What in hell was a Fallen Angel doing in Geneva, Switzerland?
That caustic brimstone stench could warn a city of half-dead humans with nose colds busily shoveling manure, let alone a solitary vampire minding her own business. Valerie Tate set aside her ancient manuscript about vampires and looked out her cheap hotel room’s filthy window to take stock of the newcomer.
Aching from yesterday’s long drive from Amsterdam to Geneva, she put her hands on the small of her back and stretched, counterbalancing the weight of her six-months’-pregnant stomach.
She wasn’t interested in being a mother, but her curiosity demanded that she see what happened. Right now, an emissary from Lucifer was happening.
The Fallen appeared as a handsome young man. His sleek swimmer’s build combined with pale skin, and cornflower blue eyes gave him an innocent, wistful air. If he’d been human, she would have contemplated the taste of his blood. Unfortunately, his aura was a sickeningly depressing shade of beige. He had no passion, no flavor. He was a follower.
Valerie preferred fiery men. A man like Lance Soliel, whose aura crackled with ardor, whose hot mouth and hotter intellect had captured her dead and frozen heart.