Romance with a Bite

by Tamsin Baker

  Gideon fucking Fang.

  A fucking vampire.

  Stupid bitch.

  This time, I had no choice but to agree.

  Chapter 20

  Gideon

  The throwing room buzzed with hushed chatter and the intermittent crack of splintering wood followed the raucous whoop of success.

  “Nice.” Mannie waved his stubby hand towards the wooden bullseye showcasing my tomahawk dead center. “Must be beginner’s luck.”

  I nodded, unwilling to share the fact that I’d handled an axe before now, in a time when it wasn’t thrown for sport. “Money where your mouth is, Mannie. Best of three, loser buys the winner drinks.”

  “Better warm up your wallet, then. You’re on.”

  I grinned. Spending time with Mannie wasn’t as onerous as I’d first thought. He had a dry wit and a penchant for quirky hobbies, but we all had our quirks. And since he’d taken to using the salve I’d anonymously left on his desk, a formula courtesy of Dr. Weatherborne, an 1800s doc who had a thing for feet—don’t ask—he wasn’t smelling so badly, either.

  As an added bonus, while I was throwing axes, I was less absorbed in my funk over Tiff and her dogged determination to avoid me.

  Mannie squinted towards the target, placing his right foot forward, raising his arms and axe over his head.

  Twenty-four hours had passed since she’d run and I’d been unable to confront her for the chance to explain. She needed time, I got that. But time was one thing I didn’t have. In a week my mission would be over, and after . . . who knew where Damon would place me? Doubtful I’d remain at Hagan much past that.

  “Bullseye!” He broke into something that resembled a shuffle crossed with a moonwalk, far removed from the taciturn scientist I’d first met two weeks ago.

  “Let’s see how far first timer luck takes you.”

  I grabbed my axe, stepped up to the mark and focused. The target sharpened in my vision. I raised my arms over my head, aimed and threw.

  The tomahawk landed exactly where I’d intended.

  Mannie eyed the blade, lodged just inside the outer circle, unable to stem his grin, no matter how much he tried to mask it. “Better luck next time, Gideon.” He slapped my back, much like a mother slaps a baby with gas. “Remember to extend your arms and . . .”

  I zoned, inserting an intermittent nod when his voice waned. My mind seemed unable to accept that my chances for mortality were forever lost.

  How the fuck could I win Tiff over? There had to be a way to slip back into her world. If I could get her to listen, I could explain away the whole vampire scenario and we could move past it and onto better pastures. Mortal, life-changing pastures.

  “Your wallet’s about to get a workout.” Mannie poised, aimed, then tossed, his axe striking just shy of the bullseye.

  I slapped his back and grinned. “Five out of five. That’s a definite call for a drink.”

  “You got it.” He recovered his axe and meticulously placed it in its case. Yep, the man had his own axe. If he wasn’t such a teddy bear he’d have “serial killer” stamped all over his forehead.

  “I was going to ask Jane if she’d accompany me to the lab’s Christmas party. Or is that ridiculous, considering she’ll be there anyway?” He grabbed his jacket and the case and we headed for reception. “What do you think?”

  He looked at me as if I were the oracle on women, when in reality I hadn’t a fucking clue. Story of my life. For his, the answer was much simpler.

  “I say go for it, man.” I matched my step to his slower, rambling pace. “There’s a company Christmas party?”

  He nodded. “Care of Tiffany, planning committee of one.”

  My ears perked up and my mind jumped feet-first into the root of an idea. “She doesn’t have help?”

  “She never asks. And no one ever offers. She seems to like planning, so we all leave her to it.”

  Interesting.

  “Well, definitely ask Jane. But why wait? Why not invite her out for a coffee next week?”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  His grip on the case tightened. “She says ‘no.’”

  “At least you’ll know either way though, right?” Then he could move on and find someone else who returned his interest. At least he had that luxury.

  A plan was forming. A win-win, of sorts, depending on how you viewed it. Hopefully Tiff would come to see it my way—after her initial shock and rage, that is.

  I returned my tomahawk to reception and we stepped out into blustery cold, which made not a dent in my body temp. That didn’t stop me from mirroring Mannie’s braced, bent-over frame as we made for the parking lot and his cranberry-red 1959 Chevy El Camino—a passion only second to his axe throwing obsession.

  Once he’d secured his gear in the cargo bed, he joined me in the cab. Hands braced on the steering wheel, he turned his deep-set brown gaze my way. “Where to?”

  “Winner’s choice.”

  He grinned. “I know just the place.” He eased the stick shift into gear. The engine purred and Carly Simon blared out of the CD player, calling anyone listening on their vanity.

  I lowered the volume. “How’s work on the Flu A antidote?”

  “We’re almost a go.” His shoulders swelled, so much so, I pictured his metaphorical feathers puffing up. “The intravenous serum is ready. We’re just perfecting the aerosolization process so it doesn’t reduce the antidote’s potency.”

  “Interesting.” Great news I could pass onto Damon. And maybe the fact I was delivering would see him ease up on his constant “don’t fuck up” monologues. “I heard work is in progress to identify additional genetic mutations to ready the attenuated virus for airborne transmission.”

  He stopped at a red light and glanced over, clearly impressed. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “I find the whole process fascinating.”

  The light turned green and he eased back onto the clutch, shooting me a calculated look. “It’s not yet common knowledge, but when this project is over, I’m moving to WHO. You should apply for my position in CDC.”

  “Congratulations.” His news wasn’t news, I’d already heard it from Graeme. What I found interesting was his offer for me to apply when Tiff should have had first dibs. No wonder she’d all but given up on my position. “Which division are you moving to?”

  “Vector Control.”

  “Mosquitos, right?”

  “Partially. Pretty much any living entity that carries and transmits disease.” He spared me a glance. “Did you know that around seventeen percent of the estimated global communicable diseases are transmitted through vectors? Control the carrier and control of the disease will follow. That means . . .”

  Again I zoned.

  Large, fat raindrops splattered across the windshield, pelting down from a sky thick with angry gray clouds. Mannie leaned forwards to see beyond the swish of the wipers. Not that focus on the road affected his ability to speak.

  I had other more pressing matters to occupy my thoughts. Like Tiffany, and how I was about to enter her orbit once again.

  Chapter 21

  Tiffany

  Google didn’t provide any damn answers.

  “A vampire is a being from folklore . . .”

  The author of that entry hadn’t met Gideon.

  There were a couple of entries about wannabes, cult followers who filed their canines into fangs and drank animal blood.

  To each their own.

  I scrolled through pages of unhelpful mythology—savage, blood-thirsty drawings and descriptions that looked and sounded nothing like Gideon—until I reached the bottom of page three.

  Real life vampires. Creatures living amongst us in close-knit, closed communities.

  Icicles spiraled through my blood.

  Information was speculative, sketchy at best. Scant paragraphs outlining how “the condition” manifested in individuals post-puberty, random, with
no known reason or cure. They lived amongst us, harmonious, well hidden. Could be a neighbor. A friend. A lover.

  My heartbeat stumbled. I read on. Some vampires practice the art of tantric feeding, extracting blood and energy through sexual encounters. These occurrences are highly charged and erotic, strengthening and revitalizing the vampire while providing their partners with a wholly satisfying sexual experience, most stating their orgasms to be unprecedented. For this reason, most vampires rarely lack for sexual partners.

  I was suddenly overcome with a strong need to shower. To scrub the memory of Gideon’s touch from my skin and his cock from my body.

  Seems I’d been relegated to some random source of energy.

  I shut the screen. I’d seen enough.

  If Expert Google was to be believed, my vampire bite would heal in a few days and I wouldn’t transform into Count Dracula. Then again, EG had also stated that vampires didn’t take unwilling participants. I may have been willing, but I wasn’t informed. I’m not sure that still relegated me into the willing participant category.

  Gideon had a helluva lot of explaining to do.

  Thoughts of seeing him again shivered across my skin, raising the hairs at the back of my neck. A reaction not solely born of distaste. I hated that my body still craved his, even while knowing what he was. Was it sick that some perverted part of me found the idea of a revisit sexy? That bite. I’d not only seen something, I’d felt it. Like a current, surging through my blood, awakening my body, my each and every sense into hyperawareness.

  My mind protested.

  Regardless of who and what Gideon was, he represented the kind of man I’d sworn never to allow past my hard-won control.

  A liar.

  Deception. Untruths. Little white lies that seemed harmless at first. They were the key to a Pandora’s Box of harm. Because, with insincerity came uncaring, and what followed could only lead to hurt and heartache.

  He’d used me to regain energy and strength. That I’d orgasmed was incidental. He’d still used me. And if he’d done it once, what was to stop him deceiving me and using me again?

  *

  “Ah, Tiffany, do you have a moment?” Graeme shuffled papers at the head of the conference room table while everyone but the one person I wanted to avoid meandered out of the room.

  Another weekly strategy meeting over. I’d successfully avoided Gideon since his Dr. Phil-worthy “I’m a vampire” revelation—even found a seat as far away from him and his new best bud Mannie as possible—but Graeme’s rhetorical question looked to end my two-day hiatus.

  “Gideon’s graciously volunteered to help with the company Christmas party.” My still clueless boss beamed, as if offering me roses instead of a whole new reason for my head to pound. “We’re only a month out so I’m sure you’ll be grateful for the help.” The beam widened, making the Cheshire cat look positively sheepish. Something Gideon should have looked.

  As if.

  He hid his feelings behind a mask of bland indifference. That didn’t fool me. His ploy to get close to me once again was as obvious as the bite marks on my still tender skin. Just as well, the cooler temperatures made my turtleneck less conspicuous.

  “That’s not necessary. I’m all done.”

  He waved away my response as if swatting at a bug. “Gideon has a few ideas to spice the party up. I’m sure you can work together to give this year a fantastic send-off.” Again he grinned. I’d never wanted to slap that diabolical look off his face more.

  Steam surged through my body, pressure building in my skull, pounding smack between my eyes. I’d never volunteered to be events coordinator—I’d never been given the choice. The role had naturally fallen to me as the sole remaining female scientist on staff. Sexist, much?

  Still, it beat remaining within range of Richard’s ever-reaching tentacles. And until now, I’d successfully planned Christmas functions sans complaint. Until Gideon fucking Fang. Master graduate of Menace 101.

  It was a fait accompli. The grit in Graeme’s expression brooked no argument. I was stuck with Count Gideon, but that didn’t mean I had to make his whole getting back in my space attempts easy. “Great. I’ll send you a copy of my notes and we can work from there.”

  “Why don’t we discuss it over dinner? Tonight.”

  Graeme slapped the rogue’s back, nodding like some dreadful dashboard Elvis. “Fabulous. Fabulous.” He all but rubbed his chubby little hands. “The sooner you get together, the sooner everything will be finalized.”

  No point telling him it already was finalized. As usual, Graeme was totally clueless to my irritation and Gideon looked like he’d just won the war.

  Not even close, buddy.

  He was railroading me into his space and I wasn’t having it. Gideon fucking Fang was about to discover I wasn’t a pushover. He may have jumped into my pants—pretty easily, as it turned out—but he wasn’t getting into my head. Or under my skin. And he definitely wasn’t getting into my blood.

  I shivered.

  “I can’t do dinner, but I can do drinks before. Let’s say six-thirty, at Romeo’s?”

  He grinned, a cocky, all-knowing glint lacing his expression. Bastard. I knew exactly what he was thinking. We’d done coffee, we’d done dinner. Now we were doing drinks. What exactly that meant and where it sat on the “getting to know you scale” I neither knew nor cared. This was work, with a side dish of vampire show and tell. If I had no choice in the matter, the least I could do is use the time to my advantage.

  And while I was at it, I’d let Gideon know categorically that he and his vampirish ways could—in the most mature manner possible—get stuffed.

  Chapter 22

  Gideon

  Graeme was a clueless bastard. But at least his ignorance helped me snag the one thing that had eluded me since my disastrous vampire reveal—one-on-one time with Tiff.

  I downed my first vodka and lime and raised a hand to order another, wishing I could feel its effects and dull the cut of her rejection.

  The bar was full to near overflowing. We’d be hard-pressed to find a table, let alone space for two at the bar. Maybe that was her plan. Make it impossible for conversation of any kind, particularly of the personal nature.

  She had to know I’d want to fix whatever my revelation had broken between us. And I imagined she’d dump every roadblock possible in my way. Well, as fast as she blocked, I’d unblock.

  Awareness rippled up my spine. She stood just inside the doorway—dressed head-to-toe in black—seemingly oblivious of the crowd and patrons milling around. Her gaze fastened unwaveringly on me.

  Any best defense was a good offense, and throwing Tiff off balance was the only way to retain even footing. I knocked back the remainder of my drink and cut through the crowd. “Something’s come up. We have to go.”

  Her mouth opened, no doubt to protest, but I didn’t wait to hear. Luckily her choice of venue wasn’t far from my choice, so I led and she followed, with dragging feet and a frown so long it almost scraped the ground.

  “Here.” The blue-painted door gave no indication of what lurked behind it and Tiff’s expression said she wasn’t enthralled with finding out. I didn’t give her time to reflect, just pushed the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

  “Why are we here?”

  “To show you something.”

  She eyed the dimly lit stairs warily.

  “You’ll enjoy this even more than the pancakes.”

  More wariness, only this time laced with a flood of scarlet to her cheeks. She had to be remembering our post-pancake activities. My body did the same, the memory filling and tightening my balls.

  I ignored the grip of denim across my groin and focused on the angry line of her lips. “This way.” I began climbing the stairs. She had two options, follow or leave. For once I didn’t have a clue which she’d choose. I just placed one foot in front of the other and hoped it was the former.

  The hesitant slap of her soles against the wood followed m
e and I couldn’t help but smile. Here was my chance to fix things between us. My chance to make things right.

  *

  We snagged a table towards the back. The floor was packed, but not so packed that Marcos couldn’t wrangle a space for an old pal. He owed me, and despite never asking for payback, whenever I showed, he gave it to me anyway—a table and an endless stream of original cocktails. His specialty, but not the reason regulars flocked to Blues on Tap.

  That—or rather, he—sat on the small, raised dais, making love to the strings of his Gibson—a gift from his old buddy, BB King. I’d never seen Jonnie without it. No surprise if he slept with the damn thing. The guy was a loon. His wife, Joelene, would warm a bed—and the man in it—better than any slab of wood. Even one carved from the highest quality mahogany.

  She sat at her usual table, front row center, supporting the man she’d married over two centuries ago. They’d both lost their soulmates to tragedy and had since found comfort in each other’s arms. Raven locks cascaded down Joelene’s shoulders, her curvy figure painted into a shimmery silver number. Stunning.

  Yet she didn’t stir my blood like the woman whose icy, lance-tipped stare cut through the dim lighting across the table. “Want to explain why you railroaded me here?”

  “Sure.” I was fast running out of ways to smooth over her animosity. I grabbed the drinks menus from between the arms of a mini Eric Clapton and dropped one in front of her. “How’s your seat?”

  She leaned back in her chair and squinted. “O–kay.”

  “Like the music?”

  She dipped her head. “I guess.”

  I grinned. “That’s why.”

  “Romeo’s was fine.”

  “Sure, if you want to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers and lose your voice trying to be heard.”

  “One drink and I’m going. I don’t need comfort and quiet for that.”

  It was like trudging uphill, through Jell-o, in one-size too big galoshes. “Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy the ambiance. And Marcos makes killer cocktails, so if it’s only one drink, we may as well make that one drink count.”