After a couple of minutes, he pulled into traffic, and we were on our way. I found my manners. “Did Mr. McLeod say anything else, Goose?”
He cast me a boyish grin in the mirror. “No, ma’am, but he did say that you should arrive in style, and he didn’t want you to have to take the subway. It can be dangerous.”
If he only knew. In all of my time, I’d never had a town car drive me anywhere, but it was a perk on my bucket list for one day. But the attack last night hadn’t been on the subway but Sunflower’s apartment. Did this mean that Alistair was connected to Sunflower or that these vampires had done something to her? I wrung my hands.
“You’re not from around here, huh? No true New Yorker fears the best public transportation in the country.”
“I’m not one to cry wolf.” He paused to change lanes. “In my opinion, this place is a beacon for the lonely and unusual.”
“Did you see the fireworks the other night? They lit up the sky like New Year’s.”
“No, I…I go to sleep early.” I felt him hedging a bit on the truth. “But if you can survive in New York, you can survive anywhere.”
The cruise ship chugged along at a slow and steady speed, leaving behind the bright lights of the New York Harbor and setting sail for Europe.
When I’d agreed on a cruise to Scotland, which would supposedly be great to re-spark my career, I’d somehow forgotten that whole seasick thing. Instead of dancing, eating any buffet, or even playing shuffleboard, I’d succumbed to bouts of unease. With each sway of the ship, my stomach flip-flopped.
Although Gran had traveled with me, she’d taken an interest in all of the other people on the ship. I’d never heard her rousing chuckle reverberate so loudly through the halls, and my new bodyguard, Alistair—well, he’d stayed out of my sight and could fit in as a cover model seeking work.
He’d played my emotions, and the way he’d gaslighted me under the guise of protecting me made me wish I hadn’t run into him on the subway. And still, I had no idea what or who this seer was that required others to attack me.
Luckily, my sister, Claudine, would be the silver lining in all of this.
Twilight painted the sky in beautiful blues and purple, while the sun waved goodbye and the live band played music on the deck above.
I leaned over the rail of the cruise ship, watching the waves slap against its side. The salty sea air did nothing to ease my plight. My stomach lurched, and I thought I swallowed a bit of vomit, when I heard Claudine approach from the side.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Claudine said with a slight giggle to Donovan, a male model. All I saw were his “proudly on display” six-pack of abs. She wiggled her fingers in a slight ta-ta, and practically lost a hip jutting it to the side to accentuate her curvy figure.
“Did you hear that?” Claudine sidled up to me. “He’s going to take me dancing.”
I tried to smile. She’d been trying to set up a rendezvous with Donovan for months, and I’d given her the greatest of excuses—a themed cruise with authors, readers, and photographers with their cover models.
Donovan looked great in leather. He looked great in cotton. And from his covers, he even looked heart-stopping in Scottish kilts. I’d requested him often enough to grace my book covers to know all of his smoldering looks, even his bedroom-eyed gaze. And I’d seen him work his magic on an assistant or two.
Claudine was my temporary assistant, best friend, and older sister.
* * *
I wiped my mouth with a hanky and pushed away from the ship’s rail. “You do know that he’s a romance cover model?”
“Yes.” She sighed.
“And that he’s surely meeting a lot of women on this trip?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? As long as he likes a little sport afterward, that’s fine.”
“It might just all be a game.” I wanted to protect her.
“Well”—She stuck out her ample chest and pulled her halter top higher, as if gearing up for the challenge—“I’ll have to play for keeps. You might know about fictional love, but I know about men.”
“As long as you don’t leave this one tied to my bed in my room, we’ll be fine.”
“Leslie, it’s all just for research. How are you ever going to describe a real adventure without living it?”
“That doesn’t mean my jumping on the popular trend of whips, chains, and ball gags.”
“Don’t forget the anal beads.”
I wrinkled my nose. But that was Claudine, always thinking about ass.
“You have to get over your seasickness,” Claudine said.
Hanging over the rail, I nodded my head as if I agreed. To be honest, there were worse things in life than not being able to take two steps without getting nauseated.
“Today is all about you performing.” This was her way of telling me that the cruise was about work, and me hustling to remain a brand name even after flopping with the latest release and contract.
“What's on my plate for this afternoon?”
“Well, you have the author meet and greet on Deck C, with the other romance authors from the Fleur group.”
“Why was I signed up for that? I don't write French books.”
The cruise had been booked before the anvil fell on my head. If the situation were the plot of an Acme movie, there would be tons of gags to pull, but this was actual life.
“No worries. Surely, you'll have enough to talk about and even some rabid fans. Did you send out your newsletter inviting your readers?”
I scratched my head and wondered why I had an assistant.
“That’s what you were supposed to do,” I mumbled.
“Well, too late now. You might want to stop grabbing on that metal pole as if it were going to save your life. This sea breeze isn't helping, either. Go and engage with your readers.”
I felt like a fraud, letting go of my comfortable nausea for a discomforting smile. Imagine having spent years creating something to have it all go “poof” overnight, and then to have to declare it still a success the very next morning.
My walk to the C deck was filled with gloom and doom, or at least what I wanted to equate it to. The ship rocked, passengers bypassed me, and with each step, my hands began to sweat, my stomach flip-flopped, and beads of sweat dripped down my brow. My mouth parched, I attempted to swallow to create some saliva to relieve what felt like the sands of the Sahara Desert.
Upon arriving at the venue, I noticed the three tables set up—and two of them had lively banners, with cover models showing off their detailed six-packs, colorful tablecloths, and fantastic swag all set up. On my table rested a simple white name shield, and my name was misspelled.
“You know, in my day, people cared about their appearance,” Gran began.
I hadn’t noticed her until she said something. Still wearing a black ensemble, she sauntered around in a fluted ladies skirt. She’d matched it with a high-neck collar blouse, under a brocade jacket. Gran had style. To top it off, she’d paired it with a wide-brim hat trimmed with ostentatious ostrich feathers.
“Shh.” I clenched my teeth, sighed, and eased my brow. The tension in my shoulders sought to keep me from standing there tall and proud because what I felt was almost overpowering.
“Ms. Love?” asked an attendant. She reached out, and I shook her hand, happy she used my pseudonym instead of my legal name. “Thank you so much for coming. Your books are under your table. Since we were not able to get returnable copies, you will need to reimburse us for the cost of any books you don't sell.”
“But my agent...”
“Yes, they stated you would be fine with that.” She then handed me a copy of the email exchange between her and Malcolm.
“I told you those people would rip you off,” Gran whispered so only I could hear her.
I gritted my teeth, and a laugh erupted. To my ears, the pitch sounded harsh, uncomfortable even. It reminded me of the cutting-edge sound a maid might make to the child who happened to orde
r her about, unable to chastise him for fear of losing her job. A smile that resulted from stress, or fear even—one caused by a quagmire's plight.
Here I stood, needing the money—could I even say that? I'd taken my last pittance, betting on a new contract, book deal, and a fresh bout of sales to send me erupting from the red to the black. I'd paid with blood, sweat, tears, and my needs be damned. I'd poured my soul into words that many refused to read. Still, there I stood, and I knew she saw it, too—the fraudulent writer who could not speak of success, but of mistakes, failures, and even more missteps.
“That should be fine,” I said. “With all of these people here, I don't foresee any problems.”
“Of course. Don't forget we have the luncheon right after this, and then another signing time. You'll be seated at a table with readers who stated they enjoy your genre. Then you can engage them, build a relationship.”
“I believe in getting to know my readers. It's not about whether they buy something from me.”
She nodded as if she understood, but I knew she didn't. For her, a business was based on the company's bottom line, that was, on revenue, not on an increase in social engagement.
“Readers are so much more than dollars and cents,” I added.
“That might be the case, but don't forget the stipulations in the contract that you still have to fulfill.” She let the rest hang.
It seemed like my situation was indeed well-known. My contract for work may not have been renewed for an additional project, but it was still expected that I perform according to the agreement.
She turned away, and I noticed two other women walking forth with speaker ribbons on their name tags. They seemed to be deep in a pleasant conversation as their laugh reached my ears.
“Ladies,” the attendant said. “I am so happy you could make it, especially with your schedules. I must say, you two are amazing, and I love your French heroes. Jean-Luc is so dreamy, and Pasquale is just amazing. Maybe you two might collaborate on a future project,” she gushed.
In that moment, extreme peace descended over me. That was why I wrote books. Not to be idolized, but for characters to become three-dimensional people that readers connected with, and the great thing about romance was that jealousy wasn't something that needed to exist. The pie was big enough for all of us. I moved forward in greeting.
“Hi, I'm Leslie Love. You must be Beverley Hyacinth Madeline, Ambrosia Dusk, and Florence Plusherson.”
We smiled at each other and moved around the table.
“We're thrilled to be here,” Beverly began. “This is my first Woo-Cruise, and it’s just so exciting. Don't you agree, Florence?”
“It's like a girls’ night out with tons of hot men for eye candy. So far, I've met so many wonderful readers, and did I mention the hot men?” She snickered.
“Don't say that too loud, or your husband back in Texas will hear you.”
“What happens on the Woo-Cruise stays on the Woo-Cruise,” she said. “Besides, there is nothing wrong with a lot of looking, and he gave me tons of one-dollar bills.”
“I don't think we're supposed to be making it rain like at a strip club,” I said.
Ambrosia remained quiet, as if calmly taking everything in and listening.
“Oh, no, that’s not what I do with them.” Florence grinned. “I give myself a dollar for every time I don't give in to temptation. I hate to see money left on the table, even my own. But there is this one model here that is fierce. He did a lot of those vampire and shifter covers. Mesmerizing eyes, hard and throbbing muscles…” She began to fan herself with her name plate. “Such kissable lips.”
“Florence,” Beverly said. “I'm not sure Jim’s going to be happy with you all hot and bothered about this.”
“Jim?” I asked.
“Her husband and my brother. She's my sister-in-law.”
I took a step back, feeling my eyes widen. If she was getting hot and bothered by simply talking about a handsome man, what was this woman going to do when the cover models showed up in the next couple of minutes?
“Well, they are just playing parts. We don't invite strange men back to our bunks,” Beverly chastised.
“But what if I really, really want to? I mean, I love your brother and all, but my imagination is satisfying me more than he is. I swear he's cheating on me with his damn secretary—yeah, cliché, I know, but I can't find any other reason why he's lost interest in me. I started writing some erotica, right? Something to get him to read—and he won't pick it up. I'll sit there for hours wearing my best lingerie, and he doesn't even notice. Something is definitely wrong, and I'm sort of sure it's not me.”
“Florence, I didn't know.”
“Well, there's a lot you don't know. So, if I choose to sit in a corner, drink my margarita, and undress a handsome model with my eyes, it’s because that's the closest I'm going to get to getting laid anytime soon.”
Whoever this cover model was that she was interested in seemed to have made quite an impact.
“Are you related to them, too? I asked Ambrosia, who was dressed like a vampire from the Victorian age with her crimson-red and black attire, inky hair, and pale pallor.
She shook her head. “No, I’ve joined this cruise last minute, really, in hopes of meeting you.”
Before I could respond, a group of readers showed up and made a beeline for the three women, leaving me at my pretty empty table to stare at them.
“Until later, Leslie,” Ambrosia said, and I bit back my grimace. She might be taking this cosplay thing a bit too far.
Chapter Eight
Alistair
The Order would have had a better chance at protecting Leslie if Alistair had just approached her with the “you’re in danger” truth instead of trying to get her to fall for him. Now her blood boiled, and he couldn’t blame her.
At least, having her upset with him kept his emotions in check. She was still breathtaking, and the more time he spent with her, the more she awakened him from his slumber.
Her presence chipped away at his frozen exterior, at his desire for no romantic entanglements.
The cruise ship overflowed with people. Of course, seeing all of the banners with half-naked men made him question exactly what kind of trip this was. Some of the men were dressed as Highlanders, others as Vikings or Arab Princes, and yet others had on modern-day suits with ties they liked to wiggle. Even more, men walked around swinging fake axes and wielding swords they didn't know how to hold.
And there, in-between, he could smell the magic someone gave off. A clue? He’d have to keep his eyes open to find the supernatural among them. Which could be a great threat to his efforts to keep Leslie safe.
“Are you lost?” asked a blonde dressed like a Viking Thrall.
“Is there something happening on this ship that I don't know?” he asked. Leslie had said there’d be tons of costumes, but that didn’t prepare him for this convention on the water.
The woman leaned over and touched his arm. “Oh, you’re so muscular. I just had to touch and see if it was real.”
Alistair stepped back and straightened. “I don't like to be touched.”
“Then how is it that you’re a romance cover model? All of these women on this ship will be fawning over you.”
“Uh...”
There was a reason he usually avoided humans. Some determined that he should be petted, felt up, and the thought of their come-hither glances were nothing more than repulsive to him. He wasn’t asexual; he enjoyed a good romp. But some of these women were so hungry for male attention. With the disaster between him and Leslie, he started to wish he’d sent Killian on this mission.
Killian would have found a way to lay every woman here flat on her back.
The lady shoved a book down the front of his pants and patted it.
“Just want to make sure there is no false advertisement,” she cooed.
“If you'll excuse me.” He meandered through the crowd, and somehow discovered the pool area wit
h half-dressed women and men dancing and splashing water. Bright lights flashed in the background, and loud music reverberated throughout the room.
“Party!” someone yelled and splashed into the pool beside him.
Alistair didn't know a lot about romance novels. He retrieved the one from his pants and glanced at the passionate cover on the front depicting what appeared to be a Highlander romance with a lot of wind. The author’s name, Leslie Love, was scrawled across the front in a fancy, soft-pink calligraphic font.
“It's true. This is Helheim,” he muttered.
People crammed themselves in every corner of the ship, and needing a moment to clear his head, Alistair retreated to his stateroom. The last-minute ticket had cost him thirty thousand dollars, and the room—a large suite with a balcony overlooking the water—at least met his love for luxury.
Quickly, he pulled up the video conferencing, punching in his access code and waited for the call to connect.
“Thank the gods you’ve called,” Killian said, out of breath. The wolf-shifter was many things, and overly dramatic was not usually one of them. “Beau and his team have been in contact with me. A bounty has been placed on Leslie’s head.”
“Someone wants her taken or dead?”
“It would appear now they don’t care, so I assume dead is an option. Her death ensures the Order’s failure.”
Alistair didn’t need Killian to explain the logic behind such a move. “That’s a leap. Death is also a great test.”
“Yes,” Killian agreed. “She’s self-qualified to fulfil their prophecy of a mighty seer, first, by her spell work with the powerful grimoire. A book none have been able to open in centuries. That alone placed her in danger when it served as a beacon, summoning the vampires to New York. When you combine the book’s use with the test of death, well, it is something they will try at all cost.”
Rage rumbled in his chest. Vampirism was a death cult, but Leslie’s demise would be a test. No matter what, the women of Fate, the Norns, had carved loss into Leslie’s future. Someone meant Leslie harm. But who would be the instrument to make it happen?
Once Bitten Page 5