The Vampire Next Door
by Natalie Vivien and Bridget Essex
Synopsis:
Courtney Banks owns a failing book store, and her relationship with her girlfriend Mia is falling apart. Courtney doesn't even think she believes in love...that is, until she meets the vampire next door.
Valeria “Lare” Máille is a gorgeous scientist working on cutting-edge genetics. She also just happens to be a vampire, and Courtney's new neighbor. Sparks fly from the very first moment Courtney and Lare meet, and their attraction is undeniable. But in a world where vampires have just “come out” of hiding, tensions between humans and vampires are running high. When Lare's co-workers begin to go missing, it looks like foul play may put Lare in danger, too.
Will Courtney and Lare have a chance at love, or is the cost of falling for a vampire too high?
THE VAMPIRE NEXT DOOR is a light-hearted paranormal romance that will take you on a journey you’ll never forget. Written by wife-and-wife authors Natalie Vivien (known for her laugh-out-loud contemporary romances) and Bridget Essex (known for her vampires and werewolves in love), THE VAMPIRE NEXT DOOR is a marriage of humor, steamy romance and a love story that's out of this world.
"The Vampire Next Door"
©Natalie Vivien and Bridget Essex 2015
Rose and Star Press
First Edition
All Rights Reserved
No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Rose and Star Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. Please note that piracy of copyrighted materials is illegal and directly harms the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dedication:
For my own lady knight in shining armor—who, instead of a sword, wields a pen. I love you and every adventure we’ve shared together. Here’s to countless more.
Chapter One: The Woman with the Silver Eyes
Chapter Two: Dancing in the Dark
Chapter Three: All the Wrong Decisions
Chapter Four: All the Right Places
Chapter Five: Definitely Not a Lunch Date
Chapter Six: Love and Hate
Chapter Seven: Vampire Kiss
Chapter Eight: You Think You Know Someone
Chapter Nine: Falling into Silver
Chapter Ten: Trust Me
Epilogue
Authors' Note
About the Authors
Chapter One: The Woman with Silver Eyes
“I'm sorry, Mr. Hanover, but I can assure you that William Shakespeare did not write Huckleberry Finn,” I sigh into my cell phone.
“Ha!” Azure spins around to face me, gaping. She points at the phone gripped in my hand and mouths, Are you kidding me? Her dark green eyes roll heavenward.
I know, I mouth back, listening halfheartedly to the man chattering on the line. Mr. Hanover is an antique book collector, but he's not a book reader. He's rich, though, and he's one of our regular suppliers, so I don't want to insult him—if I can help it. Still...I don't want to insult Mr. Shakespeare or Mr. Twain, either.
“Listen, Mr. Hanover, why don't you bring your book into the store? I'll look it over and give it an appraisal. Even if it's a fake—”
“It is not a fake,” he insists in his gruff, no-nonsense voice. Mr. Hanover sounds remarkably like a walrus, and, with his thick mustache and penchant for wrinkly brown suits, he looks a bit like one, too.
Azure and I have this habit of comparing our regulars to animals. Abigail Rogers resembles a high-strung hare; Lewis Oliver, with his cowlick and colorful ties, a peacock. When you work in a store specializing in rare books and average two live customers per day, you've got to amuse yourself somehow. Sure, I love alphabetizing as much as the next Virgo, but even obsessive organizing gets a little dull after a ten-hour shift.
Mr. Hanover clears his throat. “I have been collecting first editions for more decades than you've been alive, Miss Banks—”
“Ms., please,” I interrupt him, drawing a deep breath into my lungs. I shove a red leather-bound, nineteenth-century copy of The Three Musketeers onto a shelf, between The Man in the Iron Mask and Twenty Years After.
“Ms. Banks. And I think I know a thing or two about authenticity and forgery. Now, if you aren't interested in purchasing this book from me, I'll take it over to Palmer's on Fourth. I'm sure Randolph Palmer would appreciate my business—”
“I'm sure he would. In fact, I insist that you take the book to Randolph Palmer. Go on. Please. With my blessing.”
A pause. Then Mr. Hanover says, in a low, level tone, “I don't like your attitude, Miss Banks.”
“Ms. Banks.”
Azure cackles, giving me a double thumbs-up.
“All right, then.” Mr. Hanover harrumphs into the receiver. “Perhaps it is time for me to take my business elsewhere. Banks' Books hasn't been the same since you took over ownership, you know. Your mother handled herself with decorum. As any proper lady should. She was never cross or contrary with me. Lana never dared accuse me of selling a counterfeit book.”
Of course she didn't, I think, dispirited, as I shelf an illustrated copy of Little Women.
My mother—Lana Banks—now retired and enjoying a sizzling south Florida summer, is a book lover and a people-pleaser but no businesswoman. After Dad died, he left the store to her in his will, despite their being long divorced. Out of guilt or curiosity (Mom will try anything once), she managed the bookstore to the best of her ability, but her lack of general business sense caused us to slide, slowly but surely, into the red. When I finished up my Masters in Business and took over store operation three years ago, we were this close to declaring bankruptcy.
Thanks to some lucky acquisitions from estate sales and the addition of an Internet store, Banks' Books is now gasping towards profitability...more or less. If I lose any more key suppliers, though—Mr. Hanover, for all of his ignorance, does have connections in the antique books world—I might not ever be able to give Azure and David the raises they deserve. I...might not be able to pay my mortgage.
And I definitely won't be able to replace my lemon of a car. My ancient, mustard-yellow Cavalier has 250,000 miles on it, no hubcaps, and an unfortunate habit of stalling out in intersections, at stop signs, and—most often—in my driveway. Originally, when I bought the car from my cousin Georgie for a thousand bucks, I named it Diva Dijon, but I've since decided that it doesn't deserve such a classy name. Or a feminine gender identity.
So Colonel Mustard it is.
“I'm not accusing you of anything, Mr. Hanover,” I murmur into my cell phone, walking to the end of the aisle, rounding the desk, and sliding into the chair behind the old iron cash register. I slip my feet out of my heels and massage my pounding temples. Then I glance up at the wall clock: twenty minutes until closing.
Thank God.
It's been a long, long day.
“As I told you,” I say, striving to sound pleasant despite my clenched teeth, “if you'd like me to appraise the book, I'm more than willing to do so, but I just have to warn you that—”
“But nothing, Ms. Banks. Palmer will do right by me. If you're interested in my book, you'll have to buy it from him.”
I sigh, raking a hand back through my blonde tangles. I woke up groggy and late this morning, so I couldn't be bothered to run a brush through my hair. I'm kind of surprised that I arrived fully clothed.
“Tell your mother I send my regards. And my sympathy for the im
pending bankruptcy of her store. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Hanover,” I say flatly, pressing the end button on my phone. Then I make a pathetic whining sound and bang my head against the cash register—repeatedly. When my hair finally gets caught in the typewriter-like keys and I signal an SOS with my arm, Azure—patient, purple-mohawked Azure—drops the stack of books she was sorting and helps me pull the long strands free.
“Hey, I know he was a regular supplier and everything, but do you really want to do business with a guy who confuses Mark Twain with William Shakespeare? That's got to be, like, a literary felony.” Azure smooths a swath of tangles back from my forehead. “Even schoolkids know that Mark Twain wrote Huckleberry Finn.”
I frown. “Yeah, but I was kind of rude.”
“Mr. Hanover is rude—and a misogynist. I heard him, insinuating that you don't know what you're talking about. You silly little woman, you.” Azure rolls her eyes again. “Do you remember that time he told you you were a dead ringer for some silent film starlet, and that you were too pretty to work around books?”
I grimace.
“Plus, he's technologically illiterate. Anyone could Google what you told him in two seconds.” Azure's lips curl up into a wicked smile. “God, I'd pay big bucks to overhear his conversation with Palmer.”
I shake my head. “Randolph's smart. If he finds out that Mr. Hanover has dissolved his relationship with my store, he'll pounce on the opportunity to win his loyalty. Even if it means purchasing a counterfeit antique.”
Azure shrugs and sighs, leaning against the counter as I tuck some strands of hair behind my ear and straighten a stack of books beside the register. “Anyway—” I begin to tell her, but I’m interrupted.
The front door of Banks’ Books jangles open, and Azure and I look up, surprised. It's nearly closing time; we don't often get walk-ins on Wednesday nights.
A woman with china-smooth skin and wavy red hair steps into the store, her high-heeled boots clicking over the worn floorboards. I part my lips to call out a greeting, but my vocal chords refuse to cooperate: I'm frozen in place, still and speechless. All I can do is look; I can't tear my eyes away... The woman is stunning—literally. Every atom in my body is dazed, startled, by the mere sight of her.
I think time has stopped ticking.
I think my heart has stopped beating.
“Wow, she's beautiful,” Azure whispers.
“Yeah,” I whisper back, staring. Oh, God, I'm staring. I blink quickly and look away, shuffling junk mail on the desktop. With shaking hands, I draw a glossy brochure out of the mess—propaganda for an organization called SANG—and pretend like I'm fascinated by it, though, frankly, the group's mantra turns my stomach: If you're with them, you're against us.
Despite my clumsy subterfuge, I can still glimpse our customer out of the corner of my eye. She’s long and lean but somehow soft-looking. And that hair... It's shampoo commercial hair, thick and lustrous, curling loosely over her collarbones and as red as autumn leaves. She's dressed in a fitted blue pinstripe suit, and the first three buttons of her white shirt are undone, revealing a black stone pendant dangling at the base of her throat.
She might be the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
I mean, not that beauty is everything. I've never really had a type.
Or...I didn't think I had a type.
Until now.
As I watch, the woman shifts her head, and her blue eyes glint silver.
Silver.
Oh...
Azure gives me a knowing look. My best friend is one of the most perceptive people I know; of course she noticed the silver sheen, too.
Suddenly, that Darkling song—the one that they played on the radio every half hour a couple of summers ago—starts running through my head: And the last thing she ever saw was silver. And the last mouth she ever kissed cursed her. And the last word she ever spoke was “vampire.”
Okay.
Chances are...this woman isn't quite human.
I glance at her left wrist, but her jacket sleeves cover her arms completely, so I don't know whether she has the telltale tattoo. She looks off toward the shelves and shoves her hands deep into her pockets.
Heart skipping, I swallow and shake my messy hair behind my shoulders. Get a grip, Courtney. You've dealt with vampires before.
One of the store's most loyal customers, Desmond Lennox, is a vampire; he's been patronizing our business since its inception. He knew my grandfather and used to play golf with him on the weekends—and, if photographs are any indication, he's barely aged a day since.
Of course, my grandfather didn't know Mr. Lennox was a vampire. None of us (or very few of us) humans knew vampires existed until three years ago, when President Garcia announced that she had descended from a long line of vampires and was, in fact, a blood-drinker herself. She enacted immediate legal measures to allow other vampires to out themselves safely, and she acquired funding to open Safe Centers in every major city. The Safe Centers provide free packets of sterilized animal blood to registered vampires, thus reducing the likelihood of their contracting blood-borne diseases—or seeking human victims.
To be perfectly honest, the whole vampire thing has taken some getting used to. I grew up thinking vampires were myths, metaphors, the imaginative embodiment of humanity's fear of blood and death.
But...they're real.
And they're everywhere.
Some of them, like President Garcia and Desmond Lennox, look like elderly politicians.
And some of them, like the woman standing in my shop's doorway, are really, really, really hot.
There's a rumor that vampires exude a special pheromone that makes everyone who meets them want to, well, jump their bones. But the only vampires I've encountered are of the grandfatherly and/or male variety: not so tempting for a 35-year-old lesbian, preternatural pheromones notwithstanding.
This woman, though...
“Welcome to Banks' Books,” I force out. My voice is shaky, along with my knees, and I'm not sure whether that's because I'm talking to a vampire who happens to be beautiful, or a beautiful woman who happens to be a vampire. Either way, I'm feeling inappropriate stirrings in two or three inappropriate places.
I chew on my bottom lip.
The woman turns her head and meets my gaze. “Oh, hello,” she says, smiling. My stomach flip-flops, and I smile back. “Gorgeous shop,” she murmurs, her voice low, throaty, causing me to shiver as I find myself leaning towards her. “I love that old book smell.” Her mouth, turning up at the corners, draws my eye. “It reminds me of a bookstore in Paris—Shakespeare and Company. Have you ever been there?”
I shake my head.
Her eyes widen. “You ought to go someday. The place is steeped in literary history...” She watches me for a moment. Then she glances at the shelves again and moves further into the shop. “Well, I'm new to the neighborhood, so I haven't been in here before. I was wondering if you could help me—”
“That's why we're here!” Azure steps out from behind the desk and passes a hand over the top of her mohawk. It's a nervous habit of hers—and a telling sign. Whenever she's attracted to a woman, she starts fussing with her hair. She also tends to talk superfast: “Are you a collector? Were you looking for something specific? Or did you want to find a gift, maybe? We have some gift baskets on the table by the window.”
“No, I...” The woman moves further into the store, pausing before Azure and then casting a friendly glance toward me. Her eyes are pale and blue, though they gleam silver, like mirrors, whenever light shimmers over their surface. “I have an odd request.” She has the shadow of an accent, I realize then, but I can't place it. French? She did mention Paris...
“Well, you're in luck. We specialize in odd.” Azure winks and holds out her hand. “I'm Azure Skye, and this is my boss, Courtney Banks.”
“Oh, you're the owner?” The woman shakes Azure's hand distractedly before moving past her and approaching me at the register. I see
Azure's shoulders sink. She's always had a thing for redheads. Her last girlfriend, Billie, was a redhead. But Billie was short, and our unexpected customer is tall—taller than Azure, and as tall as me. I take after my dad in the height department, though our similarities, admittedly, stop there. He was obsessed with sports—everything from golf to football to Foosball—and my pursuits have always been of the nose-in-a-book variety.
“Yes,” I tell the woman, straightening my shoulders. “I’m the owner.”
“A co-worker of mine recommended your store.” Her eyes glint. “He said you've got the best rare books collection in Cincinnati.”
I blush. Then, mortified over the fact that I've blushed, I clear my throat, straighten my back and go into full-on entrepreneur mode. When panicked/flailing/freaking out, I tend to talk shop—excessively. “Banks' Books has been around for three generations. We've amassed our stock over the course of a hundred years, so we have a wide network of contacts in the book world.”
“A hundred years, huh?”
“Yeah...” I lick my lips. God, what am I doing? I sound like a salesman—or a fact-spouting robot. In an effort to appear more relaxed, I place my elbows on the top of the desk and rest my chin on my hands. But the desk is too low. I feel awkward and look ridiculous. One of my elbows slips out from beneath me, and I fall forward a little, then catch myself and straighten again.
Robo Courtney will have to do.
“If you're searching for a particular book, we'll make every attempt to locate it for you, either here in the store, online, or through our liaisons.”
The woman's mouth slants upward on one side, and I catch myself staring again... She has an amazing mouth. Somehow she can smile ironically and warmly, all at once. “Like I said, it's an odd request. As far as I know, the book I want doesn't even exist.”
I lift a brow. Okay, now I'm curious. There's nothing I love more than a literary challenge. I grab my cell phone; then I move around the desk and lean against the nearest row of shelves. “Would this imaginary book be fiction or non-fiction?” I ask, enabling the store catalog app on my phone, a searchable database of our in-stock inventory.
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