Ivy was a high-maintenance friend, jealous of anyone who attracted my attention, though she hid it well. She barely tolerated Nick. Kisten, though, seemed exempt, which made me oh-so-warm and fuzzy inside. And as I took up my coffee, I found myself hoping she would go out tonight and satisfy that damned blood lust of hers so she wouldn’t be looking at me like a hungry panther the rest of the week.

Feeling the tension shift from anger to speculation, I looked at the unfinished pot brewing, thinking only of escaping the room. “You want mine?” I said. “I haven’t drunk any.”

My head turned at Kisten’s masculine chuckle. He had appeared without warning in the doorway. “I haven’t drunk any either,” he said suggestively. “I’d like some if you’re offering.”

A flush of memory took me, of Kisten and me in that elevator: my fingers playing with the silky strands of his blond-dyed hair at the nape of his neck, the day-old stubble he cultivated to give his delicate features a rugged cast harsh against my skin, his lips both soft and aggressive as he tasted the salt on me, the feel of his hands at the small of my back pressing me into him. Damn.

I pulled my eyes from him, forcing my hand down from my neck where I had been unconsciously touching my demon scar to feel it tingle, stimulated by the vamp pheromones he was unconsciously putting out. Double damn.

Pleased with himself, he sat in Ivy’s chair, clearly guessing where my thoughts were. But looking at his well-put-together body, it was hard to think of anything else.

Kisten was a living vamp, too, his bloodline going back as far as Ivy’s. He had once been Piscary’s scion, and the glow of sharing blood with the undead vampire showed in him still. Though he often acted the playboy by dressing in biker leather and affecting a bad British accent, he used it to hide his business savvy. He was smart. And fast. And while not as powerful as an undead vampire, he was stronger than his compact build and slim waistline suggested.

Today he was dressed conservatively in a silk shirt tucked into dark slacks, clearly trying to be the professional as he took on more of Piscary’s business interests now that the vampire languished in prison. The only hints to Kisten’s bad-boy side were the gunmetal gray chain he wore about his neck—twin to the pair Ivy wore about her ankle—and the two diamond studs he had in each ear. At least there were supposed to be two in each ear. Someone had torn one out to leave a nasty tear.

Kisten lounged in Ivy’s chair with his immaculate shoes provocatively spread, leaning back as he took in the moods drifting about the room. I found my hand creeping up to my neck again, and I scowled. He was trying to bespell me, get in my head and shift my thoughts and decisions. It wouldn’t work. Only the undead could bespell the unwilling, and he couldn’t lean on Piscary’s strength any longer to give him the increased abilities of an undead vampire.