Reaching into the gaping hole, Jagr pulled out a thick envelope and tossed it into her lap.

“I think I’ve made my point.”

She rolled her eyes, ripping open the envelope. “Fake IDs…credit cards…” She paused as she unfolded a piece of paper. “Ah, now this is interesting.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a message…”

The Clemens Tea Shop. Saturday. Midnight.

Her head lifted, her eyes wide. “Culligan left St. Louis on Saturday.”

“I remember seeing a sign for the place. It’s a restaurant west of town.”

“This might explain what brought Culligan to Hannibal.”

“It’s worth investigating,” Jagr slowly agreed.

“Yes, it is.” She scooted toward the edge of the bed. “And that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

His brows drew together. “Now?”

“Of course now.”

“Regan, we can’t be certain we weren’t followed.”

“For God’s sakes, your Jason Bourne wannabe friend has half of Missouri wired like the Pentagon. If there was anything out there, he would already have vaporized them with his ray gun.”

His scowl deepened. He couldn’t deny that Tane had gone above and beyond the usual defenses. Or that he would have easily discovered any stray cur in the area.

He couldn’t even argue the necessity of discovering who had sent the message to Culligan.

But his every instinct screamed to keep her safely tucked in the lair where nothing could reach her.

Almost as if sensing the refusal that trembled on his lips, Regan scooted off the bed, grabbing one of the bags and scurrying toward the bathroom. Jagr had only a brief glimpse of her tasty backside before the door shut behind her and he heard the sound of the shower kick on.

Left alone in the bedroom, Jagr wrenched off the robe and tugged on a pair of jeans and black sweater he pulled from his satchel. A lesser vampire might be offended by her desperate desire to pretend she hadn’t just given him her innocence. Or her embarrassing haste to chase after shadows rather than linger alone with him in the secluded lair.

Thankfully he wasn’t a lesser vampire.

Just one who was suddenly in the mood to finish destroying the porn-chic pictures that lined the walls.

Braiding his hair, Jagr tied it off with a leather cord and tugged on his heavy boots. His weapons followed. The two daggers he slid into the sheaths in his boots, and the handgun he shoved into his waistband at the small of his back. The silver bullets would come in handy if they ran across a cur.

Then, desperate to ignore the tantalizing scent of soap and sweet jasmine filling the air, he returned to the kitchen and drained a bottle of the blood left in the refrigerator. He didn’t particularly need to feed, but he didn’t want to risk his hunger stirring while they were on the hunt.

Even if Regan were willing to donate a vein, he wasn’t a masochist. The aggravating woman was a threat to more than just his sanity.

There was a very real danger Regan could be his true mate.

Cursing a fate that seemed determined to torture him, Jagr stiffened when she appeared in the doorway, her damp hair pulled into a ponytail, her slender curves covered in a pair of low-riding jeans and a too-tight knit top.

Heat, raw and primitive, flared through him. Damn. When he returned to Chicago, he intended to kick Styx’s ass.

The ancient vampire had a great deal to answer for.

Thankfully unaware of his dark thoughts, Regan studied him with a guarded expression.

“Shouldn’t you get rid of the mess in the bedroom?”

Jagr shrugged, turning to head for the door leading out of the apartment. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the intense pleasure that had caused his power to shatter Tane’s repulsive works of art. Not when he needed his few remaining brain cells to make sure he didn’t lead them into yet another disaster.

“Tane’s servants can toss it into the trash. That’s where the junk belonged in the first place,” he muttered, opening the door and waiting for her to step past him before closing it and heading down the narrow hallway.

She walked at his side, her dry glance her only reaction to his surly mood.

“So you don’t have your own lair decorated with Hustler rejects?”

“I haven’t bothered decorating at all.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It didn’t seem necessary.” Coming to an abrupt halt, Jagr cupped her face and stole a swift, frustrated kiss. Lifting his head, he met her startled gaze. “Until now.”

Her lips parted with a scathing remark, but before she could catch her breath, he was stepping into Command Central and speaking to the dark-haired vampire on guard.

“We need transportation.”

The warrior with his dark hair shaved close to his head, and his large body covered with a variety of weapons, rose to his feet, clearly under orders to offer Jagr whatever he needed.

“Follow me.”

Wryly wondering what Tane would demand in repayment for his hospitality, Jagr followed the vampire across the room.

Waiting for the servant to push open a narrow door, he wasn’t surprised to discover the vast underground garage that held a half dozen gleaming cars. Many vampires possessed a fascination with expensive automobiles. Regan, on the other hand, sucked in a shocked breath.

“Jeez. No Batmobile?”

“It’s having its tires rotated.” He led her across the paved garage toward a shadowed corner.

Her hand reached out to stroke over the elegant curves of a silver Mercedes they passed.

“I wonder if Salvatore needs a Were assassin. I could use a pay grade that’s obviously in the Donald Trump territory.”

Jagr bristled. Salvatore might not be willing to take Regan as his queen, but he was more than interested in taking her to his bed. Jagr would see the king in hell first.

“There’s no need for Salvatore. The Anasso would willingly offer you whatever luxury you want.” His lips twisted. “I can promise you that his pay grade is much higher than Donald Trump.”

“I don’t need the Anasso’s charity.” She jerked her arm from his grasp. “Or the strings attached.”

“No, you’d much rather cut off your nose to spite your face,” he growled, ignoring her glare as he stopped next to a battered red truck. “This should do.”

“This?” She wrinkled her nose. “Are you kidding me? There’s a Lamborghini, a Porsche, an Aston Martin, and two Corvettes just begging to go for a drive, and you want to take this piece of junk?”

Opening the passenger side door, he eyed her with a lift of his brows. “I prefer not to attract any unwanted attention. How many Lamborghinis have you seen in Hannibal?”

“Fine.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Then why don’t we just go back the way we came? I’d rather run than be jolted around in this thing.”

“The curs won’t be looking for a red truck,” he pointed out. “And we might need it if either of us is injured.”

“Killjoy,” she muttered, grudgingly grabbing the handle of the door to vault into the high cab.

“So I’ve been told.”

Jagr waited until she was settled on the worn leather seat before closing the door and rounding the front of the truck to take his place behind the wheel. Ignoring the key in the ignition, he used his powers to start the powerful engine and headed toward the tunnel that led out of the underground complex.

They exited the tunnel in the middle of a thick tangle of trees and underbrush that hid the opening from prying eyes. Or at least from human eyes. Regan possessed enough wolf to spot the numerous cameras concealed among the branches, and the occasional vampire that slid through the dark shadows.

“Crap.” Her gaze lingered on the heat detectors hidden in a clump of wild daisies. “What happens if someone accidentally stumbles into this little Area 51?”

Jagr shrugged. “They’re removed and their memories altered.”

“Just like the other Area 51.”

His lips twitched. “Not quite.”

He took the narrow path through the surrounding fields, keeping the lights off until they reached a paved road heading south. Then ignoring any claim to intelligence, he gunned the engine and they hurtled their way toward Hannibal.

For long minutes they traveled in silence, Jagr brooding on his plunge into insanity and Regan watching the passing scenery with an odd sort of curiosity.

At last, Jagr chalked up his peculiar behavior to the onset of dementia and allowed his attention to return to the woman at his side.

“You’re frighteningly quiet. Are you plotting general mayhem, or just my own demise?”

“I’m enjoying the scenery.”

His gaze lingered on the fields that would eventually be planted with corn and soy beans and the occasional patch of sorghum. The recently tilled fields were no doubt a lovely sight for the local farmers, but hardly one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

“The scenery?”

Her lips curved into a wistful smile. “Culligan used to drive through the back roads when we traveled from town to town. I always envied the humans tucked safely in their beds with no idea of the monsters lurking in the dark.”