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  It was entirely weird. She wasn’t drunk enough to be seeing things.

  “...is debatable.”

  “Yeah. And you have to ask yourself first, is it normal to who?”

  Ariel was speaking. Ariel was a willowy brunette. Tall. Eye-catching. Fit. Ariel was a champion equestrian. Slated for the Olympics, if her father had any say about it. She was sitting across from Mandy. She hadn’t even seen the stilt-walkers.

  “The correct word is ‘whom’.”

  She was answered by Chelsea, the other brunette in the group. Chelsea was shorter. But she had a lot more curves. She had to special order her bras. She was studying history on a grant that was about to expire. She wasn’t happy about it. But she wasn’t happy about much. Mandy wouldn’t have included her if Ariel hadn’t asked. On Mandy’s other side was Bridget, the foreign exchange student they’d befriended – if you could call the United States foreign. Mandy wasn’t following their conversation. Her attention was still on the alley opening. Even with the mass of humanity, and in the dark, she could swear she’d seen something unique. Amazing. And she’d felt...

  ...something.

  “...on a break from college. Take your grammar and shove it. Here. Your drink is getting flat.” Ariel pushed a plastic goblet closer to Chelsea.

  “Ladies. Please. At least, turn around and see what she’s referring to.” Bridget pointed toward the stilted exhibitionists.

  “If you’re showing us another carnival-goer who missed the real carnival and is just looking for a good time, you might as well save your breath. We’ve seen it all. Heard it, too.” Chelsea lifted her glass, looked over the contents. Made a face.

  “Yeah. More than once.” Ariel added.

  “Why doesn’t somebody just take a photo? Post it to your page. Anyone for a toast?” Chelsea offered.

  “If any of you even picks up her phone, you’re paying for the next round. That’s a major violation of the rules on this va-cay. Remember?” Bridget replied.

  “Fine. Oh, look. It’s two, attention-seeking morons. With nice bodies but they could be uglier than sin for all we know. They’re wearing masks, because they must have missed carnival. What do you know? Surprise.” Chelsea lifted her goblet high in salute before draining it.

  They were drinking the city’s renowned cocktail called a Spritz Veneziano. Made with champagne, a dash of bitter liquor and topped with sparkling mineral water. It was bubby. Fun. And entirely too easy to drink too much. That was what Venice felt like, actually. A surfeit of too much. They were capping off a day of seeing too much. Walking too much. Taking in too much.

  “My eyes! My eyes! Is there any way to un-see that?” Ariel asked as she turned back around.

  “Ladies. Please. Something just happened. I just...saw something,” Mandy turned back to the group, but that caused another round of shivers. She almost glanced back.

  “It’s Venice. You can’t help but see something. Everywhere you look there’s another work of art. Another painting. Another sculpture. Another place of historic significance. Another—”

  “No. No. Not the city. It was a...guy.” Mandy interrupted Ariel. She frowned slightly before glancing back toward the alley. There was nothing there. Just a lot of black shadowed space. Maybe she was seeing things. She turned back to the others. “I mean, I thought it was a guy.”

  “We are not here to find men, Mandy. Unless he’s really hot. And really famous. And really rich. That should make some headlines. I’ll even help.”

  “I hate the press. Why would I want that for?”

  “Any press is good press. Paul Henry could use a look at the woman who dumped him. And how she didn’t waste time before replacing him. I mean, honestly. It should be obvious. If you saw that kind of guy, let me know. I’ll go alert your paparazzi.”

  “I don’t have paparazzi. And I didn’t dump Paul Henry.”

  “But you already told us he didn’t dump you. And you’d have photographers following you twenty-four/seven if those bodyguards didn’t hold them off. Speaking of...where are Mutt and Rover anyway?” Ariel continued.

  “Mutt and who?” Mandy asked.

  “The word is whom. I keep telling you ladies,” Chelsea inserted.

  “Shove your ‘whom’. I was speaking of Mandy’s bodyguards. The guys in camouflage. The ones from the group that are always around Paul Henry. You know. The guys in camo. Mutt and Rover.”

  “That is not their names. That isn’t even their nicknames.”

  “Like I care. Besides, all of that was a great diversion...when I’d really like to know the real story.”

  “Real story?” Mandy asked. She took a sip of her spritz. It bubbled on her tongue before she swallowed. The shivers increased. So did the unease. It was akin to watching a scary movie with the lights out, and getting the sense that someone was behind. Watching. Waiting.

  “Yeah? Why would you dump the hottest guy on the planet?”

  “Wow. Good thing I’m not heartbroken. You ladies are worse than tincture of iodine on a paper cut.”

  Chelsea snorted, sending a plume of spritz spray with it.

  “So, are you ever going to tell us what happened?” Ariel asked.

  “Yeah. I mean we’re here for you. Ready to castigate Paul Henry Beethan within an inch of his life. And what happens? We tour Venice. For like...days.” Chelsea remarked.

  “It’s a big city,” Mandy replied. She wasn’t really paying attention. Besides she knew Ariel and Chelsea were jealous. They didn’t hide it.

  “And you’re really strange. Is that how the upper crust handles a break-up? Still going with the stiff upper lip and all that?”

  “You read too much history.” Mandy scooted her chair a little so she could get a clearer view of the alley. It didn’t help. The place was still a big black slice in the middle of three and four-story buildings.

  “Well. It is my major. And there’s a good helping of social themes in there, as well. I think normal has a totally different meaning to you than the rest of the world.”

  “It does not,” Mandy replied. Wait! Was that a movement?

  “Oh. Please. Your grandfather is a bloody duke. Or, has he died yet, leaving your uncle with the title and fortune?”

  Mandy gasped. Chelsea exclaimed.

  “Ariel!”

  “I’m just asking what she’d know of normal? She’s a solid member of the one percent club. She has a flood of photographers trailing her, her own bodyguards, a bank account that would scare me, lines of credit that don’t end...and she had the hottest boyfriend on the planet. Normal? Oh. Please. Give me a break.”

  “Uh. Ariel. Your claws are showing,” Bridget said.

  “Meow,” Ariel replied on cue.

  “Wow. I think we should have cut you off before the last round.”

  “And I think we need another. Waiter!”

  Chelsea tipped her head back and lifted her empty glass. Mandy should have felt hurt. At the minimum, a little peeved. Either sounded like a waste of time. She made a mental note to never take another trip with Ariel. And definitely not Chelsea. Move on. And there was something really intriguing about that alley...

  It was like it reached out for her.

  Bridget stood up and started waving and whistling, grabbing their attention, as well as most of those in the vicinity.

  “Oh, no! Please don’t call them over!”

  Ariel grabbed for Bridget’s arm. Both of them stumbled with a lot of giggling. Then Bridget got loose again. Started waving again. And whistling. And she had a really loud whistle.

  “Bridget! No!” Ariel was still trying to stop her.

  “Come on, ladies! No more catty talk or back-stabbing. We’re young. The night is young. And those are some very hard-bodied men.” She turned back to holler into the square. “Yes! You!”

  Mandy stood up. Donned her sweater. Speared a glance toward the beckoning dark alley as she buttoned it.

  This was ridiculous. There wasn’t anything there. And even if t
here was, why should she care? All she wanted to do was escape. Reach the hotel. Check her emails. Maybe brew a cup of tea. Her ‘girlfriends’ could fend for themselves. This situation was about to dissolve into exactly what she always avoided: an incident that sparked bad press. Scandal that would hit every front page of every tabloid in Europe. Conjecture and whispering that would never end.

  The thought alone nauseated her.

  Mandy Robes was an introvert. She’d tried out for the cheerleading squad because it had been required. Her Grandfather expected it. He wanted her to increase her social circle. Expand her influence. Follow in the Robes tradition as a society leader. She’d tried. It hadn’t been easy...and it didn’t really seem to have a pay-off. Look at the friends she’d reaped. They didn’t accompany her to commiserate. They seemed to enjoy any tidbit of gossip, as well as any sign of depression. Somehow that must assuage jealousy.

  She should have just stayed home. In that big mausoleum called Robes Parkland. The mansion had a lot of centuries-old treasures and more than its share of silence. But was this really any better? It was just as Paul Henry had said time and again. Wealth had a dark side. You never knew who your friends were. And why you had them. That was one reason Paul Henry had approached her in the first place. Or so, he’d told her. Nobody could say she was with him for money. Or social position. Or fame. And he’d really liked what he’d called her sense of class. She was perfect for what he needed. She was beautiful. Trim. Connected. And she didn’t make headlines. He was tired of girls who did.

  But then he’d wanted more. More? He’d wanted to take their relationship to another level. Well. To get that, she’d required him to put a ring on it. And that was the big break-up secret her ‘girlfriends’ kept trying to find out.

  Odd. She was actually starting to tear up here. Something she’d been determined not to do. She really wasn’t heartbroken. She must have instinctively known Paul Henry wasn’t the love of her life. He had too much growing up to do. His exploits since their break-up were being splashed all over the internet. That was proof. Of how far he had to go.

  Mandy blinked away any trace of emotion before turning back to the others. The guys on stilts were getting closer. Waves of people seemed to be closing in.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Chelsea asked.

  “Worried?”

  “Not really. But I’d hate to pay the hotel bill if you disappeared.”

  Chelsea gave her a tight-lipped smile. Mandy smiled back with what she called a society smile. Both of them were false gestures. But at least it wasn’t hidden anymore. Drink certainly dropped barriers and removed restrictions in some people.

  “The hotel has my credit card number. Besides...I have bodyguards. Remember?”

  “Oh. Touché.”

  Mandy was already walking away. She almost expected to feel a knife in her back. Their table had been near a corner café that took up the lower two floors of the building there. Mandy purposefully walked toward it, ignoring the allure of whatever had been in the opposite alley. She assumed the two bodyguards Paul Henry had insisted on sending with her would follow. And none of her so-called friends knew about the two men her family paid for. Maybe because they were wearing suits, not camouflage.

  She didn’t bother checking for any of them. She could feel them behind her. Just like always.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What was this? She was leaving?

  Alone?

  Nigel leapt to a roof and considered things. Count Reynaldo Moroseni had left a few minutes earlier. The Venetian had started a loud operatic aria as he’d sauntered into the gloom, a Hunter slung over each shoulder. Nigel didn’t envy any of them. All he wanted was to find Mandy. Figure out a way to approach her. Decide an opening line. How he should act. What tone of voice he should use? Oh. Nothing British. The mask was barely doing its job at hiding him. He probably looked like Paul Henry’s evil twin in this black leather get-up. He didn’t need to sound like his grandson, too.

  And then – with little warning – he’d spotted her. She was sitting at a table. Chatting. Sipping on a drink. Every now and then she laughed. Nigel had zeroed in on her voice. Absorbed the view. His heart got stronger. Steadier. His lungs filled and emptied. Each heartbeat contained something more than life fluid, while every breath carried more than oxygen. Both carried absolute joy. Because this time, he didn’t have to turn away.

  But then things went haywire. Electric stimuli smacked at him, racing through every cell in his body. Warming. Enticing. Uh oh. This reanimation was very physical. Real. Tangible. And these leather pants were a complete disaster. He had to concentrate. Stop this. Think on the ephemeral sense of elation at finding his mate, not just the possible mating portion.

  And something worked. Finally. He was shaking, but he’d conquered the testosterone problem.

  For now.

  Oh. Mandy Augustine Robes was one gorgeous female. He didn’t know her height. Or body shape. She might be built like a brick house, or thin as a board. Stacked so that she almost fell over, or possess a barely-there bosom. It didn’t truly matter. He’d had a huge paradigm shift in the recent past. Huge. He no longer based attraction on physicality.

  He was looking at perfection.

  And he knew it.

  Her hair was the color of ripening wheat, although there were strands of sun-kissed gold worked through it. It looked natural...or she had a superb salon stylist. It was about shoulder length in front, shorter in back. Cut in a long bob. The pictures he’d seen online didn’t do her any justice. He thought, rather poetically, that she was encapsulated in an aura of dawn glow. He could almost see it.

  This is what she did to him.

  It was wonderful!

  So...what to do?

  He hadn’t intended to try and thrall her. It shouldn’t be possible from this distance. But his intentions got cross-wired between his mind and his body. He must have done something. She’d acted like she’d seen, and been affected by, him. Was that possible? From here?

  And then there’d come a commotion. Something happened with the others in her party, and his mate stood. Said something about bodyguards, and then started walking away. He’d been just about ready to try his luck at stepping from the shadowy alley and try to avoid another mob of women before this happened. And none of her cohorts cared?

  Wait.

  Two gentlemen separated from the shadows they’d been in. They were completely overdressed. Wearing dark suits. In Campo Santa Margherita? They stood out more than the garish boys on stilts. It was exactly as he’d suspected. She had other Hunters, trying to fit in.

  They really needed a better head at the helm of their organization than his son, Chester Beethan. Perhaps Paul Henry would make a better leader. Somebody needed to help these guys. No. Wait. Despite the fact that Paul Henry was his grandson, and Nigel was extremely proud of that fact, the kid was an enemy. And for the first time, it hit him.

  His grandson was an enemy. To be eliminated if necessary.

  How...disconcerting.

  Oh. Hell. Mandy had disappeared while he did that bit of introspection. Nigel soared in the direction she’d disappeared. His blood pressure rose along with his pulse as he checked dark streets and alleys. There were so many dangers down there! And she was so precious. He spent too much time going farther and farther afield before deciding on an easier method. Her bodyguards were easy to spot. If they were worth anything, they’d be on her heels. And...

  Yes!

  Elation was a full-out sensation, too. Nigel dropped onto a balcony that shuddered warningly at his arrival, and leaned out, easily spying the two football types. One was smoking and checking a text on his phone. It lit his face. The other was looking in the direction of a canal, where Mandy stood, looking small and lost and...

  She wasn’t contemplating something irrevocable, like suicide? Was she? And the clowns parading as bodyguards weren’t doing something about it?

  Nigel plunged into place behind the
bodyguards, grabbed their necks, and smacked their heads together. Both dropped. He didn’t observe it. He was past and approaching Mandy before the men hit the street. He might have used too much force. He didn’t care. All he cared about was the beauty looking down at the water.

  It wasn’t a large canal. It probably wasn’t deep. Maybe three meters. Over either of their heads. She was standing at the edge of a precipice. Looking down. Moonlight didn’t reach where she stood. It was dark and deserted. Easy to slip. Drown. Nigel had been a strong swimmer, but running water could be deadly to a vampire. Especially one who’d been reanimated by his mate. Nigel didn’t know if the canal was considered running water or not. Or if he could even drown. He was breathing but did he need air? And the water was moving, but was it fast enough?

  “Uh...miss?”

  She turned. Gasped. Slipped. And fell.

  Instinct kicked in again. This time, it was driven by fear. Nigel dove, reaching the water surface before she did. He spun, tossing her onto the street before the water grabbed at him. It dragged. And then it consumed. Heartbeats filled his ears. He held his breath. He reached bottom. Or something very gushy. His feet sank. His jacket made things worse. He struggled out of it. Time didn’t seem to be moving. And he didn’t need to breathe. That was fortuitous.

  Shit. He was starting to use big words? Just like Akron?

  And worse. He’d never felt this weak. Debilitated. Pretty much useless. And then arms wrapped about his waist from behind. Her arms. He was yanked back toward what had to be her breasts. Held tight. Her grip sent all kinds of impulses through him while she tugged, pulling him from the mass that imprisoned his lower legs. Her touch was exactly what he must need. It sent a burst of energy. Nigel bent his knees and shoved upward. His effort resembled a newborn calf trying to stand. His strokes were little more than splashing. Yet somehow they broke the surface, still lunging upward. She inhaled a large gulp of air. He matched it without thought. Then she was propelling them toward solid ground. Or what went for terra firma in Venice, since it was positioned on a base of marble, atop a forest of petrified wood.