Vash whistled. “They set you up.”
“My guess is Adrian was leverage. Baron was under the impression that Syre would do just about anything to stay in Adrian’s good graces, including throwing me under the bus. I think he planned to offer me a mate and sanctuary from the Sentinels after Syre washed his hands of me.”
“You got all that in the few minutes you let him breathe?”
“He wouldn’t shut up. One of those assholes who like to listen to himself talk.”
“All right. I’ll have Torque look at the prints and video and see what he can dig up. You gonna hang around Chicago for a while?”
He nodded. The data search was in good hands with Torque, Syre’s son. No one dug up intel better or faster. The rest would be up to Raze. “I’ll wait to hear back from Torque and spend some time on the streets. Maybe they’ll come to me.”
“Watch your back.” Crossing her long legs on the couch, she leaned toward the screen. “And don’t trust Adrian. He’ll throw you under the bus, too.”
Touching a finger to his brow in salute, he acknowledged the warning and signed off.
4
When he was asked later what drew him to the small jazz club in an upscale part of Chicago, Raze didn’t have an answer. The place wasn’t his style with its small round tables, live singer, and elegant patrons. But he’d been drawn to it and the sultry voice of the female entertainer that floated into the street on the night breeze. Maybe because it was so different from the hard-edged clubs Torque helmed that gave fledglings a safe place to find blood and sex and—most importantly—register their name and sire for the records. Raze thought maybe what he needed was a palate cleanser. Something different.
Damn it. He was restless and unsettled. He could barely stand to be in his hotel room. He felt isolated and stifled, even with the television on and the Internet at his fingertips. He was beginning to wonder if Baron’s bullet had been tainted in some way after all. It wasn’t like him to…brood. As endless as his life was, he still didn’t have time to waste being a pain in his own ass.
He paid the club’s cover charge and went inside, discovering a small open space with rust-colored walls adorned withmassive impressionist canvases. Pendant lights offered intimate illumination, except at the bar, where the blue glass shelves were lit with bright white light. The floor was covered in multicolored mosaic tiles, and patrons danced freely wherever they found an open space, giving the whole establishment a comfortable bohemian feel.
Sliding onto a barstool, he noted the bartender. The lovely blonde on point looked like she just might be what he needed, with her sleeves of tattoos, low-slung leather pants, and curvy body. Her hair hung in dreadlocks to her waist and was held back from her delicate face with a black bandana. She glanced at him, looked away, then immediately glanced back. She licked her pierced lower lip and made her interest known with a heated glance.
When she’d finished serving her customer, she came over. “What’s your poison?”
“Shiraz.”
Her brows rose. “Really? Wouldn’t have pegged you for a wine drinker.”
“No?”
“No. Jameson, maybe. Or Glenfiddich.” She poured expertly and set the glass in front of him. “In the mood for something else?”
His fingertips slid lightly up and down the stem of his glass. “Suggestions?”
“I’m off at midnight.”
“I’m free at midnight.”
Her mouth curved in a sexy smile, and she extended her hand. “Sam.”
He stroked her palm. “Raze.”
He watched her saunter off, admiring the way black leather hugged her lush ass, then he picked up his glass and stared into it. Still fucking brooding, goddamnit.
He smelled the woman who stole his interest from Sam before he heard her.
“She’s not what you want.”
The clipped, no-nonsense female voice stirred something inside him, as did her scent. He savored both a moment before looking at her, appreciating her directness and the fragrance she wore, which was light and sweetly floral, a perfect accompaniment to the natural female scent of her skin.
Raze glanced aside at the woman who made herself comfortable in the space next to him. She wasn’t his type. Too refined and complicated for his tastes, but there was no denying she was beautiful. Willowy body with modest curves. Creamy skin contrasted by dark hair. Vivid green eyes framed by thick, black lashes. She was an altogether stunning package. “She isn’t?”
“No.” She hooked one nude stiletto heel on the bar’s foot rail and set elegant hands on the carved wooden lip of the bar top. No rings, which he found surprising. She was the kind of prime choice female who didn’t stay on the market long.
Raze canted his body toward her. High-class, he thought, noting the Rolex on her wrist and the hefty diamond studs shooting multihued fire from her earlobes. In a quick survey, he registered slim gray dress slacks, a sleeveless black silk top, and dark-as-ink curls piled high and balanced on a long, slender neck.
