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Her next funeral was going to be bigger.
With a New Orleans jazz band, maybe, and a few hired mourners. She might even spring for a real minister, someone slicker than the skeleton in the suit who was laying a brass urn of kitty litter to rest.
Belle DuPont arranged her features into appropriate sorrow as the mortician gravely murmured, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” sneaking a quick look at his watch as he extended his hand in condolence to her. That hand was clammy, his breath tainted with the scent of cheap bourbon no amount of mouthwash could cover. She doubted if he had more than one suit to his name.
Which was why she’d chosen the man. He needed money. She needed a death certificate to allow her to inherit her own property. Again.
Things were getting complicated, and she was only a hundred and thirty years old. She couldn’t imagine how much confusing life would become before she died in another two hundred years or so.
The last “amen” had barely slipped from the funeral director’s mouth when Belle’s pocket began to chime. The interruption couldn’t have come at a better time. She could tell the man was getting ready to ask nosy questions, like where the grandmother he thought he’d just buried had died and which newspapers to notify.
Excusing herself, she moved across two rows of tombstones to a shady retreat created by sun-dappled trees. If the man overheard her there, it wouldn’t be by accident.
She didn’t trust anyone. Life was safer that way.
Punching the cell phone’s talk button, she muttered, “Speak.”
She listened to the familiar voice on the other end, memorizing the directions given.
When the caller finished, Belle said, “Thanks for the referral. I’ll be in touch,” and hit the off button.
Slipping an extra fifty-dollar bill into the funeral director’s worn Bible as she said goodbye, Belle left the cemetery. With any luck, he’d spend the money on food and not at the nearest liquor store.
Focusing on him kept her from thinking about how tough it was to leave the graveyard. Yeah, it was in the middle of nowhere and hard to get to, but in this one thing, she was driven by sentiment and not convenience. This was the only place to find her relatives. Her mother, gone almost sixty years now. Her father longer than that. Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, all rested beneath this sod.
It sucked to be the last of her kind.
Shoving away that depressing thought, Belle kick-started her Harley and roared down the narrow country road, away from the dappled hillside and back toward civilization.
Time to go to work.
The mugger came out of nowhere. One minute Belle was loosening the strap of her saddlebag, the next she caught the shimmer of a metal blade behind her. She spun. Her booted foot caught the man in the ribs, shoving him down hard onto the uneven asphalt. Before he could move, she was atop him. She planted a knee in his chest and leaned down until her face was mere inches from his.
She didn’t need this kind of crap tonight.
“Bad timing,” she hissed, wadding his shirt in her fist. “Nobody messes with me, and nobody touches my stuff. You’re lucky I have an appointment, because that means your nose and ’nads are gonna remain intact. If I weren’t in a hurry, this would end a whole lot different.”
Pushing her elbow hard against his breastbone before rising with an easy grace, Belle grabbed the saddlebag and stalked toward the hole-in-the-wall diner on the outskirts of Louisville. This was why she hated cities. They were filled with punks too lazy to work, all convinced they had the right to take advantage of anyone out after midnight.
Belle’s boots got damper with each step, but she didn’t care. The streets were wet here along Kentucky’s northern border, two hundred miles from the cemetery, although the recent thunderstorm had dwindled to a thin mist. The glow from nearby streetlights shimmered across the oil slicks on the diner parking lot, and Belle stalked through puddles as she headed to the glassed-in entryway. Her breaths were shallow; her face creased into a frown. This close to the river, the air stank like fish.
As she crossed the parking lot, Belle saw a man watching her from the other side of the diner window. When his gaze moved from her to the fleeing mugger and back again, she tensed. That had to be her contact, and he was early, dammit. She liked to arrive first. She needed to see the rabbit scurry in and catch any nervous habits before she decided whether or not to take whatever job desperation had brought her way.
Ignoring the handful of other customers, she walked to his booth at the back of the small restaurant. Slinging her saddlebag under the table, she slid in across from the tall, dark and sexy stranger. Her jeans snagged on a rip in the vinyl seat as she settled in, back to the wall, one leg spread across the seat. Spotting the waitress, she signaled her over with a quick motion of her hand.
When the man across from her started to speak, Belle held up a finger.
“Not yet,” she warned. “I’m too caffeine-deprived for intelligent conversation.”
She could tell he was irritated, which suited her fine. He was the one who’d chosen to show up early. It wouldn’t kill him to wait five minutes to make his pitch.
“Coffee, black, and keep it coming,” she said when the middle-aged server showed up. “Three eggs, over hard, sausage, fried potatoes. Wheat toast, real butter if you’ve got it.”
Across from her, the man lifted an eyebrow.
“A hearty meal for two a.m.,” he commented. “Aren’t you concerned about cholesterol?”
A laugh erupted from Belle. “Trust me, that’s the least of my worries. It will take a lot more than breakfast to kill me.”
The waitress returned with a cup of coffee and a plastic refill pot. Belle threw in a couple teaspoons of sugar, took a sip of the dark, acidic brew and sighed. Rot-gut stuff. She loved it.
“Now,” she said, “we talk.”
“You’re not exactly who I expected the agency to send.”
“Refer,” Belle corrected. “The agency refers me. There’s a difference.”
“I stand corrected.”
“And that difference,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “is who makes the decision as to whether I take the assignment, and who gets the money. The answer to both is me. The agency assigns generalists, and I’m a specialist. Kind of like a family medicine doc versus a heart surgeon. The worst cases come to me, and my services are more expensive.”
She offered a wicked half-grin. “They keep me a free agent because I don’t play well with others. You can complain if I piss you off, but don’t expect to get your money back.”
The one-sided conversation ended when the waitress appeared with a platter of food. Misha Tsarentza watched Belle cover all but the toast with catsup and dig in with gusto. She ate without speaking, punctuating the meal with sips of coffee, as if he wasn’t three feet from her. Under ordinary circumstances, he would be offended. He was not a man to be ignored.
These, however, were not ordinary circumstances. He was about to bring a short-lifer—a female, smart-mouthed short-lifer, at that—into a world he’d been protecting for centuries, and hope to pass her off as a business acquaintance.
He hadn’t felt this kind of excitement in decades.
When her plate was wiped clean with the last crust of toast, Belle settled back and folded her arms across her chest.
“Persuade me,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Misha replied.
“You’re the one who dragged me here in the middle of the night to make me an offer,” she replied. “I was leaving a funeral when you called. That made me realize how short life can be, and how long it’s been since I’ve had a vacation. You’ve got two minutes to convince me I’d rather work for you than lie on a Mexican beach with a cabana boy named Pedro bringing me drinks.”
Misha wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be insulted. He was an elder of the Ancients, one of the eight most powerful men among his people. A single word from him could bring an execution of a single individual, or the destruction of an entire clan. Yet this short-lifer challenged him.
“I have a contract with the agency for services as needed,” he said. “I believe all we’re negotiating is your fee.”
She sighed. “As I explained, the agency refers me, it doesn’t employ me. Looks like you’re wasting my time and yours. You have, what, eighteen hours or so to solve your problem, and I can be tanning my tush on a nude beach long before then.” She drained her coffee cup. “Hope you don’t mind getting the check.”
She yanked her saddlebag from under the table and slid from the booth. Grabbing her arm, Misha hissed, “Sit down. You’re making a scene.”
“I’m making a scene? No, I’m leaving. You’re the one everyone’s staring at.”
Misha glanced around the diner. The half-dozen patrons in the place watched their way. One man, he realized, had gotten up from the counter and was heading toward them.
“Please sit,” he ground out. “Negotiations are on.”
“Much better.” Belle held up a hand to the man walking toward them and said, “I’m fine. A lover’s tiff.”
The man glowered at Misha before turning around, muttering something under his breath.
Belle slid back into the booth.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” she said. “As I understand it, you need protective services during the transport and display of, uh, an unusual object. You prefer to go outside the usual avenues for personal reasons; I don’t need details. In return for my services, you will reimburse me at my standard rate.”
She met his eyes. “A retainer of one hundred thousand dollars and a grand an hour while I’m on the job.”
“Fifty thousand, and five hundred.”
“Ooh, I feel the need for a margarita.”
“Seventy-five thousand, and seven hundred fifty an hour.”
Belle sighed. “You don’t get it, do you? You need me more than I need you. Give me what I ask, or I walk.”
“Fine.” The woman wore a wide grin, like she was enjoying the negotiation. “I assume you’ll accept a cashier’s check.”
Belle shook her head. “Cash. Now. If you’re such a buddy of the agency, you know the rules. If it’s off their books, the associate sets the terms and chooses method of payment.”
Misha nodded his agreement and pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his overcoat. He gave an order in his native language, knowing she wouldn’t understand, and snapped the phone shut.
“My associate will be here momentarily with your retainer,” he said.
“Good boy,” Belle answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to find the john.”
She was, Misha decided as he watched her go, unlike any creature he’d ever met. Small-framed, petite, with a natural grace her jeans and leather jacket couldn’t hide, and dark hair cut short and spiky, she had the capacity to be beautiful. Yet that potential was compromised by her go-to-hell attitude.
Working with her would certainly make life interesting.
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