Lucan was confused; Richard had made the dangerous trip from Ireland only a year ago. "You are coming to America again?

Why?"

The line clicked, and a dial tone answered him.

Chapter 5.

As soon as Sam met Harry at the department they drove down to the nightclub across from the bench where Lena Caprell's body had been left. According to the data Sam had pulled off the Internet, Infusion opened its doors at sunset and didn't close until dawn.

The sun had disappeared, but the usual breeze off the ocean had dwindled down to nothing, leaving the beachfront to bake a little longer in electric and neon lights and the exhaust fumes from bumper-to-bumper night traffic. Despite the ninety-degree heat and soup-thick humidity, a long line of patrons was waiting outside Infusion. Sam found an empty space halfway up the block, parked, and flipped down the visor to display the unit ID card. Harry was busy staring back at the club line.

"What is this place, like that Rocky Horror movie?" he asked, disbelief escalating his bushy eyebrows.

"You're stuck in the seventies, pal." Sam noted a couple passing by them; a young man who had tricked himself out to clone Marilyn Manson. His sulky companion, a Cuban girl, had affected more of a Daisy Fuentes-on-acid look. "This is beach goth."

And not the kind of people or place she'd have expected a class act like Lena Caprell to frequent.

Harry grumbled all the way from the car to the front entrance of the nightclub, where a sign by the door indicated the cover was twenty bucks. The doorman, a muscular tank in a surprisingly nice tux, stood up as Sam and Harry cut the line.

"Turn it around." A meaty hand came up to make a stop sign. "You have to wait like the rest of them."

"But we have special invitations from the city." Sam flashed her shield, and the bouncer rolled his eyes before he jerked open the club's steel front door. "Thanks."

It took a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust to the near total darkness inside, and then she took in the basic layout. Infusion was cavernous for a beach club, lighting and sound equipment hanging from a flat black ceiling thirty feet above her head. There were plenty of tiny tables and stools crowded around a huge gray slate dance floor, and polished chrome-and-glass bars that stretched the length of three walls. Bunches of red, oval-shaped lights glittered from the shadows, giving the impression of hundreds of watchful, vicious eyes.

"Welcome to my nightmare," Harry muttered.

Like the bouncer, the bartenders also wore beautifully tailored tuxes, and had their hair slicked back from handsome, bored faces. The waitresses sported abbreviated black French-maid outfits, but without the usual mini white aprons and mob-caps.

No, the decor was definitely red and black-heavy on the black.

Music started up unexpectedly, and Harry flinched as Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" came screeching out of the oversize speakers above their heads.

"See the office?" he shouted to be heard over Kurt Cobain.

Sam spotted a plain door off to one side. "Over there, I think," she yelled back.

They found the door locked, and a shouted inquiry at one of the bartenders nearby revealed that the owner had not yet arrived.

"I don't know when Mr. Hell will be in," the young man bellowed at Sam.

She frowned. "Mr. Hell?"

"L," the bartender repeated, emphasizing it. "L for Lucan."

"Christ, he only has one name?" When the bartender nodded, Harry made a disgusted sound and jerked his head toward the entrance. "Sam, this shit is gonna blow out my eardrums. I'll go canvass the line."

She nodded and caught the arm of a passing waitress, showing her and the bartender Lena's photo. "Either of you recognize this woman?"

The bartender shook his head and went to deliver two screwdrivers to a couple of middle-aged women at the end of the bar.

"Sorry, no," the waitress said before she hurried off with a tray heavily loaded with murky-looking mai tais.

That was the same answer Sam got from everyone, although she thought a couple of the employees recognized the photo and were lying to her. After an hour of coming up empty, she was ready to leave. The pounding music and clouds of cigarette smoke had given her a brutal headache, and if Lena Caprell had ever come to Infusion, the owner didn't want it known. They'd have to find out why."Sam." Harry appeared and watched the gyrating bodies on the dance floor for a moment. "No luck outside. You?"

"Manager still hasn't shown up. I think we'd better..." A huddle in one corner caught her eye. "We got a deal going down over there."

Harry squinted. "Yeah. Take two o'clock; I'll come up from nine."

The five men and women grouped together in the corner stood shoulder-to-shoulder, half-hidden between a square column and one wall of the club. Sam strolled up, peered over one shoulder, and saw a woman in the center. Ten hands were doing various intimate things to the woman's body.

"Hey." Sam prodded a back. "Time for a cigarette."

"I don't smoke." The thirty-something man glanced over his shoulder and bared some fake plastic fangs. "Would you care to join us?"

"You talking up my date?" Harry asked as he came up on the man's other side. He peered at the guy's mouth with mocking astonishment. "Halloween was over a long time ago, buddy."

One thing Sam hadn't been seeing was any sign of drunkenness or drug use, two favorite activities at the downtown beach clubs.

"Let me talk to her." She pushed two sets of shoulders apart and stepped into the huddle. "You okay here, lady?"

The woman's hair was a tangle, and her button-up dress was open to the waist, but nothing was hanging out. Her eyes focused on Sam after a couple of seconds.

"I'm fine." She leaned back against one of the men, who cupped her breasts. "So fine."

Everyone smiled at Sam and Harry. Everyone wore plastic fangs.

Swingers playing oversexed vampires. It took all kinds. "Look," Sam said, "why don't you folks find a nice hotel?"

"Is there a problem here, Officer?"

Sam swiveled and nearly slammed into a broad chest. She looked up into ghost-gray eyes. "Who are you?"

The man took her hand in his, the touch of the black velvet gloves he wore shocking her. "I'm Lucan, the owner of the club.

You wanted to speak to me."

What kind of man wears velvet? In July? Sam tugged her hand from his. "Detective Brown, Fort Lauderdale Homicide. My partner, Detective Quinn. We need to ask you a couple of questions, Mr. Lucan."

"It's simply Lucan." His thin lips curled into something between a sneer and a smile. "Shall we go to my office?" His pale eyes briefly flashed up at the speakers. "It's the only place you'll hear my answers."

Sam heard Harry wheeze and saw more people lighting up cigarettes around them. She leaned close to him. "Let me handle this; you go outside before you have an attack."

Harry scowled but trudged off.

Lucan waited until she looked at him, turned, and walked through the crowd to the office. Sam followed, studying him from behind. He didn't match the description of the suspect; he was too big. She figured him to be at least six-four and two-twenty.

He wore his silver-blond hair like a lion's mane, which should have come off stupid but didn't. Even the silly velvet gloves didn't seem prissy, but he had huge hands.

How would it feel... Sam shoved aside the mental image of black velvet on her breasts. Quit thinking with your crotch.

The interior of Lucan's office matched the club in style, decor, and darkness. He removed his jacket, turned on a small desk lamp, and offered Sam a drink, which she refused. She inspected him up close as he poured some wine for himself. The full- sleeved white poet's shirt and plain black trousers were retro nineteenth century, but it was a goth club; he probably considered it a uniform. He wasn't Cuban, not with the corn-silk hair and spooky eyes. His voice sounded British, but only vaguely.

"How did you know we were cops?" she asked him as he came to stand with her in front of his wide, spotless chrome-and- slate desk.

"You're not wearing black lipstick." He sipped his wine before returning her inspection. "Judging by your suits, you were either bill collectors or police officers. How may I be of service, Detective?"

"We're investigating an incident that happened nearby." She showed him Lena's photo. "Do you recognize this woman?"

Lucan studied the image. "Yes, but I don't know her name."

"How do you know her?"

"I had sex with her several weeks ago." He sat back on the edge of the desk.

"You were lovers?"

He smiled. "We were strangers."

Sam tried not to jump on that, but it was irresistible. "Do you often have one-night stands with strange, nameless women, Mr.

Lucan?"

"Three nights." He drained his wineglass and straightened, moving a step closer.

Sam smelled night-blooming jasmine, but couldn't identify the source. "What was that?"

"It was a three-night stand. I kept her in my bed for three nights." He bent closer, and his voice dropped to a bedroom murmur.

"How many nights would you last, Detective?"

Was he hitting on her? "None." Sam felt strange, rooted to the floor. "I don't have sex with strangers."

One velvet-covered finger touched her dry lips. "Then let's get better acquainted, shall we?"

Her entire body flushed. How could he heat her up so fast, just by stroking her mouth with a velvet fingertip? And why did she feel as if she were going to puke flowers?

I'm sick. Summer flu or something. She took a step back, and then another. "I'm only interested in your relationship with Ms.

Caprell."

"Only?" Lucan watched her face with all the concentration of a cat at a mouse hole. "I don't interest you? Not even a little, Detective?"

"I'll come back tomorrow." Her feet didn't want to leave the floor now, so she shuffled, sliding them like a skater going backward.

"I think you'd rather stay." He extended a hand. "It's what you want, isn't it, Detective? To come to me now. No one is here. No one will see."

He was hypnotizing her. Sam reached out blindly, and her hand connected with the wineglass he had left on the desk. The cold crystal against her hot skin helped her, but not enough to get her legs moving. "My partner is waiting for me."

"Let him wait," Lucan murmured, lowering his hand and moving toward her. "I'll tell you when you can leave."

The hell he would.

It took every ounce of strength Sam had to turn away from him. "Good-bye." She couldn't get more than that out of her mouth, not with the sunlight flowing through her, not with the jasmine growing inside her mind. She couldn't even put down the wineglass. Some part of her underneath of it was furious and shrieking, No, I don't want this.

Sam felt him coming up behind her and her legs stopped working.

"You don't want to go." Large, strong hands touched her shoulders before stroking down over the front of her jacket. Hands pressed her back, and she felt the bulge of his erection against the curve of her spine. "You want to stay, don't you? Stay and please me."

Sam wanted to punch him. "No."

Delicate crystal shattered.

She looked down at her bleeding hand, covered with gleaming shards. It didn't seem to belong to her, but there it was, attached to her wrist. "That should hurt."

"Bloody hell."

As he jerked her around, she looked up at him, bewildered. "Why doesn't it hurt?"

Lucan curled his fingers around her wrist and began plucking the slivers of crystal from her lacerated palm and fingers. "Because you've got a damned will of iron, you stupid bitch, that's why." Furious gray eyes bored into hers. "Who the devil are you?"

At that moment, she wasn't sure of anything but her name. "Samantha." Nothing seemed to matter but breathing in the waves of jasmine rolling over her, which silenced the angry voice deep within. "I didn't mean to break your pretty glass."

He sighed, as if relieved. "At long last." Black velvet touched her chin, lifting it so that she couldn't do anything but look into his eyes. "You didn't break it; I did. Now, tell me why you came here tonight, Samantha."

Sam knew she should be the one asking the questions-she was the cop; he was the suspect-but Lucan was such a kind man, and so gentle. He wouldn't ask unless it was really important, so of course she'd tell him whatever he wanted to know.

"Your name," she heard herself say. "The word Lucan was engraved on the back of an old cross we found on the victim's body." Something funny was happening. His pupils shrank down to splinters of black, while the ghostly irises had turned to chrome. "Something's wrong with your eyes."

"It's the smell of your blood. I haven't..." He looked away from her. "Give me a moment."

His voice sounded as tight as his hand on her wrist. He needed something, something she could give him. She'd give him anything he wanted-immediately-all he had to do was ask. She began to tell him that and then noticed that something else was wrong. "You have fangs."

They flashed when he spoke, and made him lisp a little. As perfect as he was, she liked that tiny flaw. It made him seem more human.But he's not human, not with those vampire teeth. "Are you going to bite me?"

"You've saved me the trouble by piercing a vein." He lifted her injured hand to his open mouth.

Sam didn't feel fangs sinking into her palm. She felt his lips and his tongue, and a gentle suction that made her thighs ache. He wasn't simply cleaning the blood from her hand with his mouth; he was taking more-drinking it from one very deep cut.

He lifted his mouth from her hand, turned it over, and touched the bullet scar. "What did you do to yourself?"