Must Love Hellhounds

back onto the street, and began to make her way to the Manhattan Bridge. As she’d expected, traffic was crawling.
    And she was no good at finagling. “Where did the second picture come from?”
    “Your previous employer’s files.”
    Maggie shook her head. “The agency would have no reason—”
    “Not the CIA. Congressman Stafford.”
    A knot of dread tightened in her chest. Stafford knew she’d had national security and intelligence experience. But her references wouldn’t have given him that photo. He must have gotten it from another Washington connection . . . but who ? “Where’d he get it?”
    “We don’t know.”
    And they couldn’t ask him. Stafford had been slain by the Guardians three months ago.
    Blake unwrapped one of his burgers and bit in. When Sir Pup whined in the back, Maggie remembered to do the same for him. She twisted her arm back between the seats. Hot breath brushed her fingers before Sir Pup gently lifted the hamburger; even as she heard him gulp it down, two more whines came from the right and left. A hellhound’s appetite, in stereo.
    She was in the middle of unwrapping the fourth when Blake said, “Tell me about him, Winters.”
    “Stafford?”
    There wasn’t much to tell. Thomas Stafford had been a charming politician and the perfect employer until he’d tried to pin a murder on her. But it could have been worse. Even if he’d successfully framed her, a life in prison would have been better than if he’d maneuvered her into a bargain that bound her in service to him. A bargain that, if not fulfilled, would have trapped her soul in a freezing wasteland between Hell and the Chaos realm.
    Yes, she’d take prison over eternal torment any day. Luckily, the Guardians had saved her from either fate.
    “Not Stafford. The man in the photo.”
    So Blake wasn’t going to finagle, either. But Maggie could deflect just as well as he had.
    “If I tell you, then I have to—”
    “His name is Trevor James,” Blake said. “He served with you in the CIA from the date of your recruitment and training until three years ago—when, under orders, you assassinated him. It was your last assignment; you retired after that.”
    Her hands, her brain felt limp. Her voice was hollow. “How do you know this?”
    “You were investigated by the Guardians and vetted by my uncle. He passed the information to me, for my records. Do you think he would allow you anywhere near his home if he wasn’t certain of you? To have any access to his family?”
    One of Sir Pup’s heads nudged her shoulder, knocking her out of her stupor. She fed him another burger, and forced her mind to work again.
    The deep vetting wasn’t a surprise. How deep they’d managed to get shocked her, but she couldn’t focus on that yet. She was still trying to figure out why Ames-Beaumont would have sent her file to Blake for his records. She wasn’t a Ramsdell employee.
    But maybe, to Ames-Beaumont and to Blake, there wasn’t a difference.
    Sir Pup whined again. Maggie ignored him, trying to read as much as she could in Blake’s face each time she took her gaze off the road. There wasn’t much to go on. For a man who had never seen another face—or his own—he had a highly developed sense of how much an expression could give away.
    “Vampire communities have an enforcer,” she said, feeling her way through it. “Someone who protects the community from outside threats and enforces the rules within the community. In San Francisco, Mr. Ames-Beaumont fulfills that function. And that’s what you are—the Ramsdell enforcer. You protect Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals.”
    Maggie realized that wasn’t quite right as soon as she’d finished. He wasn’t protecting the business itself, and that was why Ames-Beaumont had sent Blake her file. It was about protecting the family—every aspect of it—and Ramsdell Pharmaceuticals just happened to be the family’s primary financial resource. Blake probably had files on every employee working at any of the family’s estates.
    Blake didn’t confirm or deny it. He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and asked, “Which direction are we going?”
    “South. Eventually.” Slowly.
    He nodded. “I received information last evening. Katherine was headed south. She’s in a large caravan.”
    “An RV?” His British accent, which she’d barely been able to discern until now, had become stronger. Did that mean he was suppressing an emotion, or loosening up? “A motor home in