Kelley Armstrong - Otherworld Chills

So Rhys wouldn’t call to give her crap for refusing Nick’s demand. He’d call because Vanessa hadn’t kept the client happy. And in this case, she’d had every intention of keeping Nick happy … and the memory of that—and the colossal fuckup that ensued—was why she really needed a gimlet. Possibly two.

Vanessa Callas did not take unnecessary risks. Not in her job. Not in her life. She was smart and she was careful, so smart and so careful that when she did decide to take a chance and do something crazy, she had no idea how , and usually ended up making a complete fool of herself. Like she’d done today.

Vanessa was in charge of five agents. Four of them were women, not because Rhys hired her to play den mother but because, after a few months on the job, female operatives usually requested her as their handler. She’d found the balance between boss and bossy older sister, and her agents took comfort in that. It was a closely knit team, and overnight meetings often resembled sleepaway camp. Which is where Jayne, after a few glasses of wine, started gushing about Nick Sorrentino. Tina pounced on the next Nick update and got her chance, and then she was the one gushing, though it appeared she hadn’t been quite as successful as she’d let on.

Nick Sorrentino. The perfect one-night stand. A werewolf with a model-perfect face and athlete-perfect body. Young enough to have the energy for an all-nighter; old enough to realize his partner should also enjoy that all-nighter. Experienced and attentive. And a nice guy. That was, for her operatives, perhaps the most shocking part of the package.

That’s when Vanessa made her decision. She was going to get some of that. God knows, she needed some of that.

Vanessa was thirty-eight. She’d come to work for Rhys seven years ago. Before that, she’d been with the FBI, zooming up the ranks with such single-mindedness that after a while she no longer even cared about the end goal, wasn’t even sure what her end goal was, only knew that it was higher than wherever she’d been. Then she met Rhys and realized a career could be more interesting and fulfilling, especially for a half-demon.

She worked her ass off, which hadn’t left much time for more than passing relationships. That seemed fine, until she hit thirty-four and the doctor said if she was planning to have children, she was reaching the end stretch. At first she’d been furious—who was he to presume she wanted kids? The more she thought about it, though, the more she realized she did want something, not children but the relationship they sprang from. An intimate bond with someone who could be both lover and companion.

As she was realizing that, a friend introduced her to Roger. At twenty-five, she wouldn’t have given him a second look. There was a spectrum of elements she’d wanted with any potential mate. Looks, yes. Success, yes. But also intelligence, wit, and personality. Score on three out of five, and it didn’t really matter which three, you had a winner. Roger … Roger was adequate in all categories, outstanding in none. Vanessa had decided that was good enough. At least it was at thirty-five, when it seemed a woman was still expected to present an appealing package and then be thrilled if it attracted anyone at all.

Roger was all for a long-term relationship, even if he did wish she’d drop a few pounds. She had—which was a struggle, given her figure—and she hadn’t even pointed out the fact that his spare tire was rapidly becoming tractor-sized. Though he had two kids from his previous marriage, he wanted more. She wasn’t set on them but wasn’t set against them, either, so she said sure. Then, on the day they’d been supposed to move in together, he announced he’d found someone else. A twenty-five-year-old who was, it seemed, in possession of a more reliable set of ovaries.

That was the end of Roger.

Vanessa hadn’t dated since, too angry and disillusioned. The problem was, if you weren’t dating, you weren’t getting sex. Twice in the last few months, she’d found herself in a hotel bar, seriously considering an invitation from a fellow traveler. Which meant the situation was growing dire—in her line of work, you know better than to ever go back to a stranger’s room. What she needed was a hookup that came with a “not a psycho” stamp of approval. What she needed was Nick Sorrentino.

So when Tina got a solid lead on Malcolm Danvers, Vanessa made an overdue business trip to New York and combined it with the chance to deliver this update to Nick herself. She’d bought a new dress—a little vampy but revealing nothing more than curves—and tried not to regret the ten pounds she’d gained back post-Roger. She’d left her hair unpinned. She’d taken extra care with her makeup. Then she’d formulated a plan of seduction. Except, well, her experience with seduction was … nonexistent. Still, from what Jayne and Tina suggested, Nick didn’t need serious wooing. She would let him know she was game and perfectly fine with the concept of casual sex. It had seemed like the easiest way to convey this message was to bring up Jayne and Tina.

There was a moment, when she first saw Nick, where she doubted the wisdom of her plan. It was not because his bio photos didn’t do him justice. In person, Nick Sorrentino looked like he’d just stepped off an ad for Armani or Ferrari. Tall and slender, flawless olive skin, dark wavy hair, deep brown eyes … He might be fifty but, being a werewolf, he looked a decade younger. And Vanessa was sure Nick Sorrentino would still turn heads when he did look fifty. And sixty. Probably even seventy.

But it wasn’t his looks that made her hesitate. It was him—his manner and his bearing and his demeanor, quiet and professional, polite and thoughtful. She hadn’t expected a smarmy playboy, but maybe, yes, a hint of that, an air that said he was a player and proud of it. When she didn’t detect any such sign, she realized her plan might be … unwise. But by then, it was too late. She’d played her hand and insulted him and made a fool of herself.

Now she waited for a call from Rhys, telling her their client was not pleased and he wasn’t sure what the hell she’d done but she was off the case.

When the phone rang, she reached over with trepidation. Then she saw the caller ID. Mayfair Flowers. Tina Mayfair’s code name.

“I can’t imagine Detroit is such a tourist hot spot that it took you ninety minutes to find a hotel room,” Vanessa said on answering.

When silence returned, she continued, “Tell me you’re at a hotel …”

“I made visual confirmation,” Tina said. “Just as I was about to leave my post, he came out of his contact’s house. It was too dark for a distance photo, so—”

“Did I tell you not to approach?” Vanessa said. “Did I order you to stand down?”

“But he was right there, and it was dark enough for me to get closer for a photo.”

“So you got it?”

Silence. Then, “It wasn’t as easy as it seemed. I’ve been following him—”

“No!” Vanessa said. “I don’t care if he’s twenty feet away standing under a streetlight. Back down. Now .”

“I would, but …”

Vanessa gripped the phone. “But what …?”

“Somehow, I lost him. I got myself into this blind alley and I feel like an idiot.”

No, you didn’t get yourself there. Malcolm Danvers got you there.

“Get out now,” Vanessa said. “Whatever it takes. Just—”

A sharp intake of breath. Then a clatter, as if the phone had hit the pavement.

“Mayfair?” Vanessa called. “Mayfair!”

Another clatter. Then a male voice. “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

“Who is this? Did you lose your phone?” the man said, his voice soft. “Or did you lose something else? Yes, I believe you did. Such a shame, too. She’s not gone, though. Not yet. I could return her. Would you like that?”