Chapter 1
ONE
Normally, she preferred a house to be empty.
There was nothing worse than trying to clean a house when the owners were hovering over your shoulder.
It made everyone uncomfortable, and the days felt even longer than they already tended to either because she was being micromanaged or forced into painful smalltalk.
One of the few reasons she enjoyed working for vampires was because they tended to prefer their help do their jobs during the day, when they were locked away in their sun-proof bedrooms.
But that wasn’t why she liked this particular home to be empty. No, that had nothing to do with cleaning and everything to do with… him.
Francesca adjusted her grip on her bucket of supplies and the mop she carried in her other hand. She knew instantly, without even seeing him, that he was in the home. Something about the air changed. It was charged like the moments before a storm, making it heavy with just his presence.
She was pretty sure he didn’t wear cologne — Maxine said vampires didn’t like strong artificial scents — but she thought she could still somehow smell him.
Woody and clean and rich like molasses, it made her toes curl in worn out sneakers.
If ever there was a scent she wished she could spritz on her pillow, that was it.
Stop, she firmly instructed herself. There was plenty for her to worry about without adding her ridiculous feelings to the mix.
The vampire in penthouse 1306 was simply a consummate charmer. And devastatingly handsome. And approximately one thousand levels out of her league.
Normally that bothered her more, but today her mind really was occupied with more pressing concerns. The hollow of her right elbow ached a little as she hefted her bucket, reminding her of the half dozen blood draws she’d been talked into doing.
We just need a couple vials to test, the doctor had said. But ten minutes later he’d come back wide-eyed and speaking a little too fast, requesting more. For confirmation.
Francesca Sinclair had gotten lucky exactly twice in her life. The first time was when her parents adopted her. The second was, apparently, a quirk of genetics.
Not that it helped her in that moment. She still had rent to pay, and if she took too long, she’d miss the razor-thin window she reserved for a meal between house cleaning and her other job.
And that meant she had to buck up and face him, despite the way the butterflies in her stomach threatened to make that a terrible mistake.
Her sneakers made soft squeaky sounds on the marble tile of the entryway.
Beyond it, a wall of windows overlooked the rapidly darkening sky and glittering expanse of United Washington.
Sun-proof film had been applied to the glass, and automatic shades were only just beginning to lift as she tiptoed into the living area.
It was early for a vampire to be up, but there he was.
Dressed in dark jeans, a barely-buttoned shirt, and shoes that were worth more than her apartment, he lounged like a predator pretending to be a house cat on his black leather couch.
One hand held a tablet in front of him, his fingers spread in a way that had to be a sin, and the other rested casually on an arm rest. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like he was simply relaxing and perhaps forgot that she was scheduled to clean his home that day.
Bullshit.
For the past several visits, he’d been putting on the same act. Once, he wandered out of the kitchen — as if he ate — and another time he placed himself behind the clearly unused desk in his immaculate office, which she was ninety-nine percent sure he never actually stepped foot in.
Francesca had been firmly instructed to ask no questions, to do no snooping, and hear nothing when she cleaned the mostly vampire-owned apartments in this particular building.
The company she worked for had stressed that particular part of her job many, many times.
She wasn’t even allowed to know the names of the home owners, including the man who watched her with those dark blue eyes over the edge of his tablet.
Going by the lack of glow on his striking face, she didn’t even think the thing was on.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Hi.”
The vampire, who she privately called Casanova, tossed his tablet aside like it was trash. A slow grin spread across his bearded face, crinkling the lines around his eyes and showing off the terrifying fangs he possessed.
“Good evening, sugar,” he drawled, sweeping a hand through his white-streaked hair in what she could only imagine was a carefully practiced performance of nonchalance. “You’re looking stunning, as usual.”
Francesca glanced down reflexively. She didn’t bother hiding her scoff.
This job didn’t require customer service, so she didn’t have to pretend quite as much.
And for reasons that she didn’t want to think about too deeply, she’d never been able to pretend at all around him. With him, she was just… Frankie.
“You have a weird thing for bleach stains and aprons,” she dryly quipped.
He sat up a little to place his elbows on his knees. With his sleeves rolled up, she could make out the crimson tattoo that swirled around his right forearm — a splash of blood. “Maybe I just have a weird thing for you.”
Francesca tempered whatever thrill that teasing declaration might’ve inspired in her.
There was a good reason she called him Casanova. The vampire was an absolutely incorrigible flirt. She’d seen him in action, though she highly doubted he had any idea that they’d crossed paths outside the confines of his pristine penthouse.
One of her other jobs was as a server at a restaurant in a swanky part of town.
It wasn’t exactly known for being frequented by vampires, considering they didn’t eat food, but it happened every once in a while for a variety of reasons.
That was actually where she’d met Maxine, and also where she’d learned that Casanova used his wiles on just about everyone.
He’d also come with a date.
Which is, like, totally fine, she reminded herself before the feeling that bled through her could reach her face.
You don’t even know this guy. And besides, you’re gonna be too busy to care soon anyway.
You’re already too busy to care. And you’re definitely, definitely not in love with him, so it doesn’t even matter.
Even if she wanted to become a vampire’s temporary plaything, she didn’t have the bandwidth.
She worked two jobs and spent every second of her free time pawing through redacted records, negotiating bureaucracy, and worrying about her parents.
And now she had her other obligation, which would probably make this the last time she saw him.
Unless he shows up at Georgio’s again. A bitter taste bloomed on the back of her tongue at the thought.
Ignoring the way his eyes narrowed, almost like he could see the thoughts ricocheting around her skull, Francesca pasted on a bright smile and announced, “I’ll start in the kitchen.”
She didn’t risk another look at him as she passed the couch, but she could feel him tracking her. It was a small blessing that he at least waited for her to enter the kitchen and begin pulling out her supplies before he darkened the doorway.
“Is everything all right?”
Casanova had a gorgeous, rolling bass voice.
It was the kind of voice that clung to the skin, haunting you long after the echo of it faded.
She was pretty sure he could read her the ingredient list on the back of her glass cleaner bottle and she’d still end up having to change her panties afterward.
Focusing on her tasks, which began with checking to make sure the trash didn’t need to be taken out, she answered, “Of course! Why do you ask?”
“You seem different.”
She shut the drawer containing the entirely untouched trash can with maybe a little too much force.
There wasn’t even an empty bottle of synth in there.
That either meant that he spent almost no time at all in the penthouse — likely, considering how little cleaning it required — or he found his sustenance elsewhere.
“I’m fine,” she assured him, voice pitched a little too high. “Totally, totally fine. Just busy. How are you?”
Francesca kept her back to him as she pulled out a clean rag and the stone counter-top cleaner she brought with her.
Casanova made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. It was the warning he always gave her when he planned to circle back around to something she wished to avoid talking about. “Work has been annoying me. I pissed off my cousin and he gave me a shit job as punishment.”
Rolling up her sleeves, she asked, “Did you deserve it?”
“Oh, definitely,” he answered, a warm note of laughter in his already rich voice.
“Well, then stop complaining.” She sniffed, spritzing the cleaner on the counter. “Nobody likes a whiner.”
“You know, you don’t have to clean in here,” he pointed out. “I haven’t stepped foot in the kitchen since you cleaned last time, and I didn’t even use it before then. You could skip it.”
They’d had this conversation before, so she knew exactly where he was going with it.
First it would be the kitchen. Then it would be vacuuming the floors.
Next thing she knew, he’d be insisting she not clean at all, and oh, look at that, he’s ordered a fancy dinner just for her and wouldn’t it just be easier to stay a while?
She’d made that mistake exactly once, and she never intended to make it again.
Her heart squeezed painfully as she passed her rag over the gleaming counter top of the kitchen island.
Francesca wasn’t cut out for the kind of seduction Casanova offered — the casual, glamorous kind that burned hot and brief.
She was a small town girl just trying to keep her head above water, but she liked to think she had enough good sense to not let a man like him break her heart.
It’d been a fun evening. Really fun. The most fun she’d had outside of hanging out with Maxine that she’d had in years.
Conversation with Casanova was easy and full of laughter even when there wasn’t wine involved.
Sitting next to him on that couch was like curling up next to a fire and letting its warmth lull her to sleep.
He hadn’t asked her to sleep with him. He hadn’t been inappropriate or pushy. He’d just looked at her with those midnight blue eyes, the white streak in his hair and beard strangely endearing, and she realized that she couldn’t.
She liked him too much, and he’d never even bothered to tell her his name.
So she’d begged off, citing her need to get home. Nothing had been the same for her since.
“Just because you don’t cook doesn’t mean there isn’t dust in the air,” she argued, moving down the counter in a precise line. “This kitchen is a work of art. It deserves to be cared for even if it’s criminally underused.”
“You could use it,” he offered. She didn’t need to look to know he’d stepped deeper into the room.
Casanova never crowded her but somehow she always felt like she was being hunted when he prowled into her space. She wished she didn’t like it half as much as she did.
Long used to batting away his offers, she replied, “My kitchen works fine.”
“Yeah, but you like mine more.”
“True,” she admitted, thinking of the hot plate and half-size refrigerator that counted as a kitchen in her studio apartment. “But I still can’t.”
He leaned his hip against the counter beside her and crossed his corded arms. “Why not?”
Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she answered, “You don’t have any pots or pans, for one.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll get them. I can have them delivered in an hour. Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
Francesca shook her head. “Must be nice to be rich.”
“It is,” he replied in that charming, unabashed way of his. After many conversations with him, she was pretty certain the man had never met shame. “It’d be even nicer if you let me do things for you.”
“No, thanks.” She rounded the island’s corner, putting some necessary distance between them, and attacked the marble counter with a little too much vigor.
Her sleeve slipped down, momentarily distracting her.
Pushing it up past her elbow, she began, “By the way, I won’t be here next month. Someone else is going to cover—”
A squeak of surprise left her when warm fingers curled around her forearm, stopping her quick swipes. She hadn’t even seen him move, but he was there, his much larger form looming over her like a thundercloud.
The smile that made her ache had disappeared. A chilling, almost blank expression had taken its place as he lifted her arm between them. His gaze was locked on the dark bloom of bruises that bled out from beneath her bunched sleeve.
“Explain this.”
She had no idea how to describe his tone. It wasn’t one she’d ever heard before, and yet it activated some unused part of her brain that screamed at her to run and hide.