Page 4 of The Biting Bargain

I stalk across the room. Behind a room divider, I spot a hot tub, circular and sprawling, with warm turquoise water bubbling lazily inside. I wrap my arms around my body and shiver despite the warmth the thing radiates. Sure enough, I'm in a gigantic playboy suite. Of course there's a gigantic playboy hot tub. And I didn't bring any swimwear. Which probably isn't necessary for what usually goes down in that thing.

I shake myself again.

My client — it feels weird to think this — is not interested in sexual play. That's why I was matched with him. He only wants my blood. Only my blood I want to give.

A noise makes me spin around, my pulse racing to the ceiling, but I'm still alone in the room. Mr. Super Rich Vampire is apparently running late. And apparently, I’m super jumpy.

At least I didn't get busted.

When Marigold suggested that I apply to Club Sanguine, I was sure I'd be kicked out in the first blood screening. But either my blood samples were really unsuspicious or the tests were super sucky — and they did test me three times after all before the admission came in — but maybe it’s true and I really don't have a single shred of magic left.

It's still in my ID. Under my date of birth and nationality, it’s there in bold letters:Witch. But that's just pro forma. Magic has been dead for a long time in my family. Mom was the last to manage a few sparks. I’m as magical as it gets. A completely normal standard human woman. And thus acceptable to this establishment, which only accepts humans into its roster, not paranormals.

At least in this situation, being completely mundane and bland is useful for a change.

Technically, I should have said something at the screening. But no one asked me. And I damn well need the cash. So I kept my mouth shut — and now here I am.

I really don’t know why I do it, I must be lost in thought or something, but I take one step back. And bump my bare calves against the designer coffee table, just barely managing to curse before there's a clatter behind me and I go spinning around.

As if in slow motion, I see the absurd wooden sphere sculpture collapse like a souffle, and the beige wooden spheres bounce away in every direction like a bunch of super balls.

"Shit!" I whine and dash off to recapture the spheres.

You've got to be kidding me! Grandma was right, there's nowhere you can take me. Everywhere I go, I leave stains, knock over flower pots or break every piece of china within reach. Cursing, I crawl all over the floor and scrape up the spheres that roll merrily around the room. I wonder how much a blasted sculpture like this might actually cost? I hope they don't deduct it from my payment! Please, please, please leave some for the mafia thugs…

There' s sweat on my forehead as I toss the spheres back into the wooden bowl on the table, one by one, restoring them to a semi-pyramidal shape. Damn, you can see right away that they are off. And the top ball is missing too!

I take a frantic look around. The floor is sphere-free. And the damn suite is so empty, there's little opportunity for a rogue wooden sphere to hide, except...

I bend over, eyeing under the couch.

Gotcha.

The smallest of the wooden balls is wedged so far under the couch I can barely reach with my outstretched hand.

Of course it is!

Cursing, I pull myself up, rush to the back of the couch that faces the door, and get down on my knees. The ball is a little closer here. If I stretch I might make it. I bend down, stick my head halfway under the couch, and angle my arm for the sphere.

"Fucking bitch," I mutter, my fingertips grazing the wood. Who builds furniture this size anyway? And why does this blasted ball roll to this one spot underneath, of all places, that I can just barely reach?

Just as I get hold of the ball, just as it rolls into my palm and my fingers close around the wood — someone clears their throat behind me.

I freeze.

I get ice cold as I remember what I'm actually doing here.

I'm kneeling on the floor. In a super-short dress. Half under the couch. Ass up in the air.

And my client is here.

The client I was supposed to be waiting for.

Gasping, I turn around, still kneeling. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow looming like a storm cloud.

My client is right behind me. A stunning client. An absolute smoke show in a dark tailored suit. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair. A pair of circular sunglasses sits on a long, straight nose. He takes them off and dark, piercing eyes bore down on me as if I were a grease stain on his best silk tie.

ChapterTwo

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