Page 22 of The Biting Bargain

He struts out through a side door that clicks shut behind him.

Leaving me alone.

With Vincent.

Uh-oh.

He takes off his shades, folds them up and slips them into his breast pocket.

"Two questions," he says as he approaches me with deceptively slow steps.

I jump from my seat, instantly regretting it because a sharp whip of pain cracks through my right ankle. Dammit, I must have twisted it when DiMartino’s goons attacked me. But I have no time to gather my bearings, because Vincent is suddenly in front of me, looming like a thundercloud. I stumble backwards and land my ass back into the velvet cushions.

He glares down at me with eyes that are completely amber.

"First, you omitted one important thing from the Club Sanguine security screening, didn't you?" He tilts his head. "Witch?"

I wince.

"Possibly," I groan out as my heart drops. Of course he found out.

"Second." His expression hardens as he pulls something out of his back pocket. "How much is Stellan DiAngelo paying you to do his dirty work?"

I blink, uncomprehending, as he holds out the business card from that angelic vampire jerk I met in the elevator. I pluck the card from his fingers, turning it around.

"STELLAN DIANGELO"it reads. "PRIVATE CONTACT", next to a long and foreign looking phone number. I frown, as my memory flashes back to the night when I grabbed my coat and bag from the checkroom and made a hasty exit from the Club Sanguine building. I had stuffed the business card into my pocket… and forgot about it. I had other problems to worry about.

"He sent you." Vincent Renard sneers.

I shake my head, not catching on what he’s saying. "I don't understand..."

"Answer, witch."

"Don't you dare take that tone with me," I hiss, and he blinks once.

"Don't play dumb," he growls. "What did DiAngelo pay you?"

"Could you maybe stop the cryptic hints and just fucking tell me what's going on?" I bite out, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my ankle.

Vincent leans down to me so fast I flinch. Two large hands slam on the backrest of the sofa to the left and right of my head, his face now hovering only inches from mine.

"Okay, then," he growls. "What is fucking going on is that my oldest rival has apparently smuggled a witch in disguise into my drone club in order to expose me."

I blink, overwhelmed that he locks me in with his body. But I clench my fists in my lap and jut my chin out.

"I haven't the faintest idea what the hell you're talking about!"

His eyebrows twitch up an almost imperceptible notch. Apparently he's not used to anyone talking back. Most likely he’s busy all day long bossing people around and everyone just goes "Yes, my lord," and "No, my lord," and "How high do you want me to jump, my lord?" It fills me with confused and irrational pride to have upset him. Even though my heart is up to my neck and my ankle hurts like the freakin’ dickens and I'm paralyzed with fear.

And fuck, he's hot.

He is, unfortunately, exactly the type of guy I fall for disastrously. Tall, dark, mysterious, mesmerizing after-shave...

"Pray tell, little dove, how come you have his business card on you?"

"Is it illegal to carry business cards?"

My voice almost doesn't tremble at all. Even though I feel like a suicidal rabbit giving a particularly bad-tempered giant snake a piece of its mind.

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