Just One Bite

by Kimberly Raye

  The cork popped, the opening gasped, and I downed the entire bottle in one long, desperate gulp. By the time I finished, I felt loads better.

  Okay, so loads was stretching things a bit, but I felt calm enough to evaluate the past few minutes rationally.

  Who? What? When? Why?

  The questions raced through my brain, none of which could be answered unless I grew some big ones, opened the box again, and gave the contents another look. Just to make sure, you know, that the ghoulish things weren’t some stress-induced figment of my imagination.

  I had been threatened and slimed, and all in the same night. That was enough to wig anyone out and send them off to the Land of the Loony.

  I braced myself and reached for the box.

  The good news was that I wasn’t a hallucinating nutcase. The bad news was that they were still there.

  Gleaming white enamel. Razor sharp ends. Bloody stumps.

  My chest tightened and a lump worked its way up my throat.

  Like I know crying is useless and weak and yada yada, but sometimes it feels like the right thing to do, even for a badass vampire like yours truly. Especially when I noticed the small white card tucked into the lid of the box. I pried the paper loose and unfolded it.

  Just a little reminder of what I’m going to do to you if you don’t find me a woman…V.

  The reality of what I was up against hit me. I sank down onto the edge of my sofa and started to bawl.

  For myself.

  For the poor schlump who’d lost his fangs.

  For myself. Because I was going to be the next poor schlump if I didn’t find Vinnie’s soul mate in time for Mama Balducci’s birthday.

  My vision blurred. I was sniffling like crazy when I felt a brush of warmth against my ankle, followed by a soft meow.

  I wiped at my cheeks and blinked frantically. Killer’s image came into focus.

  He wasn’t the most attractive cat (I’d rescued him from an alley and certain death at the hands of a rat the size of King Kong). He was brown and white, and still a little on the thin side, but I’d spruced him up with a silver collar and a white rhinestone tee that read THE KING HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING.

  Instantly, my fear multiplied when I thought of Vinnie planting the box outside my door with Killer mere inches away. If the guy could dismember a were bear and rip the teeth off a vampire without one iota of conscience, imagine what he could do to a poor, helpless kitty.

  Killer narrowed his bright green eyes, his message loud and clear. Enough with the blubbering, already. I’d like to eat sometime before global warming ends and we plunge into the next ice age.

  Make that a snotty, pretentious, smart-ass kitty.

  “I’m this close to losing my fangs. I could use a little compassion, here.”

  Compassion’s for wussies. What you need is a baseball bat. Or better yet, a Glock. Cap a few in his ass and you’re home free.

  Yeah, right. I so didn’t do death and destruction all that well. A gun was definitely out.

  As for the bat…

  I made a mental note to hit the local sporting goods store first thing next afternoon. In the meantime, I pushed to my feet and stashed the Tiffany box in the back of my closet until I could give it a proper burial.

  A few minutes later (after searching the apartment for more body parts and double-checking the chair in front of the door), detoured off the panic highway and U-turned back to normal.

  Alicia Keys drifted from my iPod docking station. The scent of my favorite Bundt Cake candle sweetened the air. I changed into pink Juicy sweats and headed for the pantry.

  I’d just reached for a can of Kitty Cuisine when a strange sense of awareness crawled through me. I knew then, even before I heard the slow creak of wood and the tremble of hinges, that someone was trying to get into my apartment.

  And with the sucky way my night was going, I felt pretty damned certain that it wasn’t Colin Farrel.

  Seven

  Every muscle in my body went tight. My heart stalled and my survival instincts fired to life (I had poor, defenseless Killer to protect, not to mention a closetful of designer couture).

  In the blink of an eye, I morphed into killer-bitch mode and rounded the corner, fangs bared. The living room appeared empty, but the door stood wide open. The chair sat off to the side. My mind raced back to the present that had been sitting on my doorstep.

  “You don’t have to leave me any more surprises,” I called out. “I get it. You’re the biggest, baddest SOB in New York.”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  The deep, familiar voice rumbled through my head and relief washed through me, followed by a wave of anger. I shifted from killer bitch to irritated bitch and turned on the made vampire who stood directly behind me.

  I gave him my best glare.

  At least, I meant to glare. But then Ty Bonner came into my line of vision and suddenly the only thing I could do was gaze.

  While I’d thought about him more than once over the past several weeks since our night of goodbye sex, I hadn’t actually seen him in the flesh.

  He looked even better than I remembered.

  Wilder. Sexier. And très macho.

  Long dark hair fell to his shoulders. Stubble covered his strong square jaw. His blue eyes gleamed with a neon-like intensity that made my tummy tingle and my nipples pebble. He was dressed classic-cowboy in a black leather duster, black jeans, and black boots. A Stetson sat low on his forehead, shadowing the top half of his face and obscuring the tiny scar that bisected one of his eyebrows.

  But I didn’t need to see the tiny pucker of skin to know that it was there. I’d felt it with my hands. I’d even tasted it with my lips and licked it with my tongue. In fact, I’d licked my way down the smooth column of his neck, over the dip in his clavicle, around his nipples, his belly button, his—

  Sheesh.

  And they said men were obsessed with sex?

  I gave myself a great big mental kick in the ass and summoned my most pissed-off expression. “You scared the crap out of me. Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

  He gave me that odd look that said he couldn’t quite believe I was for real, and then he shrugged. “Knocking’s overrated. You lose the element of surprise.”

  “And you needed to surprise me because?”

  “You tell me.” He stared into my eyes, his blue gaze pushing deep, probing. “Lil?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s your full name?” he asked, still not convinced.

  “Are you kidding me? You know my name.”

  “But do you?”

  I narrowed my gaze at him. “Have you been drinking?”

  “I’ve been working. Now answer the question.”

  I shook my head and contemplated pinching myself. I had to be stuck smack-dab in the middle of a nightmare. Yeah, a nightmare would be good. That would mean Vinnie and the bloody fangs were all a very vivid product of my overstressed imagination. I’d been burning the proverbial candle at both ends, trying to build up my business and pay off the credit cards I’d used to get DED off the ground, and it was finally catching up to me.

  Talk about the perfect excuse, except for one slight problem—other than the occasional beach fantasy, I didn’t dream. I slept the sleep of the undead—pitch-black and consuming—and so, it ain’t happenin’, sister.

  Forget the nightmare. I latched onto the next explanation that jumped into my head. “Am I being punked?”

  “Is that show even on anymore?”

  I didn’t have a clue because I didn’t actually watch much TV. Evie (she TiVo’d everything) usually filled me in. “Candid Camera?”

  “No.”

  “What Not to Wear?” I frowned. “Because if that’s the case, you can get Stacey and Clinton to take a hike back to the studio because I so don’t need their help. They can take their free shopping spree and give it to some clueless woman wearing a polyester pantsuit and beat-up clogs…”

  Wait a second.
What the hell was I saying? We’re talking the words shopping and free in the same sentence.

  “I have clogs,” I blurted, my mind doing a quick mental calculator of all the belts and shoes and fab bags I could afford with a complimentary 5K. “Vintage seventies. Big, bulky, white,” I admitted. “Hideous. I should have thrown them out ages ago.”

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth for the space of two heartbeats before his frown deepened. “This isn’t about clogs.” His hands closed over my shoulders, his fingers strong and firm and compelling. “Stop stalling and tell me your name.”

  “Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette,” I blurted.

  He didn’t look relieved. (Not that I blamed him. Saying it was bad enough. Hearing it had to be just as painful.)

  His eyebrows drew together. “Favorite color?”

  “Pink.”

  “Favorite blood type?”

  “O positive.”

  “Occcupation?”

  “Matchmaker.”

  “Favorite pastime?”

  “Shopping.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You like to talk,” he announced with a flourish.

  “True, but not as much as I like to spend money. Or plastic. Or gift cards.” Which he knew full well since he’d harbored a fugitive (me) a few months back when I’d been wanted for murder.

  “Hometown?” he persisted.

  “A small but filthy rich village in the south of France.”

  “First bite?”

  “The son of a nearby peasant farmer. Pierre. He had killer abs.”

  “Biggest weakness?”

  “MAC lip gloss and Brad Pitt.” And you. The thought rushed through my mind before I could stop it and, sure enough, Ty’s gaze deepened as if I’d come through in hi-def.

  Duh.

  Despite our mutual agreement to end our sexual relationship, we were still mentally linked since we’d shared both sex and blood (not at the same time—otherwise I’d be even more into him than I was).

  Since I still hadn’t learned how to consciously block him the way he blocked me, he read me loud and clear. Meanwhile, I rarely got so much as a signal from him unless he wanted me to.

  “You’re still into me, huh?”

  Like now.

  “I said was,” I told him, averting my gaze. “Meaning past tense.” I shook my head and rushed on, “What’s with the twenty questions anyway?”

  “I ran into Ash tonight. He mentioned that you got caught in the middle of one of his takedowns over at St. Michael’s. Something about a rogue demon trying to escape during an exorcism. You stopped him.”

  “And?”

  “We’re talking a demon. Straight from the bowels of Hell.”

  My brain cells clicked. “That explains it. I don’t think I’ve smelled anything that bad since Killer swiped one of Mrs. Janske’s goldfish and hid it in the laundry hamper.” I shook my head. “But I still don’t get why you’re grilling me.”

  “The demon got away. One minute they were about to exorcise him and send him back to Hell, and the next he up and disappeared.”

  “And?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “The only way for a demon to escape one body is to possess another. Since he came into direct contact with you, it’s possible that he ditched the poor bastard he was in and slid into you when you touched him.”

  “Me? Possessed by a demon?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Says you. There’s nothing possessing me.” Except maybe a smidgen of vanity. And a healthy dose of lust. “I mean, I would know, right? I would feel it?”

  “Without a doubt. It’s an all-out war. You versus the demon. It can get pretty ugly.” He glanced behind him. “When I saw the door, I thought the mental battle had turned physical.”

  “I just had a little trouble with my key.” I did a nanosecond of soul-searching and came up with nada for ugly, slimy demons. Then my attention snagged on Ty again and I couldn’t help but smile. “You came over here because you were worried about me.”

  “That, and there’s a pretty big bounty at stake.”

  My expression, along with my ego, died. “You really know how to burst a girl’s bubble.”

  He grinned. “Hey, it’s all about business.”

  Yeah, right.

  He knew as well as I did that there was no use admitting that he was more worried about me than losing out on a few grand. Even if we hadn’t been from opposite sides of the vamp spectrum, Ty had his own issues. Namely, a vengeful, sadistic sire who refused to let him have even a moment of happiness.

  Ty knew Logan (said sadistic sire) was watching, and so he refused to get involved with me for fear that I might get caught in the cross fire between the past and the present.

  Too sweet.

  That was just one of many strikes against us, and so there was absolutely no reason for Ty to acknowledge his concern or for me to feel even the least bit touched by it. I should take him at his word and toss him into the pot with all the other cold, emotionless, money-grubbing vampires out there.

  “How much is the bounty?” I couldn’t help myself.

  “A lot.”

  “Translate that into dollars and cents.”

  “A lotta dollars and an equal amount of cents.”

  “You don’t know, do you?” Which meant it hadn’t been all about the moola when he’d rushed over. “I’m about to pour a glass of blood,” I heard myself say. “I’ve got plenty. Want to join me?”

  “You don’t really think that’s a good idea, do you?”

  Yes. “No.” I tamped down a rush of disappointment. “You probably should get back to work.”

  “Probably.”

  “There’s a demon out there with your name on it, after all.”

  “There is.” He looked none too happy about it, either.

  I forced a smile. “Make sure you wear gloves. I can still feel the slime.”

  He gave me a serious look. “You sure you’re okay? You don’t feel any different?”

  Actually, I felt a lot different. Warmer in certain places. Desperate in others. “I’m fine. Tired, but fine. Speaking of which, you have all of a half hour to get where you’re going because I doubt you brought sunscreen.”

  He winked. “I just happen to have some SPF 2000 right here in my pocket.”

  “And here I thought you were just glad to see me.” Okay, so I was flirting. But we’re talking harmless words. It wasn’t like I was going to hoist him over my shoulder, throw him on my king-sized bed, and rip off his clothes.

  Unless he asked me to.

  “I’d better go,” he blurted, his knowing gaze burning into mine. “You’d better get that door fixed.”

  “First thing tomorrow,” I promised.

  He nodded. A flash of black and then he was gone.

  My stomach hollowed out and I had the sudden urge to rush forward and catch one last glimpse of him before he disappeared down the stairwell. Or out the nearest window.

  “I know, I know,” I told Killer when he blinked up at me as if to say looo-zer. “I’m pathetic, right?”

  And slow as hell. I’ve been waiting on dinner for a full fifteen minutes now. He added an irritated meow to drive his point home.

  “Don’t get your doggie tee in a twist. I’m getting it.”

  Make it quick, otherwise those fangs aren’t the last little surprise you’ll be getting tonight.

  “I should have left you in that alley.”

  Yeah, yeah. And I should have shredded your favorite silk blouse. We all have regrets. Get over it.

  Ty’s image popped into my head and my ears prickled for the sound of footsteps or the flutter of wings.

  Not because I, like, liked him or anything. He’d been my first since jumping off the Meaningless-Sex bandwagon several years ago and climbing onto the I’m-Saving-Myself-for-My-Eternity-Mate express. He’d simply reminded me of all the fun I’d been missing.

 
But the fun was over now, and I was NOT going back to my old ways. I intended to find my eternity mate, settle down, and pop out a baby Shiloh or Violet or Magenta. Someday.

  If my femur or humerus didn’t wind up in Vinnie Balducci’s sock drawer.

  On that sobering thought, I moved the door back into place, wedged the chair under the knob, scooped up Killer, and headed into the kitchen.

  The clock was ticking.

  Eight

  Later that afternoon, I walked into Dead End Dating a half hour ahead of schedule. I’d put the whole fang incident in its proper perspective. It had been a warning of things to come if I didn’t hook Vinnie up, which I totally intended to do. And so there was no reason to panic yet. It was only Friday, meaning I still had five days until Mama B’s birthday.

  If it had been Monday, well, that would have been a completely different story.

  At least that’s what I’d been telling myself since I’d crawled out of bed. Add a grande house brew with four shots of espresso on top of the mental pep talk, and I was jacked up on enough caffeine and optimism to match up even Vinnie.

  “You brought Starbucks.” Evie’s eyes lit up as if I were dangling a tube of MAC’s newest lip gloss—Cherry Buzz—right in front of her.

  Evie had been with me since I’d first opened my doors to Manhattan’s rich and clueless. Simultaneously, she could man the phones, run a computer, and wield a mascara wand without taking out an eye. Like moi, she’d been raised with a 24-karat spoon in her mouth. Unlike moi, hers had been replaced with a plastic spork because her financial guru father had made some poor investments.

  “Have I told you how wonderful you are?” She took the mocha latte I handed her with both hands, closed her eyes, and took a deep whiff. “You’re the kindest”—she sipped—“prettiest”—another sip—“most thoughtful boss”—sip, sip—“a girl could have.” Another sip and she eyeballed my sequined Chilli Couture tank. “Nice.”

  “You, too.”

  For someone now paying her own way on a modest yet respectable salary (minus the health and dental, but I’m still looking) she always managed to pull off office fab.