"Could you please tell Mr. Starke that I'll need to speak to him?"

He looked at me again, then nodded. His gaze became slightly unfocused, and a buzz of energy caressed the air. He had to be a newer vampire. Any vampire with more than a few years behind him had learned not to let anyone know when they were using telepathy.

I stepped past the cops and pushed the nightclub's door open. The smell hit me immediately. It was a miasma of hunger and lust, of humanity and vampire, all entwined with the aroma of sweat, booze and blood. I wrinkled my nose in distaste. Normally I loved the scent of lust when it rode on the air, but this was different. This had an almost desperate edge to it.

Which made sense, since the club was catering to those addicted to vampire bites.

I stepped into the darkness. The door shut behind me, closing out the light and making the shadowed confines of the room appear even more unfriendly.

That feeling was coming from the vampires in the room, not the humans. The majority of the humans were either busy boozing, or getting their fix.

I scanned the room, taking note of the black walls and carpets—and wondering if they chose that color because it made the blood less noticeable. Booths lined three of the walls, some with curtains, some without. A good fifteen of these were currently occupied, and it was from them that the lusty scent was the strongest. A small dance floor filled the front half of the room, but hardly anyone was on it. There were quite a few vamps sitting at the tables in front of the bar that lined the fourth wall. None of them seemed to be drinking, but all of them were brooding.

I could feel it—feel the heat of it rumbling along the edges of my thoughts. They weren't trying to get into my head, just sharing their unhappy vibe.

It made me glad that Cole and his team were right next door in the parking lot.

I walked across to the bar. The bartender strolled over, idly drying a glass and chewing gum. "What can I do for you?"

I showed him my badge. "I believe your boss has been informed that I need to speak to him?"

There was a slight pause, and though I didn't feel the caress of energy, I knew he was communicating with said boss. After a moment, he nodded and said, "He'll be down in a minute. Do you need a drink?"

"Not yet." Though I definitely might by the time I'd finished this gig.

I turned around and let my gaze sweep the room again. The humans who were engaged in drinking rather than being drunk from were all clustered around the far end of the bar. Most of them were women, and all of them looked as unhappy as the vamps.

Though I heard no footsteps, awareness tingled across my skin. I shifted my gaze and saw a golden-haired man walking towards me—although 'drifting' would have been a more accurate term, because his feet didn't appear to touch the carpet. Then again, he knew exactly what had been spilled on it.

"Dante Starke," he said, coming to an effortless halt several feet away.

His scent swirled around me, and though I'd been expecting him to smell as bad as his club, he didn't. He was orange blossom and dark spices, a combination as elegant as the man—and one that stirred the embers of desire deep in the pit of my stomach. Even Quinn didn't smell this good.

I shoved the thought away and concentrated on the vamp rather than his delicious scent. If Starke was a pauper, then his suit certainly didn't advertise it. I'd seen enough suits on Quinn to recognize the cut and quality of a Zegna, and they certainly weren't anything the average Joe would be buying off the rack in any old department store. But as classy as the grey pinstripe was, it was the man wearing the cloth that drew the eye. He was power, passion, and beauty all rolled into a six-foot four-inch golden frame, and he seemed totally out of place in this run-down dump.

I ignored his offered hand, not wanting to touch his flesh when my inner wolf was taking so much notice, and showed him my badge. "We're investigating the murder in the parking lot behind your club."

"So I've been informed." He crossed his arms, his expression bored. And yet his golden eyes were alert and hungry, reminding me of a hawk with its prey in its sights.

A tremor went through me, though I wasn't entirely sure whether it was fear or something else. Damn it, I was werewolf who'd found her soul mate, so technically I shouldn't feel anything for anyone other than the man I was destined to spend the rest of my life with. But of course, things were never that simple for me. Not only did I have Quinn as my lover, but I didn't want Kye—my said soul mate—anywhere near me.

And now it seemed I was attracted to this man. Or vamp. Or whatever the hell he was.

Sometimes I wished fate would just stick to the rules when it came to my life. It would have made things a whole lot easier.

"How can I help the Directorate, Ms. Jenson?"

His voice was like buttered honey, smooth and rich. I licked my lips and tried to shake the lust from my thoughts. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, then I'd like somewhere a little more private to interview each of your guests."

One golden eyebrow arched upwards, and part of me ached to lean forward and kiss it. Damn, this was weird.

"You don't actually need my permission to do either of those things."

"No, but given the current climate, I've discovered it makes things easier to be polite."

A smile tugged at his lips. "I suppose you could be right." He waved an elegant hand towards the door just behind the bar. "My office is through there. Would that be suitable?"

"Perfectly. Thank you."

"Good." His fingers touched my spine, lightly guiding me towards the door. It was a heat I felt all the way down to my toes. "Boris, a bottle of champagne for the two of us, please?"

"Not for me. I'm working." I opened the door and stepped away from his touch.

"Surely even the Directorate would not begrudge her guardians a sip or two?"

"My boss is rather old fashioned when it comes to mixing alcohol and work."

The office was sparsely furnished, with filing cabinet, an old desk neatly stacked with books and paperwork, a leather office chair that had seen better days, and a coat stand. The only luxurious items were the two plush, burgundy velvet armchairs. I walked over and sat in the one closest to the door.

It didn't make me feel any less trapped.

God, what was it about this man that was getting to me? Hell, I'd faced a god of death. One golden vampire shouldn't have worried me in the least.

And yet he did.

"Ah, but this isn't mere alcohol," he said softly, seductively, "but rather the finest ambrosia ever made."

I shrugged. "He'd still class it as off-limits."

"Tragic." He sat down and crossed his legs, the action elegance itself. One shiny shoe briefly touched my calf, and delight shimmered up my leg.

I shifted fractionally. Amusement twitched at his lips.

"What is it you wish to know, Ms. Jenson?"

"What do you know of a vamp called Grant Haven?"

Starke didn't answer immediately, waiting as the bartender came into the room and deposited a bottle of Bollinger champagne and two glasses on the table. Once he was gone again, Starke picked up the bottle, popped the cork with ridiculous ease, and began pouring it.

"Please, none for me."

"Ms. Jenson, it is totally uncivilized to be sitting here without partaking of one of life's great pleasures." He held out the glass of liquid gold, his gaze meeting and holding mine. The hunger was stronger in those watchful depths, and suddenly I wasn't so sure he was talking about the champers. "And I refuse to answer questions until you at least take a sip."

"I could just haul your ass down to the Directorate for questioning."

"You could," he admitted calmly, "but that would cause a rise in the ill feeling you're so desperate to avoid."