Quinn followed the direction of Rose’s finger, letting his gaze fall on a tall guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a photo shoot for GQ Magazine. His dark brown hair was cropped short. Under his immaculate clothes, his muscles bulged. A tan, whether artificial or real, complemented his model looks.

Without looking back at her, he asked, “The clothes horse?”

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Rose’s shrug. “I have no influence over how he spends the money in his trust.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Great. A trust fund baby. What else should I know about him?”

Blake looked nothing like he would have imagined his grandson to be. Not that he had ever lost a thought on that particular subject until twenty-four hours earlier.

“He finished college, then did a masters.”

“What subject?”

“Communications. Not something he could actually find a job in,” Rose replied.

“So he’s unemployed.” Just perfect. His great-great-whatever was a loser.

“That’s why he came out to the West Coast. He thinks he can get some job out here.”

Quinn snorted. “Maybe he should have moved to LA.”

“You don’t like him,” Rose said.

He turned to her to contradict her, but the moment he laid eyes on her, he was instantly distracted. Rose wore a low cut top that accentuated her small breasts and made them look larger than he remembered them. Her cleavage was more pronounced than he’d ever seen it when she’d worn those fashionable ball gowns so many years ago. Allowing his eyes to trail down, he wondered how long it would take to peel her out of the tight black jeans she wore. One second or two?

His mouth went dry at the thought. He smelled the blood of the humans all around him, yet at this moment no scent was as tantalizing as the scent of Rose’s skin. He’d always preferred human women as his lovers, because the scent of their blood heightened his arousal, but now that he stood so close to Rose, her body getting hotter in the inadequately air-conditioned room, he realized that her blood smelled no less enticing. On the contrary: despite the delicious smells all around him, his body wanted to partake of only one.

“What?” she asked, staring at him.

Quinn tried for an indifferent look, hoping he wasn’t drooling. God, he was pathetic. How would he be able to do this night after night? “Let’s go to the bar. Might as well have a drink.”

Rose gave him a confused look. “You drink . . . uh . . . ” She lowered her voice. “ . . . human drinks?”

“Just to blend in. Standing around without drinks will make us look suspicious. This is a nightclub after all. People come here to drink.” Besides, his throat was so dry, he didn’t care what kind of liquid moistened it.

Quinn headed for one end of the bar from which he had a good view of Blake and motioned to the bartender, then patted his hand on the empty stool, glancing back at Rose.

She followed him and took the seat.

“Two Boodles martinis, dry, no olives,” he ordered, seeing what used to be his favorite brand of London dry gin behind the bar. “Stirred, not shaken.”

The bartender nodded and went to work.

“I thought James Bond always insists that his martinis be shaken, not stirred.”

Quinn thought she seemed to find her remark far more amusing than it was. “Bond knows women, not martinis.”

He took a sideways glance at Rose. Now that she sat, his head was at the perfect height to allow him to look right down her cleavage. When he lifted his eyes, he collided with her gaze. It appeared that she had noticed the same thing. He felt heat shoot through his veins.

Annoyed at his own reaction, he focused his attention on the middle of the bar, where Blake was talking to a young woman. He tuned into their conversation, shutting out everything else around him out.

“I just moved here. Cool place,” Blake said.

“Good for you,” the girl replied, taking her nearly empty glass and pulling on the straw. Her gaze strayed away as if she were looking for somebody. She was pretty, and by the looks of it, she was well aware of that fact.

“What are you drinking? I’ll get you another one,” Blake said

“Thanks, but I’ll get my own drinks,” she replied and waved toward the bartender, who just placed the two Martini glasses in front of Quinn.

“That’s twenty-four bucks.”

Quinn pulled out a couple of banknotes and tossed them on the bar. “Thanks.”

As the bartender took the money, Quinn looked back at Blake and the girl.