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“Yeah. I really like it here. Quebec City, especially.”
“Ah, bon?” Fleur exchanged a look with Lemaire.
“Perhaps we can help,” Lemaire said.
I forced a big smile. “Are you serious? That would be awesome.”
“Call me.” Fleur produced a plum-colored business card and put it on the table. “We’re always looking for beautiful girls.”
I eyed the card without taking it. They’d expect me to negotiate. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
“You’ll make more in a week than you can make at Le Dahlia in a month.” She nudged the card in my direction. “In addition, we’ll provide you with a place to live. You’ll have a clothing allowance, too.”
And all I’d have to do was allow them unlimited access to my body and blood.
“The work’s not hard,” Fleur added. “Many of our employees have been with us for years. You’d have to sign a contract, of course.”
“For at least a year,” Lemaire added.
“And you can get me a work visa so I can stay in Canada?”
“This is not a problem,” he said.
Fleur reached for my hand, smoothing a finger down my wrist. A quiver went up my arm.
Her mouth curled, catlike. “Such smooth, pretty skin. You’ll be popular. I will offer you a twenty-five percent signing bonus.”
I opened my mouth, but she shook her head. “Call me. This is not the place to discuss details.” She released me and put the card in my palm.
I tucked it into my bra and stood up. “My break’s almost over. I have to go backstage.”
Lemaire sat forward. “Call us. Soon.” He put a touch of compulsion into his voice, the bastard.
I pretended it worked. “I will.”
Lemaire sat back, lips tilted in a cat-who-caught-the-canary smile.
“We’ll be expecting to hear from you,” Fleur said.
I nodded and made my way back through the tables. The skin between my shoulders itched. I wanted to break into a run, but I didn’t.
No, I sauntered, hips swaying, like a model on a freaking runway.
Crow would’ve been proud of me.
2
BRIEN
SIX WEEKS LATER
It was sheer luck that I was at the auction. I’d never bought a blood slave in my life.
Maybe that made me soft. Maybe it made me too “human,” as my father said, even though I was a pureblood vampire, and, unlike him, I’d been born a vampire, not made. But I preferred feeding from—and fucking—a thrall, i.e., someone who’d chosen the lifestyle, not been forced into it.
I was in town to negotiate with Régis Dussault, the Quebec City primus, about an investment in his lavish new riverfront casino. After the lawyers and accountants had their say, we’d hash out the final details tomorrow night and hopefully, sign the agreement.
As I rose to leave, Régis put a paternal arm around me. “I have something special planned for tonight.”
