Last Vamp Standing

by Kristin Miller

  “We’re getting a free vacation in a gorgeous location,” he said. “Don’t overanalyze it.”

  Wolf took a drink of his beer while he considered that. “It’s a matter of principle. Deception like that rubs me the wrong way.”

  Jon studied Wolf for a minute. “Why are you twisting yourself into knots about this? We won’t even be dealing with her after we leave here.”

  “I like my lovers to be honest with me.”

  Jon laughed. “Dream on, pal. She’s mine.”

  Wolf’s eyes widened. “You want to make a bet on that?”

  “Why not? Although I hate having to beat you.”

  “You won’t. I’ll fuck her first,” Wolf said.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, if I were you.”

  “Well, what do you know? We’re competing for a woman,” Wolf said. “We’ve never done that before.”

  “First time for everything.” Jon studied the contents of the freezer again. On one shelf, he found packages labeled “pork ribs,” and on another, individually wrapped game hens. On the last he hit pay dirt. A box that read “Strip Steaks, USDA Prime.” He pulled it out and set it on the worktable. “I give you our dinner.”

  “Anyone can cook a good piece of beef,” Wolf said.

  “I’m talking steak Diane,” he said. “I’ll feed her dinner and then eat her pussy for dessert.”

  “Have you told her that?”

  “Not in so many words.” He opened the box to find steaks sealed in airtight plastic pouches. Beautifully marbled, they were not only prime but really first class. He removed three and returned the rest to the freezer.

  “Have you said anything to her on the subject at all?” Wolf asked from behind him.

  Jon shut the door and leaned against it. “I don’t have to talk. Hell, I could tell within a minute of meeting her, she was the type of woman who likes to fuck.”

  “Every woman likes to fuck if her partner takes the time to turn her on.”

  Jon laughed. “Bragging much?”

  “Reality.” Wolf drained his beer and set the bottle on the table. “And as much as you like to pretend you’re an asshole, deep down you’re too nice to be selfish about sex.”

  “I have a surprise for you, partner. Deep down inside I’m actually a very shallow guy.”

  Wolf rolled his eyes. “Bullshit.”

  The man knew Jon too well to fall for his I-don’t-give-a-damn persona. They’d shared everything since college, including tips on how to make a woman’s body hum like a finely tuned instrument. He couldn’t hide the fact that he took pride in satisfying his partners any more than he could deny Wolf did the same.

  “You know, we’ve never had the same taste in women before,” he said.

  “I like curves,” Wolf said. “You like thinner women.”

  “Not true. I don’t care much about body types. I want a woman who isn’t afraid to come on strong—one who lets me know from the get-go that she’s hot, willing, and available.”

  Wolf rested his hip against the worktable and remained silent for a moment. “You’re right. You always did go for the uninhibited type.”

  “Women on the plump side tend to be shy about their bodies. It’s a crime, if you ask me.”

  “So, Christie Lovejoy has my perfect body and your perfect personality.”

  “And you’re going to lose her to me,” Jon said.

  Wolf laughed. Let him. Jon had pegged Christie Lovejoy as his perfect bedmate the moment he’d set eyes on her. Even at their first meeting, when the three of them had kept everything strictly business, she’d walked with a swing of her hips that said “fuck me now.” And her mouth . . . watching her eat was an exercise in sexual frustration. She savored everything, taking her food slowly and deliberately. From there, he could so easily imagine her lips around the tip of his cock as she closed her dark eyes with pleasure. He’d hold the sable hair back from her face so he could watch her sucking and licking and . . .

  Well, great. He’d given himself a full hard-on just thinking about her. Wolf was probably in the same state. She’d tried to take a good look at both of them and had glanced away, biting her lip, when he caught her at it. Unless he’d misjudged her interest, he’d satisfy her curiosity about his cock soon. Maybe tonight. He needed only to get her alone for a while, and she and his boner would become well acquainted, indeed.

  “Say, Jon . . .” Wolf said.

  That got his attention. Wolf almost never used his name but usually addressed him as “hey you”—when he wasn’t calling him “asshole” or something equally affectionate. “Say, Jon” meant something worth listening to would follow.

  “Wolf,” he answered.

  “Have you ever done anything, um, unusual in bed?”

  “You mean, like kink?”

  The wheels turned in his partner’s head for a moment. “Yeah, that. And maybe . . . sex in groups.”

  Jon’s mind immediately went back to one particular summer when his girlfriend’s college roommate missed a plane and ended up spending the night with them. “I almost had a threesome with Roz and Sue.”

  “Almost?”

  “Roz said it was okay, but she gave off some strange vibes. I called it off.”

  “But never one woman and another man.”

  “Not so far, but you know my slogan: ‘Never say never.’ Are you bringing this up for the reason I think you’re bringing this up?” He didn’t have to say her name. The two of them were trapped on an island with a woman they both wanted.

  “Maybe I am,” Wolf said.

  “Then remember my other slogan: ‘If it feels good, do it.’ ”

  “That sounds like you.”

  Wolf started opening drawers and checking out the contents. Conversation over. The fact that he’d brought it up was revealing enough. His mind was going in new directions, and now Jon’s was, too. Fascinating.

  “How are you going to handle missing Komura?” Jon asked.

  “He won’t like it,” Wolf said. “He has to have hands-on attention or he feels snubbed.”

  “You’ll have to buy him flowers and kiss and make up.”

  Wolf stopped in the act of pulling a knife from the block that held it. “How about your contract negotiations?”

  “I guess Howard can handle it.”

  “He won’t get a deal as good as you can,” Wolf said.

  “It’s time he learned to try.”

  Wolf inspected a twelve-inch chef’s knife and humphed in admiration. “If Christie Lovejoy is keeping us here under false pretenses, she’s showing a bad lack of ethics.”

  “Or she’s showing us that she needs to get laid.”

  Wolf rolled that around in his mind for a bit. Jon knew what Wolf was like when he sorted things out. He had a good head for business and for life in general.

  “While I sympathize, I don’t approve,” Wolf said finally. “It’s not only dishonest as far as business is concerned. Keeping us here for sex is personal, too.”

  “Up close and personal,” Jon said. “Just the way I like it.”

  “Don’t you take anything seriously?”

  “Orgasms,” he answered. “I take orgasms very seriously.”

  “So you’re going to sleep with her no matter what.”

  Jon chuckled. “I don’t know about you, partner, but my plans for her don’t include a lot of sleep.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Wolf said.

  “And you’re going to turn her down if you don’t like her ethics?” Jon asked. “Give me a break.”

  “No, of course not.” Wolf blew out a frustrated breath. “But if I find out she’s been lying, I might extract my pound of flesh.”

  “Well my pound of flesh is hot and hard and ready for some fun.”

  An Excerpt from

 
THE SHORT AND FASCINATING TALE OF ANGELINA WHITCOMBE

  by Sabrina Darby

  WANTED:

  A beautiful young woman—preferably one with no connections, who won’t ask too many questions—to spend two weeks in the North of England with an obstinate, aloof, and utterly handsome man.

  Must love dogs, fixing up crumbling castles, and gorgeous and complicated war heroes who may or may not be hiding hearts of gold under their gruff exteriors.

  Must not, under any circumstances, fall in love . . .

  Simpering misses need not apply.

  CHAPTER ONE

  March 1816

  Dear Cousin,

  I still despair of ever seeing my Georgie matched. There is one thing unchanged about my son, and that is that nothing his mother says can make him see reason. As a result, I’ve taken your advice and have placed an advertisement in the paper. I can hear you now in my mind, claiming that you were teasing and never intended me to realize such an action. However, I am at my wits’ end and thus have undertaken a diabolical scheme. As I am not entirely certain my son is comfortable with ladies, I thought perhaps to test the waters, so to speak, by finding him a mistress.

  Yours,

  Mary

  The last time Angelina Whitcombe had been this far north, it had been the end of summer, when the loveliness of the rolling green earth of the Dales was at its finest and the river sparkled in the sunlight.

  Now, it was spring, and snow still clung stubbornly to shady corners, and mist lingered over the faded road dotted with rocks and fallen trees. Thankfully, she’d prepared for every eventuality of weather. After all, everything she owned was packed into the trunk, back at the inn. It had been a bit of a shock to see twenty-two years of life fold down into a space four feet by two feet.

  Through the canopy of branches she glimpsed a sight of grey. The tower. Finally.

  And it wasn’t all that far away.

  She picked her way around yet another large fallen tree branch. The winds had ravaged the area, and no one cared enough about this overgrown road to clear it. But once upon a time, people must have traversed it daily, otherwise no one would have thought this area important enough to build a castle.

  To build the now-ruined tower house in which Mrs. Martin claimed her scarred and diffident war hero son had hidden himself away. It seemed fitting enough for a gothic novel: ruined castle, ruined man.

  With a slight twist, for Angelina’s employment was to seduce the poor invalid, reawaken in him a sense of the erotic, and then encourage him to seek a wife. She had little doubt she could do the first. After all, she was no simpering virgin. She’d been the mistress to two well-pleased men. Beyond that, she was an actress born and bred, spawned by a family of actors.

  But as for the last . . . well, she’d find a way to fulfill her duty in some fashion. Regardless, she’d walk away from this transaction a hundred pounds richer. Once she would have scoffed at that sum of money, but not now. Her value in London had plummeted, and a hundred pounds could keep a wise woman for years.

  She stopped, took a deep, calming breath. There was no point in anger or resentment. She had to focus on the task at hand, which required being charming and frothy, lifting a man out of the depths of despair.

  She shifted the leather-bound sketchbook she carried from her left arm to her right, rolled her shoulders back in a stretch, and then started forward again. If this traipsing about country lanes were to become a habit, she would need sturdier shoes.

  The lane turned to the left, and suddenly the trees opened into a clearing, and the castle was before her on a slight rise. She frowned.

  It wasn’t a very large castle. In fact, it was neither picturesquely ruined nor perfectly kept up. It looked . . . disheveled more than anything.

  Fitting. She could feel wisps of her hair against her cheeks and neck. Likely she, too, looked a bit disheveled. Preferably, she would look windblown and rosy cheeked, the very picture of bucolic English femininity.

  She stopped again halfway up the glacis, catching her breath. When she’d been a young girl, she’d run across hill and dale, skipped across meadows and scampered in rivers. Now, she was already tired after the long walk from the village, and this small elevation was taxing her greatly.

  As she took several deep breaths, she studied the tower. The thick wooden door was ajar. Excellent. It would be much easier to saunter in as if she thought the place abandoned than to have to knock and beg entrance.

  She trudged uphill. As she neared the door, a clanging filled the air and the earth seemed to shake. She stopped again and listened carefully, trying to identify the discordant sounds. Mrs. Martin had assured her that Captain H.J.G. Martin, or, “my poor Georgie,” was the only occupant of the castle, but what if he was not here? What if ruffians or highwaymen had taken up residence? What if she was about to put herself in a situation far worse and more dangerous than the one she had left behind in London?

  She looked around. She could flee now, head back to the village. Although, really, now that she’d come all this way, it was a bit late for those sorts of thoughts.

  Forward again.

  The clanging had more of a rhythm now, sounding like metal against wood. Maybe this Captain Martin was not alone but had hired a carpenter or some other craftsman to bring the place to rights.

  She slipped through the doorway. Hesitantly, she walked across the dim entryway and entered a large room. The great hall, she imagined it would have been called. Here, light streamed in through windows high off the ground, and straight ahead flames simmered in the large fireplace.

  The clanging continued, but there was no one in this sparsely furnished room.

  “Hello?” she called out. She slowly crossed the hall, running her hand over the lone table, covered with rolls of paper, that stood in the middle of the room, pausing by neatly folded blankets and a pallet of straw by the fire. She eyed the large wooden tub tucked to the right of the big stone hearth.

  Someone lived here. Slept here.

  Captain Martin or a squatter?

  The conditions were worse than the ones she had grown up with as a child in an impoverished traveling theater troupe.

  “Is there someone here?” she said, projecting her voice as loudly as she could. It echoed off stone walls. The clanging hesitated, continued for a moment, and then, finally, stopped. She was scared to leave this spacious, empty room, to venture into more shadowy spaces beyond the archway to her left.

  Instead, she focused on a stack of books beside the makeshift bed. Curious, she knelt down, feeling the warmth from the fire on her face as she reached for the one on top.

  She heard the panting a moment before a large furry animal charged at her.

  She swiveled her head, lost her balance, and slipped back onto the floor, her sketchbook falling to the side. The dog, a collie, pressed its large wet nose against the side of her face.

  “Jasper, heel. Who the devil are you?”

  Wonderful. Likely the dog’s owner was Captain Martin, and there was no graceful way to rise from such an indelicate position on her own.

  She looked up, raising her arm for assistance, and then dropped her hand.

  Her jaw, too, before she caught herself.

  He was bare to the chest, and magnificent. Strong, with muscles as defined as if a sculptor had chiseled them from marble, skin glistening from some recent physical exertion. The clothed parts of him were wonderful too. Her gaze slid down the lines of his hips and thighs, reaching the place where the superfluous fabric of the trousers obscured what were surely equally fine calves. How could they not be? This man in front of her was some god of male perfection.

  “Madam.” There was a hardened edge to that voice, and, reluctantly, Angelina lifted her gaze to meet his. Which was obdurate, and yet he smirked at her. As if he were both angry and amused.

 
“I’m very sorry to disturb you,” she said at last, lifting her hand towards him for assistance once more. She punctuated her words with the smile that had charmed audiences across England. “I’d been told there was a ruined castle to see. I thought it abandoned until I heard that ruckus. Help me up, will you?”

  He stepped forward out of the shadows, and she gasped at the sight of the jagged scar that cut from cheek to chin, twisting his lips up on one side. There wasn’t anything amused about this man looming over her. Now she’d made the situation worse by staring.

  At least that shocking feature confirmed without a doubt that this man, who looked the antithesis of shy and sickly, was the very man she intended to seduce. The way he fairly radiated masculinity, this wouldn’t be hard at all. In fact, it would be her pleasure.

  “This is a private residence,” he said, even as he reached his hand out. His large, strong, bare hand that made her wish she weren’t wearing gloves. She placed her fingers on his palm and used her ballet training to rise to her feet as gracefully as possible.

  He had a very warm hand.

  When she was standing, looking up into that scowling, smirking face, she didn’t let go.

  “Yes,” she purred. “I see. Do you live here . . . alone?”

  He snatched his hand away, stepping back. Looked pointedly toward the front door.

  Of course, she couldn’t leave. And now that she’d seen him, she didn’t really want to. What she wanted to do was run her hands over his naked skin, lick the small nipples that dotted the fine smattering of hair across his chest. While sexual relations had mostly been an economic transaction for her, while this would be at the heart of it all, too, she rather thought she’d want to taste this man even if she weren’t being paid.

  Which was stupid. Was the way women like her went from being beloved mistresses of Marquesses and Earls to roadside whores.