“Little gremlin. He’s never like this with women.”

Ildaria lifted her head to find that G.G. had collected two glasses of a clear, cherry-red liquid over ice and walked around to join her on the client side of the bar.

Settling on the chair next to hers, he placed one of the drinks on the bar in front of Ildaria and then took a sip of the other as he pulled his plate closer. After swallowing the drink, he set the glass down, looked at the dog again and shook his head. “Actually, he’s not like that with anyone but me. You must be a dog whisperer.”

Ildaria smiled faintly as she peered down at the sleeping dog. He was a tiny little thing. Hardly the breed she would have expected a big man like G.G. to have.

“Big dogs need room to run and in the UK I live in a flat four blocks from the club,” he said, as if having read her mind, which as a mortal he couldn’t do. She supposed most people commented on the size of his dog when he continued, “A walk to the Night Club there and back is enough exercise for this little guy.”

He didn’t have to say it wouldn’t be enough for a larger dog. She got that, but asked, “And where do you live here?”

Her gaze slid from G.G. to H.D. as she awaited his answer, imagining the sight the pair must make walking down Toronto streets, a big, scary-looking guy with a Mohawk, tattoos, and piercings, leading the fluffy little fur ball on a leash. Probably a black leather leash with studs or something, she thought, taking note of the dog’s black leather collar with spikes sticking out of it. If it was supposed to make the little fuzz ball look tough, it failed miserably. He was too damned cute to look scary. But she suspected the sight the pair made left most people gaping.

“Right now I’m living in one of the apartments over the club,” G.G. told her. And then lowered his gaze to his plate and frowned before muttering, “If you drink soda, you probably eat too.”

Ildaria raised her eyebrows at the comment. “Not as often as I used to, but si, I still eat.”

G.G. nodded. “Would you like something? I can make you a burger.”

Ildaria considered the offer briefly. She was hungry. It was a sensation she experienced less and less often lately, but which was presently gnawing at her stomach. She didn’t want to make him cook for her though, so promising herself she’d hit a drive-through on her way back to Marguerite’s, she murmured, “Maybe just a fry.”

“Help yourself.” G.G. pushed the plate to rest halfway between the two of them on the counter.

“Thanks,” Ildaria breathed, and left off petting his dog to pluck a french fry from the mountain of greasy goodness.