Mine (2 page)

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“Alex,” chirped the intercom on the corner of her desk. “Stephan reported he sent the package this morning by messenger. Sam wants an overview for the article you’re working on for next week’s column, and you have a call on line two.” Heaving a reluctant sigh, Alex left her perch by the window and crossed her small, corner office to press the button on the intercom. Her voice was flat, as emotionless as her heart. “Tell Sam I’ll email everything she needs this afternoon and call Maxwell Marston, set up lunch later in the week.” She paused, gritting her teeth, and then pushed on with icy determination. “Did Stephen make sure the messenger understands the package is to be signed for?” 7

Her assistant’s voice dropped to hushed tones, underscored with unspoken sympathy. “He has firm orders Griffin, and
only
Griffin, is allowed to sign for it.”

Rubbing at the ache in her temple, Alex forced a swallow. It had been a long, rough weekend. Packing Griffin’s “left-behinds” and his precious ring—his sparkling little band of lies—

had been difficult enough. Facing the yacht club socialites with head held high and a serene smile pasted on her lips had taken every ounce of panache she possessed. Squaring off against the bevy of reporters waiting for her at the front door of her office building, this morning had damned near finished her off.

Work, she reminded herself. Focus on work.

“Do we have a name for line two?” Her assistant’s voice returned, all business.

“The only name he’d give me was Cole. It’s his fourth call today. I explained you’re very busy, but he insists it’s of the utmost urgency.” Then Rita’s voice dropped to conspiratorial tones. “His voice is positively
divine
.” Alex bit back a reluctant, albeit exasperated smile. “Thank you, Rita.”

“Sure thing, boss lady.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Alex settled into the high-backed leather chair behind an elegant glass-topped desk. She shifted her laptop to the side and reached for the phone.

Beneath the desk, her shoes slipped off, and her toes dug into the plush carpet. “Alex Sinclair, may I help you?”

There was a slight pause, then a velvety-rich voice slipped through the phone lines. “By the gods, I hope so.”

That greeting both pricked her curiosity and sent a puzzled frown skittering across her brow.

8

“Excuse me?”

“Ms. Sinclair, I’m Cole Gunnarrson.” The deep voice paused, as though waiting for recognition to sink in. Good Lord, Rita hadn’t exaggerated, although Alex wasn’t certain “positively
divine
” was even in the same ballpark with this sexy timbre. Just the sound of it would have sent a nun racing for the nearest confessional.

When Alex failed to respond, appropriately or otherwise, the celestial, seductive voice assumed a more subdued tone. “I’m the lead singer for the band Stolen Innocence?”

“Okay…” Alex drew the last syllable out, her tone clearly unimpressed. She’d learned long ago, if you sound impressed, you lost your edge. That didn’t stop the warm shiver from wriggling down her spine. “I’m sorry—Mr. Gunnarrson—was it? I don’t do PR. My column’s relationship based.

However, I’d be happy to refer you to our—”

“I don’t need PR,” the voice cut in, diamond-sharp and yet still midnight sinful. Just the mildest hint of an accent tinged his clipped words, an accent she couldn’t identify. “I
am
familiar with your work—as well as your column—and I believe we could be of mutual benefit to each other.”

She frowned at the cool abstract painting on the opposite wall, toying with her pen. What was he talking about? Her column
was
her work, or it had been for the last three years. An icy knot settled in the pit of her stomach. He couldn’t be calling because he thought…

Her tone was aloof enough to make even Lily proud. “Perhaps you could be a bit more specific, Mr. Gunnarrson. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had a very hectic day, and it’s not over yet.” A very long, very measured breath answered her. Patience did not come to this man without a 9

major amount of effort. “My band needs a new lyricist. We—”

“Mr. Gunnarrson—” she interrupted before he could disclose any more, her tone cold enough to bring on the next ice age.

“Cole,” he broke in, authority ringing in his command. “Call me Cole.”

Alex ignored the resonating power in his voice, plowing on as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“
Mr. Gunnarrson
, if you’re familiar with my work, as you say, then you’d know I haven’t written music in years.”

“Three, to be precise…” A muffled, foreign-sounding word—uttered in a none too congenial tone—lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Before she could take control of the conversation again, he pushed on. “I’m well aware you’ve turned your sights elsewhere, but I’m also aware when you
were
writing, every one of your tracks consistently slotted at the top of the charts.”

Alex remained silent for a moment as bittersweet memories assailed her. She had been good. It had all been good…the music, the emotional high of hearing her music, her words, pumping from the radio at unexpected moments.

She’d been better than good.

Until the whole thing had fallen apart.

He took her silence as an opening. “I’d like to meet with you to discuss—”

“Thank you for thinking of me,” she interjected the cool dismissal, cutting him off.

“But I’m afraid I’m just not the right person for the job. I hope you find what you’re looking for—

with someone else. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr.

Gunnarrson, as I explained, I have a lot of work waiting for me. Have a nice day.” With careful precision, Alex replaced the 10

receiver on the cradle. She leaned back in her chair and drew a deep, cleansing breath, more shaken than she cared to admit. Grimacing, she reached for the bottle of antacid beside her computer and shook two tablets out onto her palm. Then she glanced at the phone, and shook out a third. Chewing the chalky tablets, she retrieved a chilled can of soda from the small refrigerator behind her desk. She popped the top, chasing the antacid down with three extra-strength Excedrin that were way too small—and not nearly potent enough—for the pisser of a headache knocking on her door. Alex set the can on a coaster at the edge of her desk and turned her resolute focus to the stack of papers in front of her. Every now and again, however, her eyes drifted to her phone.

It
had
been years, she chided herself. She probably couldn’t even remember how to…

But the notes were there, inside of her. The music she’d kept diligently contained for years.

Measure upon measure of sound strained to pour out, provoked by Gunnarrson’s unexpected, unwelcome phone call. Shaking her head, telling herself it was for the best, she ruthlessly shoved the notes back down. Turning her computer on, Alex called up the Marston file.

Yet even as one slim hand began tapping on the computer keyboard, the other reached for her intercom.

With a hesitant frown, she depressed the button, cursing herself for being ten kinds of fool.

“Rita, pull everything you can find on the band, Stolen Innocence—and on their lead singer, Cole Gunnarrson.”

Rita buzzed back, “Sure thing. Gina’s on line… Did you say
Stolen Innocence
?”

“And Cole Gunnarrson,” Alex confirmed.

11

Rita’s voice shot up three octaves, from efficient professionalism straight to giddy awe.

“Cole… Holy Mother of God!”

12

Cole threw his cell phone on the desk, a dark feral growl of displeasure rumbled deep in his chest. With a flick of the wrist, he flipped open the latest edition of the
LA Globe
. His eyes glittered in the darkened room, unholy, icy blue beacons sizzling with irritation.

Express yourself,
he read with narrowed eyes
.

Don’t let your creativity suffer because you’ve been
burned. When faced with resistance, persist—

don’t quit. You owe it to yourself to let the music
flow. Fight for it.

Evidently, Ms. Sinclair didn’t believe in taking her own advice. Shuffling through the stack of sheet music at his elbow, Cole’s keen gaze zeroed in with unerring precision on the small, feminine print penciled at the corner of each page with meticulous care, the la
ck of light no problem for his preternatural
vision.

Lyricist…Alexandra Sinclair
. Her talent leaped up to bite at him from every page, a cruel jab for all that she’d refused him.

A snarl ripped from his lips. Defeat was not an option, not for him.

The female who’d written this music had poured her heart out in every single word, and every last note. Only that kind
of devotion to the music—only that kind of honesty
and

understanding of Human emotion—could give his band the edge they needed to stay on top of the charts. Cole’s fierce, competitive nature wouldn’t settle for anything less. His cover wouldn’t allow 13

for it. He’d never been one to settle for anything less than the best.

In this particular case, the best meant Alexandra Sinclair.

She hadn’t even hesitated when he told her who he was, had shown no sign of recognition whatsoever. He’d worked too damned hard to warrant such a tepid response. Akin to tossing a gauntlet before him, her reaction only served to firm his resolve. This particular gauntlet was such that he held no compunction about snatching it up. Gritting his teeth with determination, Cole retrieved his phone. He thumbed in a number in his speed dial, then pounded his fingers on the desk as he waited for the call to connect.

His agent’s voice cracked enthusiasm through the line. “Cole, my man, what can I do for ya?”

“The female said no, Tommy.” Cole’s succinct dark growl was a dangerous warning to the Vampyre on the other end of the line. He would not accept failure. “Make it happen.” Not waiting for a reply, Cole flipped the phone closed and tossed it back onto the desk. He should have just bloody well gone down to her office. By the gods, it would have been less frustrating than dealing with her watchdog assistant over the phone. He experienced a fleeting stab of guilt at having to resort to mind control in order to get past the assistant, but he consoled himself with the fact that he’d given her three previous opportunities to cooperate. It still didn’t sit well. Free will was something Cole rarely, if ever impinged on. And then only when there was no other recourse. In those rare cases, he was vigilant to remain minimally intrusive.

Ms. Sinclair had been so quick to brush him off—and so frustratingly unaffected by his 14

name—that he hadn’t even had the time to consider, let alone attempt to control her response to his offer. Now, after their brief conversation, he had the unsettling impression his powers of persuasion would have held little sway with her, at least over the phone. Perhaps, face to face, he’d have had the advantage. Oh, hell, why worry about it. Tommy would take care of it.

Pushing the matter from his mind for the moment, he raked a hand through his hair and shrugged the tension from his shoulders.

Drawing a deep breath, his gaze skated over the room—his own private domain—in all likelihood the only place on his entire estate that wasn’t crawling with groupies and hangers-on.

He longed to go for a swim…a quiet, relaxing swim. Fat chance of that happening with a dozen or more perfectly tanned, surgically sculpted, Human females writhing around—and in—the pool. If the clinging females weren’t deterrent enough, the cheerful, sizzling-hot UV rays bathing the estate grounds sure as hell were.

Why had he never gotten around to having an indoor pool built? He’d have to remedy that situation, soon.

Along with the preternatural vision, he could also boast damned impressive hearing as well. He lifted glowing, narrowed eyes to the door.

Whoever was ambling down that hallway better keep right on ambling, he was in no mood for company just now. His scowl deepened when the door opened without a knock.

Peering down the throat of danger with flagrant disregard, Styx stuck his head through the opening. “You decent,
amigo
?” He glared a warning from behind the desk, but Styx sailed right in, sans invitation, and 15

dropped to the sofa with negligent ease. “Guess not. I take it the female was less than cooperative.”

Cole lifted a sardonic brow at the Spaniard.

“You could say that.”

Styx shrugged, unconcerned, and Cole could almost hear his thoughts aloud. The reluctant lyricist’s employment was as good as a done deal.

Five centuries of friendship had more than demonstrated that Cole
always
got his way. That same friendship also gave Styx a little more leeway than most could claim in the face of Cole’s thorny temper.

“Take a night off from the hunt and come out for a bite,” he offered with a disgustingly cheerful grin. “It’ll improve your disposition.” Dispassionate and grim, Cole held up an empty tumbler, swirling the crimson dregs.

“Already had a bite, thanks.”

“No wonder you’re so damned pissy.” Styx wrinkled his nose with patent distaste. “Man, how can you stand to drink that swill? What you need is a nice warm vein, maybe a little piece of ass when you’re done. Nothing cheers me up more than a sultry little brunette. Unless it’s a blonde.

You can’t go wrong with a blonde. Their veins are always so tender.” Styx chuckled diabolically, then tossed out with self-amused introspection,

“Then again, I haven’t been known to turn my nose up at a feisty redhead either.” Shrewd, velvety eyes considered Cole for a long moment, and Styx sobered. “Was a day not so long ago you wouldn’t have turned your nose either,
mi
hermano
.”

Just as Cole opened his mouth to shred Styx with a scathing retort, the dull roar of bass and drums blaring from the backyard cranked up to decibels capable of shattering eardrums. A 16

seductive, intense masculine voice throbbed from an expertly hidden, hideously expensive stereo system. H.I.M.’s darkly sensual “Vampire Heart” filtered through the house.

Cole’s rueful smile was blade sharp. “I take it Zack was in charge of our musical selections this afternoon.”

Chuckling, shaking his head with mock disapproval, Styx kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “I don’t give a shit what anybody says, that Werewolf’s got one warped sense of humor.” Cole paced across the room, and closed the door with a firm hand. Precious little sound filtered in. More important, with the door closed, only band members dare enter…and then only when it was critical. His privacy—specifically while he was inside his private domain—was the one and only cardinal rule of the house. A rule he guarded with jealous fury.

On his way back to his desk, he paused before a prominent display case. His gaze caressed the treasured weapons of war nestled therein. Sword and shield, helmet and battle ax.

Once seamless extensions of his body. Remnants of simpler lifetime. One in which the enemy was a known variable met face to face on a battlefield of warriors, where blood was spilled with honor. Not like now, where the battlefields were posh, upscale nightclubs, and a faceless Rogue victimized helpless Human females.

Flexing his fists at his sides, Cole continued on to his desk, sinking into the leather seat.

Filled with cold determination, he reached for a thick file.

Styx followed Cole’s movements, resignation laced his voice. “Why bother, we’ve been through that file a thousand times.
No vale la pena
intentarlo
. I don’t know what you’re expecting to 17

find.”

Ignoring him, Cole opened the file, spilling the contents onto his desk in front of him.

Somewhere, buried in this slush pile of information, there had to be a clue. Some overlooked bit of evidence that might give him a hint of the Party Crasher’s identity, or some indication of his next mark.

Perching on the edge of the desk, Styx reached for a photo that fluttered loose. Together they reread the reports, shuffled the photos, arranging them chronologically, until one crime scene began to blur with the next. The nagging suspicion they were missing something obvious crawled up the back of Cole’s neck. Heaving a disgusted sigh, he tossed the stack of photos on his desk where they fanned out in a wide arc.

Pushing himself back from the desk, he depressed a concealed button on the underside of one of the shelves, and an oak panel slid sideways with a slight hiss. He reached inside the chilled compartment, snagging a crystal decanter filled with dark red liquid before he closed the door.

Cole refilled his tumbler. Then he lifted questioning eyes to Styx. The look the drummer shot his way clearly questioned Cole’s sanity.

Sighing, Cole tipped the tumbler to his lips, and grimaced. Styx was right. This blood bank stuff was nasty. May as well have gone out to some back alley and found some disease infested rodent to suck on.

Staring at the reports, Styx grumbled, “I don’t know what the hell they expect us to do. They’ve been chasing this asshole for eight months now.

If they can’t catch him, what makes ’em think we can?”

Styx must have caught Cole’s gaze drifting to 18

the glass display case
once more. His tone was sharp,
a
lbeit
disgruntled.

“You’re not a
goddamned warrior anymore, and neither am I.

We gave all that up a long time ago, man.” No, they weren’t warriors anymore. But that apparently inconsequential fact hadn’t stopped
them
from asking. And it hadn’t stopped him from saying yes. Now here they were…involved up to their fangs in the hunt for a cold-blooded murderer, an Immortal serial killer preying on unsuspecting

Mortals.

War was war, he
supposed. The faces and reasons may change through time, but it was still war. He knew war.

And war knew him.

When the TFRA, short for the Task Force for Rogue Apprehension—otherwise known as the
Enforcers
, a Vampyre equivalent of the Humans’

FBI—approached him,
asking
for his assistance, he should have told them to take a long walk on the beach at dawn.

If he hadn’t been so damned bored, he almost certainly would have. Now he was having second thoughts—a lot of them—but it was too damned late to do anything about it. The only Vampyre that had better track records than Cole at getting what they wanted were the TFRA. Those that refused to cooperate had a way of disappearing.

Even a Vampyre as old and experienced as Cole thought twice about defying the TFRA.

Granted, an Immortal serial killer stalking the Human entertainment business posed a threat to both races, Human and Vampyre alike. The gods only knew how the Werewolves would respond if this bastard wasn’t caught soon. Frankly, the whole thing had begun to make him edgy.

Reluctant recruit that he was, Cole sifted through the files, having gone over them so many times now he’d memorized every damned detail.

19

He’d given his word to find the killer, and, by the gods, that’s what he intended to do.

“We’re missing something, Styx. Eight victims in eight months. All Human females between the ages of twenty-two and thirty-three. Random numbers carved on the sides of each of their necks, just over the carotid…and obvious Vamp puncture marks.” He recited the information aloud despite the fact that Styx knew this stuff every bit as well as he did. Maybe talking it out might shed light on some overlooked crevice.

“Cause of death for each female, however, is a broken neck. According to the M.E. reports, the Crasher didn’t drain any one of them. There has to be a key…somewhere…”

Moving across the darkened room with the ease of a nocturnal predator, Cole dropped onto the over-sized suede sofa. Straight across from him, his Louis XV Steinway mocked him, reminding him that he had yet another loose end to deal with. Alexandra Sinclair’s cultured voice snuck up on him, toying with his concentration.

That voice, heavy with underlying currents of smooth seduction that ran toward smoky and sensual, intrigued him. Would her face and body live up to the promise?

He shook his head, shoving such thoughts from his mind with ruthless resolve. When she came onboard—and there was no doubt in his mind that she would, Tommy was very good at what he did or Cole wouldn’t have kept him around as long as he had—Alexandra Sinclair would be there for one reason, and one reason only. To write music. He’d learn
ed a lot of lessons throughout the centuries, and one of
them…perhaps the most valuable of all…had been to keep any and all entanglements with females—
Mortal
females—completely shallow and 20

utterly meaningless.

With her proven track record, he wouldn’t have to worry about the band’s reputation slipping. He could focus on finding and dispatching the Party Crasher before the psychopath claimed another innocent life and increased the chances of exposure for Cole and others like him.