“No. I’ve been doing some research,” I explained, feeling like a hopeless dork. Then I wondered why I cared if some random male prostitute thought I was a nerd. Wiping my suddenly damp palms on my jeans, I continued. “Vampires are able to metabolize the blood they drink more efficiently if the donor’s type matches their own, prevampire type. By metabolize, I mean—”

“I know what metabolize means,” he said with a kneecap-melting smile. “I’m O positive. Universal donor.”

“I think you two will get along just fine,” March announced, stepping forward to loop an arm around the man’s broad shoulders, despite the fact there was a good foot difference in their heights. “Unfortunately, we need to discuss the vagaries of payment and restrictions. Shall we do that in private?”

“Why not?” I followed March and the demigod into the foyer, where I stopped. “I just need my bag.”

The butler was disinclined to release it. “After I search it, madam. Then I will bring it to your room posthaste.”

March winked at me. “It’s a technicality. We’ve had some interesting guests here, haven’t we, Evan?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Evan? He looked more like a…Tarzan, to me.

I followed them up the stairs. March took her time, filling me in on the history of the place. “This house was left to me by my late husband, Edgar, God rest his soul. I lived in it from the time we were married until I moved it here in 1973.”

At the top of the landing, she touched the wall lovingly. “I had it shipped from Massachusetts in bricks and reassembled here, then did some updating and remodeling. Of course, Edgar would roll in his grave if he knew what I was doing with it. Bless him, he never did have much enthusiasm for heterosexual sex.” She sighed and indicated a hallway to the right. “I’ll put you down here.”

Even Cyrus’s mansion, grand as it had been, didn’t rival the sprawling splendor of this house. We stopped at the seventh door on the left—at least I thought it was seven, I might have lost count—and March pulled a tiny gold key from her sleeve.

“There are twenty-nine legal, licensed brothels in Nevada, and we’re the only one that caters to vampires. There are automatic steel shutters in every room, and I do mean every room, of this house, to keep the sun out. There’s also an on-duty physician, in case your session gets a little out of hand.”

“I am a physician,” I said, feeling the familiar sting to my pride as an inner voice taunted, You mean you used to be.

March seemed impressed with this declaration, and I felt we were somehow kindred spirits. We were both professional women, struggling to get by in a man’s world.

Then again, prostitution was pretty much a girls’ club.