Three large paintings of women were propped against the bookshelves at the far end of the room. With his short, dark hair combed back all Rebel Without A Cause, Hajo stood in front of them, his tall, lean frame dwarfing a man at his elbow. The waif who’d answered the door was draped around his shoulders, her small halo looking pale against Hajo’s ultra-watt blue one.

“I like them all, but I only have room for one,” he was telling the guy, who was either the artist or the art dealer. From the way he was dressed, in expensive slacks and a button-down shirt, I was going to assume the latter.

The paintings were life-sized: a redhead, a blonde, and a dark-haired Asian woman wearing a surgical mask and a nurse’s cap. They were painted with angry strokes, and none of them were particularly attractive. In fact, I’d go so far to say that they were dark and depressing.

“I like her the best,” I said.

Hajo turned to look at me, dark, heavy brows lifting. He had great bones and miles of sooty lashes that ringed his eyes like kohl. “Hello, Bell. Which one?”

I pointed to the painting of the Asian nurse.

“Interesting. Why her?”

I studied the paintings. “She doesn’t seem as lost as the other two.”

“Interesting,” Hajo said. He kept his dark sideburns styled into diagonal points, which seemed to stretch when his chiseled face drew up into a slow smile. Then he spoke to the buttoned-up man. “Let me look at them tonight and I’ll give you a decision tomorrow.”

The man scribbled something on a card. Hajo glanced at me while he waited for it. Light from the punched-metal and glass chandelier cast shadows on his elongated face that made his cheekbones seem impossibly sharp. He could trace his paternal ancestry to the missing Roanoke colony, like the majority of Earthbounds in the US, but his mother was Turkish, or so he said. His mismatched heritage combined pretty pleasantly.

He took the man’s business card and jerked his head toward the door. “Out.”

The guy looked a little put-out, but he made no comment and retreated as Hajo pried the waif’s hands from around his shoulders. “Go on,” he told her.

“Hajo—”

“Are you deaf? Get the fuck out of here. And close the door behind you.”

The girl seemed genuinely offended, and not for the first time, I thought it was kind of a shame that all this tall, brooding handsomeness went to waste on someone so miserable and douche-y.

Hajo’s chest and shoulders broadened as he crossed his arms, stretching the dark fabric of his shirt. His jeans were expensive and Euro-trendy, sitting low over his flat, polished loafers. Everything about his look projected the image that he was some sort of continental business mogul who ordered five-hundred-dollar bottles of champagne in the VIP section of a hipster nightclub. It was the first time I’d ever seen him without his black leather racing jacket. Guess this was Hajo in his natural environment. Or maybe the other Hajo was real, and this was show. Hard to tell.

“Why are you having a party if you don’t want to socialize?” I asked as the doors clicked shut.

“The football quarterback suggested it,” he said dourly. “I’m worried he knows I deal. He asks too many questions. He’s got a coke habit and is also looking for a steroid hookup.” Hajo gestured to the party outside the door. “I’m trying to placate him. Get him introduced to people who can steer him away from me. I don’t need a high-profile client with a big mouth.”

“Tough to be you.” I glanced around. “Your place is . . . really freakin’ nice.”

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“Well, geez. The first time I met you was in that hellhole in Waxtown.”

His chin lifted as he made a vague noise of acknowledgment. “Cristina’s place. She was a pig.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t the only one,” I muttered.

His lazy gaze rambled over my body. “Oink.”

“Don’t start.”

“You’ve got a little extra something going on tonight, Bell,” he said, waving his hand up and down between us. “Your energy’s sharper. What’s up with that?”

Hajo once told me that he could sense living energy trails, not just dead ones. Said my energy was different and he could probably track it, which scared the bejesus out of me, truthfully. And now that he’d noticed something different, I thought of my moon magick and my mother. A dull panic surfaced. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just busier. More potent. Riper.”

“Maybe you’re just higher,” I said.

“Maybe. Have you gained weight? Your breasts are starting to balance out that big ass of yours.”

I think my mouth fell open. Sure, Kar Yee’s shirt made a ridiculous show of my boobs, but this was my own T-shirt. Was I really getting fat? And, oh my God, why was I even listening? Who says this kind of stuff?

“It was a compliment,” he explained. “Your ass is marvelous.”

“What’s the matter with you? Stop saying shit like that.”

“Me? What’s eating you? You’re in a horrible mood.”

Pfft. Like I was going to tell him. I grumbled to myself and jerked my head away, but he just stared at me, waiting. “Lon’s ex-wife is in town.”

He whistled. “The hot supermodel.”

“She’s way hotter in person.”

“Nice. I mean, not for you. That blows. Are they getting back together or something?”