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He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m no knight in shining armor, and this isn’t a white horse. If you’re getting rescued, you’re coming with me.”

Oh, this was just grand.

“I’ll have you know—”

Her words were cut off by a scream.

Herscream as he careened around not one but two cars in front of them. Which would have been fine if they were on a road with more than two lanes.

They weren’t.

She was going to die.

* * *

Torr had takensome pleasure in scandalizing Charlotte—her expression had become increasingly more appalled, starting with his order to take off her blazer. Now, as he pulled into the parking lot of Stage West, her face had settled into a decided frown. She was right, of course. Why had he decided it was a good idea to take her, of all people, here?

Then again, Torr had centuries of bad decisions under his belt. Why stop now?

“I am not going in there.”

From the outside, it was a fairly nondescript building. Two stories. Brick. A sign out front. No big deal. He doubted that the temporary black and white banner hung outside the building bothered her either. Noir Nights could mean any number of things, after all.

Judging from her wide-eyed expression, it was the abundance of black leather and scantily clad women in the parking lot that troubled her.

“Suit yourself.”

He tossed her the keys.

Good reflexes.

“Wait, are you seriously—”

He got out of the car, wondering if she would follow him in.

Torr was pretty sure he heard the word asshole as he closed the door behind him. Looks like she was going to hold out—for now—but he suspected she’d meet him inside later, once she knew he was serious about staying. He thought briefly about keeping the keys, but Charlotte Harris was too much of a rule follower to ever consider taking his car.

As he walked up to the front door, Torr explained to the bouncer that his companion would be joining him, and he’d recognize her from her lack of black clothing. And leather. He paid the cover charge for both of them, then stepped into an alternate reality that instantly brought back memories. Pleasant ones.

Paris, France. Early nineteenth century. The Palais-Royal had been much more than a royal palace by then—it had been a spectacle, filled with elaborately dressed women and candles in so many places the air glowed with their seduction. He had never paid for a woman’s company—he’d never had the need—but he’d enjoyed the atmosphere all the same.

Of course, this was no Palais-Royal. But it was a definite improvement on the questionable pleasures of Stone Haven. Women clad in black lingerie played on swings arranged in front of an exposed brick wall. Both floors were a storm of black, interrupted by creamy white flesh and red uplighting on each column and a small stage, which was currently empty. Although he wasn’t wearing black himself, Torr somewhat blended in with his dark brown vest over a white tee. Which was currently nearly glowing.

He would have stood out anyway. Nearly every female in the bar was currently watching him order a drink.

Torr wasn’t being cocky. It happened to be a fact.

Unfortunately, his thoughts were stuck on the one female who was thankfully off-limits. Pretentious. Uptight. Stunning, maybe. But not for him.

“Death in the Afternoon?”

He blinked.

“The special. Do you want the special?” the bartender repeated over the pulsating, dreamy music coming from every direction. The man reminded him of his brother in the white shirt and black suspenders.

He pointed to the sign behind the bar—red writing against a black background, backlit enough to be read. Death in the Afternoon. Absinthe and champagne.

Torr was about to say no when he spotted her in the doorway, her posture hesitant.