Connor tossed the male thong on the table and continued his search. "It does look like a bloody jungle in here." He pulled out a vine of large leaves.

"Hot Jungle Fever is highly contagious," Vanda said with a husky voice. "I'm sure we could find a fig leaf just your size."

He glowered at her.

"All right, a banana leaf, then."

With a snort, he fished her car keys from the pile of vines and dropped them into his sporran.

"Hey," she objected. "I need those to drive home."

"Ye'll get them back after the meeting." He crammed the costumes back into her bag. "'Tis shameful for Vamp men to dress—or rather, undress—like this in public."

"The guys enjoy it. Come on, Connor. You never wanted to take your clothes off in front of some pretty girls?"

"Nay. I'm too busy trying to keep Roman and his family alive. If ye havena noticed, we're at the brink of war with the Malcontents. And if ye havena heard, their leader Casimir is somewhere in America."

Vanda repressed a shudder. "I know. My club was attacked last December." Some of her best friends had come close to getting murdered that night. She tried not to think about it. If she did, the thoughts would mushroom into bigger, more horrid memories.

And she had no intention of reliving them. Life was simple and pleasant at the Horny Devils nightclub, where gorgeous men danced in skimpy costumes, and pints of Bleer could leave the coldest of Vamps feeling warm and fuzzy.

Each night could pass without pain as long as she concentrated on work and kept the past firmly locked in a mental coffin. Days were even easier, for death-sleep was painless and nightmare-free. She could go on like this for centuries if people would just leave her the hell alone.

Connor gave her a sympathetic look. "Ian told me about the attack that night. He said ye fought bravely."

She refrained from grinding her teeth. It was hard on the fangs. She grabbed her handbag and swung it onto her shoulder. "So what's the deal? How much trouble am I in?"