by Heidi Betts
Oh, yeah, that would go over well. Like pulling the beard off a mall Santa in front of a hundred expectant little kids.
“Are you finished with your dinner?” he asked, knowing she was since she hadn’t taken a bite in the past five minutes.
Glancing down at her plate as though she’d forgotten it was even there, she nodded.
“Good.” His chair legs scraped against the flagstone floor as he pushed back and climbed to his feet. He held out a hand to her, waiting until she slipped her fingers into his. Reluctantly, he noticed, but not quite as reluctantly as before they’d sat down to dinner.
He started to lead her away and was encouraged when she didn’t ask where they were going or what he was up to. She simply trusted him. Or perhaps now that her hunger had been satisfied, lethargy was beginning to set in and she was too tired to protest.
Either way, he would take what he could get.
“You never told me about vampires and food,” she remarked as they walked slowly out of the solarium and back down the hall. “You eat, but you don’t get hungry. So do you need food? Do you even like it?”
Since she was feeling so complacent, he switched from merely holding her hand to slipping her arm through his and pulling her a few inches closer. In a pair of flat-soled, comfortable-looking tennies, the top of her blond head came to just over his shoulder. Not that he minded; it made him feel big and strong and very Me-Tarzan, You-Jane—or whatever the vampire/human equivalent might be—and he realized he liked the sensation. Wouldn’t half mind feeling it more often.
“You’re right that we don’t get hungry for food or need it to survive, but we can appreciate the flavors and textures just as much as anyone else.”
“Which means that you enjoyed dinner well enough, but if I hadn’t been here, you probably would have gotten a glass of…”
“Plasma?” he supplied when she trailed off. She bumped against him from shoulder to calf all along his left side as they strolled toward the second-floor landing—something else he didn’t think he would mind growing used to.
“I was going to say A-positive. I think Liam and Maeve mentioned that’s your favorite.” She tipped her head up to glance at him, her nose crinkling adorably. “Do you really have preferences when it comes to blood?”
“Of course. All vampires do. Humans may not realize this, but each type has a unique flavor. Sort of like the difference between Coke and Pepsi, or root beer, Mountain Dew, Dr Pepper. They’re all carbonated beverages, but also very distinctive. Which is your favorite?”
“Diet Cherry Coke,” she responded, almost without thought.
“Ah. You’re a woman of discriminating tastes. That would be something along the lines of AB-negative in the vampire world.”
She surprised him with a quick, lighthearted laugh. “Good to know. In case I ever run into a vampire in a dark alley.”
Connor paused at the top of the stairs, pulling Jillian to an abrupt stop. Startled, she turned to look at him, putting them face to face.
Moving his hands to her shoulders, he gave a gentle squeeze and tugged her close, forcing her to tip back her head in order to retain eye contact.
“You don’t need a dark alley,” he told her, his voice lowering to a dark, dangerous rasp. “There’s a vampire standing right in front of you.”
And then he lowered his head, taking her mouth to kiss her the way he’d been fantasizing all night long.
Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” spun through Jillian’s head, only in her version, it was “I Kissed a Vampire.”
I’m kissing a vampire.
Oh, my God, I’m kissing a vampire! she thought, a lance of anxiety spiking through her system.
Then she thought, I’m kissing a vampire, and I think I kind of like it.
For a dead man, Connor’s lips were surprisingly warm, and both soft and firm at the same time.
Though the kiss had started slow, with just the gentle press of his mouth against hers, it didn’t stay that way for long. As soon as he knew she wasn’t going to scream or bolt or try to stake him with a sharpened number two pencil, he pulled her closer, flush with his body, and wrapped his arm around her waist like a vise. His lips parted and his tongue began to probe, seeking entrance and reciprocation.
And while her brain forgot her earlier plan to seduce him and prove she was a wild woman, it now shrieked, No! Don’t do it, he’s a vampire!
Her body, however, wasn’t nearly as discerning. Her body, especially those rapidly warming erogenous zones, was writhing in ecstasy and moaning, Yeah, baby. He may be a vampire, but he’s a hot vampire.
Brain, body. Brain, body. The battle warred within her for all of three seconds before she decided she didn’t care if Connor was immortal. These days, death seemed to be a technicality, anyway. And at the moment, this particular corpse (eep!) felt and smelled and tasted very much alive…and she wanted more.
Sliding her hands up the length of his strong arms and broad shoulders, she linked them behind his neck, fingers playing with the silky strands of his midnight hair. She opened her mouth beneath his and let him in.
Or maybe she dragged him in. It was hard to tell at that point who was kissing whom, who was in charge, who was more in control.
Jillian definitely didn’t feel in control. If anything, she was spinning out of it faster than a racecar at the Indy 500. But there were times when Connor’s touch lightened, was more passive, and when that happened, she tugged him closer and deepened the kiss. Then there were times when Connor’s hold was so tight, his mouth so possessive, that there was no doubt he was behind the wheel, steering her exactly where he wanted her to go and keeping them very much on track.
But no matter what, he was always careful with her. She felt the scrape of his sharp fangs against her lips and tongue, but he never let them pierce her, hurt her, draw blood.
She didn’t know how long they stood there, raising the temperature on the landing by a good twenty-five degrees; it could have been five minutes or five hours. But by the time she broke away—or perhaps he pulled away from her—the world was spinning around her. The dark paneled walls, the oriental carpets, the brightly lit chandelier with its million tiny bulbs sparkling like diamonds and lighting the entire mammoth foyer…it all whirled around and around her, blurring her vision and making her dizzy.
As though he knew she was none too steady on her feet, Connor kept hold of her elbows, anchoring her so she didn’t slide down his body in a puddle of raging hormones.
“Come to my room,” he whispered, his voice little more than a sandpaper rasp.
His eyes were dark, fathomless orbs that threatened to swallow her whole, and she shivered at the need, the desire, the passion reflected there. They were emotions she knew were written clearly on her own face.
“There’s only an hour left until dawn. Let me take you to bed and finish what we started.”
Oh, it was tempting. If he could set her on fire and burn her to embers in the middle of the hallway with a mere kiss, she wasn’t sure she could handle what he was capable of without clothes involved.
She pictured him naked and nearly came right where she stood. She pictured them both naked, writhing together on silken sheets, and whimpered with longing.
But as much as she wanted to throw up her arms and say, “Yes, yes, take me, I’m yours!” she couldn’t help but remember what he was. The amazing, mouthwatering image of Connor in the buff suddenly sprouted immense, dripping fangs.
The toe-curling fantasy of having him over her, under her, wrapped around her like a string of blinking Christmas tree lights was all well and good—and turned her knees even weaker than before—but now his eyes glowed red, and his teeth were dripping with blood. Her blood.
She shivered again. This time, however, it wasn’t with yearning, but with fear. Or at the very least, extreme apprehension.
This was what she’d wanted, what she’d planned, for heaven’s sake, but now that the moment was here, she felt frozen in
place, unable to go through with it.
She was supposed to be brave and bold, throwing herself at the first attractive male vampire she saw…. Well, all right, she’d seen Connor first, then decided luring him into bed might be a fun way to prove she wasn’t the dullest woman in Boston proper. And while she hadn’t quite had the chance to throw herself at him, she wasn’t going to split hairs on how they’d ended up here.
But her pulse was pounding, her heart racing a mile a minute inside her chest, and her head was filled with doubts and fears. As much as she wanted to backtrack a few seconds to the part where Connor was kissing the misgivings right out of her, now that her brain was engaged, she couldn’t seem to stop the horror movie clips flashing through her brain.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head and tearing her gaze from his. Tugging at her arms, she broke his grasp and retreated a step. She just couldn’t do it. Not yet.
“I’m sorry,” she said again, her voice breaking over the words because of how sincerely she meant them. “I can’t.”
And then she turned, brushing past him as she ran down the hall to her suite of rooms and slammed the door behind her.
BITE EIGHT
The minute Connor woke the following evening, he wanted to go to Jillian and take up where they’d left off just before dawn.
Her scent was in his nostrils, in his very blood, just as it had been hours before, and he knew without checking that she was still in her room. Also just like last night, he wanted to go there and break down the door. Anything to be closer to her again.
But she was wary enough of him, as it was, and barging into her room with eyes glowing and nostrils flaring wasn’t going to allay her fears. If anything, it would earn him a stake straight through the heart.
He wanted her, and with a little magical Christmas fairy dust—or whatever the hell was supposed to be floating in the air at this time of year—he would have her. But he had to be patient, go slow, and not do anything to spook her.
So instead of barreling down the hall and pulling a Jackie Chan on an innocent panel of wood, he got out of bed, showered, dressed, and downed the liquid breakfast Randall had delivered to his room on a silver platter. Literally.
He also asked the butler to call his office and have his secretary reschedule the evening’s appointments. It was Friday, and though he’d never taken one off before—and, in fact, often worked Saturdays, as well—there was a first time for everything. A long weekend wouldn’t hurt anything, and it would give him more time with Jillian before he had to work again.
That done, he made his way slowly but determinedly out of his suite and down the hall to the opposite wing. At his sides, his fingers clenched and unclenched, and he realized he was nervous. Nervous, for Christ’s sake, when he hadn’t been anything close to that since…well, ever, to the best of his recollection.
But he was anxious about Jillian.
Apparently because she mattered to him. She was the first woman—human or vampire—to catch his attention this strongly in a very long time. To seep into his pores, get under his skin, invade his every waking thought.
The sleeping ones, too. He’d spent a fairly restless night, dreaming of having a naked, willing Jillian in his arms, in his bed, writhing beneath him. Of her damp skin sliding along his, her nails grazing his back…his teeth sinking into her soft, warm jugular.
In addition to a hard-on that just wouldn’t quit, the erotic dreams had brought about his current state of mild apprehension. If Jillian knew he was fantasizing about biting her, about drinking her blood, then licking the wound closed…his cock gave a twitch of longing at the thought…she would run screaming into the night, likely leaving a hole in his wall the exact size and shape of her fleeing form.
Which meant he would have to work on calming her fears, helping her to become more comfortable with the fact that he was a vampire, and seducing her as simply a man instead of a…man with something more.
A few feet from her door, he inhaled deeply and knew she was still inside the suite of rooms. The scent of peaches was tinged now with something else, something spicy, he thought perhaps cinnamon, making his mouth water for more reasons than one.
Reaching her door, he took another deep breath, this time to steady his nerves, before tapping gently with the back of his hand. From inside, he heard what he thought was a squeak, followed by a light scraping sound, a thud, and quick footsteps crossing the carpeted floor.
A second later, from the other side of the door, Jillian’s shaky, breathless voice asked, “Yes?”
“Jillian,” he said, as softly and calmly as he could manage, “it’s Connor.”
She didn’t respond, but he could hear—feel—her pulse jump and her already rapid heartbeat kick up a notch.
“Are you all right?” he asked, reminding himself to tread carefully. “I know you were upset last night, and thought you might like to talk about it.”
“No. No, thank you,” she responded, half an octave higher than usual. “I’m fine.”
All right, patience was one thing; walking away was something else entirely. If he left her alone with her fears and unsubstantiated beliefs about his kind, the distance between them would only grow. In a matter of hours, she would have herself convinced that he was some sort of John Carpenter monster who made a habit of attacking children and performing human sacrifices.
No, walking away was not an option.
“You know,” he told her gently, “if I wanted to, I could turn myself into a cloud of smoke and come in under the door.”
Stark silence met his claim, along with a kick of panic that sent her blood pressure spiking. He heard her lick her lips and swallow hard.
“Can you really do that?” she asked tentatively.
His lips quirked up in an amused grin. “No,” he admitted, letting his gaze fall to the spot where door met floorboards. “But I do have a key.” Not on him, but she didn’t need to know that.
Her heartbeat slowed and he heard her give a low chuckle. Nothing the average human would be able to detect, but he could feel her stress levels evening out.
And then there was a click as she turned the lock and twisted the knob. The door opened a crack and blue eyes peeked out, her head cocked so that he couldn’t see any more of her face or body than that.
“May I come in?”
An indecisive moment passed, and then she released a breath, stepped back, and let the door swing open.
In addition to a head of sleep-tangled hair, Connor noticed she was still wearing the jeans and top from the night before. Every light in the suite blazed brightly, as though she’d lit the place up in an attempt to scare away the bogeyman—i.e., him.
A silver cross the size of a small tarantula dangled from her neck and fell in the very center of her chest. Her right hand held a wooden crucifix, her left a strand of whole garlic bulbs, skins and roots and all.
He cleared his throat to cover a gurgle of laughter. Apparently she had spent a rather restless night anticipating his violent return. He wondered exactly what she’d planned to do with her makeshift weapons, useless as they were.
Shifting his attention back to her face, he said, “I take it you didn’t sleep well after we…”
He trailed off, and she supplied, “Kissed?”
“I was going to say ‘parted ways,’ but ‘kissed’ works just as well.” And told him clearly that she hadn’t been able to get their steamy encounter out of her mind any more than he had.
Good. He didn’t want her to forget it, or to be able to forget him. Not that easily.
Careful not to frighten her, he lifted a hand and brushed a stray blond curl behind one ear. “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds, but you need to know that I’m attracted to you, Jillian.”
Understatement of the millennia.
“Very attracted. And if I get the chance, I intend to kiss you again.”
Longer, deeper, and hopefully more than once.
The tip of her tongue darted
out to wet dry lips, while her fingers fidgeted around the items in her hands.
“It wasn’t the kiss that made me run off,” she admitted in a small voice. “It was…what might have come next.”
The letters, big as a skyscraper and flashing a blinding neon, hung in the air: S-E-X.
“What was it, exactly, that scared you?”
“I didn’t say I was scared,” she quickly corrected, chin lifting to a defiant angle. “Just…apprehensive.”
He smothered a smile. “All right. Then what were you…apprehensive about?”
She licked her lips again, something he was coming to recognize as a nervous gesture. Her eyes darted everywhere but his face, and she tucked her hands—still holding her vampire-repelling weapons—behind her back.
“Well,” she said slowly, easing into her admission, “you’re a…”
“Vampire?” he offered.
She nodded. “And I’m a…”
“Not a vampire?”
She nodded again. “And I’m not sure how…”
“Things work between a vampire and a not-a-vampire, sexually speaking?”
Her head bobbed up and down. “My mind started racing, my imagination ran wild, and I let my nerves get the better of me. After I calmed down, I looked through the books, but I couldn’t find anything.”
He arched a brow. “Books?”
“They were all I could find when I knew I would be staying here and wanted to…”
She trailed off, and a hint of pink colored her cheeks. Rather than finish that thought, she spun on her heel and headed out of the sitting area into the bedroom, careful to tuck the garlic and crucifix in front of her and away from him as she went.
In the bedroom, she set the “weapons” on the bed, which was made with a soft, sage-green coverlet, but had obviously been slept upon, if the wrinkles and lopsided pillows were any indication.