She pushed that thought aside as they reached the hotel. She got out first while the driver went to pull their suitcases from the trunk. Retta looked up at the quaint hotel with its highly arched roof and stylized black trim. Dusk was upon them as she took her suitcase from the older man and paid him his fee.

“Thank you,” he said.

Retta inclined her head as she and Francesca made their way toward the hotel’s black wood stairs.

Francesca frowned at a flyer that was on a bulletin board at the base of them. It was identical to several others except for the fact that it was written in English. “Did you see this? Dracula’s tour begins in an hour at the old church.”

Retta seethed. “A pox on both his testicles.”

Francesca laughed at that. “That’s harsh.”

“Yes, it is. But he deserves a lot worse. Bastard.”

“May I help you with your bags?”

Retta jumped at the deep, thickly accented voice that appeared suddenly. Where the hell had he come from? Turning around, she met the gaze of a handsome man in his late twenties who stood just in front of her. A man who looked enough like Francesca to be her brother—right down to the dark chestnut hair and strikingly blue eyes. “Are you with the hotel?”

“Yes, my lady. My name is Andrei and I will be here to serve you in any manner you wish.”

Francesca laughed, but Retta had a sneaking suspicion that his double entendre wasn’t from trying to speak a different language. He knew what he was offering. “Thank you, Andrei,” she said coldly as she handed him her bag. “We just need to check in.”

“As you wish … madame?”

“She’s a madame, I’m a miss,” Francesca said, handing him her suitcase as well.

“I knew I should have left you in Chicago,” Retta mumbled as Francesca winked at the handsome Romanian. Yet she wasn’t flirting with him, which for Francesca was a first.

“I am sure you will both enjoy your stays here at Hotel…”—he paused for effect before he rolled the next word with true Romanian flare—“Dracula. We are having a special tonight. Staked steak with a tart raspberry sauce and minced-garlic mashed potatoes for keeping away those evil vampires.” There was a devilish gleam in his eyes that Retta didn’t find charming or amusing.

Rather, it just pissed her off.

“I imagine the garlic will keep away much more than vampires, eh, Andrei?” she asked sarcastically.

He didn’t speak as he led them up the stairs to the hotel’s doors. There was a stereotypical winged vampire head on each door that opened into the blood-red lobby. There were pictures of different Hollywood depictions of Dracula everywhere, along with sketchings and paintings of Retta’s father.