hair, threw her head back and closed her eyes. Her long, smooth neck beckoned. He had the inscrutable urge to grab her to his chest and sink his teeth into her creamy skin. To feel her surrender that luscious body of hers to him, right here, right now.

Since his change from mortal to immortal, his primal male had on several occasions wrestled for control of his rigid discipline. Much as it did now. By nature he was a hunter; he lived for the chase. As a vampire, he could quickly eliminate his mark. As a man, he would relentlessly persue the woman who taunted him from the dance floor.

When she opened her eyes halfway and came to a slow, agonizing stop, then reversed the direction of her swaying hips, Marcus swore aloud. He sucked in another harsh breath when she turned and faced Tuturo. Suspicion sliced through the cloud of lust that held him hostage. What would a woman like that want with a piece of crap like Jaime Tuturo? Marcus stepped closer, sensing he was watching an act, a very good act, an act that, if played out, might blow his window of opportunity. When she shimmied again, this time dipping low, Tuturo sidled up behind her as she slowly stood. When she didn’t move away, Marcus knew something was up. He stepped onto the dance floor. She continued to sway her hips, pressing her ass, oh, so subtly up against Jaime’s crotch. As she did, she looked straight up at Marcus. A slow, seductive smile curved her full lips. She winked at him, then turned away.

What the hell was she up to? And who the hell was getting played? Marcus’s lust ebbed.

Refocused on why he was there, Marcus had eyes only for Tuturo now. He moved in. Two steps away, the woman abruptly grabbed Jaime’s hand and pulled him down the hall to what Marcus knew were the bathrooms. Jaime’s posse closed in behind them, effectively making it impossible for Marcus to get close. The door to the ladies’ room opened. The lady in red disappeared inside with a panting Jaime hot on her heels. Ten seconds later, the door opened again as two indignant women rushed out.

Marcus halted in the long hallway. He had no recourse but to wait; there was no other way in or out of the restroom save for the one door. Leaning casually against the wall, he pulled his throwaway cell phone from his pocket and pretended to be texting. He was far enough away from the bathroom doors that Jaime’s boys ignored him. As he let one minute, then two, pass, his mind worked fast, flipping through the possibility that the woman had spotted him and was acting as Jamie’s shield. Did little brother suspect big brother had had enough? That would explain the way she’d played with him. No way in hell was Marcus going to let her get away with it.

When three stacked bottle blondes came stumbling down the hall looking to use the restroom, just as many of Jaime’s men told them they would have to wait. The women postured, pouted and used their wiles on the men. When one of the blondes pulled down her spandex sequined top and two impressive tits popped out, Marcus said a silent thank-you. A minute later only one of the thugs remained guarding the door. Marcus knew this would be his only chance. He also knew he’d have to take care of the lady in red. A fleeting stab of remorse needled his gut. He rushed toward the lone Vela, shouting, “Reza! Reza!” The guy started, looked up from his phone, then took off past him toward the club. When he did, the door to the ladies’ room opened. Marcus stopped, surprised to see a petite blonde emerge.

She smiled up at him, and he could have sworn she winked before she hurried past. A harsh wave of cheap perfume followed her. Marcus moved quickly. He shoved the door open. Dead silence met his ears. The thick scent of blood hung in the air. As Marcus moved toward the end stall, he pulled the wire garrote from the inside of his jacket pocket and wound the thick plastic coated ends around his fists. He shoved the last stall door open and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Son of a bitch!”

Jaime lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, blood running in thick rivulets from the wide slice across his jugular. His pants and underwear were bunched around his ankles with a note pinned to his dick. Shoving the wire back into his jacket pocket, Marcus grabbed the paper.

You don’t get paid for what you didn’t earn

                            xo

There was an imprint of red lipstick lips.

“Shit!” He noticed the crumpled heap of clothing on the floor. He shoved the note in his pocket, then grabbed the red material from the floor. Her dress. He brought it to his nose and inhaled the musky scent. It smelled like her. He grabbed the stilettos and the red wig. As he shoved them under his jacket, realization struck him dumb. The blonde that just exited. It was her. Impulsively he grabbed the yellow bandana from his trouser pocket, tossed it down onto Jaime’s blood-soaked chest, then ran from the bathroom, knocking over several people as he rushed in a blur to the outside of the club.

When he got his hands on that little bitch, he was going to strangle her! He came to a skidding halt outside the club. The sidewalk was unusually empty. He looked up the quiet street, then down. Nothing. Not one vehicle. No one walking on either side.

Gone.

Raising his head, Marcus inhaled. Despite the heavy perfume she’d worn, he could, in the cooling night air, smell her natural scent. He walked south on the sidewalk, following her scent to where it stopped. Other scents, dominant male scents, intruded. Then they were all gone. Slowly he exhaled. A car, waiting for her. It was here she got in and here it took off.

For a long minute, Marcus stared down the brightly lit street. He moved past his anger and his frustration to the calm that would give him the clarity to reason. There would be DNA on her shoes, in the wig, on her dress and, most likely, the lipstick kiss. All he needed was a hair or a scraping of skin, or a microscopic drop of saliva. Then he’d know who she was, and knowing who she was would lead him to where she was.

A sudden thrill zinged through him. A thrill he had never experienced either in his former life as a human or his current soulless life. He hugged the clothing beneath his jacket and smiled, then hurried to his rental just as the club exploded with screams and a rush of patrons out the front door.

Jaime’s body had been discovered.

At least they’d be looking for the redhead and not him.

And he’d be doing more than looking for his mysterious lady in red. He’d be closing in on her. Starting right now.