“Jane,” he said. Just my name. And something lightened inside of me.

“Bruiser,” I said back, and I smiled at him as Beast raised up and padded closer to the front of my mind, peering out through my eyes. Mine, she purred. Without looking over my shoulder, I said, “My gobag’s in the foyer. See you at vamp HQ at nine sharp.”

Eli said, “Roger that. Twenty-one hundred.”

At the curb, a limo idled, the back door open in invitation. I knew this limo. I’d been in it before, more than once, the first time on my back on the floor with Bruiser on top of me. Not sex, but it had been close. I felt a faint flush, and to hide it, I turned and locked my front door behind me. Breathing deeply until the lock clicked and I had myself under control.

Bruiser touched my shoulder and guided me into the limo, then sat across from me, studying me. I felt awkward and foolish and I didn’t know why. Bruiser said, “I always liked that outfit. I see the blood came out.”

“Oh. Right.” The first night I’d worn the dress, I’d killed a young rogue vamp. Not the smartest clothes to wear while vamp hunting. I’d gotten the vamp’s blood all over me and a lot of my own as well. Leo and Bruiser had been in my house when I arrived, carrying a vamp head and cradling a badly mauled arm. Which Leo had healed while Bruiser looked on. My arm, not the vamp head. She was dead. I looked down at the dress. “Yeah. Somebody at Katie’s got the blood out. Eventually.”

Bruiser shook his head, amusement clear despite the darkness caused by the vamp-worthy tinted windows. “You do know how to make an impression, Jane Yellowrock. And that is one of my favorite dresses.”

“You’re wearing a tie,” I said, frowning. “Should I have worn something fancier? One of Madame Melisende’s things?” The ancient blood-servant made my work clothes for formal vamp occasions.

“No,” he said, his tone with an edge I didn’t understand. Before I could figure it out he added, “You look lovely, perfect for Arnaud’s.”

“You got last-minute reservations at Arnaud’s?” I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my voice. Even I knew that Arnaud’s was always booked weeks in advance.

“I have a standing reservation,” he said, nonchalant, like an astronaut might say, “I’ve been to space,” or a world traveler, “I’ve been to Paris numerous times,” or—

He interrupted my thoughts with, “I may no longer be primo, but my prominence in all things Mithran hasn’t diminished.”

“But Arnaud’s.” I looked down at my dress, knowing for certain that I needed to have worn a little black dress. I actually had a little black dress now. I lifted the skirt and fingered the silk fabric. Cheap. I’d paid less than a hundred dollars for it.

“Jane. Stop. You look fine. Better than fine. You’ll turn heads everywhere you go.”

“Next time tell me where we’re going,” I said flatly. And then felt my face burn because that made the assumption that there would be a next time and— “Crap. Bruiser. I eat at diners and fast food joints and drink beer. My dates and I talk about guns and the newest horror or action flick. I wear jeans and boots and no makeup. I do not go to Arnaud’s on dates. I won’t know what to order and have no idea which fork or spoon to use.” I met his eyes. “This is not me.”

Bruiser laughed.

He had a really great laugh, not mocking or sarcastic or bored or pitying. He just laughed, as if I’d shared something funny with him. “We’ll do that next time. One week from today, I promise. However, this evening, we are eating at Arnaud’s. And I’ve already spoken with the chef to prepare us a combination plate of meats and fish, with sides, so you can try a bit of everything on that part of the menu.” He leaned in, and his scent roiled over me, soothing. “This isn’t to make you feel inferior, Jane. You are not inferior to anyone. This is to show you a bit of the New Orleans I know, a part you may not have visited before.”

“Right. It’s Arnaud’s.”

“And the food is delicious. And the table is ready.” The limo pulled to a stop. The back door opened and Bruiser stepped out into the sunset, holding his hand back for mine.

“Crap,” I muttered. But I took his hand and let him support me out of the limo. Like I needed it. I could kick his butt. With one hand tied behind me. And then I realized I’d said that aloud when Bruiser laughed again.

“Maybe on our second date, I’ll tie you up,” he said, “and see what you can do to me.”

And that shut me up.

Our table—heavy white linen tablecloth, heavy silverware, heavy crystal wineglasses—was in the back, in a secluded corner, beneath a small potted palm of some kind. The gumbo was delivered while the wine was being poured, something light and smooth that melted in my mouth and matched perfectly with the gumbo appetizer. Bruiser talked about the people he’d known in his life as we ate the soup, and I listened, following his choices as to silverware, which made it much easier. Especially when the salads arrived, all lettuce-y and stuff. It wasn’t bad, for green leaves. And as he talked, I finally began to feel less tongue-tied and started to relax.

And Bruiser had known some amazing people. Mae West, for crying out loud. He had dated Mae West. He had taken target practice with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans at their Double R Bar Ranch in the Mojave Desert. He’d squired (yeah, that was what he said—squired) a teenaged Elizabeth Taylor to several parties, keeping her virtue safe from the aging roués who wanted to sleep with her. I wasn’t sure what a roué was, but it sounded nasty. He name-dropped with abandon, and I learned that Leo had a house in Malibu and shared one with the primo of California’s MOC in Holmby Hills in L.A. Bruiser hadn’t wasted the years he’d been granted as primo, with access to the blood that kept him young. He’d lived it, and I felt both like a kid at her grandpa’s knee listening to stories, and like a seductive woman that men—this man, anyway—couldn’t keep his eyes off of.

For the meal, we were served tiny portions of the speckled trout, prepared two ways: trout meunière and trout amandine, followed by sea bass from the Gulf, caught today, served two ways: filleted and sautéed, topped with fresh Louisiana crabmeat, and grilled fillet topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, and kalamata olives. To die for. I think I said that aloud, maybe for the first time in my whole life. We had three pompano dishes: the pompano Duarte, which was sautéed fillet topped with Gulf shrimp and tomatoes, seasoned with garlic, fresh herbs, and crushed chili peppers; the pompano David—grilled, skin-on fillet brushed with extra-virgin olive oil, lemon, garlic, and fresh herbs—and pompano en croute. And baby pompano fillets and scallop mousse baked in flaky puff pastry, served on a bed of green peppercorn cream sauce. On a separate plate were the veggies, which were wild mushrooms, asparagus, some kind of soufflé, and potatoes, all with their own sauces. I didn’t eat much in the way of plants, but these were enough to make me think about going vegetarian. The portions were tiny but I was stuffed even before the meats arrived.