Darkness had descended outside along with a blistering snowstorm, and the wind howled against the few windows in an effort to sneak inside. Mother Nature had decided on a brutal end to January, which might explain why so few patrons had ventured through the storm for cheap booze and a stereo system from the early nineties that only played Bon Jovi songs. Renegade was currently blasting at a slightly slower speed than she remembered.

Why in the world had the vamp wanted to meet in this dump?

The bartender, a sixty-something man wearing a ripped T-shirt, snow pants, and thick boots, tipped back a couple of shots of tequila as he wiped down the bar, ignoring everyone unless they approached him for more alcohol.

This was the closest she would come to Denver, where she’d lived before going into a coma and then becoming an immortal mate. Well, kind of becoming one. She’d promised everyone, especially her sister, that she’d never return to Denver. But persistent questions kept her up at night; she had to know the truth. Flashes of memory and warning. She’d go mad if she didn’t find answers to the swirling vortex of questions in her brain. First, she had to survive for another week.

Grace turned her wrist, the healthy one, and read the time on her sports watch. She’d give Sebastian five more minutes.

The door opened, and wind blasted inside. A male wearing a baseball cap covered with snow kicked the door shut, looked around, and spotted her. He brushed snow off his long overcoat and strode toward her, his boots leaving a wet trail across the sawdust-covered floor. “Grace.”

He was thinner than he’d looked in his picture. “Sebastian.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He pulled out the wooden chair across from her small table and sat, his eyes an odd bluish hue. “I can explain.”

She held up her good hand, her temples starting to ache. “It doesn’t matter. Do you have it?” She had to help that little girl lying sick in bed in the nearest hospital. No child should have to fight cancer.

He kicked back. “Yeah, but I thought we could maybe come to another arrangement.” With the hat bill low over his face, and the bar so dark, it was difficult to judge his age. Or rather, what his age appeared to be, considering he’d supplied proof through email that he was over two hundred years old. “What’s the hurry? There’s a storm out there.” He spoke with a very slight lisp.

She tilted her head. The overcoat was odd. “Take off your hat.” Adrenaline started to hum through her veins.

His chest puffed out. “There you go. I knew we’d get along.” With a flourish, he whipped off the cap with black fingernails, revealing thick blond hair—and black eyeliner rimming his eyes.