Also by J.T. Geissinger
The Night Prowler Series
Shadow’s Edge
Edge of Oblivion
Rapture’s Edge
Edge of Darkness
Darkness Bound
Into Darkness
Novella
The Last Vampire
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 J.T. Geissinger, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781477830864
ISBN-10: 1477830863
Cover design by Eileen Carey
For my father, in loving memory.
You are missed.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
~ Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Had I known my horoscope would be an accurate indicator of just how bizarre and life altering my day would turn out to be, I might never have gotten out of bed in the first place.
After a lengthy absence, Saturn returns to your sign today, bringing strange luck, creating problems, changing your plans, and exposing your faults. There’s no avoiding it: today is a major turning point in your life.
Sprawled in bed with my iPad and my second cup of coffee, I made what my best friend Grace calls my “period cramps” face, and snorted. The only turning point I was looking forward to at that moment was the on-ramp to the 405 South at the end of the day, followed by two—okay three—margaritas when I returned home.
I had at least ten grueling hours ahead of me on a job I’d been dreading for weeks: the over-hyped, over-budget, and completely over-the-top shoot for the video for the infamous rock band Bad Habit’s latest chart-topping release—the shoot that had already been rescheduled three times due to one band member being briefly jailed on a weapons charge, another flying on a whim to a beach party in Thailand without bothering to notify anyone, and another deciding to give an impromptu concert at a local bar and ending up mobbed, mauled, and hospitalized overnight for the many minor injuries one suffers when a room full of drunk, horny females makes a collective attempt to rip off your clothing and jump your bones.
Don’t get me started.
I hate celebrities. I hate rock music. I hate celebrity rock musicians. None of which matters, because no one gives a rat’s ass about my opinion about any of the foregoing. I’d been hired to do the hair and makeup for the video, not spout my personal feelings about entitled, pampered, immature adults with too much money and too little common sense. However, I’d met too many of them over the past six years working as a makeup artist in “the industry” not to have some pretty strong feelings on the subject. Models, actors, musicians, producers, newscasters, athletes . . . the list goes on, but one thing they all seem to have in common is a big overestimation of their own worth in relation to that of the common people.
Meaning me.
I tossed the iPad aside, gulped down the dregs of my coffee, threw on some clothes, and suffered a minor heart attack when I realized I was running fifteen minutes late. It probably wouldn’t matter because undoubtedly the band would be way later than that—if they showed at all—but I’m one of those people who has to get everywhere ten minutes early, just in case. In case of LA traffic, for instance, which, being that today was Friday, was sure to be a nightmare.
I was right. What should’ve been an easy twenty-minute trip from my place in Venice to Greystone Mansion in Beverly Hills turned into a forty-five minute, curse-filled, heart-hammering drive straight out of the movie Death Race. By the time I arrived at Greystone, I was sweating like a farm animal. I cleared security at the massive iron gates to the estate, parked my Fiat at the far side of a parking lot the size of a football field, and hustled inside with my makeup kit in tow.
And immediately heard, “Kat! You made it!”
I turned toward the familiar voice. The girl bounding toward me with the enthusiasm of a puppy and the blond, sporty good looks of a cheerleader was my other best friend, Chloe. She’s always sunny, always smiling, always dispensing these chest-crushing hugs that might be weird coming from anyone else, but from her are adorable.
In fact, that’s the perfect word for her: adorable. She’s like one of those insanely happy Labradors you can’t help but love, even when it’s clawing your legs and slobbering all over your new dress.
“Finally,” I said into her shoulder as she threw her arms around me. When she pulled away I had to look up to meet her eyes; at five four, I’m a good six inches shorter than Chloe. With her waifish figure and perfect skin, she should really be a model, but she’s a florist instead. And an extremely talented one. Looking around the vast entryway of the manor, there wasn’t a flat surface without a spectacular flower display. Even the carved wood banisters that flanked the sweeping main staircase had garlands dripping with roses and lilies.
“Amazing job, Lo,” I said, impressed.
She wrinkled her nose. “It looks like a gangster’s funeral. Nothing classy about it, totally overdone and gaudy, Vegas meets Turkish bordello. But that’s what the client wants, so that’s what the client gets.” Her blue eyes glinted with a mischievous twinkle. “And they’ve got deep pockets, so I can’t complain.”
“What time did you get here? Traffic was a freakin’ nightmare this morning.” Chloe was the one who’d recommended me to the production company for the job, so I felt doubly guilty for being late.
“My crew’s been setting up since midnight, but I only got here at four.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “As in, a.m.?”
In my opinion, there are only two acceptable reasons to be awake at four a.m.: earthquake or zombie apocalypse. If I don’t get my eight hours of beauty sleep, it’s as if the Kraken has been released. All over my face.
Chloe looked chagrined. “I know. I totally overslept. Miles came over last night with a bottle of wine, and, well . . . ” She looked away.
“So you’re back together?”
I couldn’t keep the disapproval from my voice. Miles was a douche bag, no doubt about it. One of those Ivy League, trust-fund guys, he’d been an on-again, off-
again presence in Chloe’s life for the past two years. He was a jerk and didn’t treat her very well, but she loved him. So for the most part, I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t have a leg to stand on, anyway.
Bad taste in men and a history of disastrous relationships are two things Chloe and I have in common.
She ignored my question, pointing to a pair of French doors at the opposite end of the long marble entry hall. “They’ve got you set up in the front drawing room, through there. C’mon.”
Gazelle-like, she darted away before I could ask any more Miles-related questions. I dutifully followed, dragging behind me the rolling luggage carry-on that contained all my supplies.
I’d worked once before at Greystone, and knew the general layout of the place. The Tudor-style former home of an oil tycoon had been turned into a public park owned by the city of Beverly Hills, and was now used for special events, film sets, and posh weddings. The main house had fifty-five rooms on over forty thousand square feet. The grounds sported formal gardens, terraces, reflection ponds, fountains galore, an Olympic-sized pool, and sixteen acres of some of the most expensive land in the northern hemisphere.
In comparison, it made my tiny bungalow in Venice look like a skid row cardboard shanty.
Not that I’m complaining. I love my shanty. Owning a house at the age of twenty-five in LA is about as miraculous as the second coming. A million bucks in LA gets you a house the size of a Cheez-It, built in the fifties. And forget about a yard.
But as a little girl I’d dreamed of owning my own house the way other girls dreamed of marrying Ryan Gosling, so I skipped college, went straight to work out of high school, saved every cent, and made a few lucky investments. And now I was the proud owner of a Cheez-It myself.
Between the mortgage, the property taxes, the upkeep, and my demanding margarita addiction, I was dead broke. Hence my acceptance of today’s dreaded job. A girl’s gotta eat.
Or, in my case, drink.
Chloe had stopped just inside the French doors of the drawing room, and was looking back at me with a look I interpreted as either a warning or the sudden onset of abdominal cramps.
I stopped beside her. “What?”
“You know who that is, right?” She jerked her chin, and I followed her gaze.
Of course I knew. The entire world knew. Across the room in front of a lighted vanity, dressed in a plain white robe that did nothing to hide her amazing figure, lounged Avery Kane. Supermodel. Darling of the fashion world. Sometimes girlfriend of Bad Habit’s lead singer.
And, if the rumors were true, a world-class bitch.
“What’s she doing here? She’s supposed to be in Cannes for a Louis Vuitton shoot.”
“Word is, she’s playing Nico’s bride in the video. Had a fit when she found out that leggy redhead from the last season of So You Think You Can Dance had been hired, threw her weight around, got herself hired instead.”
“I thought Avery and Nico broke up?”
Chloe slid me a look. “For someone who says she hates celebrities, you sure know a lot about them.”
“I was channel surfing the other night and caught a segment of TMZ. Apparently Avery caught Nico with some groupie in the ladies’ room at The Ivy.”
Chloe eyed the miles of gleaming bare leg Avery had propped up on the vanity. “Anyone who would cheat on that needs to get his head checked.”
“Maybe she’s dumb as a post,” I suggested cheerfully. “And has BO.”
“Look at her, Kat. That girl does not have BO. Her farts probably smell like rose petals.”
I sighed. “If she even farts at all. Which she obviously doesn’t.”
The room bustled with cameramen, lighting crews, production assistants scurrying around with Starbucks cups in hand. Judging by the sheer amount of people and equipment, it looked like the shoot would be both indoors and out, but the band was nowhere in sight.
“All right. Can’t keep the beautiful people waiting. Want to go to Lula’s after?”
Lula’s, my favorite Mexican restaurant, was the one place they made margaritas exactly how I liked them: salty, sour, and wicked strong.
“Sure! Text me when you’re finished. I should be out of here soon. We’re pretty much done with the setup.”
“Figure on six or seven, I’ve gotta stay until the bitter end for retouching.”
“Perfect. Gives me time for a nap. I’ll tell Grace to meet us.”
Just as Chloe was about to go, it happened.
At first it was like this weird current of electricity surged through the room. Voices hushed, people stood straighter, the clamor of activity quieted. There was a sudden energy, as if everything were charged, but also an expectant stillness, like a held breath. Then the stillness gave way as a restless murmur moved through the crowd. The sense of energy ratcheted higher. Chloe and I turned, following the direction everyone else was looking, and there he was.
Nico Nyx. Lead singer for Bad Habit. Adonis in the flesh.
Chloe breathed, “Dude.”
In Chloe-speak this can mean anything from “wow” or “shut up” to any number of curse words. She never curses, being that she’s too ladylike, but I myself am afflicted with no such modesty.
“Ho . . . ly shit.”
Standing in the foyer I’d passed through only moments before, Nico filled the space not only with the significant bulk of his gym-hardened body, but also with the power of his presence. Even standing still his energy was larger than life, a raw magnetism that encompassed the room and the people, the air itself. I’d met a lot of actors, made up a thousand models, worked with a ton of people both famous and obscure, but I’d never known anyone who could electrify an entire room of people just by stepping inside it.
Chloe’s eyes were wide. “Now that is a man. My ovaries just fainted.”
“Mine are doing the Macarena.”
My gaze traveled up and down Nico’s body. He wore scuffed motorcycle boots, faded jeans, a black T-shirt so tight it looked painted on. His hair was black and his eyes were brilliant cobalt blue, the same blue I’d once seen in a picture of the Caribbean Sea.
He was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.
It slowly dawned on me I knew the exact color of his eyes because I was staring into them. He stared right back at me with a look so charged I thought he might ignite me with it.
Happy to simply bask in the enormity of his atmosphere and focused attention, a nervous tingle coursed through my body as I experienced a moment of infinite delirium. Looking into his eyes, I felt a bone-deep, blood-rocking rightness flare through me. A connection, wild and melodramatic, sinful and impossibly sweet.
And stupid.
I knew better. Nico Nyx was a superstar, one of the most desirable men in the world. I was a broke, foulmouthed, possibly alcoholic makeup artist with an overactive imagination. He was only staring at me because I was blocking the view of his supermodel girlfriend behind me.
Face flaming, I turned away. “Please tell me I didn’t just get nailed checking him out.”
“Everyone’s checking him out, Kat. But, um, you’re the only one he seems to be checking out in return.” Chloe’s gaze dropped to the cleavage displayed by the little black camisole I’d thrown on earlier. “Which may or may not have something to do with the way your girls are on display in that shirt. That’s some serious boobage you’re rocking, hon.”
My pulse pounded so hard I felt it jumping in my fingertips. “Okay. Acting natural. Going about my business now. Not freaking out at all. See you later, Lo.”
“Later, Dolly Parton.”
“Shut up.” I wished I’d worn a different shirt.
Chloe giggled. “Good luck with the Brazilian Bombshell.”
I waved good-bye to Chloe. With all the grace of C-3PO, I walked to the dressing table on the other side of the room, pretending to ignore the feeling that I’d just been struck by lightning.
Which I so. Totally. Had.
The French have a word
for it: abasourdi. The rough translation is “love at first sight.” Until that very moment I’d thought it an idea so sappily romantic I would be sure to make the “gag me” motion by sticking my finger in my mouth if it was ever brought up in conversation. After the past few years of bad relationships, my opinion of men in general, and love in particular, was lower than low. It was subterranean. I wanted nothing to do with either one.
So I’d decided that what I felt was simply hormones. I just needed a little one-on-one with Maximus, my trusty vibrator. He was far and away the most reliable male in my life.
I referred to him as my soul mate only half jokingly.
“Hi!” I said to Avery with brittle brightness when I arrived at the vanity where she was lounging. “My name’s Kat. I’ll be doing your makeup today.” I stuck out my hand, expecting any kind of reaction other than the one I received: a loud, sputtering snore.
Avery Kane was dead asleep.
Sitting upright in the chair, her head rolled to one side, her mouth open and her face shiny, she looked less like a supermodel, and more like a soccer mom who’d been hitting her kid’s supply of Ritalin. In fact, the closer I looked, the worse the view became. She had purple-blue shadows beneath her eyes, unwashed hair . . . and holy, the girl stunk like a brewery. I’d met homeless people who smelled better. I recoiled with a hand over my mouth.
Well, shit. Sleeping Beauty wasn’t asleep. She was passed the hell out.
I looked up, hoping to catch the eye of the chubby PA in the Metallica T-shirt who was barking into a cell phone nearby, but instead saw a sight that made my heart flutter.
There across the room stood Nico Nyx, looking around, his eyes hunting for something. He turned his head. Once again his eyes locked with mine, and I had to lean back against the edge of the vanity to steady myself.
Because he’d apparently found what he was looking for.
Breaking free from the adoring knot of people surrounding him, he stepped away from the French doors, and headed my way.
In a freak of timing that was either an act of divine intervention, a cruel joke played by a spiteful universe, or a simple case of Karma, the unconscious Avery Kane chose that exact moment to wake from her stupor.
Sweet as Sin Page 1