Roman laughed. "You can afford it, Angus."
"So can you." Jean-Luc smirked at his old friend. "Have you seen what your wife is buying?"
Roman hurried to the window and looked for his wife in the store below. "God's blood," he whispered.
Shanna Draganesti was carrying their seventeen-month-old boy on her hip while she filled his stroller with clothes, shoes, and purses.
"She has good taste," Jean-Luc observed. "You should be proud."
"I'll be broke." Roman watched forlornly as the pile in the stroller grew steadily higher.
Jean-Luc surveyed the showroom. As much as he grumbled about his self-imposed exile, he was pleased with the prison he'd designed for himself. It was nestled among the hills of central Texas.
The nearest town was Schnitzelberg, founded by German immigrants a hundred and fifty years earlier. It was a sleepy, forgotten place with Spanish oaks dripping moss and white Queen Anne homes with lace curtains.
All his stores in America boasted a similar design, but this one in Texas was different, for it included a large underground lair where Jean-Luc would hide during his exile. It was imperative to keep this lair a secret, so Jean-Luc's mortal assistant, Alberto, had reached an agreement with the contractor who'd built it. The contractor was on the local school board, so Jean-Luc agreed to make a hefty contribution to the school district through the upcoming charity fashion show. As long as Jean-Luc was generous with the town of Schnitzelberg, they would keep quiet about the bankrupt store that a foreigner owned on the outskirts of town.
And just to be safe, Robby had teleported into the contractor's office and removed all the blueprints and work orders related to this site. After the charity show, Robby and Jean-Luc would erase a few memories, and no one would remember there was a huge cellar beneath the abandoned store. Pierre, a mortal who worked for MacKay Security and Investigation, would guard the building during the day while Jean-Luc lay in his death-sleep.
He watched the party below. Simone and Inga were flirting with a white-haired old man, hunched over a cane. He had to be rich, or they wouldn't waste their time.
Jean-Luc's gaze wandered about the store. He'd always enjoyed people watching. The thought of this building being empty for the next twenty-five years was damned depressing. Ah well, he was accustomed to loneliness.
He spotted the new model Alberto had hired for his last show in Paris. Sasha Saladine. She was talking to someone standing behind a mannequin. Alberto approached, and Sasha introduced her companion. Alberto accepted a gracefully extended hand and kissed it. A female. And possessing an arm that wasn't pencil thin. She wasn't a model. A customer, then. Most likely mortal.
Alberto and Sasha wandered off together, leaving the showroom. What was that about? Jean-Luc forgot to speculate when his gaze drifted back to the customer and stuck. She was moving into view, and what a view. She had curves. And breasts. A derriere a man could grab on to. And mounds of curly auburn hair that fluffed around her shoulders. She reminded him of lusty tavern wenches from medieval pubs who laughed heartily and made love with wild abandon. Mon Dieu, how he had adored those women.
She was like the old movie stars he had loved to design clothes for. Marilyn Monroe, Ava Gardner. His intellect might design clothes for a size zero, but the rest of him yearned for a lusty, full-figured woman. And here was a beautiful one right in front of him. Her black dress clung to a luscious hourglass figure. And yet the most important feature, her face, remained hidden. He moved to the left and peered closely through the glass.
He caught a glimpse of a pert nose, slightly tilted up at the tip. Not a classical nose like all his models possessed, but he liked it. It was natural and…cute. Cute? Not a word that could ever apply to his models. They all aspired to perfection, even by artificial means, but the end result was they all looked alike. And in their quest for perfection, they lost something. They lost a sense of personality and unique sparkle.
The woman in question pushed her thick, curly hair behind her ear. She had high, wide cheekbones and a sweet curve to her jaw. Her eyes were wide and intent as she focused on the white gown. What color were her eyes? he wondered. With her rich auburn hair, he hoped they were green. Her lips were wide, yet delicately shaped. No collagen there. She was a natural beauty. An angel.
She retrieved some items from her purse—a small writing pad and a pen. No, a pencil. She was writing something. No, sketching. His mouth dropped open. Zut! She was drawing his new gown, stealing his design.
His eyes narrowed. What nerve she had to blatantly copy his gown right in front of everyone. Who the hell was she? Had she come from New York with Sasha Saladine? She probably worked for one of the other major fashion houses. They would love to have copies of his latest designs.
"Merde." He grabbed his tuxedo jacket off the back of his desk chair.
"Where are ye going?" Robby asked, ever vigilant.
"Downstairs." Jean-Luc shrugged on his jacket.
"To the showroom?" Angus frowned. "Nay. Someone might recognize you. Ye shouldna risk it."
"They're local people," Jean-Luc explained. "They won't know who I am."
"Ye canna be certain of that." Robby moved toward the door. "If ye want something from the store, I'll bring it to you."
"It's not a thing. It's a person." Jean-Luc motioned to the window. "There's a spy down there, stealing my designs."
"You're kidding." Emma ran to the window to look. "Where is he?"
"She." Jean-Luc glanced out the window. "By the white—no. Zut, she's moved to the red gown."
"Let us deal with her." Angus joined Robby at the door.
"No." Jean-Luc strode toward the exit and stopped in front of the two Scotsmen blocking his way.
"Move. I need to find out who's paying her to spy on me."
With a stubborn lift to his chin, Angus folded his arms and refused to budge.
Jean-Luc arched a brow at his old friend. "Your company works for me, Angus."
"Aye, we're paid to protect you, but we canna do it if ye behave foolishly."
"And I'm telling you these local people don't know who I am. Alberto always acted as my go-between. Let me pass before that damned spy leaves with my designs."
Angus sighed. "Verra well, but Robby will go with you." He whispered instructions to his great-great-grandson, "Doona let anyone take his photo. And watch his back. He has enemies."
Jean-Luc snorted as he left his office. With a few strides, he reached the back staircase. Did Angus think he was a weakling? He knew how to protect himself. Sure, he was on Casimir's hit list, but they all were. And Jean-Luc had other enemies as well. A man couldn't live more than five hundred years without making a few vampires angry. But now he'd acquired a new foe. A thief with the face of an angel.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and headed down the side hallway for the showroom. Robby's steps thundered down the stairs behind him.
As Jean-Luc entered the store, heads turned in his direction, then turned away. Good. No one recognized him. The scent of different blood types wafted past him, a sweetly appetizing human buffet. Socializing with mortals had presented a problem for his self-control until Roman had invented synthetic blood back in 1987. Now Jean-Luc and all his Vamp friends made sure they were full before venturing among mortals.
He noticed Robby edging around the perimeter of the room, looking for photographers. Or assassins. Jean-Luc stepped around the old man with a cane and proceeded to the female thief. He stopped a few inches behind her. She was tall, the top of her head reaching his chin. The scent of her blood was fresh and sweet. She was mortal.
"Begging your pardon, mademoiselle."
She turned. Her eyes were green. Zut. Her beautiful eyes widened as she looked at him.There was nothing sadder than a fallen angel.
He frowned at her. "Give me one good reason why I should not have you arrested."
CHAPTER 2
Heather blinked. "Excuse me?" The gorgeous man's French accent took some time to a
djust to, but she could have sworn he'd threatened to arrest her. She smiled brightly and extended a hand.
"How do you do? I'm Heather Lynn Westfield."
"Heather?" His odd pronunciation sent a tingle down her spine. It sounded like Eh-zair, soft and sweet like an endearment. He took her hand and encased it in both of his.
"Yes?" She continued to smile and prayed that none of the feta cheese spinach puff was lodged in her teeth. He studied her with his beautiful blue eyes. And his face—that chiseled jaw and mouth belonged on a Greek statue.
His grip tightened around her hand. "Tell me the truth. Who sent you here?"
"Excuse me?" She tried to retrieve her hand, but he held on tight. Too tight. A shiver of alarm crept up her neck.
His blue eyes narrowed. "I saw what you did."
Oh God, he knew about the crab cake. He must be some kind of security guard. "I–I'll pay for it."
"It is twenty thousand dollars."
"For a crab cake?" She ripped her hand from his grasp. "This place is outrageous." With a huff, she pulled the napkin from her purse. "Here. Take your silly crab cake. I don't want it anymore."
He stared at the napkin-wrapped crab cake in his hand. "You are a spy and a thief?"
"I'm not a spy." She winced. Had she just admitted to being a thief?
He frowned at her. "There is no need to steal food. It is free. If you are hungry, you should eat."
"It was a souvenir, okay? I'm not really hungry. Do I look like I've missed any meals?"
His gaze wandered over her slowly with an intensity that made her heart race. Well, what was good for the goose…She checked him out, too. Were the black curls on his head as soft as they looked? Did he have trouble with his hair tangling? Shoot, as long as his eyelashes were, they probably tangled, too.
She cleared her throat. "I doubt you arrest people for taking crab cakes. So I'll just be going now."
His eyes met hers. "I'm not done with you."
"Oh." Maybe he'd drag her away and ravish her. No, that only happened in books. "What did you have in mind?"
"You will answer my questions." He motioned to a waiter and dropped her balled-up napkin on the tray. "Now, tell me the truth. Who is your employer?"
"SISD."
"Is that a government agency?"
"It's the Schnitzelberg Independent School District."
He tilted his head with a confused look. "You are not a designer?"
"I wish. Now if you'll excuse me—" She pivoted to leave.
"Non." He took hold of her arm. "I saw you copying the white gown. It is twenty thousand dollars. Since you are so interested in it, you should buy it."
She snorted. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that gown."
"What?" His eyebrows shot up. "There's nothing wrong with that design."
"Are you kidding?" She pulled away from his grasp. "What was Echarpe thinking? The neckline plunges past the navel. The skirt slits up to North Dakota. No woman in her right mind would wear that thing in public."
His jaw shifted as he ground his teeth. "The models are happy to wear it."
"My point, exactly. Those poor women are so malnourished, they can't think straight. Take my friend Sasha. Her idea of a three-course meal is a celery stick, a cherry tomato, and a laxative.
She's killing herself to fit into these clothes. Women like me can't dress like that."
His gaze drifted over her again. "I think you could. You would look…superbe."
"My breasts would fall out."
"Exactly." The corner of his mouth tilted up.
She huffed. "I'm not showing my breasts in public."
His eyes twinkled. "Would you do it in private?"
Damn him and his pretty blue eyes. She had to think a moment to remember the gist of the conversation. "Are you going to arrest me or drool on me?"
He smiled. "Can I do both?"
What a confusing man. "I haven't done anything wrong. I mean, other than the crab cake. But I wouldn't have taken it if I could actually afford anything in this place."
His smile faded. "You are in need of money? You plan to sell the designs you copied to another house?"
"No. I just wanted to make one for myself."
"You are lying. You said you would not be caught dead in one of these gowns."
Lying? This guy was full of rotten accusations. "Look, I would never wear one of these gowns the way Echarpe designed them. I tell you, the guy is completely detached from reality. Does he even know any real people?"
"Not like you," he muttered, then held out his hand. "Let me see your sketchings."
"All right. If it'll help clear things up." She showed him her notepad. "The first one is the white gown, but I fixed it."
"Fixed it? I can hardly recognize it."
"I know. It looks so much better now. I could actually wear it without getting arrested for indecent exposure."
He gritted his teeth. "It's not that bad."
"If a young boy saw me in it, I'd be listed on a web-site as a sex offender. But the point is moot, since I could never afford the dress in the first place. I can't even buy a pair of socks here without getting my truck repossessed."
"This merchandise is designed for an elite few."
"Oh, pardon me. I'll just have Cheeves bring around the Rolls-Royce, so I can putter over to the airport and take my private jet back to my villa in Tuscany."
His mouth twitched as he turned to the next page. "And this is the red gown?"
"Yes, but much better after I fixed it. There are four more designs there. I was coming up with so many ideas all at once, I just had to get them down before they were lost. If you know what I mean."
"Actually, I do." He gave her an odd look.
It was odd. He didn't look like the type to understand the whimsical creative process. He looked more like an athlete, but with the build of a swimmer, not a weightlifter.
Could he actually have her arrested? His strange accusations combined with his handsome looks had confounded her to the point that she'd babbled like a nervous idiot. She needed to relax and be nicer. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to steal anything. Am I in trouble?"
He glanced at her with a hint of a smile. "Do you want to be?"
She stopped herself from saying yes. Good Lord, this guy was sexy. And much too gorgeous for his own good. No doubt he had trouble finding clothes that fit those broad shoulders and long legs.
He probably had problems with women, too. They took one look at him and their clothes accidentally fell off.
Aha! That's what she'd do if he arrested her. She'd offer herself to him as a sacrifice. How noble. How ridiculous. She would never have the nerve.
He finished studying her drawings. "These are actually quite good. I can see how they would be more flattering for a woman with a…more luscious figure."
He really liked her designs? Heather's heart swelled with pride and joy. She liked being called luscious, too. "Thank you. And thanks for not calling women like me fat."
He stiffened. "Why would I say that when it's not true?"
Whoa. This man was serious trouble. Not only was he gorgeous, but he knew the right things to say to women. Double the danger. And double the fun? No, she slapped herself mentally. She'd just rid herself of one male disaster. No way was she hanging around for the sequel. "I'd better be going." She turned to leave.
"You forgot your sketchings."
She pivoted to face him. "You'll let me keep them?"
"On one condition." He glanced behind her. "Zut. We must go."
She looked over her shoulder. A big guy in a kilt was confiscating a young woman's camera phone.
"But I wanted a picture for my blog," the young woman objected.
"Come." The gorgeous security guard grabbed Heather's arm and led her toward a set of double doors with the word Private printed above them.
"Wait a minute." Heather slowed down. "Where are you taking me?"
"A place where we can talk."
Tal
k? Wasn't that code for something else? Good Lord, he was dragging her off to ravish her.
"Uh, I don't talk with strangers."
"You've been talking to me." He gave her a wry look as he pulled her through the double doors and into a hallway. "You've given me quite an earful."
"Well, yes." She glanced back at the showroom. "I just hope you're not expecting something more."
He halted by another set of double doors and returned her notepad. While she stuffed it in her purse, he punched in a number on a keypad. "What I am about to show you is very private."
Oh God, she was afraid of that. "Only seen by an elite few?"
"Exactly. I know you're a tough critic, but I think you will be impressed."
Her gaze wandered south. "I'm sure I will."
"Heather."
His soft way of saying her name made her feel all melted and gooey inside. She lifted her eyes to meet his.
His mouth curled up. "Are we talking about the same thing?"
"I don't know." Her heart pounded. It was hard to think when he looked at her like that.
"I'm going to show you the rest of the fall collection."
"Oh." She blinked. "Right. That's what I thought."
"But of course." The twinkle in his eye was suspicious. He opened the door and escorted her inside.
"It's dark—" She hushed when some lights came on.
A quick glance at the high ceiling let her know he'd turned on only half the lights. Her gaze moved downward. The room was huge, much bigger than the showroom. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of beautiful fabric. Her fingers itched to touch it all. In the back, she spotted two sewing machines. They were reflecting off the glass of French doors along the back wall. To the left of the room sat two large cutting tables. To the right, rack after rack of fabulous clothes. In the center, a host of male and female mannequins stood in a circle like the Stonehenge of high fashion.
Good Lord, what she would give to have a workroom like this. It was heaven. "This is where the magic happens."
"Magic?" He shut the door. "I would call it hard work."
"But it is magical." She wandered toward the first rack of clothes, her heels clunking on the wooden floor. "This is where ideas give birth to beautiful things."
The Undead Next Door las-4 Page 2