Page 86 of Fire Dancer

“Sorry,” he said.

I blinked into a handsome, all-American face. It was Rob, the escort I’d pegged as a football player.

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

Other than having a vial of his blood in my pocket? Sure. Perfect.

“Yes. Thanks. Sorry.” I flattened my hand over the side of my pants.

He grinned in the manner of a confident, airheaded football player — a lot like Ryder, my occasional dance buddy — and tapped his chest proudly.

“I’m on grill duty tonight.”

I pinched my lips together before I blurted something like,I hope not.

“Can you show me where to find the steaks?” he continued.

I could picture it now — vampires trading small talk with “escorts” out on that beautiful terrace while bloody steaks simmered on the grill.

“Um, Wendy would know.” I motioned toward her.

The good news was, he hadn’t recognized me. The bad news was, I had a goddamn vial of his blood in my pocket, and I feared he’d be “donating” more soon.

I watched him go. How much desperation, greed, or twisted desire did it take to sign on as a vampire escort? How could the money possibly be worth it?

Grabbing a dish towel, I hurried over to one of Nancy’s portable coolers, wrapped the vials in the cloth, and dropped them into the ice at the bottom. Those coolers had been brought in full and would soon be shuttled away empty. I snapped a picture of the cooler number, then hunched over my phone in the walk-in pantry, working my thumbs at warp speed.

Evidence?was all I had time to write before attaching the pictures and hittingsend.

The symbol on my phone turned in agonizingly slow circles.

Then, whew — a check mark. They were on their way.

My thumbs flew over the screen again, erasing every picture, then emptying the trash.

I exhaled, stuffing the phone back into my pocket. There. I’d done it. Evidence…hopefully. Even if it wasn’t, I’d had enough of La Puebla. It was time to pack up and clear out with Nancy.

I turned back to the kitchen, so eager to depart that I bumped into Rob again.

“Sorry,” I said, drawing back.

Then I froze. It wasn’t Rob or Deirdre or the butler. It was my worst nightmare.

Victor Jananovich.

Thin, pale lips curled into a tight smile as he took me in.

“Ah, Ms. Martin, the glass artist.”

Shit. The average guy took five tries to get my name right. This vampire had it memorized.

Worse, the way he looked at me said he hadmememorized.

His nostrils flared, and his eyes flickered. If I could have ordered my blood to stop swishing through my veins, I would have.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

I forced a smile. “Pleasure’s all mine.” I waved toward Nancy. “I moonlight for the catering company.”