Some Girls Bite (Chicagoland Vampires #1) - Page 7

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

"Eggs," it turned out, meant a deliciously greasy breakfast. After I'd showered and changed back into my street clothes, Mallory and I followed Catcher and Jeff to a tiny aluminum diner situated in the shadow of the El in a commercial neighborhood that had seen better days. An electric blue neon sign blinked "Molly's" in one of the round windows.

Once inside, we piled into a booth and surveyed the breakfast-only menu. After a gingham-clad waitress took our orders – eggs, sausage, and toast all around – we lapsed into a companionable silence, marred only by the intense stares that Mallory and Catcher couldn't seem to help but exchange.

When the plates arrived minutes later, laden with greasy breakfast necessities, I tore into the sausage. I sucked down three links immediately and made doe eyes at Mallory, who handed me a fourth.

Catcher chuckled. "You're craving protein."

"Like a shifter," Jeff put in, grinning wolfishly. And that made me wonder something.

I nibbled the edge of my toast. "Jeff, what kind of animal do you change into?"

He and Catcher exchanged a glance, wary enough that I guessed that I'd made another supernatural faux pas. I mentally reiterated my interest in getting a guidebook. Hell –  writing one, if that was what it came down to.

"Did I ask the wrong question again?" I asked, taking another bite, social clumsiness clearly not affecting my appetite.

"Asking about someone's animal is the shifter equivalent of pulling a ruler and asking a guy to whip it out," Catcher said.

And down went toast into my trachea. I choked, had to swallow half my glass of OJ to get my breath back. "I'm okay," I said, waving Mallory off. "I'm fine." I gave Jeff a sheepish smile. "Sorry."

— Advertisement —

He beamed at me. "Oh, I'm not offended. I could show you. I think you'd be pretty pleased."

I held up a hand. "No."

Jeff shrugged and chewed a mouthful of eggs, apparently unruffled.

Catcher took a sip of his coffee, then dunked a corner of toast in the remnant of gooey egg yolk on his plate. "There's an easy way for you to remedy your ignorance, you know."

"What's that?" I asked him, pushing back my plate. I'd finished off five links of sausage – three of my own, two pilfered – three eggs and four triangles of toast, and I'd just taken the edge off the hunger. But two thousand calories or so of grease, carbs, and protein was my limit at one sitting. I'd catch a snack later, and wondered how late Giordano's was open. Or how late Superdawg stayed open. A hot dog and fries – how good did that sound?

"Read the Canon," Catcher answered, interrupting my meat reverie. "It's your best source for information on sups, including all the shit you're already supposed to know about vampires. There's a reason they give those out, you know."

I drummed fingers on the table – well on my mental way through a Hackneyburger with bleu cheese – and made a face. "Yeah, well, I've been busy – getting death threats, kicking my Master's ass, getting training."

"You finally have an excuse to buy that BlackBerry," Mallory pointed out, sipping at her diamond-patterned plastic tumbler of orange juice. I scowled at her, then batted my eyelashes at Catcher. "So, what's the story with Mallory?"

Mallory growled. Catcher ignored her. "Now that she's been identified, the Order will contact her. She'll get her training, be assigned a mentor – not me," he clarified, giving her a look, "and will be asked to swear never to use her magic for the forces of evil" – he crossed a hand over his heart – "but only for good."

"Is that what you did?" I asked him. "Used magic for evil instead of good?"

"Nope," was all he said, tossing his napkin onto his plate.

"Why now?" Mallory asked. "If I'm so powerful, why the interest only now? Why wasn't I identified before?"

"Puberty," Catcher said, relaxing back into the booth. "You've just come into your powers."

I snorted out a laugh. "And you thought the weird body hair and pimples were the end of it."

Mallory elbowed me in the gut. "What powers? It's not like I'm out there waving a magic wand or something."

"A sorcerer's power doesn't work like that. We're not spell casters – no charms, no recipes, no cauldrons. We don't have to invoke it or ask for it. We don't draw it through a wand or the combination of words and ingredients. We pull it through our bodies, merely by the strength of our own will." Catcher crooked a thumb at me. "She's a predator, a genetically altered human, tempered by magic. Her magic is accidental; vamps notice it more than humans, have a greater awareness of it than humans, but can't control it. We are vessels of magic. We keep it. Channel it. Protect it."

At Mallory's blank expression, Catcher said, "Look, have you recently decided that you wanted something, and then got it? Something unexpected?"

Mallory frowned and nibbled on the end of a sausage link, a move I noted was watched with avidity by Jeff.

"Not that I can think of." She looked at me. "Something I wanted and got?"

That was when it hit me. "Your job," I answered. "You told Alec you wanted the job –  next day, you had it."

Mallory paled, and turned to Catcher. "Is that right?" There was sadness in her expression, probably dismay at the possibility that she hadn't gotten the job at

McGettrick because of her qualifications or creativity, but because she'd made it happen, the result of some supernatural force she could flick on like a light switch.

"Maybe," Catcher said. "What else?"

We frowned, considered. "Helen," Mallory said. "I wanted her out of the House –  virulently. I opened the door, told her to get out, and poof, she's on the stoop." She gazed up at Catcher. "I thought if you revoked a vampire's invitation they got sucked out?"

Catcher shook his head, his expression radiating quiet concern. They'd be good for each other, I decided. Her energy, expressiveness, impulsiveness, creativity, matched against his smart-ass solidity.

"They leave by rule, by paradigm. Not by magic. That was your doing."

Mallory nodded and let the sausage fall back to her plate.

"You can try it, if you want. Right now, while I'm here." Catcher's voice was soft, thoughtful. Mallory's gaze on the table, she wet her lips. Finally, after a long silence, she looked up.

"What do I do?"

Catcher nodded. "Let's go," he said, reaching back into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a beaten black leather wallet, then slipped cash from the center fold and laid it on the table. After he'd leaned forward to push the wallet back in, he rose from the booth and held his hand out to Mallory. She paused, looked at it, but let him help her up and out. They headed for the door.

Jeff swallowed the remaining inch of his orange juice, then put the empty tumbler back on the table, and we both followed.

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. Catcher led Mallory, her hand still in his, around the restaurant. Jeff and I exchanged a glance, but hurried to keep up.

Catcher walked a block or so until he and Mallory stood directly beneath the El, then positioned her body so they stood facing each other. Jeff stopped five yards from them and put a hand on my arm to stop me, too.

"Close enough," he whispered. "Give them room."

"Give me your hands," I heard Catcher tell her, "and keep your eyes on me."

She hesitated, but held out her hands, palms up.

"You're a channel," he said. "A conduit for the energy, the power." He held out his own hands, palms down, over hers, a little space between them.

For a second, there was nothing but the sounds of the city. Traffic. Conversation down the street. The thud of a hip-hop bass line. The drip of water from the tracks above us.

"Wait for it," Jeff whispered. "Watch their hands."

It happened simultaneously, the roar of the train overhead and the glow that began to gather in the space between their outstretched fingers.

Mallory's eyes widened; then Catcher mouthed something and her eyes lifted. They gazed at each other, Catcher telling her things I couldn't hear over the grate and rumble of the El.

The glow built, grew into a sphere, a golden orb of light between them.

The train completed its pass, the sudden silence a vacuum of sound.

"I can feel it," Mallory said, gaze dropping to her hands and the light between them.

"What do you feel?" Catcher asked.

She looked up at him, their faces illuminated by the glow.

Chemistry, I thought, my lips tilting into a smile at the mix of joy and surprise on her face.

"Magic," Jeff whispered beside me.

"Everything," Mallory answered.

"Close your eyes," Catcher told her. "Breathe it in."

She gave a hesitant nod. Her lids fell, and then she smiled. The orb grew, engulfed their hands, arms, torsos until it was a yellow bubble of light encasing them both. The air electrified, the breeze of magic fluttering my bangs and Jeff's floppy hair.

And then with a pop, it was gone, a plane of yellow mist dissipating into the air around them.

Mallory and Catcher, arms still outstretched, stared at each other.

He lifted his gaze. "Not bad at all."

"As if you've had better, Bell."

I grinned. That was my girl, magic funnel or not. She'd be okay, I decided.

They dropped their arms and rejoined us.

"So, what the hell was that, exactly?"

Catcher looked my way. "Need-to-know basis, vamp. And you do not need to know right now."

The magic demonstration concluded, we headed back to the block on which we'd left our cars, my chunky Volvo, Catcher's hipster sedan, and Jeff's old hatchback.

"Plans?" Catcher asked.

Jeff grinned. "It's a Friday night, I'm off work early, and I'm gonna chat with this cute kid from Buffalo. She's blond and curvy in all the right places, so I need to get home and get online." He elbowed Catcher. "Right, C.B.?"

"I told you not to call me that."

"It's, you know, so we have a thing, the two of us. You know."

Catcher gazed at Jeff. "I don't know, Jeff. I really, really don't." But when Jeff began to explain, Catcher held up a hand. "Nor am I interested." He looked at Mallory and me. "Plans?"

We shook our heads.

"There's a club in River North that looks cool." Catcher pulled a flyer from his pocket. It was similar to the one that had been left beneath my wipers when my car was parked outside Cadogan, advertising Red. "It's not too far from the gym."

I pointed at it. "I got one of those, too. They must be papering the city."

Catcher shrugged, refolded the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. "Anyone wanna dance?"

"Oh, Jesus," Mallory muttered.

"Dance?" I asked. "I could dance. I need to change, but I can dance." I could always dance. My hips didn't lie.

Mallory tucked her tongue into her cheek, then gave Catcher a look of mock irritation. "Nice going, Gandalf. You'll rile her up, and I'll never get her tucked in. You wanna give her candy and caffeine while you're at it?"

Catcher smiled at her, and even though the smile wasn't for me, it was hot enough to curl my toes. "Sorcerer, not wizard. Yes?"

After a beat, she nodded, a flush high on her cheeks.

I'd have nodded, too, if I was her. Probably even thrown in an eyelash batting for good measure.

"I'll let you two deal with him," Jeff said, and unlocked the doors of his hatchback. "Have fun dancing. And if you get bored later" – he winged up his eyebrows – "you give me a call." He winked, then climbed into the car and drove away.

"One of these days, I'm going to kiss him just for the principle of the thing," I told Mallory as we walked toward the Volvo.

"You should have done it just then. You'd have made his weekend."

I walked around and unlocked the door. "But his cute blonde would have missed out. Can't have that."

Mallory nodded solemnly. "True. You're so munificent."

I slid into the car, unlocked the passenger door, and waited while Mallory and Catcher argued over something. Issue apparently decided, Mallory slid inside, blushing furiously. I nearly asked what they'd argued about, but the subconscious way she touched her fingers to her lips answered the question. I stifled a laugh, pulled the car out of the parking lot, and headed home.

Catcher, who'd followed us to Wicker Park, camped on the couch in front of the television while Mallory and I switched outfits. We both came downstairs in trendy jeans and heels and cute, club-worthy tops. Mine was black with tiny white dots and cap sleeves – a bargain vintage find. Mallory wore a sleeveless, high-collared top with a long tie at the neck that glinted silver in the light.

"Great shirt," she told me, fingering a sleeve as we strode down the stairs. "It's like you've blossomed style overnight."

I was taking serious hits on my fashion choices this week, probably not surprising for a girl whose dressing decision was usually between colors of layered T-shirts. I wasn't a shopper, much to my mother's (and Mallory's . . . and Ethan's) chagrin.

But I thanked Mallory anyway and had the satisfaction of watching her flick fingers self- consciously through her shoulder-length hair as we neared the living room.

"I'm sure he'll like your hair," I poked, then grabbed keys and stuffed my wallet into a small black clutch purse. Mallory stuck out her tongue. We gathered up Catcher – who guiltily flipped off a Lifetime movie – and headed out.

Red was located in a stand-alone building, a three-story brick structure that looked, architecturally, like it might house a design studio. The facade was dominated by three rows of high, arched windows, each topped with an intricately carved relief. We parked the car on a side street and approached the door, bass thumping through the walls. We were headed for the back of the short waiting line, but the guard at the door – bald, clad in a black T-shirt and fatigues, and wearing a headset – waved a clipboard at us.

"We aren't on the list," Catcher told him.

"Names?" he asked anyway, his voice flat and deep.

"Catcher Bell, Mallory Carmichael, and Merit," Catcher told him. Face bunched, the bouncer flipped through the sheath of paper clipped to his board. But then his gaze rose, and he stared blankly ahead and nodded as, I imagined, he listened to someone on the other end of the headset. Then he stepped back from the door and waved us inside.

Weird, but who were we to argue with VIP service?

We entered to the rhythmic thump of a slow bass beat that carried enough power to vibrate my core. But while the music was raucously loud, the decor was chic. Elegant. Drinks were served from an enormous mirror-backed bar that was tucked against the building's front wall, while the side walls were lined in curtain-edged mirrors and red leather booths, tables in front of them. Tiny lamps lit the tables and reflected against the mirrors, giving the club the look of a European coffeehouse. A wrought-iron spiral staircase was positioned near the bar, and a small but completely filled dance floor dominated the back of the room. The clientele was as classy as the decor – chicly dressed couples in the booths along the wall, chatting over martinis and cosmopolitans. They were all oddly attractive – lots of Louis Vuitton bags and Manolo Blahnik shoes, carefully coiffed hair and perfectly tailored clothes.

Some, I knew, were vampires. I'm not sure how I knew that – although the fact that they were all, to a one, weirdly attractive was a sure tip-off. They just had a different vibe, a different sense about them. And here they were, sipping ten-dollar drinks, flirting, and swaying to the music just like people.

Catcher took our drink orders – vodka tonic for Mal, gin and tonic for me – while we headed for the last available mirror-backed table. We slid against the wall, leaving the outside seat for Catcher.

"Gorgeous place," Mallory yelled over the din, surveying the room. "I can't believe we haven't been here before."

I nodded, watching the dancers move, taking the drinks Catcher handed us when he returned. One song ended and a second began instantaneously, the opening beats of Muse's "Hysteria" ringing through the club. Eager to dance, I took a quick sip of my drink and grabbed Mallory's hand, pulling her to the dance floor. We shuffled through the throng, finding a gap in the crush of designer-clad bodies, and danced. We shifted, moved, swayed hips and arms, and let the music overtake us, swallow us, beat the worries from our minds in time to the raging synthesizer. We stayed on the dance floor through that song and another, and another, and another, before tunneling back through the bodies for a break, a seat, a drink. (And we'd left Catcher guarding our purses, so we felt a little duty-bound to go back.)

Mallory slid into the chair next to him, filling him in on her fabulous dance experience, his eyes alight with amusement as she chatted with vital animation, pushing her hair behind her ears as she talked. I sipped at my cocktail and downed the water that waited for us.

Suddenly, the song ended and the club became silent, even as strobes flashed around us. A haze of fog began to flow around our feet, a prelude to the ominous beating vibe of Roisin Murphy's "Ramalama," which began to spill through the room. The club's dancers, who'd paused tremulously between songs, waiting for the signal to move again, screamed joyously, and began thrusting to the music once again.

We rested for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular, when Catcher took the drink from Mallory's hand, deposited it on the table, and led her back to the dance floor. When she turned back to me, her face radiating shock that he'd had the nerve to expect her to follow without a fuss, I winked back.

I rolled the ice around in my drink, watching Mallory blush as Catcher swayed against her, when a voice next to me suddenly asked, "Good song, don't you think?"

I looked over, surprised to find a smiling man with his arm stretched along the booth behind me. His hair was cropped, vaguely wavy, and dark brown, framing cut cheekbones, a cleft chin, and a strong jaw dotted with a day's worth of stubble.

But for all that he was handsome, it was the eyes that pulled me in, that focused the attention. That accelerated the pulse. His were dark, and set beneath long, dark eyebrows. He peered at me beneath long, black lashes, his gaze seductively masked. The lashes rose, fell, rose again.

Sexy Eyes wore a fitted black leather jacket – trim lines, Mandarin collar, very alt-rock –  over a black shirt that snugged his lean torso. Around one wrist was a watch with a wide leather wrap-band. Altogether, the look was urban, rebellious, dangerous, and damn effective on a vampire. And he was definitely a vampire.

"It's a great song," I answered, having finished my look-see, and inclined my head toward the dance floor. "And the kids seem to like it."

He nodded. "So they do. But you aren't dancing."

"I'm taking a breather. I was out there for nearly an hour," I told him, practically yelling to ensure that he could hear me over the pulsating music.

"Oh? Like dancing, do you?"

"I get around." Realizing how that sounded, I waved my hands. "That's not what I meant. I just mean I like to dance."

He laughed and settled a bottle of beer on the table. "I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt," he said, smiling softly and giving me a full-on look at his eyes. They weren't brown, as I'd first thought, but a kind of mottled navy blue.

And I was struck by the thought that when he finally kissed me, they would flash and deepen, silver pulsing at the edges –

Wait. When he finally kissed me? Where in God's name had that come from?

I narrowed my gaze at him, guessing the source of the trickery. "Did you just try to glamour me?"

"Why do you ask?" His expression was innocent. Too innocent, but a corner of my mouth twitched anyway.

"Because I'm not interested in finding out what color your eyes turn when you kiss."

He grinned wickedly. "So it's the condition of, what, my mouth that's on your mind?"

I rolled my eyes dramatically, and he laughed and tipped back his beer, taking a swallow. "You're wounding my ego, you know."

I gave his body, at least the portion that wasn't hidden under the table, a quick appraisal. "I doubt that," I told him, and took a heartening sip of my own cocktail. A quick glance around the club confirmed the suspicion, revealing more than a few women –  and a handful of men – whose eyes were glued to the man beside me. Given the intensity of their gazes – and my penchant for stepping on toes – I wondered if he was some kind of vampire celebrity I was supposed to know about. Afraid of being gauche again, I didn't want to come right out and ask, so I decided to carefully steer my way toward an introduction. "You come here a lot?"

He wet his lips and looked away briefly, then back at me, grinning wildly like he knew a special secret. "I'm here quite a bit. I don't remember seeing you before."

"It's my first time," I admitted. I inclined my head toward Mallory and Catcher, who swayed at the edge of the crowd, their bodies mashed together from the waist down, their hands at each other's hips. Quick work, I thought, grinning at Mallory when she caught my eye.

"I'm here with friends," I told him.

"You're new – newly made, I mean."

"Four days. And you?"

"It's impolite to ask someone his age."

I laughed. "You just did!"

"Ah, but this is my place." That explained the secret smile, but since I knew nothing about the club, it didn't give me any helpful information about who he was.

"Can I get you a drink?"

I held up the half-full cocktail in my hand. "I'm good. Thanks, though."

He nodded and sipped his own beer. "How are you finding vampiredom?"

"If it were a house," I answered after some serious consideration, "I'd call it a fixer- upper."

He snorted, then covered his nose with the back of his hand while sliding me an amused glance. It made me smile to think that even cute vampire boys got beer up their noses. "Well said."

I grinned at him. "We do try. How do you find vampiredom?"

He crossed his arms, cradling the beer against his chest, and gave me a once-over. "The perks are nice."

"Oh, come on. Surely you've got better lines than that."

He looked heartbroken. "I'm pulling out all my best material."

"Then I'd hate to see the bottom of that barrel."

He put a hand on my shoulder and moved closer, the motion sending little sparks across my skin, then panned an outstretched hand in front of us. "Imagine a landscape of nothing but astrology references and naughty limericks. That's what you're going to reduce me to."

I covered my heart in mock sympathy. "I'd say that I'm sorry to hear that, but mostly I'm sorry for the women who have to listen to it."

"You're killing me here."

"Oh, don't blame this on me," I said on a laugh. "It's the material that needs work."

"Oh, I blame you," he said solemnly. "I'm going to die a lonely man – "

"You're immortal."

"I'm going to live a long, lonely life," he quickly corrected, slouching down a little in the booth, "because you're being overly critical about my pickup lines."

I patted his arm, the muscle firm beneath my hand, and felt a sympathetic blush cross my cheeks. "Look," I told him. "You're a nice-looking guy." Under. Statement. "I doubt you need pickup lines. There's probably a desperate woman out there just waiting for you to come along."

He mimicked pulling a knife out of his chest. "Nice-looking? Nice?! That's the kiss of death. And you think a desperate woman is the best I can do?" He made a frustrated sound, the effect of which was dampened by the impish tilt of his mouth. Putting the bottle back on the table, he stood up. I thought I'd managed to scare him away, until he held out a hand. I raised questioning brows.

"Since you've wounded me, I figure you owe me a dance."

There was no room for debate in the pronouncement, no space for error or adjustment. Was it the male vampire mind, I wondered, that precluded the possibility of discussion? That couldn't comprehend a challenge to authority? Or maybe it was an authority issue. Based on what I'd heard about his sports fixation, I didn't think this was Scott Grey, the head of the House that bore his name. Whoever he was, he exuded that same sense of purpose as Ethan. He was high on the ladder, whatever House claimed him.

And I, of course, was but a lowly Initiate. But a lowly, single Initiate, so I stood and took his hand.

"Good," he said, eyes twinkling, then linked our fingers together and led me to the dance floor, which gave me another chance to appraise. He was a couple of inches taller than me, maybe right at six feet. His bottom half was as rock-and-roll as his top –  dark, distressed jeans that perfectly encased his long legs, black boots, and a thick leather belt that held the jeans at his hips. And best of all, a divine tush that was perfectly framed by the designer denim. The man was a walking Diesel ad.

When he found a spot for us, he turned back to me and lifted my hands around his neck, put his hands at my hips, and moved in perfect syncopation to the music. He didn't try complicated dance steps – no twirls, no bends, no demonstrations of his prowess. But he moved his hips against mine in time to the throbbing beat, all the while staring down at me with a quirky half smile. Then he wet his lips and leaned forward. I thought he meant to kiss me, and I flinched, but instead he said, his lips close to my ear, "Thanks for not refusing me. I'd have had to slink out of my own club."

"I'm sure your ego would have withstood it. You're a big, strong vampire, after all."

He chuckled. "Somehow, you don't seem all that impressed with vampiredom, so I wasn't sure I had that to recommend me."

"Fair enough," I gave him. "But you've got really nice . . . shoes."

He blinked, then cast a dubious glance at his boots. "They were in my closet."

I snorted and plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. "Please. You've been planning this outfit for a week."

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back to revel in the moment. When he settled down again, occasionally wracked by aftershocks of laughter, he smiled keenly down at me. "I admit it. I give a shit what I look like." Then he plucked at the thin cap sleeve of my shirt. "But look what it got me."

There was no response I could give to that other than to beam back at him for the compliment, so that was exactly what I did. He smiled back and put his hands at my hips, and I settled mine to the firm curves of his shoulders, and we danced. We danced until the song changed, jumping immediately to something faster, something stronger, and then we kept dancing – silently, intently, as bodies moved around us.

I realized then that part of the buzz, of the vibration of my limbs, wasn't from the raucous music. It came from him, from the tangible hum of power that rode beneath that trim, stage-ready form in front of me. He was a vampire, and a powerful one.

The music changed again, and he leaned forward. "What if I asked for your phone number?"

I grinned up at him. "Wouldn't you like my name first?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "That's probably important information."

"Merit," I told him. "And you are?"

His response wasn't what I expected. His cheery grin faded, and he froze in place, even as people moved around us. His hands dropped from my hips, and I self-consciously tugged my hands back from his shoulders.

"Morgan. Navarre, Second. Which House are you?"

That explained the vibe of power. I had a bad feeling about his reaction to my answer, but offered anyway, tentatively, "Cadogan?"

Silence, then: "How did you get in here?"

I blinked at him. "What?"

"How did you get in here? My club. How did you get in here?" His gaze took on a steely glint, and I guessed that flirty, getting-to-know-you time was over. Then I remembered Catcher's words, his warning that Cadogan was looked down upon for drinking from humans.

I scanned his face, trying to read his expression, trying to gauge if that was where the sudden anger had come from – some irrational bit of House discrimination. "Are you joking?"

He grabbed my hand and yanked me through the dancers off and away from the dance floor. When we were back in the club proper, he forced me to a stop and glared at me. "I asked how you got in here."

"I came in through the front door just like everyone else. Would you just tell me what's wrong?"

Before he could answer, his troops arrived, a cadre of vampires who clustered around him. Front and center was Celina Desaulniers, Chicago's most famous vampire. She was as beautiful in person as she was on TV. A pinup-worthy, comic book-curvy vampire – slim build, long legs, tiny waist, voluptuous bosom. She had long, wavy black hair that set off bright blue eyes and porcelain skin. Hiding very little of that skin was a short sheath dress of champagne-colored satin, which was gathered into intricate folds at the bodice. Her heels matched the shade perfectly.

She looked at me with obvious disdain. "And who is this?" Her voice was honey, thick- flowing and effective, even on boy-crazy me. I felt a brief, insistent urge to fall to her feet, to beg her