Kiss Of Darkness. Heather Graham

let out a weary sigh. “From what I heard, Jake, someone freaked out way before the police got there, and the party was already over. Am I afraid the vampires will come after me? No. Feel free to stay if you have something important to discuss, Jake, but if you’re just trying to turn the tables here, forget it. Okay?” Her voice was calm and steady. Bored. He had expected to get a rise out of her, but she knew better than to let him.

      He shrugged, pushing away from the chair. “Sure sounded like a hell of a party,” he murmured.

      “Yeah, great party. A girl is still in the hospital,” Jessica said, making a mental note to drop by the hospital over the weekend. She had left Romania soon after the students’ parents had arrived, but she knew from the newspaper that Mary had been brought home to a New Orleans hospital. The papers had turned the event into a decadent costume party and little more, but anything that mentioned vampires intrigued the public, and even the national papers had picked up the story.

      When Jake was gone, she walked to the front desk. Since they were expecting a lodger, she’d sent Stacey home early. Now she pulled out her appointment book, curious to see what her schedule was for the following Monday. When she opened the book, she sat back thoughtfully.

      Jeremy had made an appointment for himself.

      Bryan MacAllistair felt he’d arrived at the perfect time in New Orleans—not just the season, but the time of day, as well—when he first stood in front of the old Montresse place.

      The dead heat of the day was gone, and night was just coming on. It came softly, perhaps deceptively, to this area of the French Quarter, just beyond reach of the neon lights, the blare of the music and the laughter of inebriated tourists. Here, only the faint sounds of a distant waltz could be heard, or perhaps they were only imagined as shadows fell over leafy trees. The Montresse house stood back beyond a brick wall and iron gate, gently cradled by the darkness. The night was kind, he thought. There was no aura of decay about the place. The grounds were slightly overgrown, and looked as if the paint were threatening to peel but hadn’t quite reached the point where it was willing to abandon the splendor of the facade.

      He stared at the house for a while. Then he found the hinge on the wrought-iron gate and entered, following the stone path from the sidewalk to the porch. Montresse House was old, built when there was still space to be had in the French Quarter. There was a graceful lawn, dotted with flowers and trees that dripped lazily with moss. The porch was more reminiscent of an old plantation house rather than a city dwelling.

      As he walked, he was aware that, above him, from a window on the second floor, a curtain had been pulled back.

      His arrival was being watched.

      With a shrug, he stepped up on the porch and reached for the heavy door knocker, but before he could touch it, the door swung open.

      The woman standing there appeared to be in her early twenties. She had a pretty face and a cheerful smile.

      “Hi.”

      “Hi,” he returned.

      “You’re the professor the travel agency booked?” she asked.

      “Yes, that’s me. Bryan MacAllistair.”

      “Cool. Come on in.”

      He stepped inside, and the woman shut the door behind him.

      “I’m Stacey LeCroix, Ms. Fraser’s assistant. Welcome.”

      “Thanks. This place sounded like heaven,” he said. “It’s a beautiful house. Is Ms. Fraser from New Orleans? Has she owned the house forever?”

      “Oh, no, Jessica’s from…actually, I’m not sure where she’s from originally, but she was practicing in Jacksonville before she came here. She’d been here for a few years before I started working for her. I know about the house, though—a friend had been keeping an eye open for her and called her when it came up on the market. But, you’re absolutely right. It’s beautiful. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

      A sweeping staircase was the central focus of the foyer, and he could well imagine being swept back through the decades to a time when cotton was king and Southern belles had whisked along the hallways in elegant ballgowns. There were broad double doors to both the right and left, closed now.

      “The ladies’ parlor was to your left and the men’s smoking room to the right. Of course, we prohibit smoking in the house, though your room has access to the wraparound balcony, just in case.”

      “A cigar here and there,” he told her, shrugging. Her expression clearly displayed what she thought of cigar smoke, but he refused to back down. “However, I prefer my cigars with good brandy, right time, right place,” he told her reassuringly.

      “Humph,” she murmured. “Well, in the morning, the doors to the right are open and it’s a lovely dining room. The original dining room is Ms. Fraser’s office. The bedrooms are upstairs. If you lose your key or have any maintenance problems, there’s a groundskeeper’s cottage just to the rear of the main house—you can reach it through the yard. Ms. Fraser and I both work but Gareth Miller, our handyman, is just about always around.”

      “No problem,” Bryan said.

      She set one foot on the first step of the stairway, and turned, an uncertain look on her face. “You’re a professor, right?” she asked. He had the feeling that she was uncertain, and irritated with herself because of it.

      “Yes, just as the booking agency promised.”

      She nodded, still frowning. “Of course. Um…sorry. Follow me.”

      Up the stairs and to the left, she opened the first door on the right side of the hallway. “I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable,” she assured him. “The bath was added soon after the turn of the last century. Deco fixtures,” she said proudly. “We do charge a bit more than most, but…”

      “Worth every cent,” he assured her, and he meant it. The room was huge, and the bath was really something. The room itself offered a queen-size bed, the usual modern entertainment center, a period dresser with a contemporary coffeemaker and microwave, a nineteenth-century desk with a printer and fax machine, and an ample closet. French doors opened out to the wraparound balcony. He strode out, inhaling the rich scent of new-grown foliage, and noting the attractive garden and small pool below. The backyard wasn’t vast, but it was big enough to offer the swimming pool—blessed relief in the dead heat of summer, he was certain—and a small patio and garden. And from back here, the street might as well have been a million miles away. The house was a treasure and, he surmised, worth a small fortune.

      He turned. Stacey LeCroix was waiting just inside the room, watching him, still looking uncertain.

      “It’s perfect,” he told her.

      She smiled. “Yes, isn’t it? Sorry, I must be a little tired today. I…never mind. Ok, what else? Maid service only if you’re out of the room by twelve. We only have two women who come in, and they both have school-age children. If you don’t find anyone in the dining room in the morning, you’ll find a petit déjeuner set up on the patio. And you’re welcome downstairs anytime, except in the office or our private apartments.”

      “Naturally,” he agreed.

      “So that’s all you have? That backpack?” she asked him.

      “For now,” he said simply.

      “Well, then…I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

      She smiled a little awkwardly. “Oh, your key.” She dug into her skirt pocket and produced a key. “It opens both the front door and your room, and please try not to lose it. We’re not set up with computer cards, so it’s the real key thing.”

      “I seldom lose things,” he assured her.

      “Glad to hear it.” She stared at him for a moment longer, then left.

      He closed the door behind her and walked to the balcony.

      It