The guard made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
I stepped out.
Six feet two inches of godly-supernatural impossibility in a Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than his annual salary. Dark hair catching the strange luminescence. Features that made women forget their own names and men question their sexuality.
Eyes that promised things most religions condemned.
Madison emerged from the passenger side with the grace of a woman who'd grown up knowing she was beautiful and had simply decided to be generous about sharing it with the world.
The guard was still staring. At me. At Madison. At the car. At me again. His hand twitched toward his radio, stopped, twitched toward his weapon, stopped, settled for hanging uselessly at his side.
"We're here to see Charlotte Thompson," Madison said, voice smooth as honey over silk. "She's expecting us."
The guard found words. Sort of. "The... vehicle, sir. What... what is that?"
I smiled.
"Mine."
