Page 81 of The Biting Bargain

Grace snorts. "Bullshit."

"You don't even know him," I mutter, but secretly agree with her. Vincent Renard, feelings? For me? Laughable.

"Maybe he's just too dense." Marigold shrugs and twirls the glass again. "Men tend to be pretty clueless about their own emotions."

"Isn't that sexist now?"

"Hey, you just gave a speech about how men are no good."

"All I said was that we shouldn't accept half assed measures."

"Guys," I interject. "Calm down. It's sweet that you're worried. But there's nothing to be done, really."

"Oh yeah?" Marigold raises an eyebrow and gives me a scrutinizing look. "Have you guys really talked about it one more time? Have you told him how you feel?"

With a groan, I sink my forehead onto the cold wood of the counter.

"Of course I haven't. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself," I explain to the counter. "I mean, he's an ultra-hot, powerful, filthy rich, centuries-old vampire. He could bloody well have any woman on the planet. The only reason he put up with me is because I accidentally chained myself to him by curse. Why would he have feelings for me, of all people?"

"Why not?" Marigold strokes my shoulders.

I press my lips together and stomp on the little telltale spark of hope blossoming inside me. Why not? Because fairy tale twists and turns only happen in fairy tales, not in real life.

"Maybe you should call him and ask him just that."

"Yeah, right." I snort.

"Hey, you don't know until you try it."

I sit back down and eye Marigold up and down. "When did you get so terribly clever?"

She laughs and I have to laugh too, and if things weren't so tragic, I could just be happy to be sitting here with my girls... when someone clears their throat behind me.

"Excuse me, ladies. But I'd like to have a word with Ms. Bukowski."

I whirl around on my barstool.

Like an angel of death in a white suit, there’s Stellan DiAngelo, standing casually in the bar room, hands in his pockets. He eyes me with cold blue eyes and an amused predatory smile.

"Excuse me?" I croak, involuntarily pulling the hem of my skirt over my knees.

"Now would be dandy," he says with an amused sideways glance at my girlfriends. "It concerns our mutual acquaintance. Vincent Renard. A matter of utmost urgency, if you will."

ChapterThirty-Eight

Polly

Grace setsthe drinks on the table at the far corner table — blood in a wine glass for Mr. DiAngelo and water for me, because there’s enough tequila in my bloodstream as it is and I have the sinking feeling I need the last crumbs of my wits for this conversation. Grace gives my counterpart a warning glare, then she’s gone.

"Charming," he chuckles.

I stare at him, unblinking, as he sits with his back to the rest of the bar, sticking out like a sore thumb at Midnight Harbor, like a snow leopard has wandered into a birthday party.

A snow leopard that now flashes fangs as he reaches for his wine glass and toasts me.

"You will accompany me to the inauguration ball tomorrow," he says.

I blink. "I'm sorry, what?"

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