Which was probably why I didn’t hear him.

He clamped one leather-gloved hand around my waist and another around my mouth and dragged me backward. I tried to dig my heels into the heavy carpet to slow him down but my weightlessness worked against me and it was an easy slide. I tried kicking and punching, but with my assailant behind me, firmly clasping me against his chest, it was futile.

“Let me go,” I growled against the man’s hand, feeling the angle on my fangs sharpening.

He responded by tightening his grip and I opened my mouth, sinking my teeth into his palm.

He howled and pulled away from me; I lurched for the vase on the counter, swinging it hard. Water and roses shot out in a clear arc and the heavy leaded crystal made a pleasing, smacking sound when it caught my attacker square in the jaw. I thought it would stop him but the shot only angered him and his hands were on me, grabbing fistfuls of shirt. I was off my feet and face to face with eyes that spit white-hot anger.

A voice echoing in the hallway startled us both and I was tossed to the side, landing in a crumbled heap in a pile of discarded muslin sketch paper. My assailant cast one backward glance at me, cracked open the living room window, and disappeared onto the fire escape.

I sat up like a shot—vampire pride wounded, the strap on my Jimmy Choo busted, and pulsing with rage. I vaulted toward the window and followed the black-clad man out onto the fire escape for exactly forty-five seconds. He shot an upward glance at me as he climbed down the escape ladders. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open just the tiniest bit and I knew he saw the smoke, the little burst of fire as it pierced my skin and singed my hair. I edged back as far from the single flicker of fire bringing sunlight that I could, patting my shoulder and trying to put out the flame. I slapped it out. It smoldered, smoked, and seemed to die, only to pop once again like a cobra dancing out of its basket.

“Son of a bitch!”

My entire body was rigid and the tension pulsed through me like an electric shock as Pike lunged out the window for me and dragged me inside. He pressed a dishtowel against my shoulder, holding and waiting until the flame died out. He folded up the blackened towel and tossed it on the table.

“What happened?” Pike asked me. “What are you doing here?”

I figured if I drew his attention away from my little Sterno moment, he might forget about it. “What the hell are you doing here? I live here.”

He pointed. “You live there. This is Emerson’s place and you were on fire.”

I harrumphed. “I was on fire? You were seeing things, dude. I was just smoking.”

Pike cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

“I know. It’s a foul habit. I’m trying to quit. Got one of those patch things, and some of that gum . . .” I was rambling.

“So you decided to come over to Emerson’s house to indulge in this foul habit?”

I offered him my “duh, isn’t it obvious?” shrug. “What are you doing here?”

Pike took a step toward me. “I was actually heading over to your place to check in on you.” A tiny blush shot over his cheeks. “I don’t have your number.”

“Then how’d you end up here?”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You left Emerson’s door open. And after I saw that Reginald’s place had been opened, I thought I’d see what was going on.”

He looked earnest enough but a girl doesn’t walk the earth for centuries and (continue) to be fooled by a pair of gorgeous eyes and well-tanned swimmer’s shoulders that slouched pitifully.

“How do I know you weren’t coming to my place to kill me?”

Pike took another step and I backed up against the window, instinctually. I felt the singe on my back but I needed to put as much distance between him and me as possible.

He cocked a grin that would have been heartwarming, had he not been a psychopath. “Why would I kill you?”

“Because I saw you this morning. Drunk or not, you were leaving the scene of a crime. If I tell the cops . . .”

Still grinning. “Having another cigarette?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re smoking again.”

I felt my brow furrow and put my hands on my hips, feeling indignant. “I’m smoking? I’m not smoking anything, Pike. I saw you well and fine.”

“No,” he said, striding toward me, pointing. “You’re actually smoking.”

I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see a plume of gray-black smoke rise up from my shoulder blade and the cotton strap of my tank top engulfed by a tiny flame.

“Son of a bitch!”

Pike had me in his arms in a split second and was wrapping me in one of Emerson’s discarded muslin swatches. He spun me as he wrapped and before I knew it, I was fairly well mummified.

“Thanks. I think it’s out.” I tried to wiggle my arms but they were clamped to my sides. “A little help?”

Pike pulled a chair out from Emerson’s drafting table and plopped himself down. He kicked up his feet and crossed his own arms in front of his chest. “No.”

“No?”

He wagged his head. “No. I’m not going to help you get out of that until you answer some questions for me.”

I tried to take a step, but my legs were clamped too. I considered a Hulk-like show of vampire prowess, but then I’d have some explaining to do.

“What kind of girl catches on fire and doesn’t know it?”

I bit down hard, feeling the edge of my fangs slicing into my gums.

Looks like I would have some explaining to do, after all.

“Why do you care?” I asked, chin hitched.

“Because I just walked in on a woman snooping around a dead woman’s place, and said woman—the first one—caught on fire.”

I tried to shrug nonchalantly. “So?”

“So there is no fire around. And I had to tell you that you were on fire. Who does that?”

“Spontaneous combustion happens, Pike. Look it up on Wikipedia.”

He cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Can you help me sit down at least?”

I started to take a series of minuscule steps while Pike pulled a chair out for me. He put his large hands over my shoulder and that same spark shot through me, making every hair on my swaddled arms stand on end. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Get off me,” I said, maneuvering myself into the chair. I sat down hard, feeling Emerson’s cheap chair selection ringing up my tailbone. “This is rather uncomfortable.”

Pike sat across from me and narrowed his eyes into what I figured he supposed was an intimidating glare. I rubbed the tip of my tongue over one fang and felt my stomach growl when my eyes fell to the thick vein in his neck, pumping fresh blood.

“I’m here.” I tried to shrug. “What the hell do you want to ask me?”

Now Pike leaned back and kicked one ankle over his knee. I told myself that the constant salivation was a result of skipping my breakfast pouch and had nothing to do with the way his jeans rode up at the thighs or the way he pursed his red, full lips.

I bit mine.

“Apart from this whole thing,” he said, gesturing to the apartment. “How do you know Emerson?”

I rolled my eyes. Why were the pretty ones always so dumb?

“We’re both fashion designers. We meet up at events and she’s a two-faced design stealer.” Pike’s eyebrows rose and I hurriedly tacked on, “God rest her soul.”

“So you and she weren’t friends?”

“What gave you that impression, Colombo?”

Pike blew out a sigh. “So before you,” he cleared his throat, “caught fire, what were you doing here? Stealing?”

“Stealing my own designs? Hardly. I was looking for clues.”

“Clues?”

I was getting frustrated and the muslin was starting to chafe. “About who killed Emerson!”

“If you hated her, why would you care?”

“Because I’m a good fucking person, okay?” I stopped trying to hide my annoyance, and that seemed to make Pike crack a self-appreciative grin. “I’m not so sure about that. Good fucking people don’t burst into flames.”

“Look it up!” I snapped.

Pike popped out of his chair. “Can I take a picture of you?”

“So you can sell it to some bondage website? Hell no.”

“Okay, I’ll cut you free.” He produced a pocketknife and flicked it open. He didn’t look menacing nor did he brandish the weapon in any way other than to show me he had it, but my hackles went up.

This guy wanted something.

“What do you want?” I asked, suspicion shading my voice.

Pike leaned toward me and gingerly edged the tip of the knife into a piece of muslin, directly between my breasts. “Nothing, Nina. Just a nice, normal, honest-to-goodness photo of you.”

I glanced down at the tip of the blade resting an inch from my chest. He could plunge the thing in with all his might and nothing would happen. I’d keep (not) breathing, blinking, and looking very much alive.