Free Laws of the Blood 1: The Hunt by Susan Sizemore

seductive voice, and let the throb of exhilaration within take over for a few moments. But only for a few.
    Art Rasmussen let out a piteous, hungry groan when she pulled her hand away from his mouth. He looked up at her with begging, puppy-dog eyes. She wanted to let it go on, too. “No,” she told him firmly and wiped her wet finger on her slacks. “I want to work with your studio, not make you my baby.” She pointed at the door. The cut on her finger was beginning to heal. Time for him to get out before she put a few puncture wounds in his skin. “Go home now,” she told him. “Call me this time tomorrow night. No, make that Wednesday.” She wanted to do another treatment, nail the outline for sure. She had some research to do before she could really get into the final draft. “After the playoff game,” she added as Rasmussen headed obediently for the door.
    He glanced at her over his shoulder and ran a hand through his mussed hair. He smiled, his eyes full of love. “Fine. I’ll call you then.” He blinked, and puzzlement was added to his adoration. “Something seems to be missing. What do I do now, call you Mistress, and grovel?”
    “Nah,” she said, waving toward the door. “Just go on home. And don’t expect me to be wearing some kind of dominatrix rig when you see me again.” Valentine felt a stab of guilt over the need she had just forced on Rasmussen, and she relented a little. There was someone she’d heard about. Valentine had her own suspicions about the girl, since she’d heard about her off and on for at least sixty years. She gave Rasmussen her name.
    He’d obviously heard of her. “I don’t use hookers.”
    Valentine shrugged. “Just a suggestion, sweetheart. In case you get the itch I have no intention of scratching.”
    He took it well, but then, of course, he was in no condition to argue with her over anything. “Okay.” He grinned. “Can I see your fangs?”
    “No. Go home. Men,” she grumbled as the door shut behind Rasmussen. “They always want to see a girl’s fangs.”
    “I’m a tit man myself,” Yevgeny said as he came out of the bedroom. When she turned toward him, he was leaning against the door frame, arms folded. “Of course, I didn’t used to be. You’ve got the best pair on the planet.”
    “Tits?”
    “Those, too.”
    He was tall and blond and broad, arrogant as ever. Valentine’s bare toes curled in the thick carpet as he looked her over. She hadn’t let him come to her in a long time, but her reaction to him was just as strong as ever. That was why she hadn’t let him come. He was here now, and she wanted him. She told herself it was because of what she’d been doing with Rasmussen. The truth was, she always wanted Yevgeny.
    Besides, she owed him. He wasn’t likely to let her forget it. There was only one way for her to pay. Besides, she wanted to.
    He held his hand out toward her. Fire caught between them.
    “Oh, what the hell,” she murmured, and went into the bedroom with him.

Chapter 7
     
    “D ID I SAY you could come in?”
    “Do you think you can keep me out?”
    He’d taken the elevator. Siri had taken the stairs and was waiting for him at his door. Siri hadn’t spoken a word to him since they left the shopping center. Hadn’t even reacted when he’d kissed her cheek before getting out of the car. He’d assumed she was too shocked and angry for communication. He’d told himself that was all for the best, that she’d get over it if they left it alone, but he knew it for a lie. Now here she was, at the place where he wanted her, which was also the place where she shouldn’t be. He’d miscalculated again. He didn’t know if it was Siri or celibacy that was driving him crazy. Both. Oh, and there was this Hunt thing he was attempting to deal with.
    “It’s late,” Selim told his companion. “Nearly dawn.”
    She looked at her watch. “You’ve got time.”
    “Go home.”
    “No.” She tapped her foot, making sharp rapping