All she’d have had to do was wait until they went down for the count. But no, most vampires were perfectly capable of walking around twenty-four hours a day. The few that suffered from light sensitivity still didn’t “die” when the sun came up. They simply found shade. “And you’re procrastinating—soon you’ll be composing an ode to the gardens,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re a professional. You’re the best. You can do this.”

Taking a deep breath and trying not to think about the angels she knew were flying overhead, she began walking toward the entrance. Nobody paid her any overt attention, but when she finally reached the door, the vampire on duty bowed his head in a small nod and opened it for her. “Straight through to the reception desk.”

Elena blinked and removed her sunglasses. “Don’t you want to check my ID?”

“You’re expected.”

The doorvamp’s insidiously seductive scent—an unusual trait thought to be an evolutionary adaptation against the hunters’ tracking abilities—swirled around her in a sinister caress as she thanked him and walked through.

The air-conditioned lobby was a seemingly endless space dominated by deep gray marble shot through with discreet veins of gold. As an example of wealth, good taste, and subtle intimidation, it took first prize. She was suddenly very glad she’d traded in her usual jeans and T-shirt combo for a pair of tailored black pants and a crisp white shirt. She’d even tamed her slithery hair into a French twist and stuffed her feet into high heels.

Those heels hit the marble with sharp businesslike sounds as she crossed the lobby. As she walked, she noted everything around her, from the number of vampire guards, to the exquisite—though slightly odd—flower arrangements, to the fact that the receptionist was a very, very, very old vampire . . . with the face and body of a well-maintained thirty-year-old.