A Venetian Vampire. Michele Hauf

the bathroom, his dimpled, tight buttocks mocking her as he went. She couldn’t see his grin, but she knew it was there.

      “You’re back to sneaky!” she called as the door closed.

      And she needed a drink of ice water.

      And to check her messages. Sitting on the bed, she grabbed the cell phone she’d left on the nightstand and scrolled through messages. Nothing about a pickup meeting place. That was weird. The vampire who had sent her on this mission knew she was going to nab the egg last night. Wouldn’t he have expected she’d have it in hand by now?

      He had been explicit that she not call him. He was a busy man. He didn’t take calls; he made them. She wasn’t sure what his profession was exactly—beyond vampire—but she assumed it was stressful.

      She should check the local news. See if the theft had been reported.

      “This may be a good thing,” she mused. Because she didn’t have the egg in hand. She had to hurry and get it back. When the message finally did come through, she wanted to be able to move as quickly as possible.

      “Werewolves,” she said. A big sigh sifted through her lips as she pulled her fingers through her wet hair. “I have no experience with werewolves.”

      She was thankful Dante had suggested their dip in the canal to dissuade the werewolves from their scent. That man thought on his feet and used his instincts as they were meant to be utilized. She could learn from him.

      If she weren’t trying to dodge him and keep him away from the prize.

      Picking up the remote, she clicked on the TV and determined the scroll across the bottom of the screen, in Italian, was local news. She found the captioning and switched it to English. Weather. Museum times. Breaking news: Fabergé egg missing.

      Missing?

      “Not stolen? Weird.” But no matter to her. What did matter was that the media knew. It wouldn’t take long before such information reached Paris, where her contact waited. “Now the heat is on, and I have no idea where the egg is.”

      She had failed miserably. But she wasn’t about to give up. As long as she had Dante on her side, she could use him, just as he had used her. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed him. He knew the city and werewolves.

      Ten minutes later, he emerged in a cloud of jasmine-scented steam, wearing a towel tightly wrapped about his hips. After rubbing his hair with another towel, he then tossed that aside to his abandoned clothes pile. His short hair stuck up like bristles on his scalp, a dark cap that drew her eye directly to his face. His bone structure was something else. All lines and angles and exquisite shadows. Mmm, for one more taste of his sex-warm skin.

      “Maybe housekeeping can dry and iron your shirt for you?” Kyler offered in an attempt to redirect her wandering lust.

      She got up to sit in the armchair beside the TV. She’d forgotten to get dressed between fretting over werewolves and what she’d say to her friend if she didn’t get the egg back.

      “It’s silk. It’s ruined.” Dante toed the heap of his wet clothing. “I’ll leave it for the hotel to donate to charity. If anyone wants to bother with this disaster. The shower felt great after a swim in the canal. And the water was still hot, much as you may have wished otherwise. Though I abhor the shampoo scent. I smell like flowers. Ah. Still in the ugly shirt, I see.”

      “You are such a charmer. How did I ever see Casanova in you?”

      “As I’ve said, I’m nothing at all like that roustabout.”

      He sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard and stretching out his legs, giving no indication he might consider getting dressed. Kyler wondered how long it would take the tailor to deliver a new suit. Depending on the length of their wait, it could prove good, bad and so, so...naughty.

      “I should get dressed.” She stood and wandered to the closet, selecting a snug pair of black capris and a red shirt. She nodded toward the muted TV. “Check out the news scroll.”

      Behind the closed bathroom door, she swiftly changed and then drew some eyeliner on and combed her hair. She rarely did blush and eye shadow because she never could get makeup right. Her skin was flawless, though, so she never missed a made-up face. She bet Dante dated glamour-pusses. Those who really knew how to put themselves together and who could wield a makeup brush like an artist.

      “Just average,” she said to her thoughts. A sigh felt necessary, but she did not.

      What was wrong with enjoying an exciting affair with a sexy man? Beyond that he wanted to steal something from her. She needed him as much as he needed her. So she’d work with him. For now.

      Back out in the main room, Dante observed the TV. “The media is not reporting it as theft, merely missing,” he said. “Curious. They must be trying to keep it quiet.”

      “By broadcasting it on TV?”

      “Can’t prevent the reporters that feed on the sensational, I’m sure. We need to get out of Venice.”

      “Not without the egg. It’s noon. Do you think we’ll be able to pick up the werewolves’ scent again?”

      “So you are relying on me now to help you in your endeavors? I thought you had decided to hate me?”

      “I do hate you. With a passion.”

      “Always be passionate about your endeavors, Kitten. It makes them tolerable, whether good or bad.”

      “Whatever. But you do seem to have the better nose. I’ll follow it until it leads me to the prize.”

      “I will do my best. But there will be a struggle between the two of us at the end—I can assure you of that.”

      “I’m strong.”

      “Yes, I noticed that last night.” He tilted forward a shoulder and looked over it. “The claw marks are no longer there, but you do like to dig in and hold on, don’t you?”

      “You loved it.”

      “Of course I did. You are exuberant and fiery when properly aroused. And wow. Red is really your color.”

      She blew out a breath and shook her head. He was baiting her, and she should not take the hook. Again. It was just another line in his Casanova script, she told herself. He probably said the same thing to every woman he fucked.

      “What is your reason for stealing the egg, if you’ll share with me?” he asked. “I would guess the monetary reward, but really, we both know fencing that thing will prove a bitch. It’s too famous. A lost Fabergé egg?”

      “It’s worth millions,” Kyler said. “Why wouldn’t I want the thing?”

      “So you’re a professional thief, are you?”

      No belief in that question whatsoever. She set back her shoulders with as much confidence as she could muster. “I am.”

      He eyed her soberly.

      Kyler felt her bravado slip. The man could read her like a book. And that stare was 100 percent seduce and master.

      She wandered to the end of the bed. “I’m not going to give details. In my profession, that’s never wise.”

      “Of course not. So it’s a profession for you? I’m so glad I stepped aside to allow the professional to handle the details.”

      “Damn right.”

      “So you’ve a fence or buyer lined up?”

      “Maybe.” She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms.

      “And where does this friend come in? I thought you said you’d picked up a piece of art for him. Or was that a lie you made up when we met at the bar? It is a him, yes?”

      “It is. And it wasn’t a lie. But how can you know the art I told you about was the egg?”