Page 1 of Lord of Passion

Prologue

In which we meet the most horrifying suitor in modern history.

Johann…

Straightening my tie and shrugging on my jacket, I check my appearance in the enormous gold-gilded mirror in the entryway of the Presidential Suite.

Black hair, swept back into a ponytail. Check.

Pale blue eyes, looking almost normal again. Check.

Holding up my hands, I examine my fingernails and the calluses to be certain that there is no blood I'd missed when scrubbing them. Clean. Check.

All in all, I look almost… Human.

Picking up the phone, I place a call to the VIP concierge's desk.

"Mr. Johann, how may I help you, sir?" The voice is warm and solicitous, trained to make people like me happy.

"I would like fifty pounds of ice delivered to my suite," I say, strolling over to look out the window at Boston Harbor. The water is choppy tonight, the wind is rising. I can hear it screaming around the tower of The Four Seasons, the Presidential Suite perched at the very top.

There's a short pause.

"Fifty pounds of ice, Sir?" she asks, uncertain.

"Yes," I say crisply. "I've received a special shipment of meat- a bit earlier than I'd planned," I chuckle. "I need to be certain that it stays fresh until I leave tomorrow."

"Well, we would be happy to store it for you in one of our refrigerated meat lockers." She's eager to solve my problem.

"No worry," I say, "it's all contained. I simply require the ice. Ah, also, send up the Assistant Manager, would you? I have a couple of questions about the suite."

"Of course," she says, her tone going back to professional. "I will have Miss Basha and the ice up to your suite within ten minutes, is that acceptable?"

I'm looking in the mirror again and my eyes flicker. In a past life, I was a lizard, I'm certain, and the nictating membrane somehow stayed, flipping my eyes from reptilian to human and back again.

"Yes, that will be acceptable." I hang up and smooth my hands over my hair again, feeling uncharacteristically as well as unpleasantly giddy. There's nothing to be excited about.

This is simply what is owed to me.

At exactly nine and a half minutes, the elevator opens and my bodyguard Morris steps back for the two kitchen workers pushing the rolling cart with fifty pounds of ice in tubs. They are followed by a tall woman, dressed in a sharp blue suit. Her name tag identifies her as Caroline Basha.

"Good evening, Mr. Johann," she says cheerfully. "I hope you're well this evening?"

I think of what is waiting for me in the bathtub and I fight back a shiver of excitement. "Quite well, Caroline, and you?"

Her smile slips slightly as I use her first name. "Just fine, thank you. How can I help you tonight? Our concierge said that you had questions?"

I wait until my bodyguard has directed the confused kitchen workers to leave the ice in the hall between the master bedroom and bath, and hands them a hundred-dollar bill as they leave. He returns to his position by the elevator door, hands folded, expressionless. He's perfected this look after years of countless atrocities, never deviating from his professional stance.

"Well, Caroline, if you would sit down for a moment?" I say, sweeping one hand toward the seating area in the living room. It's huge, lined with tall windows showing the magnificent view of the harbor. Her eyes narrow very slightly, and she looks me up and down, back at the bodyguard, then sweeping around the living room, possibly for threats.

Clever girl,I think.So clever, perhaps she is worthy.

"Of course," she says, seating herself, hands folded in her lap as I take the chair across from her.

"I want you to know, Caroline, that I put a great deal of thought into this," I say, leaning back and steepling my fingers. "To be frank, your disadvantages are many, including that the Bashas are a somewhat lesser family in our world."

When I speak ofourworld, her body freezes, like a bucket of slush has been poured over her.