Trent was supposed to be only three years older than I—making him one of the wealthiest bachelors on the freaking planet—but the suit made him look older. Even so, his nicely defined jawline as well as his smooth cheeks and small nose made him look suited more for the beach than the boardroom.

Still smiling that confident, almost pleased smile, he ducked his head, taking his wire-rimmed glasses off and tossing them to the desktop. Embarrassed, I put my own charmed spectacles away in their hard leather case. My eyes went to his right arm as he came around to the front of his desk. It had been in a cast the last time I saw him, which was probably why the gun he’d shot at me missed. There was a faint ring of lighter skin between his hand and the cuff of his jacket that the sun hadn’t yet had a chance to darken.

I stiffened as his gaze drifted over me, resting briefly on the pinky ring he had stolen from me and returned to prove he could, finally settling on my neck and the almost invisible scarring from my demon attack. “Ms. Morgan, I wasn’t aware you could work for the FIB,” he said by way of greeting, making no move to shake my hand.

“I’m a consultant,” I said, ignoring how his liquid voice had pulled my breath tight. I had forgotten his voice, all amber and honey—if color and taste could describe a sound—resonant and deep, each syllable clear and precise yet blending into the next like liquid. It was mesmerizing in a way that only ancient vampires could match. And it bothered me that I liked it.

I met his gaze, trying to show a mirror image of his confidence. Jittery, I extended my arm, forcing him to respond. His hand came out to meet mine with the barest of hesitations. A stab of satisfaction warmed me in that I had made him do something he didn’t want to, even if it was something this small.

Feeling cocky, I slipped my hand into Trent’s. Though his green eyes were cold with the knowledge that I’d forced him into touching me, his grip was warm and firm. I wondered how long he had been practicing it. Satisfied, I loosened my grip, but instead of doing the same, Trent’s hand slipped from mine with an intimate slowness that wasn’t at all professional. I would have said he had just made a pass at me but for the slight tightening of his eyes, which spoke of a wary caution.

“Mr. Kalamack,” I said, refusing to wipe my hand on my skirt. “You’re looking good.”

“As are you.” His smile was frozen in place, and his right hand was almost behind his back. “I understand you’re doing reasonably well with your little investigation firm. I imagine it’s difficult when you’re just starting out.”

Little investigation firm? My unease flashed into irritation. “Thank you,” I managed.

A smile quirking the corner of his mouth, Trent turned his attention to Edden. As the two professional men made polite, politically correct, and hypocritical niceties, I glanced over Trent’s office. His fake window still showed a live shot of one of his yearling pastures, the artificial light shining through the video screen to make a warm patch of glowing carpet. There was a new school of black and white fish in the zoo-size fish tank, and the freestanding aquarium had been moved into a recess built into the wall behind his desk. The spot where my cage had been held a potted orange tree, and the scent-memory of food pellets made my stomach clench. The camera at the ceiling in the corner blinked its little red light at me.