What am I doing? At this instant, I don't have a clue.

IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD ME EARLIER WHAT HAVOC this day would wreak on my life, I would have come home from Beso de la Muerte this morning and gone straight to bed. I wouldn't have gone to see Williams, wouldn't have answered David's telephone call, and certainly wouldn't have gone back to Mexico. If I had stayed home, I would have known it was Max in my bed. I would have avoided Gloria at all costs. I might even have told David to bring someone else in on Guzman's capture just to avoid that last conversation.

If I had known.

What good is it to be immortal if you can't see the future? A serious design flaw.

"Another drink, miss?"

At first glance, the bartender doesn't look old enough to be working in a saloon. His skin is blotchy, his hair bleached, his pants baggy. His eyes, though, are not young. They reflect what he's been exposed to—cynicism, remorse, regret. Like breathing second-hand cigarette smoke, exposure to pathetic creatures like me must be a hazard of the job.

Or maybe it's what I'm projecting through a haze of scotch.

I nod. "Yes. Please."

He nods, too, and upends the Glenlivet bottle. Single malt, eighteen year Glenlivet. At the rate I'm drinking, I'll go through Guzman's bounty before sunrise.

I don't much care.

The guy at my right elbow eyes me. He's been watching me for the last hour, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to speak. He thinks if I'm drunk enough, I won't notice the bad skin, thinning hair and shiny spots on the elbows of his jacket. He thinks if I'm drunk enough he may get lucky.

I turn toward him and smile.

He may be right.

"ANNA. HEY, WAKE UP."

I pull the covers over my head.

"Come on. We have to get out of here."

Dragging myself to consciousness is painful. Like cold on a sensitive tooth. My head throbs, my limbs are heavy as lead, even my hair prickles on my scalp. It takes me a minute to realize I don't recognize the voice speaking in my ear. Worse, I don't know where I am. And I'm naked.

When I peek out from the covers, all I see is the lower back of a naked male torso bent over at the waist. He's dressed, at least half of him, in a pair of Levi's. He's perched on the other side of the bed. I shift to sit up, and a bottle rolls out from under the covers and hits the floor with a thud.

The back straightens and turns around. The face is vaguely familiar. It splits into a grin. "So you finally came to. It's about time. Come on. Checkout time is ten. We've got about fifteen minutes."

I don't want to embarrass myself by asking the obvious—who the hell are you?—so I gather a sheet around my chest and sit up.

The guy is bent over again and I see now that he's tying his shoes. I look around the room. A motel room. Nondescript. A table and two chairs in the corner, one of which is piled with my clothes. Bed, chest of drawers, armoire that I assume houses the television. The double doors are closed. Obviously, we did not watch television last night.

So, what did we do?

As soon as I try to move, I know.

Jesus. I’m so sore, a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.

The guy turns around again. "Are you still in bed? Come on, we've got a long trip ahead of us. We have to get to El Centro by noon."

"El Centro?"

He frowns. "Don't tell me you forgot. You promised to help me. My daughter, remember?"

No. I start to say it out loud, but his face is so full of hopeful anticipation, I swallow hard and say nothing. Instead I rub at my eyes. "I'm not quite awake yet." I look up at him. "And to be honest, I'm a little confused. Did we meet at the bar last night?"

He laughs and reaches out a hand to smooth my hair. "I guess I should be insulted," he says. "But you did have a lot to drink. No, we didn't meet at the bar. You and my brother met at the bar. He told you about me and you agreed to help. He brought you here, to my room. We were talking and—well, one thing led to another."

I guess so. The ache between my legs begins to throb. We must have had some night. But it's daylight now and I haven't a clue where we are or what I agreed to do for this guy. I missed my appointment with Williams in the park, the first time in weeks. I wanted to ask him about the witch and what happened at Beso de la Muerte. I don't know if Max has tried to get in touch with me, or David.

The guy has crossed to the chair. He picks up a T-shirt and slips it over his head. His arms and torso are well muscled, his waist and hips slender. He has calloused fingers, strong hands. A carpenter maybe? He's probably in his early forties. He has short, sandy hair, thick, well cut. His face looks familiar, not quite handsome but rugged and appealing. The shadow of his beard adds an unpretentious air of strength. When he turns once more to face me, I realize what it is that's familiar.

The guy last night, sitting next to me at the bar. This is the polished version of that guy. I see the similarities now. Brothers. God, did I screw them both?

I throw back the covers and pad naked into the bathroom. No need for coyness. I can hardly walk.

I lock the door behind me. Can't risk my fuck buddy walking in and noticing no reflection in the mirrors that line three of the walls. There are a couple of wet towels on the rim of the tub. He's evidently already performed his morning ablutions. I turn on the shower and step inside. I splash water on my face, duck my head under the stream and finger comb the knots out of my hair. I wash the smell and residual vestiges of sex off my skin. There seems to be a lot of it. I wonder if I fed from him while we had sex. I don't feel the rush that accompanies feeding, but I've never been dead drunk with a stranger before, either.

Dead. Drunk.

I'd smile if my face didn't hurt so much.

When I come back into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, he's laid my clothes out neatly on the bed.

Jeans. Sweater.

And my gun.

I look around for my panties. They're probably around here somewhere, but it's too awkward to ask about them. Kind of a flashback to yesterday morning with Max and my bra.

Max.

Jesus.

Can't blame this one on the hunger.

I ignore the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and go through the motions of getting dressed—slip the sweater over my head, pull on my jeans, clip the gun to the waistband.

I've stalled as long as I can. I turn around.

"This is really embarrassing, but I don't remember much about last night. Can you kind of refresh my memory?"

The guy has been gathering up his wallet and keys and shoving them into his pockets. He pauses, concern flitting across his face. "What don't you remember?"

"Well. Truthfully, I don't remember anything."

The concern settles in. Color rises in his cheeks. "Anything?"

I shake my head. "No. Sorry. You said I agreed to help you. Help you with what?"

If I'd kicked him, I don't think I would have gotten a more startled reaction. He stares at me, a terrible awareness springing into his eyes. "Are you even a bounty hunter?" he asks quietly. "Because that's what you told my brother you are."

I nod, relieved at least that I hadn't made up some fantastic tale about being a model—or a vampire. "Yes. I am a bounty hunter. Is that what you needed help with? Fugitive apprehension? Because I can do that. I just need a few facts."

Relief replaces some of the alarm on his face. "It's my ex-son-in-law. He's harassing my daughter. We've gotten a restraining order, but he's avoided being served. You said you could do it for us. That you could make him agree to stay away. You seemed pretty confident…"