Bugger. How long had it been? Thirty years? Fifty? Too damned long if he couldn’t even remember. No wonder he was a coldhearted old bastard.

Gregori, who always kept a roll of Vampos in his coat pocket, was constantly nagging Connor to go with him to the vampire nightclubs. Apparently, his plaid kilt and Scottish accent would make him an automatic “babe magnet.” There was a multitude of “hot chicks,” as Gregori called them, who wanted to relieve the boredom of immortality with a night of screaming wild sex. Gregori claimed it was their manly duty to keep all those Vamp women happy.

So far, Connor had declined. Attempting to cure his loneliness with a long line of faceless, nameless, desperate, Undead women didn’t seem appealing. Or very honorable. Hypocrite, a small voice in the back of his mind needled him. Who are ye fooling, pretending to be a man of honor? Ye know what ye did.

He struck the voice down and glanced back at the surveillance monitors. Father Andrew had reached the foyer, and he set his briefcase on the table where Phineas had checked it earlier in the evening. As a safety precaution, all items brought into Romatech had to be searched.

The priest had left his overcoat on the table earlier, but instead of putting it on and heading out the front door, he strode across the foyer into the hallway on the left. Connor frowned, wondering what the old priest was up to. The hallway was empty except for . . .

“Bugger,” Connor whispered as the priest marched straight toward the MacKay security office.

He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t here. With a groan, he pushed back a long strand of hair that had escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck while he’d been running about the grounds.

He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. “Can I help you, Father?”