LITMIR.BIZ

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powerful psychics. And that’s what her mother was. A superpsychic. Last year, she’d even helped the police catch two serial killers, a woman and her son who’d targeted other psychics.

      Her mom had a very powerful gift—the kind of gift Stella didn’t need.

      The only thing Stella wanted was to be normal.

      She glanced back at the stool in front of the vanity. It was still empty.

      He was really gone.

      Stella lay back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. Funny how that fact didn’t make her feel better.

      3

      There was blood everywhere—on the mats, on the cage itself, in the men’s hair and dripping down their bared skin. And the noise…the sounds of violence washed over Evie, drugging her.

      The Junoesque redhead with striking blue eyes sat near the front row of the MGM Grand’s Garden Arena. Tonight, the stadium housed a near-record crowd, each and every fan mesmerized by the battle on the raised platform, center stage. The caged enclosure called The Octagon housed two fighters locked in a human cockfight.

      Suddenly, the champ, Curtis “The Native” Santos, felled his opponent with a double-leg takedown. The crowd went insane as Santos scissored his legs around the challenger’s midsection. There were two minutes left in the final round.

      Sweat mixed with blood as the two warriors remained locked against the cage’s vinyl-coated fencing. Wearing only shorts and light gloves with the fingers cut off to allow for grabbing, both gladiators heaved for breath. The challenger, Teri “The Greek” Dupas, defended against the champ’s relentless attack, now pinned in a rear choke. The men’s muscles clenched and gleamed under the white-hot lights.

      That’s exactly what she wanted, Evie thought. Those hands on her. That battle for life embracing her.

      With just under a minute left in the match, the crowd began to get antsy, screaming for a standup. The referee complied, bringing both fighters to their feet. Santos didn’t waste any time, nailing Dupas to the canvas with a killer left hook.

      The crowd went ballistic as more blood sprayed from the challenger’s nose. The round before, Santos had hammered Dupas to the mat with a straight right, opening the floodgates.

      Men and women chanted “San-tos!” jumping to their feet as the champ landed punch after punch. Santos maneuvered Dupas into a mount and scored yet another takedown. The crowd began counting down the last seconds of the fight as if it were New Year’s Eve in Times Square. When the bell sounded, marking the end of the fight, Santos, bald and tattooed, paraded around the ring, pumping a fist in the air.

      Ten minutes later, the redhead’s long-legged stride took her out to the casino floor. Popping gum and listening to “Fergieliscious” on her iPod nano, she pushed past the minions working the slots and video poker machines.

      As she walked past, each and every slot hit.

      The clatter of falling coins accompanied by the bells and whistles of the machines was almost deafening. Chaos ensued as men and women jumped to their feet in disbelief. The redhead kept walking, unfazed, a faint smile on her lips.

      She stepped out the entrance made famous by a forty-five-foot bronze statue of the MGM lion. She’d been playing hooky coming here, blowing off the VIP ticket Zag had given her to see the new Lance Burton wannabe at Mandalay Bay. The magician’s final act featured the band Do It To Julia vanishing off the stage after performing their new hit single.

      Zag had masterminded the gig for his charity du jour. He’d be pissed that she’d missed it. Still, she was in Vegas, the land of don’t-ask/don’t-tell.

      She was showgirl tall and wore black leather pants and Gucci boots. Her cherry wraparound silk blouse displayed a nice amount of midriff—Evie worked out. But it wasn’t just her looks that turned heads. There was an air about her, as if here was trouble, but not the kind most people wanted to avoid.

      She caught the eye of the doorman and signaled for him to hail a cab. The instant she stepped off the curb, a gray Bentley swerved to a stop, blocking her path. The tinted window rolled down.

      She took out her ear buds and leaned down to the window. “Hello, Zag,” she said with a smile.

      He lowered his leopard print Dolce & Gabanna shades. He looked absolutely furious.

      “You missed the show.”

      “Did I?” She glanced back at MGM’s entrance. “And here I thought I caught the main event.”

      The door opened. “Get in.”

      It wasn’t a request.

      “Someone’s feeling grouchy,” she said.

      She slipped inside the Bentley next to him, throwing her Prada bag and iPod on the floor. Zag pushed her up against the white leather seats. Evie knew he’d been onstage with the band as a guest guitarist. He still wore stage makeup and was dressed in an electric-blue suit with tails but no shirt. She ran her hand through his spiked, bleached hair, staring into his eyes.

      There were many unique things about Gonzague de Rozières, not the least of which was his name. Like a rock star, he went by the moniker Zag. He had the wiry frame of a long-distance runner but managed to appear imposing despite being a good two inches shorter than Evie’s six feet one. He had more money than God and just as many secrets. But to Evie, the most unique thing about him was his eyes.

      The pupils appeared always enlarged, as if he lived on some perpetual high even though he didn’t do drugs. There was almost no pigment to the iris, either. The color changed depending on the light and his mood. At the moment, they appeared a steely-gray.

      “You want a show?” he asked.

      She leaned against the door of the Bentley. With the grace of a ballerina, she raised a Gucci-clad foot and pressed the stiletto against his bare chest, pushing just enough to know she’d leave a mark.

      “What do you think?” she asked.

      He took her boot by the ankle. He shook his head, smiling. “I told you to stay away from the cage.”

      She pouted. “Why? Don’t you enjoy the effect?”

      She kissed him, hard, and then bit his lip, almost drawing blood. He returned the favor by grabbing her arm and pulling it tight up her back.

      “Now, now,” he whispered in her ear. “No fair biting.”

      Evie was twenty-six. She’d been with a lot of men. But there’d never been anyone like Zag. He could take everything she handed him. And then some.

      By the time they reached his suite at the Wynn, she knew she’d have bruises. It’s what she wanted. Seeing those men in the cage, drawing that energy to her, she needed the release.

      Afterward, they lay naked on the Egyptian-cotton sheets of the California King Wynn “Dream Bed,” one of the hotel’s most talked about attributes. Like everything about the Wynn, the suite was opulence itself. At two thousand square feet, it was larger than some New York apartments and featured wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows with a gorgeous view of the Strip…which was why Zag preferred the salon suites to the more exclusive villas on the hotel’s golf course.

      Zag covered her body with his, making that connection with his eyes that she only had with him. Despite a broken nose—a memento from a mountain-climbing expedition in the Himalayas—he possessed an almost striking beauty. He had a thick head of bleached white hair, but absolutely no body hair. A genetic condition, he’d told her.

      He reached for the bottle of Cristal nestled in the bedside ice bucket. He took a drink from the bottle then offered her a sip, holding the bottle up to her mouth. Only, champagne wasn’t what Evie wanted.

      She dropped the bottle on the carpeted floor. She heard it roll away as she pressed her lips to his with enough force that his head sunk into the down pillow.

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