Dead Sexy

by Amanda Ashley

  He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his lips cool and firm. “Come home with me tonight.”

  Regan swallowed hard. Like Pandora, she could feel herself reaching for that blasted box…

  “Reggie, what the hell are you doing here?” Michael Flynn’s voice hit her like a blast of cold air.

  Regan looked up, startled to see Mike staring down at her, his expression grim.

  “Mike,” she said, her voice little more than a squeak. “What are you doing here?”

  “There’s been another murder. I was about to call you when I noticed your car parked out front.” He glared at Santiago through eyes narrowed with distrust. “I hate to repeat myself,” he said, looking at Regan once more, “but what the hell are you doing here? With him?”

  Santiago gained his feet. He was taller than Flynn by a good four inches. “She is having a drink with me,” Santiago said, his voice as smooth and cold as winter ice. “Is that a problem?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Michael, knock it off. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

  “Yeah? I’ll bet that’s what the woman lying out in the park thought, too, before someone ripped her to pieces.”

  “Oh, no, not another one,” Regan murmured. “How long ago did it happen?”

  “The M.E. puts the time of death within the last fifteen minutes,” Flynn replied.

  Regan nodded, amazed, as always, at the wonders of modern technology that allowed the medical examiner to determine the time of death to within just a few minutes.

  Flynn’s gaze moved from Regan to Santiago and back again. “How long have you two been here?”

  “I don’t know,” Regan said. “Half an hour or so, I guess. Why?”

  Michael looked pointedly at Santiago. “You’re lucky you’ve got a good alibi, bloodsucker.”

  Keeping his gaze on Flynn, Santiago gave Regan’s shoulders a squeeze, then smiled smugly. “Yes,” he said. “Lucky.”

  “All right, boys, break it up,” Regan said irritably. Grabbing her handbag, she slid out of the booth. “I’m sorry, Joaquin, but I need to go and have a look at the body and the crime scene while it’s still fresh.”

  “I will go with you.”

  Flynn rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. “That won’t be necessary,” he said brusquely.

  Santiago snorted disdainfully. “I live in the park,” he remarked. “I am free to go wherever I please.”

  “Fine,” Flynn said brusquely, “just stay the hell away from me. Come on, Reggie, let’s get out of here.”

  Regan hurried out of the restaurant, aware of Santiago’s gaze on her back as she followed Flynn out the door.

  “Dammit, Regan,” Flynn blurted as they walked toward the crime scene, “what the devil are you thinking, hanging around with that bloodsucker?”

  Because she couldn’t tell him the truth, she told him part of a lie. “I’ve been talking to him about the murders. After all, who better to catch a vamp than a vamp?”

  “Yeah, right. He’d as soon kill you as look at you.”

  Regan felt a little thrill of excitement as she recalled the way Santiago had looked at her earlier. It wasn’t death he had on his mind, unless it was what the French called la petite mort, the little death, in reference to making love.

  The sight of the body sprawled beneath a flowering bush drove every other thought from Regan’s mind. Though she had seen many similar deaths lately, it didn’t make this one any easier to bear. Once again, she was glad she didn’t have to notify the family, didn’t have to see the faces of the victim’s husband and children when they learned that their wife and mother wouldn’t be coming home that night, or any night.

  Frowning, Regan wondered what the woman had been doing in the park after sunset. She would never know now.

  Regan looked up at Michael. “Did the M.E. say she’d been killed here?”

  “As a matter of fact, he suggested she might have been killed somewhere else and her body dumped here.”

  Regan moved closer. Spotlights lit the area, making it almost as bright as day. The woman’s body had been shoved under the bushes, apparently in an effort to hide it. As far as Regan could see, there was no blood on the ground, and none left in the body. There were gaping holes where her heart, liver, and throat had been torn out, but no blood.

  “I think someone else is killing these people and trying to make it look like the work of vampires,” Regan said.

  Flynn snorted. “Why would anyone do that?”

  Regan gestured at the woman’s body. “Why would anyone do this?”

  They stood back as the body was bagged and carted away.

  “I need to go and check out the rest of the park,” Flynn said. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Be careful, Regan,” he said as she slid behind the wheel. “Keep your doors and windows locked.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Mike, I can take care of myself.”

  He closed her car door, then leaned down to look in the window. “I can’t help worrying.”

  “I know. Good night, Mike. Be careful.”

  He waved as she pulled away from the curb.

  Regan’s mind wasn’t on Mike or on the road as she drove home. Instead of traffic noise, she kept hearing Joaquin Santiago’s voice, whiskey smooth and maddeningly sexy. Instead of streetlights, she saw his eyes, deep and dark and mysterious as they gazed into her own. How many centuries had he lived? How many secrets lay hidden beneath the midnight blue depths of his eyes? How many innocent lives had he snuffed out so that he could prolong his own unnatural one?

  What if he was the killer?

  That chilling thought brought reality rushing back to the fore. No matter how handsome he was, no matter how charming he appeared to be, no matter how blatantly sexy he was with his bedroom eyes and his roguish smile, he was a vampire and strictly off-limits.

  Clearheaded now, Regan made a left onto her street, and noticed that the car behind her also made a left. Now that she thought about it, she realized that the same sleek silver-gray Mercedes had been following her ever since she left the park.

  Overcome by a sudden sense of foreboding, she drove past her apartment and made a right at the next stop sign. The car behind her did likewise.

  With growing apprehension, Regan continued on down the street and when the car continued to follow her, she drove to the police station and pulled into the parking lot. The Mercedes drove on past without slowing down.

  Regan blew out a sigh of relief. She was getting paranoid, she thought with a shaky laugh. There was no reason for anyone to be following her. None at all.

  Chiding herself for acting so foolishly, she drove home, checking the rearview mirror all the way. There was no sign of the silver-gray Mercedes. Pulling up in front of her apartment building, she switched off the ignition, then sat in the car, the hair along her nape quivering. Ordinarily, she parked in the underground garage, but not tonight. She told herself she was behaving irrationally but she couldn’t help it. No way in hell was she parking in that garage tonight.

  She was about to open the car door when she saw the silver-gray Mercedes turn the corner.

  With a wordless cry, Regan started the engine. Tires screeching, she pulled away from the curb, her heart pounding a rapid tattoo in her chest, her palms damp on the steering wheel as panic gripped her. She couldn’t see who was driving the silver Mercedes, didn’t want to see who it was because she was afraid, so afraid she could taste it in the back of her throat. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. She had destroyed vampires before, she could do so again. She had a pistol loaded with six silver bullets that would stop a vampire cold. That knowledge did nothing to allay her fears.

  She drove straight to You Bet Your Life Park, certain that the only one who could help her, the only one who could save her from the unknown terror that stalked her, was the vampire Santiago.

  Chapter 7

  Santiago s
tood on the balcony of his apartment, enjoying the moonlight while savoring the sounds and smells of the night—the faint hum of a small white moth doing a dance of death with a streetlight, the rich earthy scent of dew-damp grass and flowering trees. Being a vampire had given him a keen appreciation for the beauty and mystery of the night. It was a different world after dark, one feared by mortals because their vision was limited, or perhaps because they were the predators by day, but at the setting of the sun, they were prey, like everything else.

  So many things had changed since he was made, and yet much remained the same, like the age-old struggle between life and death, good and evil. Mankind had made great strides in some areas—the oceans and the air were clean again, cures had been found for most of the diseases that had plagued the world of men, cloning had never become as popular as scientists had predicted it would, nuclear weapons were no longer a threat. There were settlements on other planets now. Solar power had, for the most part, replaced electricity. And yet, in spite of all that, there were still wars and rumors of wars. Doing away with poverty had not done away with the urge to steal. Prejudice still reared its ugly head from time to time.

  Santiago lifted his face to the sky. How many nights had he stood thus? After the first few hundred years, he had stopped counting. Mortal time no longer held any meaning for him. Indeed, there was little in his existence, other than the need for blood and a lingering need for vengeance, that held any appeal for him at all.

  But now Vasile was here and all that had changed.

  Santiago felt his fangs brush his tongue as an old and familiar hatred rose within him. But for Vasile, Marishka would be at his side, as she was meant to be. The Gypsy girl had been his first love, his only love, in all his long years of existence.

  He closed his eyes and let her image rise to the surface—tall and slender, with deep brown eyes and ebony hair that fell in thick waves past her hips. Marishka had been his first and only fledgling. She had been but seventeen when, on a foolish whim, he had brought her across. He had immediately had second thoughts about what he had done. He had, however briefly, considered destroying her before she rose the next night, but there had been something about her, some intangible quality, that had stayed his hand, and then it was too late. The bond between them had grown stronger with each night they had spent together. He had loved her as he had loved no other, had planned to show her the world and all the wonders it contained. It had been a wonderful dream, one that had lasted less than a year. A dream that had died a violent and bloody death one bleak wintry afternoon…

  The sound of screeching tires and the smell of fear on the wind chased the distant past from Santiago’s mind and brought him back to the present.

  He recognized the car and the woman’s scent immediately. A heartbeat later, Vasile’s stink was borne to him on the wings of an errant breeze.

  A thought took Santiago to the edge of the park and the curb beyond.

  He was waiting for her when the driver’s side door flew open and Regan spilled out in a rush.

  “Slow down, girl,” Santiago admonished, capturing her in his embrace. “I have you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Someone’s following me! I’m sure of it.”

  “You are safe now.” He tried to ignore the rapid beat of her heart, the scent of her blood, but it was impossible. Still, this was not the time to ponder what it would be like to drink of her sweetness, to carry her to his lair and possess her, fully and completely.

  Using one hand, Santiago thrust Regan behind him, his gaze focused on the silver-gray Mercedes that was cruising slowly past the park. Due to the dark tint on the windows, Santiago knew Regan couldn’t see the man behind the wheel, but Santiago saw the driver clearly enough. It was Vasile, just as he had known it would be.

  Santiago’s grip tightened on Regan’s forearm, but his gaze never left Vasile’s.

  You will not have this one, Santiago vowed, and knew in that moment that Regan Delaney had come to mean far more to him than he had ever intended. But then, so had Marishka. Knowing her, loving her, he had planned to spend the rest of his existence with her. Until Vasile found their lair…

  “Santiago, you’re hurting me.”

  Regan’s voice chased all thought of Marishka from his mind. He murmured an apology as he released her.

  “Was that him?” Regan glanced at her arm. His grip had left a red imprint on her skin. There would be a bruise there tomorrow. “Was that the werewolf?”

  He nodded curtly. “Vasile, yes.”

  “Why is he following me?”

  Santiago’s gaze rested on her face. “Believe me, you do not want to know.”

  She started to argue with him until she saw the taut line of his jaw, the feral expression in his eyes. Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

  “I think you would be wise to spend the night here, with me,” Santiago remarked.

  Before she could protest, he was taking hold of her arm again, leading her across the sidewalk and into the park’s silent shadows.

  The hair prickled along Regan’s nape as they entered the grounds. A number of men and women, most of them dressed in black from head to foot, strolled through the park or sat on the benches scattered along the walkways. It was like a scene from some bizarre dream, seeing the vampires moving through the park in the middle of the night. She reminded herself that no matter how odd it seemed to her, the night was their day. Sometimes, on summer evenings, mortals paused on the sidewalk, their eyes wide with curiosity or narrowed in morbid fascination as they watched the vampires.

  Santiago’s apartment was on the top floor of a five-story building. He opened the door with a wave of his hand and then stood aside so she could precede him.

  She jumped when she heard the door close behind her. She was alone in a vampire’s apartment, and no one knew she was there.

  She turned to face Santiago, her heart pounding so hard and so fast she was surprised it didn’t burst out of her chest.

  “Afraid of me?” His voice was deep and rich and faintly mocking.

  Hands clenched at her sides, she lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  His easy laughter filled the room. “Please.” He gestured at a high-backed brown sofa. “Consider my home yours.”

  She sat down because she wasn’t sure her legs would support her much longer. What was she doing here? What made her think being in here, with a vampire, particularly this vampire, was any safer than being outside, with a werewolf? They were both predators. And in the dark of the night, she was prey—for both of them.

  Santiago loomed over her, tall, dark, and deadly. The words moved through the back of Regan’s mind like a death knell. His mere presence made her feel small, insignificant, and defenseless. She knew all about vampires. She had studied them for years. She knew they grew stronger with age and that most of the things people believed about them were based on myth, legend, and the Transylvanian count made famous by Bram Stoker, and had little basis in fact.

  Some things were true. They could change shape. They could travel faster than the human eye could follow. They drank blood to survive. Fire, sunlight, and beheading could destroy them. Silver and holy water burned their skin like acid.

  She had yet to meet a vampire who was repelled by a cross, or one who cast no reflection. To the contrary, they seemed to love mirrors and never missed an opportunity to stop and admire themselves.

  Of course, she hadn’t met all that many of the Undead on a social basis, and certainly none quite like the one who was towering over her.

  “It is late,” he said. “You should get some sleep.”

  “Not here.” She glanced around the room, wondering where his coffin was. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t sleep here. No way!

  “You will be perfectly safe, Regan Delaney,” he said quietly. “Much safer than you would be at home.”

  “Now why don’t I believe that?”

  “You have nothing to fear from me. I have already dined.
The bedroom is in there.”

  “Isn’t that where you sleep?”

  “No.” Removing his coat, he tossed it over the back of a chair. “I would not leave here in the morning if I were you.”

  She frowned. “Why not?”

  “He is a werewolf.”

  She stared at him a moment, then murmured, “Oh, right,” as comprehension dawned. Vasile was a werewolf. Unlike vampires, he had nothing to fear from the sun’s light. “What’s to keep him from coming here?”

  “My apartment has infinitely better protection than the flimsy barrier that surrounds the park,” he replied smoothly. “And I am here.”

  Some help he would be, she thought, while trapped in the deathlike sleep of his kind. “Why is Vasile after you?”

  “Because I have sworn to kill him.”

  “You have? Why?”

  “Maybe one day I will tell you.”

  “But not now?”

  “No.”

  She was too tired and too upset by the evening’s events to argue. In any case, she didn’t think arguing with Santiago would do her a bit of good. With a nod, she murmured, “Good night, then.”

  Going into the bedroom, she switched on the light, then closed the door. The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was an old-fashioned four-poster covered with a thick black quilt. Several plump red velvet pillows were scattered near the mahogany headboard. Since she was reasonably sure he didn’t sleep in the bed, she wondered what he used it for…then quickly put an end to that train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion. The man was a vampire, but still a man, and the bed and its trappings clearly had seduction written all over them.

  She didn’t like the idea of sleeping in her clothes, but she liked the idea of undressing in a vampire’s residence even less. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her shoes, tossed the fancy red pillows on the floor, and crawled between the sheets. Cool, black satin sheets, she noted with a faint grin. Just as he had said.