With a roll of her eyes, Abbey stalked from the office.
Maybe she did need to find a new job. Something normal, boring, human.
Something that didn’t force her into face-to-face confrontations with men who viewed her as walking Happy Meal.
…
“You have got to be kidding me.”
She stared up at a mansion that looked like something out of Bram Stoker’s nightmare. How the hell had Lucian Redgrave managed to build this in Connecticut?
The palatial home was all black. Even the windows were forbidding, with dark curtains blocking out the sun. Honest-to-God turrets twisted up both sides of the home and a widow’s walk perched high on the arched roof. The whole place looked like a Gothic church having an identity crisis.
I’m checking the wanted ads as soon as I’m home, she thought, walking up to the ten-foot-tall gates blocking the drive to the house. She might not make as much as a waitress, but at least serving food didn’t require hazard pay.
But for now, she had a job to do. Squaring her shoulders, she pressed the intercom button on a pole to the right of the gates.
“Yes?” a crackling voice asked.
“Abbey Sinclair, from Fated Match, here to see Melissa Redgrave.”
“Proceed.”
A buzzer sounded before the black gates before her eased open.
Jumping back into the car, Abbey drove up to the entryway of the mansion. A servant was already waiting at the door when she parked. Not allowing herself second thoughts, she grabbed the silver briefcase, tugged her skirt into place, and marched up the steps.
“Miss Redgrave is in the study with her sire,” the aged servant told her as she stepped into the elegant foyer. “If you will follow me.”
She trailed the small old man through the spectacular foyer. Every inch of this place dripped with wealth. She’d known Lucian was successful, but what exactly did an elder do? She swallowed, remembering his penchant for blood. Maybe she was better off not knowing.
Priceless art lined the halls as they moved farther into the house. Under any other circumstance, she’d love to spend hours admiring the Renaissance paintings. Now nothing motivated her but her survival instinct. Get the job done and get out. How hard could it be?
Abbey passed under a sparkling crystal chandelier and noted the absence of natural light in the house. It was to be expected, she supposed. Vampires, especially older ones, were able to remain conscious during the day if they chose, similar to the way humans could stay up all night when they had to. But no matter how many centuries bloodsuckers lived, they never regained their human immunity to sunlight. One stray little touch of light and a vampire’s skin burst into flame.
“Right in here, miss.”
Snapping back to the present, Abbey glanced at a sturdy oak door.
“Shall I announce you?”
She nodded. “Please.”
The servant knocked lightly before pushing the door open. “Miss Sinclair to see Miss Redgrave,” he said, bowing.
I’m up, she thought. Lifting her chin, she sailed into the room.
She didn’t know what she’d expected from the room, but it wasn’t a magnificent library with shelves upon shelves of pristine leather-bound books. A dark fireplace was built into one wall, and comfortable armchairs littered with novels encircled it. Her gaze shifted to the massive mahogany desk dominating the room. A man sat behind it, his fingers steepled. By his side stood a lovely young woman who beamed as Abbey approached.
With a clinical eye, Abbey scanned the woman she presumed was Melissa. She would do well in their dating pool, Abbey was sure. Her fair skin and deep burgundy hair had obviously not seen the sun in decades, but she was slim and delicate. She’d rouse the protective instincts of their more alpha clients.
Abbey’s gaze turned to the man behind the desk. Ice-blue eyes met hers. The ancient vampire watched her without expression but even so, everything about him screamed predator. She was painfully aware of the blood pumping through her veins and the knowledge that he could take it from her in a second.
His clothes were old-fashioned, as if he’d stepped from the stage of a regency play. She’d swear the cravat at his throat was perfectly tied. The dark riding jacket fit him like a glove, showing off his lean, honed physique. Her gaze moved higher as her heart sped up just a tad. The man was beautiful. Not “pretty in the right light” beautiful, but “move over George Clooney” beautiful. Piercing blue eyes watched her approach and his full lips tightened, no doubt in disapproval. His black hair was pulled back in a queue so nothing softened the striking planes of his face. He looked hard, dangerous, and just a little bit too enticing. Like a fallen angel ready to take her soul with a smile.