Fatal Circle by Linda Robertson Page B

there you fucking go.” She turned, showing me a disparaging frown and big eyes—the color of which matched her fire-engine-red lipstick. It stunned me silent.
    Offerlings and Beholders are the humans accepted into the vampire’s court. The former for their beauty and the latter for their muscle. Risqué might not be entirely human, or she might just have a thing for albino rabbit contacts, but either way, she was scary and beautiful. If pressed, I’d have pegged her as an Offerling.
    Offerlings get two marks at the outset, so even new Offerlings outranked longtime Beholders in a vampire’s court. An Erus Veneficus outranked any Offerling. Status: reason for her irritation with me. She might have benefits above every Beholder in the building, but my newly arrived self represented a dose of comeuppance—hence, she was carrying my tray. Menessos had mentioned there would be jealousy and her behavior fit. And he also mentioned he was not sex starved.
    Risqué gave me the once-over and evidently disapproved of my sheet. “Do not tell me you’re going for the Greek goddess morning-after look. Ugh.”
    I decided her hair reminded me of powdered eighteenth-century hairstyles, but with less height and even more ringlets. She had ringlets in front, too. They—and nothing else—covered her breasts. More or less.
    “Boss put clothes in the closet for you, you know.” Those startling eyes squinted up angrily when she spoke. “I’m sure there’s a nice Vera Wang robe in there.”
    Letting her get to me would be a mistake. I walked to the kitchen bar. “Mind your tone, Risk.”
    “It’s Risqué. Ris-kay . And he told me to tell you about the clothes.”
    I lifted the silver lid on the tray. Eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, oatmeal. Mmmm, oatmeal. In a tone that could’ve been used to inquire about salt, I asked, “Did he tell you to be a bitch, too?”
    “No. That’s just part of the delivery service.” Her scowl was fantastic, but lowered brows were an intrinsic part of such an expression. Her brows didn’t lower. Instead of curving down on the outside to frame her eyes, they rose above her temples and seemed to join with her hairline. The not-quite-human theory was gaining.
    “Do I smell bacon?” Beside the now-dark hearth, the curtain parted and Johnny emerged, wearing only jeans. He hadn’t bothered to zip them all the way or button them, so the patch of dark hair under his belly button showed.
    “Ooooo. Yes, darlin’, you do,” Risqué said, tone shifting to a Texas drawl as sweet as pecan pie. “But I will personally take your order if what’s on the tray ain’t enough to satisfy you.”
    He reevaluated the scene in a glance that was well aware of her short-shorts, shapely legs, and, uh, ringlets. “Yeah, I’ve got an order,” he said, hungrily.
    “Tell me.” Risqué shimmied her shoulders a little, resettling the blond curls so the tips of her pert breasts peeked through. Her nipples were too red, and I wasn’t sure if that was a sign of abuse or a trait related to her eye color. She moved away from the counter and toward him as if to greet him. “What’s your order?”
    “Get out.” At the last moment, Johnny angled and graced her with that rude shoulder bump that punks do to people on sidewalks. With their varied heights, it was more of his elbow bumping her shoulder.
    With a loud “hmpf” of protest, she spun on her heel and left.
    As the door shut, Johnny zeroed in on the bacon.
    Thankful she was gone, I said, “I’m glad you’re up.”
    Lifting three slices, he stopped to check his jeans front, then shot me a grin. “Huh. It was there when I woke up. Guess she scared it away. Just let me refuel . . .” He bit into the bacon.
    “I meant awake .”
    “But that’s not what you said. You’re refueling, too, right?”
    “Oh, yes.”
    While he searched for a plate, I tied the sheet ends and sat at the bar with my oatmeal. The sausage smelled so good. “Menessos insinuated that