But it was more than that. If he were to be honest with himself—and he worked hard to be honest with himself, to not turn into the arrogant bastard she thought he was—he had to admit that the one he was mad at wasn’t Sailor but himself. Because she stirred up something in him—she had just enough Elven in her to be his type, with her overt sensuality, her long golden limbs and red-gold hair—and the last thing he needed now was a romantic entanglement. Sailor’s path had crossed his because of this crisis, and it was the crisis that mattered. Finding the killer. Not her.
Alessande’s warning came to mind. The Elven passion for portents and premonitions irritated him because he didn’t like being told what not to do, even by supernatural sources. This time the warnings were unnecessary, redundant, telling him what he already knew: Keep this strictly business.
And it was hardly her fault that she’d messed up his evening’s agenda, because she had no idea she was part of it. Taking síúlacht wasn’t a bad call on her part; it was a perfectly reasonable response to her condition, taking more of what Alessande had given her hours earlier. Not everyone’s an addict, mate, he told himself. And even if she were, it wasn’t his business.
How had she lasted this long, though? He and Alessande had underestimated her stamina. But she would show up at his club, he had no doubt. She wanted something from him.
Would she be safe, though, driving the streets of Hollywood after midnight? Safe from what had attacked her this afternoon? Whether her assailant was a vampire or a shifter, neither was likely to enter her car while she was driving. And once she reached the Snake Pit she would be on his turf, and anyone trying to mess with her there did so at their peril. Let them try, he thought, and instinctively flexed his muscles.
Damn. He was going to have to watch himself. Feeling this protective toward her was a bad sign.
He signaled Dennis, who came over, wiping a shot glass with a bar towel. “Do me a favor?” Declan asked, pulling out a business card.
“Sure.”
Declan nodded toward Sailor, visible in the next room. “Sailor Gryffald. I don’t think she’s well. Call me at this number, would you, if she shows any signs of weakness? Maybe see her to her car?”
“I’ll do better than that,” Dennis said. “I’ll follow her, see she makes it to the door of the Snake Pit.” He smiled at Declan’s look. “Acoustics, friend. I can hear everything at this bar.”
Sailor watched Declan leave with mixed feelings. On the one hand, she’d been both unprofessional and immature, and she desperately wished she could rewind the conversation. On the other hand, no matter how gracelessly, she’d achieved her goal: he had agreed to talk to her about the murders, and Declan Wainwright was a major resource. The challenge now would be to extract from him everything he knew, not just the stuff he would tell anyone. And to get him to share his connections, which were vast.
Okay, the real challenge would be to retain some self-possession in his presence and not act like a kid with a crush.
Fortunately Sailor loved a challenge.
The only thing she couldn’t figure out was why Declan Wainwright cared that she’d ingested some homeopathic twigs and leaves.
And how she was going to survive hanging in the city’s hottest after-hours club dressed in her waitress uniform.
Chapter 4
Declan’s assistant, Harriet, had set up a business meeting for midnight, texting him Reggie Maxx’s confirmation before calling it a day, leaving her boss to his nighttime assistant, Carolyn. Declan stood now in a corner of the Snake Pit’s main room, surveying his club in full swing. The place ran well in his absence, a fact he knew because he was in the habit of shifting and showing up to observe operations. It took him a full minute to spot Reggie, because he was looking for a man on his own and Reggie had brought a date. They were on the dance floor, the date a well-built blonde with a short skirt and a serious shimmy, Reggie a tall, sandy-haired man towering over his fellow dancers.
“Hey, Declan,” Reggie said, coming over to shake hands. He was breathing heavily, flushed from the exercise. The Elven Keeper was in his early thirties, just shy of handsome, but with a freckle-faced charm and impressive physique. “Hope you don’t mind—this is my associate, Kandy. We wanted to, uh, see the band.”
“Not at all. Thanks for agreeing to meet on such short notice,” Declan said.
Kandy shook his hand with enthusiasm. “Are you kidding? I told Reggie he had to. You’re like a celebrity, you don’t need notice. And I’m Kandy with a k, so I’m easy to remember.” She wore six-inch stilettos studded with metal, which also made her easy to remember, Declan thought. “I made Reggie bring me along, because I’ve never been to the Snake Pit and I’ve lived in L.A. like three whole years.”
“Then I won’t interrupt your night for long.”
Kandy giggled. “This is our night. I love your accent, by the way. You’re Australian or one of those, right?”
“English and Irish, love,” Declan said.
“Ooh, Black Irish. That’s where you get that smoky look and those baby blue eyes, right?”
Reggie turned to her. “Kandy, Declan and I need to talk business, so why don’t you take a little tour of the place? Just don’t get in trouble.”
Declan hailed his bartender and told him to keep Kandy supplied with whatever she wanted, then led Reggie toward a staircase leading to the underground level.
Reggie gave a sheepish laugh. “She’s … a great assistant, actually. Paralegal. Draws up real estate contracts like you wouldn’t believe. Anyhow, she wanted to come and she’s … persuasive.”
Declan could well believe it. As an Elven Keeper, Reggie would have a strong measure of his species’ sexual appetite, and their magnetism. There were mortals who found the Elven irresistible without, of course, knowing what they were dealing with, and Kandy was their prototype. “No surprise,” Declan said. “She’s pretty, you’re a guy, it’s a full moon.”
“Yeah, true.” Reggie said. “Anyhow, I’m very curious as to what you wanted to see me about.”
Declan led Reggie into his office, a futuristic-looking space in gunmetal gray. He closed the door. “I need information.”
“Name it.”
“The Scarlet Pathogen deaths. Anything you can tell me about them?”
Reggie looked around, as though someone might be hiding under the concrete desk. “Why are you asking me?”
Declan gestured toward a leather sofa, inviting Reggie to sit. “You’re one of the few Elven Keepers it’s not a chore to have drinks with. What are you drinking, by the way?”
“Scotch, straight. Thanks. But what I meant was—I’m not a cop.”
Declan moved to a bar across the room. “No, but you’re the Coastal Keeper, and Charlotte Messenger’s body was found on the beach. Your jurisdiction.”
Reggie grimaced. “Well, there’s that.”
“And you know the cops are involved, that this is more than a health department matter, a communicable disease.” Declan handed him a glass of scotch and sat on a leather chair opposite the sofa.
Reggie took the highball glass. “Yeah, that’s true.” He took a sip of scotch, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want his thoughts read.
Typical, Declan thought.
He hadn’t encountered the Elven or their Keepers until his late teens, when he’d headed west from New York City. The dry heat made Southern California a favorite Elven habitat, and their incandescent looks made them naturals in the film industry. Outwardly social, they thrived on the