by Sierra Dean
Vampires don’t tend to announce themselves politely.
“Cedes, I need to go.” Sitting up on the bed, I looked into the evening gloom of my living room. I may be able to see in the pitch black, but you need to have a target willing to be seen in order for that to work. Even darkness has its shadows.
“You better not be pretending to be sick.”
“I don’t get sick,” I replied. I wanted her off the phone, but I didn’t need her to worry. She was a detective after all, and she would know if I sounded uneasy, so I kept my tone playful and even. My eyes, however, were in full-on predator mode.
“Nine o’clock, Secret. I’ve told Tyler to call me at nine-oh-five if you haven’t shown up, and so help me God, girl, if you aren’t there, you will have some serious explaining to do.”
“Okay.” I hung up on her without further argument, which would probably worry her more than if I’d started screaming, oh my God, there’s a vampire in my apartment!
The vampire in question now stood in the doorway, looking far too pleased with himself. He leaned against the doorframe, all five feet ten inches of lithe, catlike grace and two centuries of practice at acting casual. Holden Chancery wasn’t the kind of man most girls would refuse entry into their bedroom.
I wasn’t most girls.
“I gave you a key so you would stop breaking in, not so you could come and go as you please.”
Holden’s hair was cut a shade too long but was perfectly groomed. He tossed it out of his eyes and fixed me with a miffed stare only a vampire could manage. His eyes were a rich chocolate brown tonight, so I knew he’d fed. All the same, his gaze traveled from mine down to my throat. I may have been half vampire, but I still had a pulse, and it made me incredibly interesting to the full-bloods I worked with.
“You said I could use the key if there was business,” he said, only half listening.
“Business?” My interest perked up. Perhaps there would be a valid excuse to get out of my date with Detective Tyler after all. I clapped my hands together twice to get his attention off my neck and back to my face.
Girls who think boobs are their most distracting assets haven’t been watched by a vampire.
Holden shook out of his trance and refocused on me.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asked with a smirk, which was unusual for him. He often appeared quietly content, like a fat cat after a visit from the milkman, but never looked outright happy. Vamps have a bad habit of only showing in-between emotions—pensive, annoyed, thoughtful, wistful and, of course, brooding. You’d be more likely to provoke the undead to anger than make them bust a gut laughing.
Of course this vampire had heard the entire latter half of my conversation with Mercedes.
“Tell me about the business.” I grabbed a plain black V-neck T-shirt off the floor and pulled it on over my head. It was rumpled but still smelled clean. I didn’t wear perfume because my nose was sensitive at the best of times, so the shirt held only the faint scent of laundry detergent. I liked it.
“Are you going to wear that on your date?” He sounded offended.
I looked down at the shirt. It fit, it didn’t stink and the wrinkling was minimal. What was his problem? “Well, better this than no shirt at all, right?”
He made a noise of disgust, and before I’d seen him move, he was in my closet.
“Hey.” I was up and off the bed, following him to my disorganized mess of clothes.
There was a stream of grumbles and sighs from inside the closet as he shoved back hanger after hanger, shaking his head each time. “What exactly do you do with the money we give you?”
“Rent and shoes?”
Holden took a blue, flowing, peasant-style top off the rack, held it up to me and grimaced, then released it into my arms.
“This?” I inspected it, questioning his judgment.
“That is getting thrown out.” He snatched up another hanger, this one holding a slinky black cocktail dress I’d used once to bait a vampire at the Russian Tea Room. He handed the garment to me, his eyes alight with a triumphant glow. “This is what you’re going to wear.”
“My Russian prostitute dress?” I was incredulous. He couldn’t be serious. It was skin-tight satin cut three inches above the knee and tried its hardest to make it seem like I had boobs. But wasn’t it more suitable for a first date where the guy was paying for something other than the meal?
“You can’t wear jeans on a first date, Secret. Not if you want there to be a second.”
I would have liked to dispute what he was saying, but for the better part of the eighties Holden had been an editor-at-large for GQ. How do you argue with someone who made a living knowing what defined style, even if it had been in the eighties?
Begrudgingly, I admitted defeat.
“I’ll wear this…as long as you tell me about the business once I’m in it.”
“Deal.”
Also By Sierra Dean
Secret McQueen
The Secret Guide to Dating Monsters
Something Secret This Way Comes
A Bloody Good Secret
Secret Santa
Deep Dark Secret
Keeping Secret
Grave Secret
Secret Unleashed
Cold Hard Secret
A Secret to Die For
Genie McQueen
Bayou Blues
Misfits & Mayhem
A Low Down Dirty Shane
Boys of Summer
Pitch Perfect
Perfect Catch
Dog Days
Autumn
Winter
Spring
Summer
The Complete Dog Days Saga
Other Works
Chasing Kings
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
The Secret Guide to Dating Monsters
Chapter One
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
The Secret Guide to Dating Monsters
Chapter One