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never actually met Special Agent Kyle Mahone before, but she knew the guy had spectacular contacts, including an “in” with Bianca Devereaux, the infamous Vampire Queen. That link had enabled him to obtain useful intel about vampires—like wearing gold to protect one’s thoughts, and the fact that one could kill a turned vampire by stabbing him or her in the heart with a blade coated in liquid nitrogen.
    It was because of that intel that they continued to fully trust Mahone even if the same couldn’t be said for his superior, Director Rick Hallifax, or any other employee of the FBI.
    “The details are sketchy. Mahone said he encountered security blocks he had a hard time bypassing, even with his clearance. But because Mahone’s familiar with the Turning Program, and the lingo and the way the Bureau gets things done, he’s put several pieces of information together. Looks like Maltese is doing contract work for the FBI right now.”
    “You mean software development? Some kind of vampire tracking program?” If anyone could do it, he could. The only things Nick had been better at than computers had been hot sex. And cold killing. She couldn’t forget about that.
    “That’s not something Mahone was able to uncover yet. But he’s still digging,” Carly replied, her voice tight. “Bottom line, it’s very possible Nick Maltese has information you can use. If not, maybe he’ll be motivated to help you find it.”
    Barrett could take a hint. And it wasn’t lost on her that even as pimps and Rogue vampires were selling the bodies of girls like Jane to the highest bidder, Barrett had been, if not technically, at least essentially whoring herself for her country. But no regrets. Sex was just … sex. She’d learned long ago that men were willing to be led around by their dicks, and that she could take advantage of that to get what she needed.
    Nick hadn’t been her first or last lover, but he’d been her best. It would be no hardship to give herself to him again if it meant convincing him to help her. Hell, she’d jump at the opportunity if only to wash away the memory of Powell’s touch. Only, Nick was a good man. She didn’t think it would come to that.
    Even as her body mourned that thought, her brain rejoiced. It had been hard enough barricading her heart against him the first time. Now that she was reeling from the events of the past few months and the guilt of failing Jane, she had to be especially on guard.
    “Is Nick here in D.C.?” Barrett asked. Had they been living in the same city? Not likely that they’d have met by chance, but the way she’d felt when she’d been with him … some part of her should have known.
    “Mahone’s attempting to access the information even as we speak, Barrett. One moment.”
    Barrett sank back into the plush armchair. The furnishings of the house were meant to impress. Not her taste, but awfully familiar.
    Her great-grandfather’s fortune had multiplied many times over, but he and his descendants disliked show and put family first; a close second was service to one’s country. Her mother had different ideas. She would have adored this old house.
    Expensive carpets muffled every step. Dark velvet curtains framed mullioned windows. A gilt mirror across the room over an antique side table added a discreet touch of sparkle. Posh and somehow suffocating, the decor never failed to remind her of similar mansions on Philadelphia’s exclusive Main Line. She’d grown up in one before her father died and her mother had remarried and moved with her stepfather to Palm Beach.
    She picked up an Architectural Digest and flipped through it, half expecting to see them on the pages showing off their Florida ocean view or their pied-à-terre in Paris or their twenty-one-room Newport “cottage.” No mentions in this issue, thankfully. She set the magazine back on the side table.
    Now that Belladonna agents were past their initial training, they no longer lived at the