I suddenly had an image of my grandmother shaking a bejeweled finger at me (and they were all real jewels, by the way), saying, “Sophie Lawson, you are completely man hungry.” Which is not entirely true. I’m just a firm believer in appreciating your surroundings. And it doesn’t hurt if your surroundings have chiseled chests and happen to look excellent in an Armani suit … right?
Mr. Sampson looked at Detective Hayes and then tapped the flashing blue earpiece clipped to his ear. “Okay, good-bye,” he said, before pulling the earpiece off and dropping it into a desk drawer. “Detective,” he said, “so sorry about that. Come on in.”
I nodded curtly at the detective and turned on my heel, but Mr. Sampson stopped me before I reached the door. “Sophie, why don’t you stay, too?”
I led Detective Hayes into Mr. Sampson’s office—a huge, groaning room with cinnamon brown walls and soft cigar chairs set around Mr. Sampson’s elegant, enormous desk. The office could house any other upscale male executive—the impeccable, masculine décor, the walls laden with gold-embossed awards and framed degrees, the bookshelves lined with impressive leather-bound books, and the requisite crystal clock with ticking gold innards. Against the back wall there was a set of heavy metal chains, the innocent, brown paint covering a reinforced cement wall with steel rebar the size of bridge supports. Okay, that part might be slightly different from other offices.
Detective Hayes’s eyes went wide as he stared at the chains, and Mr. Sampson followed his gaze, grinned, and shrugged lightly. “Occupational hazard. Why don’t you have a seat, Detective?”
Hayes and I settled into identical plush leather cigar chairs opposite Mr. Sampson. I stifled a delighted Carrie Bradshaw grin and made a mental note to tell Nina about the hot-male sandwich I found myself in: Pete Sampson with his miles-deep, chocolate brown eyes, close-cropped ash blond hair, and GQ model build; and Detective Parker Hayes, rich blue eyes, chiseled jawline sprinkled with stubble, Roman god nose—I’d leave out the part about him being smug.
It’s not that I was particularly man crazy (except for the hormone thing); it was more that when you worked in an office where the general male populace either smells of graveyard dirt or has a horn where no horn should be, it’s rather exciting to be the bologna in a mostly normal hottie sandwich.
I crossed my legs at the ankle and tried to nonchalantly study Detective Hayes’s severe profile as his eyes slowly scanned the office. He didn’t say anything, and a muscle twitched against his well-defined jawline.
“Sorry,” he finally said, tearing his eyes from the chains. “I don’t mean to stare.”
“It’s still daytime,” I told the detective. “You’re fine.”
I watched Detective Hayes force a smile and then paste on what must have been his professional face. “Sorry,” he said again to Mr. Sampson. “All this”—his blue eyes trailed the office, the chains—“just caught me by surprise.”
Mr. Sampson leaned back in his chair, his mouth curling up into one of his seductive, easy grins. “Understandable. Not a lot of people know about us down here. So, what is it that I can help you with? Chief Oliver said there is a case the force could use our assistance with?”
Detective Hayes cleared his throat and set his hat on his knee. “Right. Chief Oliver would have come himself but”—again, his eyes went to the chains—“he’s leading the task force up top. He said you two were close.” It was almost a question, and I knew what Detective Hayes was getting at: How is it that the San Francisco chief of police could buddy up with the sometimes-werewolf head of the Underworld Detection Agency?
“They went to college together,” I blurted.
Detective Hayes blinked at me. “Excuse me?”
Mr. Sampson smiled kindly at me. “Sophie means that Chief Oliver and I went to college together. We were roommates, actually. While our careers generally no longer intersect, it happens occasionally. So, Detective Hayes, exactly how do you and Chief Oliver think UDA can be of service to the police department?”
“Well”—the detective licked his lips, looking from me to Mr. Sampson—“there’s been a murder.”
I yawned and settled into my chair.
“Forgive me,” Mr. Sampson said, his voice smooth and melodic, “but this is San Francisco. Saying there has been a murder is akin to saying there is fog, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Hayes nodded as a blush of pink crawled over his cheeks. I sucked in a hollow breath as my heart thumped.
“But this one is different. A businessman—an attorney, actually. Murdered in his office. And all his blood had been drained.”
Chapter Two
“Vampire,” I whispered, raising one alarmed eyebrow.
“That was our first thought, too,” Hayes said, his blue eyes intent on mine. “Well, not our first, but …”
Mr. Sampson and I nodded.
“But there are no puncture wounds on”—Hayes absently gestured toward his neck—“the body.”
Mr. Sampson looked unconcerned and began to shuffle papers on his desk. “The old puncture wounds on the neck have become rather archaic and cliché. Very Bela Lugosi. Everything evolves.”