Page 127

Jackson Striker, vampire hunter, stood on the paved stoop, hands in pockets, looking tall and casual in khaki slacks, a polo shirt, and mirrored sunglasses. He pulled them off his nose and folded them. “Hi, Cass.”

“Hi,” she said, and then considered the strange smile he wore. It wasn’t smug, nor anxious. Just normal. There was a new depth to his rugged face and a warmth in the steel-gray eyes that hadn’t been there the last time she saw him two years ago. Gone was the young hunter brimming with impatience, replaced by the confident strength of a man of almost twenty-seven with nothing to prove to anyone.

“I’m guessing he lives here?” Jackson prompted.

“What? Oh. Yes.” Grateful for the distraction, Cassidy reached down to scratch the little red-and-white cat behind an ear as he stalked through the open door. There was a smear of blood on the side of his furry face, which was probably all that remained of one of Mrs. Havashand’s prize finches. “Brinkley came with the house. Just showed up the day we moved in.”

With the front door open, a steady breeze swept through the foyer. Swirling in it was Jackson’s familiar citrus aftershave and shards of memories she thought to have forgotten long ago.

Cassidy straightened and wrapped her arms around herself. “It’s a little early for Dominique to be up.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And Sam is out teaching and has dinner plans.”

Jackson shook his head. “I can talk to my sister any time. The person I was really hoping to talk to before sundown, though, is you.” She couldn’t keep the shock from her face, and he laughed, raising both hands, one of which held a small black case. “No, don’t worry. I won’t try to talk you into leaving him again.” He looked her over, taking in the gold, kitten-heeled sandals, white palazzo pants, peacock blue patterned tunic, and the thick mass of her chestnut hair falling around her shoulders. Noticing her suspicious glare, he sobered. “You’re looking good, Cassidy.”

Her cheeks warmed in a way she didn’t appreciate. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But since you’re here, fine. I’ll listen.”

Jackson followed her through the living room. Last night’s blankets and empty popcorn bowl still decorated the sofa. The adjoining kitchen was a lake of jade granite counters, maple wood cabinets, and stainless steel appliances.

“Cozy place you’ve got here,” he said.

She snorted and opened the fridge. “Only you could describe this multi-million-dollar palace as ‘cozy.’” His own home, the Striker family compound, was three times the size—and price. “I swear I still lose stuff in just this kitchen on a weekly basis. It’s way too much house for me.” But bomb-grade storm shelters and twenty-four-seven armed security generally came with substantial real estate attached. “What would you like? Beer, wine, water, or juice?”

“Juice.”

Cassidy set out two glasses, careful how hard she placed them on the unforgiving granite surface.

“You know you’re supposed to have staff for a kitchen like this,” Jackson pointed out as she poured the apple juice.

“Kind of a waste for just one person. I don’t need much.” What meals she did need, Dominique enjoyed preparing for her. Samantha, who lived out in the pool house, kept her own, strictly vegan kitchen.

He settled himself on a cast iron barstool and placed the little black case on the counter beside him. His hand lay on it for a moment, as though reluctant to let it go. Curiosity made Cassidy’s eyes cling to it. “You’re in here all alone? All day?”

She shrugged. “I get caught up on stuff.” Like sleep. “My nights can be busy.”

“Yes, I would imagine they are.”

Cassidy eyed him over the rim of her glass and waited.

He cleared his throat. “So. I have some news. Two bits of news, actually. Well, three if you count the news I have for Dominique.” He patted the case.

She waited some more.

“I’m getting married.”

Three pieces of news, and that’s what he was leading with? Unsure she wanted to know the rest, Cassidy swallowed the last of her juice along with an impulse to express condolences for the bride-to-be. His expression hovered just a notch below pained.

“So your uncle finally broke down your resistance with his parade of ‘suitable brides’ to choose from?” None of which had captured Jackson’s interest in the past, as far as she knew.

“No.” Wry grin. “Actually, my mom set me up with this one. Ollie’s the daughter of a friend of hers.”

“Ollie?”

“Olivia. Henning-Toliver.”

“Oh. One of the Henning-Tolivers?” This was a name with weight in local banking and financial circles. Socially then—unlike middle-class Midwest Cassidy—this Ollie was a good match for the heir to the Striker fortune.