Her Vampire Obsession

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Her Vampire Obsession Page 20

by Richardson, Lesli


  Please don’t let it be too little too late.

  There are still several hours between now and dark. I’m not even sure what’s “safe” dark for him. I mean, does it have to be twilight? Is dusk okay? Is there some sort of light meter for safe levels?

  Is there a freaking app for that?

  Come on, there has to be some bored, rich vamp app dev somewhere who knows all the programming languages—because of course they would—who could develop something like that.

  Right?

  I grab my phone and send Dexter a text, deleting and typing probably a dozen or more times before I finally settle on something I hope isn’t totally inane.

  I’m back. I’ll keep my phone close.

  As the hours tick by, I fight the urge to pace. Every noise out in the hall makes me jump, and I double and triple and quadruple check my deadbolt and lock and chain, staring through the fish-eye viewfinder in the door to make sure there’s not an angry horde outside my door.

  I drag the comfy chair in front of the door.

  Again, I know it won’t stop a shifter, but it makes me feel a little better.

  During this wait, my mind fucks with me, too. It tells me what a fucking dumbass I am to put my neck on the line for a vampire I’ve only known a short amount of time.

  Tries to convince me that vampires are masters of manipulation. Sure, he can’t pull me into his thrall with his powers, but maybe he’s still trying to control me in more mundane ways.

  I wouldn’t be the first woman to fall for a sob story spun by a hunky guy, or mistake really great sex for something more than that. He’s lived a long freaking time. Plenty of time to learn exactly what to say, to hone the sob story, to refine the details for maximum effect with minimum effort. Maybe he’s a sociopath, or a psychopath, or an emotional sadist.

  Even trying to convince myself Lucius vouching for him is a good thing leads me down darker paths.

  I’ve witnessed firsthand what Lucius and other vampires can do to others, not to mention each other. As long as his human staff don’t betray him—meaning try to kill him or get him killed—Lucius honestly treats them like anyone else would. I’m truly not afraid of him, because he could have killed me at any time and hasn’t. I’m more valuable to him alive than dead. Most of the vampires who know me are wary of me. Because besides my protection from Lucius and Selene, while they could easily kill me, they know that unless they sneak up on me, I’ll probably put a hurting on them in the process, and that juice just ain’t worth the squeeze.

  Literally.

  Eh, juice meaning blood, obvs.

  Yeah, being honest with myself, it’s another reason if I’m not at work at night I like to be home, in my apartment.

  Where vampires can’t get in unless I invite them, and sonofabitch, looky what I freaking did?

  I don’t want to die, but I’m not afraid of it, either. Living’s a pain in the ass. Seriously.

  Except…

  Amber.

  What if my father’s alive?

  What if he’s out there?

  Why didn’t he search for us?

  Do I really want to find him?

  I draw in shaky breaths, but I’ve done such a mindfuck on myself over the past several hours that I don’t even know what I want anymore. If I choose Dexter and effectively isolate myself from the shifters, what then? I’ll be ostracized if shit goes south.

  How can I stay neutral if I’m getting a dose of Vitamin D—for Dick—from Dexter every night?

  The answer, for those of you still uncertain—I can’t. I won’t be allowed to be neutral at that point. It’s impossible.

  I’ll lose the trust of the Tucson pack and other shifters, because I’ll have made my coffin and will be told it’s time for me to lie in it.

  I’ve been alone for nearly twenty years. On my own.

  Never let anyone in.

  Survival mode.

  Never allowed myself to think of anywhere as “home,” because I knew I could be bugging out the next day.

  Tucson is the first place I was really starting to hope could be that home for me. Where it felt like my terrified roots were finally starting to tentatively spread out a little.

  I have a small photo album, one of those single-photos to a page size. Those are all the photos I have of Mom and me together because back then, she’d always have the cheapest cell phone possible, usually without a camera, or it had a crappy camera.

  One of my favorites was taken when I was sixteen, and we were at a park with neighbors. The mom of that family took it with her phone and printed it out and gave us a copy. Mom looked tired but happy. My hair was reddish blonde then, matching hers, and you can see how much we look alike with our smiles. We were both wearing tank tops because, luckily, we were the same size and could share clothes.

  It was a good day. One of the last truly “good” days I can remember, where my soul actually felt lighter, before she died the next year.

  I drop the album on the bed and hurry to the bathroom, where I shut myself inside, turn on the sink in case Dexter’s listening, and softly cry.

  * * *

  I’m hoping the fact that I don’t smell any smoke or charbroiled Dexter is a good sign. At 6:18, I’m obsessively trying to vacuum up the nonexistent dust on my windowsill—

  ash

  —with the Dustbuster—

  ash from his hair because he’s a

  —when I hear a noise—

  fricking vampire and might be dead-dead now because of me

  —that startles me.

  Wheeling around, I see the closet door open as the blue painter’s tape gives way with a startled buuurrrrp that yanks a hysterical bray of laughter from me.

  I step toward the closet and belatedly realize I’m holding the Dustbuster out in front of me.

  Dexter’s alive and apparently uncharred, thank fates, sitting there with the blanket down around his armpits.

  One hunky eyebrow slides up. “What is that?” He nods toward my hand.

  “Um, it’s a Dustbuster.”

  He blinks. “A vacuum cleaner?”

  “Yeah. Duh.” I resort to snark when I’m nervous, and I know it. Defense mechanism. I can’t help it. Snark, and sharp number-two pencils.

  “And were you going to attack me with it? Your broom handle would make a far better improvised stake.”

  I’m so wound up I totally ignore the handsome smirk on his face and realize I’m an idiot to think I could ever have happiness, rich hunky vamp or not. “I wasn’t going to attack you with it, asshole.” Yes, I know he’s trying to deflect with humor because he probably senses how stressed and upset I am.

  “Then what were you doing?”

  I feel my face redden and, for the first time in my dealings with vampires, I outright lie to one. “I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I opened the door. Don’t I get brownie points for not opening the door early?”

  He studies me for a moment. I know he knows I just lied. “You wanted it in case I burned up.” He states it in an annoyingly amused tone.

  “Hey, I have a pair of Jimmy Choos in there, jerkface. They’re worth a lot of damn money to have your icky, ashy self dusted all over them, all right?”

  “I’m flattered.” He pulls the blanket off. At some point, he shed his vest, and his shirt’s unbuttoned, exposing his firm, hunky chest and abs. He’s also barefoot, which is unexpectedly sexy and I don’t know why. “You could have bought new ones with my credit cards, though.” He smiles. “I wouldn’t have minded you modeling them for me. Or did you buy some?” His smile widens.

  I step back, ignoring his last comment. “Yeah, well, they’re not only the best pair of shoes I own, they’re probably the most expensive thing I own. Except the tires on my 4Runner, thanks.”

  His gaze pointedly drops to where the ring hangs on its silver chain under my shirt.

  “That doesn’t count,” I quietly say.

  He stands, unfolding his body and reminding me how tall he is.
I take a step back, still brandishing the Dustbuster between us. I don’t know what I expect to do with it.

  “Why on earth doesn’t it count?” He starts to fold the blanket with precision. “Is it not far more precious than those ‘chew shoes’?”

  “They’re Jimmy Choos, and you damn well know it.” I hate that he’s trying to be dryly witty and charming. “Because I don’t own…it.” I take a breath. “I sometimes feel like it owns me.” Holy hell, why did I admit that? The things he does to me.

  “Did you ever stop to think perhaps you should rid yourself of it?”

  “Why?” One hand protectively flies up to cover it through my shirt while I step back and hold the Dustbuster out in front of me as menacingly as possible.

  “Because perhaps it’s how you’re being tracked.”

  “What? It’s not a damned GPS. It’s a ring. It’s a very old ring that belonged to my father. It’s all I have left of him. I’m not getting rid of it. My mom probably died trying to protect this ring.”

  He finishes folding the blanket, and I hate that he gives me a look that’s three parts pity and one part smoldering, sexy heat.

  Not the bad kind of smoldering, either.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “If it’s a magickal artifact, it could very well be a supernatural GPS, in a manner of speaking.”

  I stare at him. “Go on. Pull the other one.”

  He holds out the blanket, and I finally take it from him with the hand not brandishing the Dustbuster, being careful not to touch him when I do.

  “I’m serious.” He glances at the windows. “Don’t you have to be at work?”

  “I do.” I’d been growing increasingly worried about that, too, adding to all my stress. “I need a shower. Your stuff’s here. I’ll text Theophilus that I’m running late.”

  He studies me for a long and uncomfortable moment. “What happened, Eilidh?” he softly asks. The concern in his tone nearly undoes me.

  “Nothing.” Ooh, second lie in under five minutes. I’m on a roll. “I should get ready and head out.”

  “Aren’t we riding together?”

  “I’ll drive, thanks. That way, you’re not stuck there if you decide you want to leave and return to your hotel.”

  I guess in my head I’ve already decided no, not doing this tonight. Or…ever.

  Even though I reeeally want to do this.

  Wanted to.

  Before the reality of the repercussions started sinking in.

  He draws in what sounds like one of those annoying kinds of breaths people take when they’re trying to stay patient. “I have a car. I can drive you. If you’re really in danger, wouldn’t it make sense to let me take you to work? I can protect you.”

  “How do I know I’m not in danger from you?”

  “That would be bad form, wouldn’t it?” He smirks. “To harm the woman who allowed me to hide in her closet?” I sense he wants to say more, but he’s treading lightly.

  I finally turn, so I can put the Dustbuster and blanket away. “I can’t wait to tell Lucius you came out of the closet.”

  “Yes, well, I can see where that would be amusing.”

  21

  Dexter

  I step into the bathroom to relieve myself and to have a moment alone to think while I do.

  Something happened while I was asleep. Maybe I can’t thrall Eilidh, but she just lied to me twice, and I don’t understand why.

  She never lies. Mostly because she’s an honest person, according to Lucius, but also because she knows it’s pointless to lie to a vampire or a shifter. We can hear the way a human’s pulse spikes, how their breathing changes when they lie. We can practically taste a lie.

  She knows this.

  Meaning something happened, and I need to find out what. Just the fact that she’s shoved her chair in front of the apartment’s door tells me something happened while I was asleep.

  Then there’s the fact that I heard her crying in the bathroom earlier. It took everything in me not to burst through the closet door to find out who’d upset her, so I could rip their throat out.

  Only reminding myself that me dying wouldn’t help her in the least kept me in place.

  I sense a darkening dread within her far beyond mere trepidation. I’m afraid if I don’t get to the bottom of this right now, I might not get another chance with her. That she’s quickly clamping down, trying to rebuild her mental and emotional defenses against me, shutting me out.

  Meaning I also can’t simply grab her and spank the truth out of her, which is absolutely what I’d be doing right now if I’d already negotiated a relationship with her.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, I’m convinced that this is something we need to settle without delay. “I’m going to call Lucius.”

  She flinches. “Why?”

  “Because I need to tell him something.” I pull out my phone and dial Lucius’ number as I watch her.

  He picks up almost immediately. “Dexter, nephew. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but I seem to have absconded with your club’s assistant manager. We’re running a bit late. It’s totally my fault for losing track of time, and I apologize, but can I get Connie to work later than usual? Or will that put you in a bind? I know it’s Friday night and you’ll be busy.”

  Her eyes widen as she realizes what I’m doing, and she starts making hand gestures, trying to stop me. I smile and turn away from her as she circles me and stays in my field of vision, gently warding her off with one hand as I hold my phone in the other.

  “I think we can get through opening just fine,” he says. “We always overstaff Fridays and Saturdays. Plus, Selene and I will be there. Will you be coming with her, then?”

  “Yes, I was hoping I could impose on you and use that suite again tonight and through tomorrow night?”

  “Oh, absolutely. That’ll be fine. I’ll tell Theophilus and the staff. Things are going well between you, I take it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And last night’s meeting with Garrett Green?”

  “I’m satisfied, and I’ll fill you in later, at the club.”

  “Excellent. Shall we expect you before ten?”

  “Yes, that should be doable. I’ll drive her. May I park in her spot? I have a rental, an Audi SUV.”

  “Absolutely. So glad things are working out.”

  “Me, too.”

  As I hang up, I see her fury building, like a beautiful storm billowing in off the Atlantic. She plants her hands on her hips. “You had no right to do that!”

  “I believe I did.” I refuse to rise to the bait. Instead, I slip my phone into my pocket and stand there, hands in my pockets, staring down at her for a long moment. “Why did you just lie to me twice, Eilidh? If I already had a negotiated relationship with you, lying to me—twice—would earn you a very hard spanking over my lap. A spanking which certainly would not be conducted for your enjoyment but to punish you.”

  That’s an extremely calculated risk on my part. I know it could send her running, and I’d be forced to chase and rebuild her trust from scratch.

  But I hear a dry click as she nervously swallows, her gorgeous throat working, and the way her pulse spikes. A beautiful flush rises in her chest and cheeks.

  Therefore, I stand, waiting, coolly staring down at her with a practiced expression I’ve used on plenty of submissives before.

  She finally cracks, her gaze dropping. “This can’t work.”

  Her strained whisper isn’t one of someone convinced of that. More, it’s the tone of someone who very much wants this to work, yet who feels terrified it won’t due to past events in their life.

  Someone conditioned by circumstance to expect no good thing can ever be theirs.

  It breaks my heart.

  “It can, sweetheart. What I can’t do to directly protect you myself, I can buy that protection. I’ll put people in place to run the Tucson property, and you and I will live anywhere you wish. We can move every day,
if you want. I am that wealthy. There is nothing I cannot give to or do for you, if you’ll simply let me.”

  She gazes up at me through her lashes. “Garrett knows you spent the day here.”

  “So? He gave me an exemption to be here.”

  “It freaked out some people in the building. Including a shifter family on this floor. They have young pups, and I sometimes babysit for them.”

  Ahh. This sounds like the truth. “Is that why you moved the chair in front of the door? You were worried someone might try to break in and hurt me?”

  “Garrett caught me downstairs when I was leaving to get your things. He had one of his guys stand guard outside the apartment while I was gone. He didn’t want anyone trying to break in.”

  I make a mental note to both thank and apologize to Garrett for the imposition. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ll spend days at the club or at my hotel, your choice. Until you let me buy you a house.” But that’s only part of it, I sense. “What else happened?” Because there has to be more. She’s still too upset.

  Her gaze drops again. I risk stepping in close, so I can tip her chin with one finger, until she’s looking up at me. “Please tell me.”

  Tears well in her eyes, breaking my heart and shattering it to absolute pieces. “I found a couple of your hairs on my dress after you were in the closet. I put them on the windowsill. I thought… I thought at least you could have that little bit of sunlight…” Her voice chokes.

  And now everything makes sense—why there was a frantic air to her actions when I emerged. Why I’d heard her moving around the tiny, spotless apartment, and why I heard her obsessively vacuuming for the past thirty minutes while I was texting with Mark and John, along with handling a few work e-mails on my phone while I still had a charge. I was waiting for John to give me the all-clear to emerge.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” I fold her into my arms as she starts sobbing. Truth be told, tears prickle my eyes, too. “Robert used to do the same thing. He would try various ‘remedies’ on me and then test them out like that. He hoped beyond hope one day to see them remain intact past dawn.” I gently rock her in my embrace as she cries, and I bury my face in her hair while breathing her intoxicating scent.

 

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