Chapter 4

Judy Jones reserved tickets for me for the Thursday night concert. Not only that, but I had an invitation to visit Mercedes Cook afterward, with a backstage pass. I was starting to feel like some kind of big deal myself. This was all to butter me up so I'd give a flattering interview. We'd see about that.

I had two tickets, and I wanted a date. Ben didn't want to go.

"That really isn't my kind of thing," he said, working at his desk the day before the concert.

"Have you ever even been to a show like this? World-class singer, world-class concert hall, it'll knock your socks off."

He spared a brief glance over his shoulder. "I'm really not all that into music."

Oh, now he tells me. "Ben, I started my adult life as a radio DJ. You can't live with me and not be into music. Are you saying that all the times I blast The Clash while making dinner you haven't been into it?"

"To be honest, I mostly tune it out."

How the hell do you tune out The Clash? Turned all the way up? Once again I reminded myself that Ben and I were together by accident. Did we even know each other, really?

"Ben, I'd really like to go to this. Together."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Still wouldn't look at me. "Can't you get someone else to go? Maybe your sister."

Uh, no. Not the same. "You know how you keep saying that we've never been on a real date?" We were living together, sleeping together. We were practically married. We'd skipped clean over the whole dating thing and went straight into settled. I wanted to change that. "Can this be it?"

Finally, he turned, stared at me in a way that was almost a wolf challenge—asking for a fight or offering to give one. Then, he gave a sly half smile.

"Are you asking me out?" he said.

"Yeah, I am."

"Well, okay then."

I turned my gaze to the ceiling, as if that would tell me how his brain worked. "You're really obnoxious, you know that?"

He was still grinning when he turned back to his desk.

I convinced Ben to dress up—suit, tie, the works. I knew he could pull out the GQ polish for important courtroom appearances and high-level meetings. The rest of the time, not so much. But we were having a night on the town, and I wanted to go all out. Who knew when we'd ever do anything like this again?

He finished dressing while I was in the shower, and I hurried because I didn't want to be that stereotype of the woman who takes forever to get ready while the guy is in the living room glancing at his watch. Hair dried and up, makeup on, earrings, necklace, little black dress, and strappy heels. I was probably way overdressed, but I didn't care. The dress was a clingy silk number with spaghetti straps, sexy without being trampy. I'd only worn it once before—it had given me good luck then. I contorted in order to see myself in the narrow full-length mirror, making sure the skirt was all smoothed out, that a few wisps of hair were artfully arranged around my face—and rearranged, and arranged again—and that everything was in order.

"Kitty, we'd probably better—" Ben's steps approached just as I bent over to adjust a strap on my shoe one more time. "Wow."

He stopped in the doorway. He stared. I straightened and stared back. The look in his eyes—I found myself blushing in places I didn't know I could blush.

For his part, Ben was wearing his best courtroom suit, charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a rust-colored tie. The lines were smooth, giving him a slim, fit appearance, an image of power and privilege. His hair was a touch too long to lay slicked back, so it flopped over his forehead, with a rakish, mischievous air. Put a pair of Ray-Bans on him, he'd be downright scary. Dreamily scary.

"Wow yourself," I said. I resisted an urge to lick my lips, but I did gulp a little.

"You, ah, clean up pretty well." His voice seemed a bit subdued, and he'd started fidgeting with his cufflinks.

"You, too." I didn't have cuff links to fidget with, so I laced my fingers together behind my back. The blushing was getting worse. My whole body was turning red, I was sure of it. Did he have any idea just how…how amazing he looked?

"Can I kiss you?" he said, kind of offhand, as if we hadn't kissed a hundred times before and the thought had just occurred to him.

In reply, I took a slow step toward him, and another. Before I knew it, he touched my face and brought our lips together. The kiss was hot, hungry. I held him and pulled myself close to him. His hands slipped down my back, one of them moving farther, cupping my bottom. Just a thin layer of silk lay between us. And still, we kissed.

We finally pulled apart to catch our breath.

"I suppose we should do this sort of thing more often," he said.

"Yeah," I said, whispering, a little shaky. All of a sudden, I didn't want to go to the concert. I was still holding on to him.

He ducked his gaze. "I was going to say—we'd probably better get going. We'll be late."

"Yeah." We still didn't move.

Then, at almost the same moment, we started giggling. I pressed my face to his shoulder to stop myself, and he hugged me, and the intensity of whatever had just happened went away. Mostly, it went away.

I said, grinning, "Hey, wanna go on a date with me?"

"Absolutely."

We looked like a million bucks. Stalking arm in arm, we crossed the courtyard of the Denver Center for the Performing Arts, a collection of theaters in the heart of downtown, to the doors of the concert hall. We turned heads, the two of as. Like we were in a commercial for diamond jewelry or a music video. Sure, we were way overdressed compared to a lot of the crowd—why did some Coloradoans think it was okay to wear jeans to a symphony concert?—and it made us stand out, but in the kind of way that the stares told me that they all wished they could be us. My grin felt silly, but I felt better when I glanced at Ben and saw the same grin on him. The alpha pair indeed.

I even almost forgot that I was supposed to be in hiding. I kept telling myself that none of the Denver wolves would be here, lycanthropes avoided crowds like this and the vampires didn't hang out here. I'd be fine, just fine. I didn't wilt in the middle of the crowd. I felt on top of the world.

We collected our tickets from Will Call, were ushered to our seats, and settled in as the orchestra was tuning up. The lights went down, the conductor appeared, and the orchestra launched into an overture.

Then she appeared, entering stage right.

Mercedes Cook had ivory skin and brick red hair, the rich color and sheen of silk, rippling past her shoulders. A midnight blue, shimmering gown clung to her slim figure. Her limbs were slender, her face aristocratic, like that of a Greek statue. I couldn't tell her height from where we sat, about halfway back in the orchestra section. She seemed to fill the stage. She seemed bigger than life.

I was close enough that the hall's air-conditioning system carried her scent to me—the cold, clean scent of a vampire. If I hadn't been warned, I'd have been shocked. She moved with such energy, such vibrancy. A consummate performer, she had a spark in her gaze.

I could guess her story: she'd always aspired to the stage. A talented performer, vampirism wasn't going to halt her ambitions. Maybe she even sought out the vampirism, or encountered the opportunity and grabbed it as a chance to hold on to that elusive advantage of youth and beauty. She'd been on stage since the sixties, when her official biography set the start of her career. Maybe she'd even been around longer, a vaudeville performer or singer in the twenties and thirties who disappeared and changed her identity to start a career on Broadway. That would take a bit of research and digging. I was hoping I could get the scoop from Mercedes herself.