Mercy's Destiny: Montgomery's Vampires Trilogy (Book #3) (Montgomery's Vampires Series)

by Sloan Archer

  Dickhead.

  There was no line at the ATM, which was great. The coffee I’d inhaled was making me need to pee in an urgent way. Bet guy on the bike wouldn’t think I smelled so delicious if I wet my pants.

  And I did nearly wet my pants when I got a look at my bank statement. “That . . . That can’t be,” I gasped, stumbling back from the screen. I signed out of my account and trotted into the bank, on the verge of passing out.

  I must have looked like a complete wreck, with my puffy eyes and partially brushed hair, since the teller was not amused when I explained my situation. I didn’t like repeating myself, but I was not getting through to the woman. She didn’t seem to believe me, perhaps because of my disheveled form.

  “Would you please check for me?” I asked, thrusting my card over the counter. “I don’t know why my account is showing that amount. There has to be some mistake.”

  The teller took the card, though I could tell that she really didn’t want to. She clearly thought that I was a crackpot. “Okay, so you want me to check . . .” She eyed me over the top of the computer screen. “What specifically would you like to know?” she sighed as her fingers tap-danced over her keyboard.

  I fought hard to stay calm. “I’d like for you to check two things for me: when and how one million dollars got deposited into my checking account.”

  The teller’s fingers stopped moving and then her eyes widened. Guess she believed me now. “One second, please,” she said, getting up from her chair. “I’m going to check something with our manager.”

  A couple minutes later, a middle-aged man with a comb-over haircut and a pleasant smile came over and offered me his hand. He introduced himself with a name I forgot as soon as he said it and then invited me to join him over at his desk. He tossed an empty takeaway soda cup into the garbage can by his feet and asked me to repeat all my information again, so that he could bring it up on his computer. I did as he requested, and then waited for him to tell me that there’d been some epic error, that hackers had breached their system and deposited millions of dollars worth of fraudulent funds into dozens of accounts. That I was still broke as a joke.

  But he didn’t.

  He turned his screen around so I could see it. He tapped the area that showed my balance. “You can see here that the deposit was made earlier this morning. No mistake was made. The money is yours.”

  “Who put it in there?” As if I didn’t know.

  The manager shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Does the name not show?” I demanded.

  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t. This can sometimes happen if it’s a foreign deposit, or if the money was wired from an offshore account, or if it the deposit was made anonymously, which also might be the case.” He scratched his chin. “You don’t seem like you expected this money?”

  “I didn’t.” I sat back, dazed. “So . . .” I felt like I should have been asking all sorts of smart financial questions, but he’d pretty much answered them all in a couple short sentences. “So . . . So I guess I’m a millionaire?”

  He chuckled. “Looks that way.”

  “And if I spend this money . . . There’s no way that I’ll get into trouble? The bank isn’t going to come after me in a couple weeks after they’ve realized that they did make a mistake?”

  The manager said, “No mistake had been made, Ms. Montgomery. I can give you a printout of the information, if it will make you feel better.”

  I said that it would.

  Back at the car, I sat staring at the printout, feeling sick . . . and hurt . . . and angry. Only one individual I knew could have made a deposit that substantial: Robert.

  How cowardly could he get? What was that million dollars—guilt money? What was he trying to do, buy me off? Pay for me to move out of his house quietly—to go away forever?

  What did he take me for?

  Well, that pretty much gave me the answer I needed about our situation. A kidnapped man typically wouldn’t drive to a bank and make a million-dollar deposit into his ex’s account. Robert was with Serena because he wanted to be with her.

  I felt numb.

  Instinctively, I grabbed my cell and called Robert’s number. I was going to demand an explanation, and he was going to give it to me, damn it, whether or not he wanted to. After all that we’d been through—after all that I’d been through because of my association with him—I felt I deserved one.

  It rang once and then I realized my error. I could just picture the cell back at the house, buzzing away on the dining room table, mocking me. He doesn’t have his cell, buzz-buzz. You’re a fool, buzz-buzz. He won’t ever be picking up for you again, buzz-buzz.

  I hung up the phone, wondering how many more instances like this I was going to have to suffer before it finally sunk in that it was O-V-E-R. I reached across the bed to spoon Robert before I remembered that he was now sleeping with somebody else. I went to the fridge to fetch a bottle of blood before I realized I had no vampire lover around to pour it for. I went to pick out my favorite sweater of Robert’s so he could wear it but then I saw that his clothes were no longer in the closet.

  And here’s where I started to feel even lower as a human being.

  After a few fleeting moments of righteous indignation over Robert’s attempt to buy me off, I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to give back the money. Nope. I absolutely was not.

  I had thought about giving it back, and had imagined the pained look on Robert’s face as he came home to his empty house to discover that I had left a check for him on the dining room table—the same dining room table we’d made love on multiple occasions—for exactly one million fuck-you-and-your-sad-attempt-to-buy-me-off-dollars. In my imagination doing just that seemed great. Stupendous. And had I been a few years younger, or even a little less versed on precisely how scary it was to be so poor that I had no idea where my next meal was coming from, I may have done just that.

  But . . .

  From a practical standpoint, giving the money back would be a bit like cutting off my nose to spite my face. To Robert, a million dollars was equivalent to a normal person having to budget an impulse-purchase on, say, a new pair of shoes. A million dollars was not going to make or break him one way or the other, and my petty gesture to hurt him by leaving behind a check would be just that: a petty gesture.

  A million dollars to me, however, would change my entire life. This was something my pride was reluctant to accept. I’d been raised to stand on my own two feet and to rebuff handouts, so the idea of accepting a bail-out—nay, a payoff—from a man who’d dumped me was beyond incomprehensible.

  Still, a million dollars.

  I could pay off all my debt. I could go back to school for a master’s degree, which I’d been wanting to do, and not have to work while taking classes. I wouldn’t, of course, be able to maintain the same plush lifestyle I’d grown accustomed to while living at Robert’s. But I sure wouldn’t have to stress at the end of each month about how I was going to pay rent, fill my car with gas, or put food in my belly, which is precisely what I would have to do if I didn’t keep the money. I wasn’t an extravagant person by any means—not the way Robert was extravagant—but my old car would soon start needing parts and repairs that would outweigh its overall value. I could use that money to buy a conservative new car, something Japanese and sturdy. The car may not prompt drive-thru baristas to take photos, but at least it wouldn’t break down and leave me stranded.

  In the end, I decided that pride was a luxury only a person wealthier than I could afford. When you’re poor, with little or no alternative options, sometimes you have to suck it up and do things that make you cringe.

  If Grams were alive, I wondered what she’d have to say about my decision.

  6

  I’d been so keyed up the whole morning that I almost couldn’t fall asleep once I got home.

  There had been a few moments when I’d toyed with the idea of getting out of bed and scrappi
ng the nap altogether, but I wanted to be mentally sharp for my blood extraction. With everything that had happened since Robert’s recent departure, letting my guard down around anyone affiliated with the VGO, even if it was only some lackey they’d sent, didn’t seem like the wisest idea. I also wanted to look rested, in case the lackey reported back to Serena. She’d undoubtedly be thrilled to hear that I was looking haggard, and I did not want to give her the satisfaction.

  The rep was scheduled to show shortly after sundown, around sevenish. It had annoyed me to no end that the VGO hadn’t provided me with an exact time. It bugged me when anyone did that, actually, because I liked to know the precise time that I needed to be ready. Sevenish to me meant any time between 6:45 and 7:15, which was a full half hour wasted that I could have spent doing something else instead of hovering by the front door waiting for company to show up. So rude.

  I wasn’t normally a gal inclined to nap, but I’d been so tired lately, as if an invisible anchor was bogging down my body and mind. Eventually, I was able to drift off. I didn’t dream, thankfully, because whatever my mind would have conjured would have been grim and vengeful.

  I slept so deeply, in fact, I suspected that I would have slumbered right through the night had I not set an alarm. Not surprisingly, the first thing I did after I turned off my phone alarm was to see if Robert had called. He hadn’t. I was beginning to wonder if he ever would. I got a grip by reminding myself that he had only gone away last night, though it felt more like last year.

  I had more than enough time to shower and get ready, so I decided to cook dinner from scratch. An Asian noodle dish, maybe. And chocolate chip cookies.

  Once I got into the kitchen and began rooting around for the appropriate pans and baking bowls, I didn’t feel like preparing anything. What I really wanted to do was curl up on the couch and read a book to take my mind off the weird turns my life had taken in the past twenty-four hours. With the VGO rep arriving soon, that certainly wouldn’t be happening.

  I searched around and found the take-out menu for my favorite Thai place, the aptly named Thai Spice. Because old budgeting habits died hard, I selected a conservative plate of pad Thai and sweet iced tea. As I was sitting on hold, I decided to add some tom yum soup and sweet mango sticky rice to my order, since I was ravenously hungry. And, what the hell, I was a millionaire now. I could afford it.

  I nearly pounced on the poor delivery guy when he arrived at the door. I plowed through my food straight from the cartons, not troubling with plates. I’d never been a nervous eater and had always thought of myself as the sort of girl to starve her way through bad times. Guess I was just hungry. The last time I’d had a broken heart (courtesy of the recently-departed Mathew) my stomach had been so tangled up in knots that the very idea of eating made me want to vomit. I’d ended up losing so much weight that people unaware of the breakup started asking me if I was ill. But now I’d have to watch it, or else I’d double my bodyweight in a week.

  I admired the dinner carnage—upturned cartons, errant noodles stuck to the table, crumbs of leftover peanut topping sprinkled down the front of my shirt like pixie dust—but then made the mistake of thinking about the pending arrival of the VGO rep. It made me instantly sick. Again. I ran into the bathroom, bent over the toilet, and waited. And waited. Finally, the nausea passed. Though I’d enjoyed dinner immensely, I hadn’t enjoyed it so much that I wanted to experience it a second time in reverse. I rashly vowed never to drink red wine again.

  Or fall in love.

  Since I was already in the bathroom, I stripped off my clothes and hopped into the shower. For an extra treat, and to perk up my spirit, I lathered my skin with one of the fancy frangipani soaps I’d gotten in Bali. I’d been hoping to save them for special nights out on the town with Robert, but . . . oh well.

  I was left with an odd amount of time after the shower: too little time to start a project or get into a book, but just enough of it that I’d start to feel antsy if I sat around, waiting. I reached under the counter and pulled out a blow dryer and fat curling iron. Why not give myself a hot ‘do? Just in case Bitch Face Serena did hear about the state of my appearance.

  When my hair was nice and fluffy, I did my makeup. I took my time with my eyes, drawing them into two sexy cat-eyed shapes. Since my eye makeup was so heavy, I selected a light brown sugar gloss for my lips. I knew I was going a little over-the-top for an at-home blood draw, but getting dolled up was making me happy (or as close to happy was I was going to get under the current circumstance). Also, I had a feeling all the way down to my toes that it would be beneficial for me to look attractive. Ever have one of those? You’ll be heading out to grab coffee or whatever, and then at the last second you’ll decide to throw on some lipstick, and then you happen to run into somebody you know? It was a feeling like that—an inclination to look good.

  I had some trouble deciding what to wear. Had I been Liz, I would have thrown on any old thing and still ended up looking disgustingly gorgeous. I reminded myself to give her a jingle later to catch her up on the events of the day. She would freak when I told her about my surprise at the bank.

  Liz had always been a good friend to me, so I planned on offering her some money to help her get back on her feet during her split from David. (Liz had a lot of pride, however, so I’d have to phrase the offer in a way that would make her think that she was somehow doing me a favor by taking a little money off my hands.) Before Liz and David got married, she’d moved into his house. David had owned the property free and clear prior to their union—it was an inheritance or something of that nature—so I assumed Liz would be the one who would have to do the moving out. (Join the club, girlfriend!) I wasn’t sure how much Marlena paid her to do hair at Dignitary, but I imagined Liz was probably worried about moving costs.

  I selected a dark pair of skinny jeans, a tight-ish grey sweater that made my breasts look a cup size larger—which I’d never noticed before but, hey, great—and a brown pair of knee-high boots. It felt kind of odd wearing the boots inside. I hardly wore shoes in the house in general, but I figured it would be shoddy of me to entertain the VGO rep in sheepskin slippers. I threw on a simple thin gold chain with a teeny tiny rose gold skull charm to complete the look.

  A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I nearly passed out when I saw who’d come. I opened my mouth to speak but . . . nothing.

  “Hello, Mercy.”

  Finally, I managed a meek: “Oh. Hello, Joseph.”

  Joseph was head honcho at the VGO in Scotland. The VGO had headquarters all over the world, but the one in Edinburgh was especially important. Joseph was over a thousand years old and beautiful in every single way a man could be beautiful. His eyes and hair were dark and deep, his accent crazy-sexy, and his muscles plentiful.

  Joseph had sampled my blood not too long ago, and when I’d first opened the door he’d been looking at me like he wouldn’t have minded sampling it again. But now he was staring at me like I was mentally unsound, probably because I was gaping at him like he’d just thrown a pie in my face. I bit the inside of my cheek, reminding myself about the vampire I was dealing with. Joseph was so powerful that he could kill me with mere words. Seriously. If he gave the order, dozens of less important vamps would eagerly slay me for the sake of proving themselves to the VGO. And in a very indirect way Joseph was my boss, since I currently had a standing contract with the organization he represented.

  “Won’t you please come in?” I asked politely.

  I faltered for a beat once he was inside, undecided where to go. Should I lead Joseph into the living room and offer him a seat on the sofa or take him into the kitchen so we could pull up chairs at the dining room table? The kitchen would be better, I decided, since it was less intimate.

  First, I took Joseph’s coat. Our hands touched when he handed it over, and I felt a zing pass between his skin and mine. I wondered if he’d felt it, too.

  It was impossible not to notice how Joseph’s muscles showed through his clo
thes. He was dressed more causally than what would be expected of somebody so high-ranking, in fitted jeans and a black t-shirt. On his feet he sported those high-end distressed leather boots that are meant to look like they’re intended for construction but are actually too fancy to wear out even in the rain. Had Joseph not possessed the power to end my life with a simple order, and had I been clearer about the current state of my relationship with Robert (or clear if I even still was in a relationship with Robert), I would have been all over that.

  Though it may have been pitiful that I was holding on to hope, I still felt as if I didn’t have conclusive proof that a) Robert had not been coerced into dumping me, and b) Robert had been the one who’d made the million-dollar deposit into my bank account. It may have made me a fool, with all the writing on the damn wall, but I couldn’t help that I was still in love with the vampire.

  Also, it would have been outrageously disrespectful to hit on another man while I was living in Robert’s house. And another thing: I had to keep up the guise of being Robert’s fiancé, a fib Robert had told while we were at the VGO headquarters. He’d done it as a measure to keep me safe, and I had no intention of clearing up that misnomer only to make myself, well, unsafe.

  Joseph had brought a small, hard-shelled case. It made him look like a secret agent, but I knew what it was going to be used for: taking my blood back to Britain.

  I poured Joseph a glass of the ballerina and then offered him a seat at the table. I jumped when he spoke.

  “Where’s your fiancé?” he asked in his lovely lilt.

  I hadn’t thought to make up a cover story—because I wouldn’t have dreamed that the VGO would send Joseph!—and I couldn’t tell if he was messing with me. What if Serena and Robert had been parading all around the VGO headquarters and Joseph was mocking me by rubbing it in? But why would Joseph do something like that—mock me? Surely a vampire so important would have better things to do with his time.