LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      About the Author

      A born storyteller, LIVIA REASONER has been spinning tales as a professional writer for more than twenty-five years. Her first novel was a historical romance, and since then she has written numerous paranormal romances, award-winning mystery novels and critically acclaimed historical novels. She enjoys crafting fast-paced stories about vital, interesting characters.

      When she’s not writing, Livia enjoys building things, from bookshelves all the way up to houses. She’s been known to ask for power tools for birthday and anniversary presents—and she usually gets them, too.

      Livia lives in Texas with her husband, novelist James Reasoner. She invites readers to visit her website at www. liviawashburn.com and her blog http://liviajwashburn. blogspot.com.

      This book is dedicated to Shayna and Joanna,

      for holding down the fort.

      Dear Reader,

      Thank you for picking up The Vampire Affair, my first venture into the dark, compelling world of vampires and vampire hunters. Although I haven’t had the opportunity to write this sort of book before, I’ve long been a reader and fan of the genre. Thanks to Mills & Boon I’m now a part of the Nocturne™ line, and I couldn’t be more excited. I hope you enjoy the romance and adventures shared by Michael and Jessie as much as I did and that their tragedies and triumphs will move you and touch your heart.

      Special thanks to Tara Gavin and Stacy Boyd for the editorial expertise that made this a much better book and to my agent Kim Lionetti for all her efforts on its behalf. Thanks, as well, to my husband, James, a never-ending source of advice, inspiration and editing skills.

       Livia Reasoner

      Chapter One

      “I’m not sure if we can reach a deal or not, Mr. Brandt. The current owner of the resort has no interest in selling.”

      Michael Brandt opened his briefcase and pushed aside a 9 mm pistol, a vial of holy water, a wooden stake sharpened to a deadly point and an antique knife with a silver filigreed handle. He took out a legal pad, plucked a pen from the pocket of his jacket and wrote a number on the pad. As he turned the pad around and pushed it toward the man seated on the other side of the conference table, he said, “I’m sure you’ll pass along my offer to him anyway, as you’re duty-bound to do as his attorney.”

      Long years as the lead partner in a high-powered practice should have given the lawyer the ability to conceal his emotions, but when he saw the figure Michael had scrawled on the pad, his eyebrows went up in surprise. “That’s very generous,” he said. “I certainly will pass it along.”

      Michael turned the pad around again, signed his name under the number and tore off the sheet. “I’ll leave that with you to prove to your client that I’m serious about this matter.” He tossed the pad back into the briefcase on top of the weapons. He had been careful to keep the case turned so that the lawyer couldn’t see its contents.

      Both men stood up and shook hands. “I’ll be in touch,” the lawyer promised.

      “You’ve got my number,” Michael said. He nodded and left the office.

      He didn’t like these places, all stuffy and reeking of wealth and power. But dealing with lawyers, stockbrokers, financial analysts and the like was a necessary part of his business. An occupational hazard, so to speak. And although these meetings were sometimes boring, they weren’t likely to kill him.

      Unlike some of the other occupational hazards he faced.

      As he got into the express elevator alone on the thirty-third floor of the high-rise and watched the doors slide shut, he stiffened as warning bells went off in his brain. The doors were closed and the elevator had already started to sink, not to stop again until it reached the lobby. It was too late to get out.

      The hatch cover in the top of the car was torn off with a sudden wrench. Michael twisted to the side as a black-clad figure dropped toward him. He brought the briefcase up and around. Metal rang against metal as a knife blade ripped through the leather exterior of the case and was stopped by the steel underneath. Michael rammed the case against the knife-wielder, knocking the man back against the wall of the elevator. He followed that with a knee to the groin, the attack almost too swift for the eye to follow. The black-clad man sagged in pain, but he wasn’t out of the fight yet. He got a hand on Michael’s face and clawed for his eyes.

      Michael pulled back and swung the case again. It slammed against his attacker’s head with a hollow thunk. This time the man fell to the floor of the elevator, out cold.

      No, he was more than unconscious, Michael saw. The caved-in side of his head was mute testament to a fractured skull. Michael bent over and checked for a pulse, finding none. In the heat of fighting for his life, he had struck harder than he intended.

      But he recognized the man now, images and information from a computerlike mental database popping up in his keen memory. Carl Williams. Human. Professional killer. Suspected in at least seven murders. Often employed by Michael’s enemies to take care of problems that required a more mundane solution.

      The elevator car still descended slowly toward the lobby. Michael figured he had another minute or so, tops.

      He took a coil of slender but very strong nylon rope from the briefcase, looped it under the dead man’s arms, then jumped and caught the edge of the hatch with one hand. He pulled himself up through it and then used the rope to haul the corpse through the hatch, as well. Then he lugged Carl Williams over to the edge of the moving car and looked down. There was enough room.

      Michael rolled the body off the top of the car. It plummeted to the bottom of the elevator shaft, where it wouldn’t be discovered for a while. Long enough, anyway.

      Michael wasn’t going to lose any sleep over Williams’s death. The man was a cold-blooded murderer and didn’t deserve any mourning.

      As he hung one-handed from the hatch opening again, Michael grasped the cover with his other hand and pulled it over. He popped it back into place as he dropped lightly to the floor of the car again. He stowed the rope in the briefcase, looked at the rip in the leather and shook his head. Now that he regretted.

      The fight for his life and then the exertion of disposing the hit man’s body had made him breathe hard, but that had settled down by the time the elevator eased to a stop and the door opened. Michael stepped out into the lobby.

      And was immediately assaulted again. Not by a killer

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