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monument to consumer greed, waiting on… on
tourists."
    "What are you, the Fred Flintstone of vampires? Clearly we've never met, or you forgot everything you knew about me." I clasped his hand and shook it like a Republican, which I was. His hand was cool, and twice as big as mine. "Hi, I'm Betsy. I'm a feminist, I work for my money, and I don't take orders from long-toothed jerk offs. Nice to meet you."
    He had a familiar expression on his face—anger warring with a smile. "Elizabeth…"
    I controlled a shiver. Nobody said my name like he did. First of all, nobody called me Elizabeth. And nobody did it with such a rich, rolling tone, either. He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes. It was flattering, and distracting beyond belief.
    I'd been shaking his hand, but now he was gripping it in both of his. This was nerve-racking, to put it mildly. I could pick up a car, and had. Sinclair was at least twice as strong. "Elizabeth, be reasonable."
    "Not in my job description. Go away."
    "You succeeded admirably, you know. I've come to you. You've won. Now return with me and"—he leaned in closer. His black eyes filled my world—"we'll discuss things."
    I tried to pull my hand away, with no luck. I resisted the urge to brace my foot on his knee and kick free.
    "I had all the discussions with you I care to have had," I squeaked firmly, hoping I didn't sound as rattled as I was. Have I mentioned that on top of everything else, Sinclair was really good at discussing things? You could say those one-on-one naked chats were his specialty. "You tricked me and you used me and you suck. Literally. And my getting this job doesn't have a damned thing to do with you, you conceited twerp."
    "Then why are you here?" he asked, honestly puzzled.
    The man was impossible. "Because I have to work, idiot! I have bills to pay."
    He let go of my hand and straightened. This was both a relief—he wasn't looming over me like a gorgeous Bela Lugosi—and a disappointment. "I have money," he said, trying a smile. It looked ghastly, because I knew he was forcing himself not to throw me over his shoulder and head for the fire exit.
    "Goody for you. It's not mine, you know. Nothing of yours is mine."
    "Such lies."
    "Will you stop it? Now get lost, I have two hours to go on my shift."
    "I command you to resign your post."
    I burst out laughing. I actually had to lean against him to keep from falling down. It was like leaning against a great-smelling boulder. Finally I wiped my eyes and said, "Thanks, I needed that. Long day."
    "I was serious," he said stonily.
    "So was I! Now get lost, you sneaky creep. Go find some other bimbo to lie to."
    "I never lied to you."
    "Why, you're lying right now! Ooooh, you've got nerve coming out your
ass
. You—"
    "Ahhh… Betsy? Is there a problem?"
    We both turned. Sinclair let out a small, exasperated growl at the interruption. As if he didn't have enough odious qualities, he was unbelievably arrogant and felt strongly that peons should keep then-distance.
    My boss, Mr. Mason, was standing by the cash register. He was holding one of his clipboards—he had at least five, each with a different color pen attached to the clasp by a color-coordinated string—and looked icy cool, as usual. I didn't think the man could sweat.
    "There's no problem, Mr. Mason. This"—Asshole. Degenerate. Devil. Plague on my life. Lawful consort—"fella was just leaving."
    Mason coughed into his fist. "Do you need a break in the green room?"
    "Green room" was the code for "do you want me to get Security down here to kick his ass out, righteous?" This showed Mr. Mason was a man of high intelligence. Humans got the creeps around run-of-the-mill vamps. Something about us just set their radar off. Sinclair wasn't run of the mill. Women wanted him, and men were scared shitless of him. Deep down in their brains, they knew exactly what he was. But the women—and a disturbing number of men—ignored the part of their brain that