Chapter 12
Oliver stood opposite the ornate entrance of Vlad Kominsky’s dress shop, his lips curling with distaste.
It had been a while since he’d had any dealings with Vlad. The last time had been while investigating Vlad’s missing nephew, Matteus.
He didn’t relish the thought of having to associate with him again. Vlad Kominsky was a cunning, two-faced vampire—a survivor, yes, but at other people’s expense. Oliver had always seen through him.
And yet, somehow, with his flamboyance and his ability to charm, he’d won himself an eager and wealthy clientele of monsters, and more lately humans, with money to burn and a desire to impress.
Oliver suddenly recalled another creation, a red dress, and felt an almost visceral longing as he imagined the silk fabric under his fingers, the feel as he ruched it up Clare’s legs until he reached her panties, slippery with her need.
The dripping wet pleasure of her perfect cunt, so ready for him.
His breath caught sharply in his throat.
Shut. It. Down.
Thank the gods she would be away for a day or so.
Sure, going and interviewing the human families needed to be done, but truthfully, it was more about getting her away from him.
From the urge to touch, to bite, to fuck her senseless.
The scent of her body, her nearness in the car, the memories it brought back made it patently clear he couldn’t have her tagging along with him until he’d got himself in check.
It was absolutely the best plan, both from an investigative and personal perspective. But as he’d watched her slam the car door and stride into the station an hour ago, her shoulders up around her ears, it was clear as day that she was mighty pissed at him.
And even that was a fucking turn-on.
He strode across the street now, his gaze sharpening as Vlad opened his shop door and ushered out a couple of customers, a wealthy, svelte-looking human and her partner, clearly wolf, clearly also very wealthy.
Things were changing around here.
But Vlad had not. He looked like something out of another era, his black hair swept back and oiled, his burgundy cravat beautifully tied.
His smile to the departing humans was obsequious with just the tiniest flash of the diamond in his fang.
It was part of his edgy appeal. He didn’t retract his fangs, never had.
He’d flaunted them fully extended for centuries.
Vlad had managed to escape the mass stakings.
Rumor was, he’d taken a young colonel in the human army as his lover, who’d protected the Kominsky family members, though this had never been proven.
Unless he’d turned him, the human himself would be long dead, making that rumor even more difficult to verify.
Maybe Oliver would have grudgingly admired Vlad for being a survivor. If his surname was anything but Kominsky.
Oliver skimmed across the street and silently entered the shop.
Vlad didn’t hear him. Oliver’s speed was his hallmark. He prided himself that even a vampire couldn’t detect his presence immediately.
So it was with a certain smug satisfaction that he leaned against the door jamb and drawled, “Vladimir Kominsky, long time no see.”
Vlad almost visibly jumped, turning swiftly to face him, and for a second Oliver caught a tightening of the other vampire’s features.
Then it was gone, and he flashed his signature diamond smile.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Sir Oliver Hale himself,” he drawled back.
“That was my father. I’m just plain Hale.”
“Ah, of course, the memories blur when you’re as old as I am.”
“Not so very much older than the rest of us.”
Vlad laughed. “Enough to be superior to you in so many ways, Hale.”
“That is a matter for conjecture. But let’s not quibble over a few centuries, shall we?” Oliver eyed his adversary from under heavy lids.
Vlad busied himself hanging dresses on hangers. “What brings you to Motham? Taking a little holiday from your cruisy job in Selig?”
“Not exactly. Thought I might purchase a suit for my new role.”
“Oh, and what might that be?” Vlad said lightly as his long fingers stacked gowns onto a rail.
“I’m heading up the missing humans case here in Motham.”
Vlad did not reply. Oliver waited. Finally, he said, “Surely you’ve not missed that tidbit of scandal, Vlad.”
Vlad shrugged. “Maybe I heard the odd rumor. So it was not enough that you failed on the Shona Dove case, they’ve brought you back to fail again, have they?”
Oliver pinned the smile firmly to his lips. “Ah well, this time around I intend to succeed.”
He brought the dress from out of the bag he’d brought with him and laid it out on Vlad’s table.
“Recognize this?”
“No.”
“You’re lying. You made it.”
Vlad twitched as Oliver displayed the label. “Unless the label is fake, of course.”
Vlad gave a shrug “Could be.”
“But such exquisite stitching, such stunning lace. You have a formidable rival in the fake market if that is the case.”
Vlad twitched. “No one can fake my brand.” Oliver notched up the little victory. When you took a shot at his vanity, Vlad was guaranteed to walk into the trap.
“Do you remember selling it?”
“I have so many customers, how would I?”
“Well, let’s go back through your records, shall we? I might find some very interesting names. And maybe not just for the sale of pretty gowns and fine suits.”
Vlad gave him a sour glance. It was a well-known secret that Vlad had a trade in illicit substances that had nothing to do with silk and lace.
Catching him at it was harder. He had too many clients in high places who would cover for him. Sly bastard.
But today, Oliver had a warrant, which he waved it in Vlad’s face. “You want me to enforce a search of your documentation?”
Vlad pursed his lips, took the dress now in his spidery fingers and laid it out on the counter. His nails were painted black, and he wore them long, like talons. He placed two fingers between his furrowed brow as if thinking hard. Gods, he was so damn theatrical.
“C’mon, senility can’t be setting in quite yet.” Oliver made another dig at the older vampire’s vanity. No one knew Vlad’s real age, which was probably nearer five, even six hundred years old. He had been well into adulthood when the stakings happened.
Don’t think about that.
Vlad huffed. “Ah yes, I do remember now. A rather mousy little human with an annoying laugh. Wanted to play at being a femme fatale for a night.”
“Did she say what event she was wearing it to?”
“If she did, I wouldn’t remember. I get a dozen a day just like her in here.”
“I’ll jog your memory then. Natalie Spriggs is her name. She bought this dress from you somewhere between September and now. Wore it, judging by the smell of cheap perfume on it. And a mere week ago, she disappeared. Into thin air. I thought you might have some idea where she might have got to.”
“As if I’d be interested in her.” Vald sniffed disparagingly “And that perfume is offending my olfactory sense.”
Oliver laughed. “I’m not implying you had anything to do with her disappearance, I’m just following leads. Talking of leads, there’s been a couple of sighting of your nephew, Matteus, reported. Thought you might be interested to know he’s been seen around town.”
The vampire’s lip curled. “Your sources are fibbing to you. He’s way off on the other side of the mountains. You folks will never find him. Just admit you’ve failed and suck it up, Hale.”
Oliver smiled slowly. “You see, the thing with failure,” he said softly, moving over to a silk and linen suit and smoothing the material under his fingertips, “is that the label only applies if you actually do fail. And I don’t intend to.
I’ll find that little piece of detritus.
Even if it takes from here to eternity.”
With that, he went back to the table, picked up the dress and sauntered toward the exit, feeling Vlad’s dark gaze biting into his back all the while.
At the door he turned, cocked an eyebrow. “Send my commiserations to Dorothea.”
Vlad’s face twitched.
Oliver’s dislike of Vlad’s sister-in-law was almost as strong as his antipathy toward Vlad.
But unlike Vlad, Dorothea was a talker. Alcohol had addled her brain over the years, and her tongue was loose.
She was also besotted with her only child, Matteus.
If she knew something, she’d likely blurt it out.
He turned briefly. “She must be devastated that her beloved son has disappeared.”
Vald glared at him, knowing full well that Dorothea was a leaky bucket. No doubt he would scurry off to warn her and the rest of the Kominsky clan that fucking Hale was on the case.
He turned and left with a small smirk playing around his mouth. That was exactly what he wanted. Their hatred of the Hale name would rattle them. And a rattled vampire was often a foolish one.
He’d need to steel himself and visit Dorothea Kominsky before the week was out.
Clare put the phone down with a sigh.
After all her attempts, only two of the five families in Tween were prepared to talk to her. And one of those was Jo and her husband, Hank Spriggs.
Still, secretly she was relieved. Because that meant she would be back in Motham by nightfall…
She muttered an expletive under her breath. Damn that vampire. She was still hopelessly addicted to Oliver Hale.
She tried to reason that it was just closure that she needed. An explanation. An apology.
Oh yeah, fat chance of that.
Her gut flipped as she remembered trying to get an explanation from him the next day, her courage fueled by rage and lack of sleep. And all he’d done was gaslight her, then he’d left Motham to get away from her.
It was still so clear in her mind’s eye, as if it had happened yesterday. It had truly traumatized her. Far more than any case she’d worked on, even the more gruesome ones.
Yeah. Fuck that vampire.
Maybe she would have it out with him after the case was done. Tell him how much he’d hurt her, then maybe she could move on. Finally contemplate dating again, a human this time. Maybe she’d marry, have kids, see out her days in Tween.
Her whole psyche rebelled at the thought.
Okay, she’d date a monster. Just not a vampire. Maybe… a nice orc like Saul, or a griffin or even a bear shifter. Except she didn’t like big, muscled species. She liked… whip smart, razor thin vampires who were old enough to be her great, great fucking grandfather.
Goddess save her. She glanced at her watch. If she didn’t hurry up, said vampire would return to the office, and she couldn’t risk seeing him right now, not with the way she was feeling.
She grabbed the case file, snatched her purse off the back of her chair and headed for the door.
As she grasped the handle and was about to yank it open, it swung outward, and she found herself catapulting forward.
Straight into her boss’s silver waistcoated torso.
Her nostrils flared, drinking in the smell of expensive cologne, his tantalizing male scent. It was impossible to describe exactly how Oliver Hale smelled, but it made her think of rain on pine-forest-clad mountains.
Mentally, she shook herself.
She felt his touch, so familiar and dangerous, and realized his hand was on her elbow, steadying her. Clare jerked so violently she dropped the file, and papers spewed onto the floor.
She heard him tut softly. Heat spread up her neck as another, more telltale heat spread between her legs.
And then they both bent to pick them up.
His breath was warm against her ear. “Clumsy,” he murmured.
“You bumped into me,” she retorted, then made the mistake of looking into his face.
Long thick lashes framed his almond-shaped eyes, the fan of lines around them making him even more devastatingly attractive.
The silver streaks in his dark beard accentuated the sensuality of his bad-boy mouth with its defined upper lip and the full sulkiness of the lower one.
He was devastatingly beautiful, and she hated every inch of him for that.
She started to gather papers in a frenzied hurry, her breath sharp and painful in her chest.
“Not so fast, they’ll get all out of order. Give them here.” He already had the file in his long fingers, and as she handed the wad of papers over, their fingers touched.
It was the same electric current that had zapped her that night when she’d touched his ring. Oh gods…
The same longing.
The same need.
Unabated, unquenched.
She jumped up like she’d been stung by a thousand bees, leaving him down on one knee at her feet, which was kind of ironic in a cruel way. He swiftly rose, neatly aligning the papers, then placed them into the file and handed it back to her.
“You’re off then,” he said, his face impassive.
“Yep. Off to Tween.” She hugged the file to her chest, aware she was scowling.
His lip hitched sideways into that devastatingly lopsided smirk of his. “Obviously not thrilled with the idea.”
“I didn’t improve on my interviews. Still only two families have agreed to talk to me.”
“Two’s a start. Well done.” Shit, was that a compliment, or was he being patronizing?
Glancing into his face, his eyes seemed serious, his smile genuine. She took a step back, changed the subject. “How did it go with Vlad?”
He gave a shrug. “As expected. But I think I’ve rattled the Kominsky cage.”
She nodded. “Hopefully I’ll have something to report when I get back.”
“Indeed.” He stood blocking her exit and her senses flared at his nearness, the warmth of his body, so close she could see the neat line of his beard where he’d trimmed it, a tiny cut on his neck, just above his shirt.
The thought of him shaving, nicking his own skin made him seem so much more accessible.
Like her, he bled.
“Can you let me pass, sir? I’ve got a lot to get on with.”
He blinked, then stepped aside.
Just as she made to pass him, he said, “Wait. Let me give you my cell number so you can contact me directly.”
“I can call Saul,” she huffed.
“I am in charge of this case. If there are any updates, I want to know first.”
He held up his phone to hers and they connected. “There, you’ve got it.”
As she turned to go, he added, “And Clare, I’ll look forward to you reporting back.”
Not sure what to say, she stuffed the files and phone into her large purse.
When she glanced at him briefly, it felt like his gaze was stroking her skin.
Oh, curse him and the effect he had on her.
“Right-oh, sir,” she said in a choked voice, and fled.