The orgasm caused stars to burst behind her eyes.
Then it was over.
Steven kissed the spot on her neck where his mark would be seen by any who knew where to look. Eve felt changed somehow, as if her soul had forever-bound to his. He gazed at her, love in his eyes, and said, “Merry Christmas, Eve.”
Candy for Valentine
VALENTINE CARTER SAT down at a corner table and watched the merriment around her. Every year, the Heart of Romance Readers’ convention was held the second weekend of February. The party started on Friday evening and continued through Sunday afternoon. Tonight was Friday, and the Rock n’ Roll Rave kicked off all the fun.
She sighed. Since she’d checked into the hotel at 4 p.m. she’d been snubbed by authors and readers, approximately 142 times. Her “posse,” the loyal women who posted comments on her review site, The Blog Bitch, and who emailed her daily, were not here.
She was alone. At least until Eve and Steven arrived. Valentine surveyed the dancers bopping around at the front of the ballroom. A DJ was set-up in the far left corner, spinning songs such as “Rock Around the Clock,” “Tutti Frutti,” and “Peggy Sue.” Sitting by herself at the large table with its shiny white plates, folded napkins, and sweating water glasses, she drank a glass of Chablis and moped.
A flash of red caught her attention and she looked up. Madra Milton. The author’s novel, Take Me Away, was up for a Reader Heart award. In December, Val had reviewed the book, recommending that readers use it for kindling. Now, she felt a sliver of shame. Not for the first time she wondered if her friend Eve was right about the reviews on The Blog Bitch. Do I really get more pleasure out of trashing the books than I do reading them?
Madra, wearing a red-and-white cheerleader’s outfit, sauntered toward a table filled with people. She posed then shook her single pom-pom in a pseudo cheer. Her audience clapped and laughed.
Val looked away. She couldn’t recall ever having a moment like that—where a bounty of friends and fans welcomed her. She felt that way online, when others gave her cyber high-fives and added their own cutting opinions to hers. She’d been disappointed when none of her Internet pals could come to the conference. She had envisioned snark sessions at parties like this one, laughter and joke-telling, and doing in-person what they did on the blog.
Once again, doubt fluttered in her mind. She had always thought of herself as a romance reader. And so, she believed her blog had attracted other romance readers. Like her, these readers were tired of the same old plot devices, cheesy dialogue, skinny, simpering heroines, and heroes who were either Navy SEALS or ancient vampires.
But maybe she’d merely attracted other cynical women who didn’t believe in love anymore. Her negativity had gathered more negativity. Was The Blog Bitch a service to readers who wanted the real scoop on romance novels? Or merely a place where she could use romance novels as scapegoats for her bitterness about love?
“Hi there! Looks like you need a friend.”
The southern drawl belonged to a pretty woman with platinum locks pulled into a ponytail; she was dressed in a white sweater and blue poodle skirt. As Elvis crooned “Don’t Be Cruel,” she plopped into a chair. Her affable smile jolted Val out of her morose thoughts.
“Isn’t this the greatest? I mean, it’s only day one and all ... but wow oh wow. First reader’s conference for me. What about you?”
“Yes,” said Val. “First one.” And last one. No way would she suffer through another event where people saw her nametag and bolted mid-conversation. She had finally taken it off, but most people knew her face now. If she wasn’t scheduled to participate on two panels—Bloggin’ The Review and Honesty in Review Writing—not to mention presenting a category award at the awards banquet, she would’ve booked a flight out of here tonight.
“Are you a reader or writer?” asked the bubbly blonde.
“Reader.”
“That’s terrific! I’m an author.” Out came a business card, which she presented to Val. “My first novel came out last summer, Kiss Me Once. The next in the series, Kiss Me Twice, hits shelves in June. I’m so excited!”
Val tried not to flinch. She had blogged about Kiss Me Once and like most of her reviews, it hadn’t been favorable. She looked at the pink rectangle: Lanie Haart was scrolled across the top with a big red “kiss” in the center. Lanie’s website address and email were at the bottom.
“Thanks,” said Val. She was reluctant to reveal her own identity. After all, Lanie was the first person to speak to Val since she’d arrived at the party. “Do you have fun writing?”
“My most favorite thing in the world. Of course, I just got published, so I don’t make enough to quit the ol’ day job.” She laughed.
“What’s the ol’ day job?”
“Rocket scientist.”
“Really?”
Lanie grinned. “Nah. I just like to say that to see how folks react. I’m a waitress. Just me and my little girl, making do in our little corner of Savannah. Been that way ever since my husband ran off with a movie star and moved to the Bahamas.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Yeah,” admitted Lanie. “It sounds more glamorous than saying he got tired of being a husband and a daddy and left. Five years ago, he took a twelve-pack of Budweiser, our dog Jester, and the truck. Haven’t seen him since.”
Val waited for the punch line.
“Oh, no, that part’s true,” she confirmed, waving a hand as if being abandoned by her own husband wasn’t a big deal.
“I got divorced more than a year ago,” Val said. “I was a paralegal and he was a lawyer. Frank and I had been married for about three months when I found out he was sleeping with my boss.”
“What a rat!”
Val nodded. She couldn’t quite believe she was confiding such painful memories to a stranger. Maybe she was so damned desperate to connect to someone at this conference she would say anything to keep ’em around longer than five minutes. “Turns out they’d been sleeping together before the wedding, too. I don’t know why he walked down the aisle with me. It took longer to get divorced than we were actually married. God, I was so in love with him.” She gulped the rest of her Chablis then shrugged. “But that’s why we read romance novels, right?”
“Happy endings are the best,” agreed Lanie. She pointed at Val’s empty wine glass. “Hey! Let’s get us another drink and make a toast to bad husbands.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
Lanie rose from the table and plumped her skirt. “Where are my manners? I didn’t even ask your name!”
Val’s grip on her purse tightened. She got up from the table, her heart in her throat as she extended her hand. She probably won’t know who I am. Or if she does recognize me, maybe she’ll thank me for all the publicity. “I’m Valentine Carter.”
Lanie’s hand slipped away from Val’s. She was still smiling, but the friendly light went out of her eyes. “Oh. The ... uh ... Bitchy Blog or Bitch Who Blogs ... right?”
“The Blog Bitch.”
“Well, bless your heart. Brave of you to come to a conference with so many authors attending.”
“I was invited.”
“How nice for you.” Lanie bit her lip, obviously engaging in an internal debate. Valentine waited. Either Lanie would suck up to her, hoping to get a better review for Kiss Me Twice or she would lambaste Val for every mean word in the review for Kiss Me Once. No matter which choice Lanie made—Val had lost a potential friend.
“I feel sorry for you, Mrs. Carter,” Lanie finally said. “You’re a decent writer, y’know. You shouldn’t waste your time tearing apart other people’s hard work. You should stop blogging about books and try writing one.”
“I don’t discount the time and effort an author puts into her novel,” defended Val. She’d heard this old saw before. Authors often claimed that reviewers should consider how they’d sweated and bled and wept for their art.
“You don’t listen worth a hoot,” said Lanie, rolli
ng her eyes. “Quit wasting your time and your talent on that blog and use it to write a book. Why do you think I wrote Kiss Me Once? Got me right over that rough patch when Benny left me. I didn’t have a job or a car or a cent to my name. All I had was an apartment with overdue rent and a toddler who kept crying for her daddy. Some women drink or eat or blog ... I wrote a novel. I went to work and I took care of Katie Lyn and I wrote.”
“That’s great,” said Val, holding on to the vague hope that she and Lanie might yet be friends. “You’re realizing your dream.”
“You can only realize a dream if you have one,” said Lanie. “And that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it?” She picked up her glittery blue purse and tucked it under her arm. “I’ll bid you good night, Mrs. Carter. I’m sure you understand why I can’t have that drink with you.”
“Yeah,” said Val. “Sure.”
Lanie Haart zipped away as fast as her bobby-socked feet could carry her. Val watched her walk toward the dance floor. As she passed the table where Madra held court, the author waved her over. Lanie squeezed into a chair between Madra and a good-looking man with the bluest eyes Val had ever seen. For a split second, the man’s gaze snared hers. Val felt a lust attack of epic proportions before the man looked away. The amorous fires died instantly.
Feeling monumentally depressed, Val left the Rock n’ Roll Rave and headed to the one place that always offered solace to the unwanted: the hotel bar.
VAL ORDERED A Jack and Coke from the cocktail waitress and settled into the corner booth. The space was dark and cozy and well away from the rowdy women who’d claimed the bar. Envious, she watched the tight-knit group, all wearing red shirts sporting “Madra’s Minions,” drink margaritas and laugh at their own goofy antics.
Sighing deeply, she decided she couldn’t spend another second watching other people enjoy life. She would go upstairs, order room service, and stay in bed until the first panel session, which began at 10 a.m. tomorrow.
“Hello,” said a sexy male voice. “Mind if I join you?”
Val looked up and met the gaze of Blue Eyes. Did Pierce Brosnan have a twin? Because this guy was hot. Oh, yeah. He was Remington Steele-James Bond-Thomas Crown HOT. Still, she shook her head. “You should probably know that I’m Valentine Carter, owner and publisher of The Blog Bitch. If you are an author, the relative of an author, the friend of an author, or the true-blue fan of an author, chances are good you hate my guts.”
He chuckled, scooting into the booth and sliding over two drinks. “I snagged one from the waitress and got you a second one.”
“Thanks.” Val pushed over a twenty-dollar bill, but he refused the money.
“It’s my pleasure to buy drinks for such a pretty lady.” He smiled, his teeth flashing white. “I’m Dominic.”
A sexy name to go with a sexy man. Her gaze flicked to red shirts at the bar. Several others had joined the minions, Madra and Lanie among them. Was it weird to want to be over there, one of the many basking in the glow of friends than here, with the gorgeous guy?
“I saw you with Madra earlier,” she said, wrapping her palms around the chubby glass. “You a friend of hers?”
“I’m a cover model,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gay.”
“Perish the thought.”
“I spend time with everyone. I’m up for the Best Cover Model award, which requires votes to win.” He looked at Val. “I hope I can count on your vote.”
Val nodded, though she was disappointed that he was only schmoozing her for a dumb contest. Valentine, if you were a flower, you couldn’t attract a bee. She sucked down half the drink. It was cold and crisp and tasted more of Jack Daniels than of Coca-Cola.
“How long have you been a reviewer?” he asked.
Hmm. Had he inched closer? “I’ve reviewed books here and there for websites and stuff for a long time, but I started The Blog Bitch a little over a year ago.”
He nodded, looking as though he were interested in her every word. Wow. She actually felt like he gave a shit. She started on the second drink, which tasted better than the first.
“So, how many books of Madra’s have you reviewed?”
“Her last three. I’m afraid I’ve been rather mean to her.”
“Really? Did she deserve it?”
He leaned forward. “Some of these romance authors think they are God’s gift to writing.”
“Yeah,” agreed Val. “Damn right. I think Madra’s stories are kinda pompous. Every time I read her work, I feel like she’s talking down to the reader. Like we can’t get what she’s saying. I mean if she wants to be all hoity-toity she should write a literary novel and get it over with. Why write romance novels if she doesn’t like them?”
“That’s an interesting viewpoint.”
Val blinked. Somehow a third Jack and Coke had arrived and she was damned near close to finishing it. Counting the Chablis—she was two drinks past what she usually imbibed. “Whew. I’m kinda buzzed. I ... uh ... y’know, better get back to the room.”
“Of course,” said Dominic.
Val managed to free herself from the booth, but the second she got to her feet, the world tilted.
“Whoa.” Dominic clutched her arms and righted her. “Maybe I should walk you to the elevators.”
“Okay dokay.” Val saluted him with her purse and made him laugh. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided her out of the bar. As they crossed the lobby to the bank of elevators, Dominic’s woodsy cologne wafted over her. God, he looked yummy, he smelled yummy ... he probably tasted yummy, too. She wanted to lick him.
“What floor?” he asked.
“Fourth.”
He pushed the button and the doors dinged open. Val wobbled into the car and fell against its side. Dominic stepped through and once again, righted her. “How about I walk you to your room?”
“Okay dokay,” she said again.
When they reached the fourth floor, Dominic held onto Val until they reached Room 432. She couldn’t find the card key so she handed Dominic her purse. He plucked it from a zippered pocket, opened the door, and helped Val to the bed. The floor lamp in the corner offered the only light in the room.
“Thanks,” she said. God, she felt damned strange. She’d been drunk before, but this feeling was different. Dominic knelt down and took off her high heels.
“There,” he said, looking up at her. “That should do it.”
A lust bomb exploded inside her. Dominic was gorgeous, he was in her room, and she hadn’t had sex with a man since her dumb-ass husband. Suddenly, she wanted to have sex more than she wanted anything ever. “I need help with my clothes,” she said coyly.
He obliged, removing her dress, half-slip, and pantyhose. He looked at her black lace bra and matching panties. “Those are very pretty, Valentine. You look spectacular in them.”
“Thanks.” Her thumbs hooked into her underwear, but Dominic stilled her hands.
“Wait. I like to look, y’know? Especially when a woman is as beautiful as you are.” He caressed her cheek and she sighed with delight at the tender gesture. “Y’know what else I like?” His hand dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Never done anything like that before.” She giggled and put out her arms. “Cuff me, officer.”
“I’ll be the bad cop.” He grinned. “Put your hands behind your back.”
She did as he asked and he snapped the cuffs around her wrists. Then he helped her scoot onto the bed. She was feeling dizzy. Was it the alcohol or the horniness?
“One more thing, Valentine.”
“Hmm?” Out of his other jacket pocket, he produced a red ball that had two black straps hanging from it. “It’s a ball gag. You’ll be my little slave, won’t you?”
“Sure.” Vaguely, she felt as though what was unfolding between her and Dominic wasn’t quite right. He hadn’t harmed her, but he hadn’t touched her like a lover, either. Something about the scenario was weird.
He placed the ball gag in her mouth and connected it behind her head. She didn’t particularly like the way the sphere felt, but if it meant Dominic would make love to her, she’d do anything he asked. Her body was revved and they hadn’t even done minimum foreplay.
“Now, sit up and lean to the right. Look at me, darling.”
Unable to resist his sultry instructions, she did as he asked. Light flashed numerous times, blinding her. She blinked away the dancing dots in front of her eyes.
Dominic sat on the bed and patted her thigh. “You’re just perfect, Valentine Carter, as you are now. Know why?”
She shook her head.
“Because you can’t talk and you can’t type.” He leaned forward, his gaze as hard as sapphires. “You’re petty and cruel and you don’t care who you hurt. When you wake up, you’ll be bound and gagged. Right now, you’re squirming because the same drug that will wipe your memory makes you horny as hell.”
Val heard the words, but couldn’t quite comprehend them. What was with all the talk, anyway? She wanted to have hot sex with Remington Steele.
“I’m glad we had this little chat,” said Dominic as he stood up. “Have a good night.”
Stunned, Val watched her would-be lover walk away. She yelled, but the ball gag trapped the sounds. Dizzy, horny, and really confused, she scooted off the bed. Her legs caught in the covers and she fell.
Momentarily stunned, Val laid on the floor. What the hell had just happened? On shaky legs, she got up and sat down on the bed. Dominic was teasing her.
Yeah. He’d be back soon. And she’d be waiting.
MICHAEL SANDERSON ALMOST clipped the man sauntering down the hallway. He looked up from the paper he was reading. His single suitcase dangled from the other hand. “Hey, man. Sorry.”
Holiday Bites: A Collection of Vampire Paranormal Romances Page 3