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“Then what is Marguerite worried about?”

“That Yasmeen may take you as a lover. She does that from time to time to drive Marguerite into jealous rages. For some reason I do not understand, Yasmeen enjoys it.”

“Oh, yes, I do enjoy it.” Yasmeen turned towards me with the woman still clasped in her arms. She was holding the struggling woman easily, no strain. Of course, vampires can bench press Toyotas. What was one medium-size human to that?

“So what exactly does this mean to me personally?”

Jean-Claude smiled, but there was an edge of tiredness to it. Was he bored? Or angry? Or just tired? “You must fight Marguerite. If you win, then Yasmeen is yours. If you lose, Yasmeen is Marguerite’s.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What sort of fight, pistols at dawn?”

“No weapons,” Yasmeen said. “My Marguerite is not skilled in weapons. I don’t want her hurt.”

“Then stop tormenting her,” I said.

Yasmeen smiled. “It is part of the fun.”

“Sadistic bitch,” I said.

“Yes, I am.”

Jesus, some people you couldn’t even insult. “So you want us to fight bare-handed over Yasmeen?” I couldn’t believe I was even asking this question.

“Yes, ma petite.”

I took a deep breath, looked at my gun, looked back at the screaming woman, then holstered my gun. “Is there any way out of this, besides fighting her?”

“If you admit you are my human servant, then there will be no fight. There will be no need for one.” Jean-Claude was watching me, studying my face. His eyes were very still.

“You mean this was a setup,” I said. The first warm rumblings of anger chased up my gut.

“A setup, ma petite? I had no idea Yasmeen would find you so enticing.”

“Bullshit!”

“Admit you are my human servant and all ends here.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you fight Marguerite.”

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

“What would it cost you to admit what is true, Anita?” Jean-Claude asked.

“I am not your human servant. I will never be your human servant. I wish you’d just accept that and leave me the fuck alone.”

He frowned. “Ma petite, such language.”

“Fuck off.”

He smiled then. “As you like, ma petite.” He sat up on the edge of the couch, maybe so he could see better. “Yasmeen, any time you are ready.”

“Wait,” I said. I took off my jacket and wasn’t sure where to lay it.

The man who had been sleeping on the black-canopied bed reached a hand through the black gauze. “I’ll hold it for you,” he said.

I stared at him for a minute. He was naked from the waist up. His arms, stomach, chest showed signs of weightlifting, just enough, not too much. He either had a perfect tan or was naturally dark complected. Hair fell in a wavy mass around his shoulders. His eyes were brown and very human. That was nice to see.

I handed him my jacket. He smiled, a quick flash of teeth that chased the last signs of sleep from his face. He sat up with the jacket in one hand, arms encircling his knees that were still hidden under the black and red covers. He laid his cheek on his knees and managed to look winsome.

“Are you quite done, ma petite?” Jean-Claude’s voice was amused, with an edge of laughter that wasn’t humor at all. It was mockery. But whether he was mocking me or himself, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m ready, I guess,” I said.

“Put her down, Yasmeen. Let us see what happens.”

I heard Stephen say, “Twenty on Marguerite.”

Yasmeen said, “No fair. I can’t bet against my own human servant.”

“I’ll spot you both twenty that Ms. Blake wins.” That came from the man in the bed. I had a second to glance at him, to see him smile at me; then Marguerite was coming.

She slapped at my face, and I blocked it with my forearm. She fought like a girl, all open-handed slaps and fingernails. But she was fast, faster than a human. Maybe she got that from being a human servant, I don’t know. Her fingernails raked down my face in a sharp, painful line. That was it: no more Ms. Nice Guy.

I held her off with one hand. She dug her teeth into that hand. I hit her with my right fist as hard as I could, turning my body