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Dragonelli; a great sport. Magnificent and manly despite all, alpha to the core, he gave the impression of having a hard candy shell and a chocolate truffle center. You didn’t grow up in the mob without calling that a rare combo in a man. Rarer still, retaining your dignity, while making a fool of yourself . . . without a gun in your hand.
    He could likely stand up to a demanding vampire, both the Aristos with pinstriped suits, regular manicures, and high expectations and the Gothics in black rags, heavy metal, and pallors to mimic death.
    Sure Darkwyn had a tree trunk for a body—a redwood—but in much better shape, which is exactly what you needed in a “vampire/bouncer/maître d’.” He’d make her a great bodyguard, too, if Vivica’s background check came out clean. She’d give him the front-facing apartment across from hers, if he earned her trust beyond the moment.
    His full, sculpted lips would be cool against hers, then warm, then hungry, hot, and . . . No!
    Thank the Goddess he couldn’t read her. And though she might be somewhat empathetic, she couldn’t read him, either. That rankled.
    He fanned himself, the hot sun as much a dryer as a steam bath today, thanked Vivica for the cloak as he adjusted it, no more or less serious than since she met him.
    Okay, she was mesmerized by the man, and more shaken, in a womanly way—one who hadn’t been touched in forever—than she had a safe, sane right to be, but she’d cope. “Mr. Dragonelli, are you, by any chance, seeking employment?” Talk about insanity . . . She’d just taken one big damned step beyond “Do you faint at the sight of blood?” and almost wished she could take it back. After all, she said she’d give him a job. She wanted to give him one. And her insecurities and fear were annoying her.
    At the question, Vivica turned from waving his waiting brothers over while Darkwyn sent his doubtful gaze her way. Bronte felt the heat of it melting her clothes and tantalizing the skin beneath.
    Vivica shook her head. “Darkwyn needs to take a few courses before he’s ready to enter the workforce. When he’s passed them, if you’re still hiring, and you still want him , I’d be glad to send him. But don’t make any rash decisions, Bronte.”
    Appreciating Vivica’s good sense, Bronte, nevertheless, locked gazes with Darkwyn, him oddly pleased, like she’d tossed him the sun and he kept it despite the burn, because it came from her. “Let me know when he’s ready,” Bronte said. “And I’ll consider him.” She wished secretly that he’d hurry. She’d almost be willing to wait for him, perish the hasty, dangerous, insane thought.
    Darkwyn gave her a half nod, as if he read her mind. Heat raced up her cleavage, which he noticed, which made her hotter and more interested. As firmly interested as he once again seemed, judging by the shape of the smaller cloak, but that could be a play of sunlight.
    Vivica took his arm. “Bronte, I’ll find you a Master Vamp, whatever happens.”
    Darkwyn pierced her with a look. “I will hurry.”
    Shivers clawed at Bronte. Drat her scrabbled psychic gifts; she should be able to read him, not the other way’round. In light of his response, her possible exposure—hers and Zachary’s—bore a deeper, more frightening weight.
    Vivica looked from him to her and back.
    Darkwyn bowed. “I will come next week, so you can show me around.”
    “Abrupt!” Puck snapped from Darkwyn’s head, ruffling his wings for attention. “Sudden, without ceremony, like the arrival of a cannon shot . . .”
    “Yes,” Bronte said, agreeing to Darkwyn’s offer and the bird’s definition, not quite in her right mind, or soul, or emotions, and jolted by the fact.
    A subtle change took place around Darkwyn’s eyes, an inner smile, perhaps. Hope? Desire? A vague sentiment aimed her way.
    “Please,” Bronte whispered, though she dare not count the reasons and ways she meant it. Forget it, don’t listen. Don’t come.