CALL HER MINE
Book 4
The Order of Vampyres
Lydia Michaels
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
Call Her Mine
Copyright © 2013 Lydia Michaels
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63105-031-2
First E-book Publication: December 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Faith Summers
Proofread by Amanda Ward
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
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All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
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Dedication
For Rachel Carmen and Colleen Murphy.
Captain Panic loves you.
Now go wash your hands!
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Can some slashed tires and an ornery bull bring two hard-headed people together for some fun in the sun and a little more?
**Forget Me Not, paranormal erotic romance:
A war is brewing, a war that could destroy an entire vampire race if left unchecked, and Julian Marino has been requested to participate in it. He stops his search for a long time friend to go home and discovers there is more at stake than just his wants.
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CALL HER MINE
Book 4
The Order of Vampyres
Lydia Michaels
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Delilah Starling’s pulse pumped with the sound of the bass as she entered the downtown club, Tribeca. Her skin itched from her new ink and her mood was wired, at best. She needed to let go and release some of the steam that had been building up since Monday.
What a fucking week. At the moment—with the way things have been—she was lucky she wasn’t on a corner giving out blowjobs in order to save her shop, Skin Deep. Her guardian angel had stepped in just in time. She couldn’t knock him for being a shitty fucking angel, because—in the end—he always ended up saving her ass.
A few college sluts looking for a tramp stamp and one drunken dope trying to make it up to his old lady wasn’t enough to pay the rent. She was sure this week Skin Deep’s doors would be closing for good. Then, lo and behold, in walked a man asking for not only an enormous piece of Christ on the cross going up his spine, but an entire sleeve as well. Can you say down payment?
Pushing through the throng leading to the bar, Delilah growled as some hipster tried to make contact. Not now, puppy. She earned a drink after the week she had. Adrenaline had driven her hard and the fact that she’d made rent in the last millisecond definitely deserved a celebratory drink.
After getting cash on the spot and rushing the new customer out the door of Skin Deep as soon as his first sitting was booked, Li hurried over to her douchebag landlord’s building and paid him for the next two months. Catching up with the electric and water company left her as broke as she’d been that morning, but at least she could work, and hopefully get some new clients in the next couple weeks. No matter how bad the economy got, people still forked over money to be painted an individual.
It seemed she wasn’t the only one rushing off for a Friday buzz. Li frowned as some tit cut in front of her at the bar. Tribeca needed some new help, because the wench working the tap at the moment was definitely playing favorites. While she waited she checked on her new piece. It was nothing fancy, just a vibrant rubber ducky wearing a fuchsia boa stamped right on her inner wrist.
She loved being a tattoo artist, loved the adrenaline rush of marking herself with something new. The slight bite of pain that slowly numbed out as the needle pegged over her skin. She also loved inflicting a little of that pain. It helped release some of the inner bitch that seemed to build up inside of her.
Never having been a complicated person, Li based her life on a simple philosophy of you get what you get. Too many years were wasted trying to fit some shitty mold the rest of the world valued. She was a good person, but she would never survive working some crappy nine to five job, knee deep in paperwork, scrimping by making small talk with co-workers she hated just to appear pleasant. Nope. Put her in that fish
bowl and it would only be a matter of time before she snapped.
When customers were on her table she was in charge. Bitches be warned, she only packed a minimal tolerance for stupid people. She had no patience for entitlement. Some would say she had anger issues, but that was crap. She was a very nice person to those who deserved it.
The acrid smell of booze, sweat, and sex tickled her nose as her eyes adjusted to the blue strobe lights flickering throughout the club. Where the hell were Lance and McGuire? Fuckers were always late.
Sidling up to the bar, subversively digging her elbow in the ribs of some stool hog, she leaned over and whistled at the bartender. Chick lifted a harried brow. Whatever. It’s her tip.
“Well, looks like a crayon box spilled over you,” stool hog said.
Great. One of these guys. Why did middle-aged businessmen think it was appropriate to hang out in a club directed toward a generation younger than their children? She had his number before he even spoke. Small business conservative who liked to pretend he was liberal enough to get away with telling offensive jokes in mixed company, but was really clinging to the old days like a teething baby clings to momma’s tit. Those kinds of pricks just loved to share their pearls of wisdom.
She sighed and impatiently tapped her nail on the lacquered bar as she waited for the bartender to take her order.
“Let me ask you something,” stool hog said, swiveling to face her better.
Delilah huffed and turned her eyeballs in his direction without moving her head. That was all he was getting.
“What would make a pretty young girl like yourself cover her skin in all that crap?”
Here we go…“I like it.”
“I don’t understand why women do that to themselves.”
Turning completely, she eyed her annoying companion. “I don’t understand why men who aren’t starring in a 1970’s porn flick have mustaches, but that didn’t seem to make you pick up a razor this morning.”
He stilled than laughed. “You’ll regret them, just wait.”
“Thank you, Nostradamus,” she mumbled.
“Imagine what you’ll look like when you’re old and wrinkled.”
Seriously? Let it go, dude. They aren’t coming off. “I’m guessing I’d probably look something like you, but prettier and more interesting.”
“Ouch. You’re a feisty thing.”
The bartender finally made her way over. Li leaned in and shouted, “Can I get a red headed slut and a Guinness?”
When the wench left to do her bidding Delilah anxiously waited, hoping to do her shot, grab her beer, and run. She gazed straight ahead, her knee bouncing as her foot balanced on the lowest rung of the stool. She had to find—
“You know,” stool hog started again. Mother. Fucker. “You could probably—”
“Look,” she snapped, cutting off any more of his pedantic bullshit. “If my tattoos bother you so much, maybe you should find someone else to ogle. Hmm? I don’t remember inviting you to talk or even sending you a signal that I was remotely interested in what you thought. Look at me and look at you. You’re older than my dad. No wonder you don’t get it. Why don’t you do yourself a favor and go find some geriatric center and have yourself some pudding with people your own age and shut the fuck up about things you’re too fucking closed-minded to get.”
He scowled. Good.
“I was just going to say—”
A deep voice cut him off. “I believe you were going to say goodnight. The lady asked you to leave quite clearly, did she not?”
Delilah stilled, mouth gaping like a fish. Holy shit, he was gorgeous. Tall, dark wavy brown hair, strong jaw, straight nose, bright crystalline pirate eyes lined with dark lash. Come to momma.
Stool hog glared at dapper and debonair. “We were just talking.”
“I believe she was talking and you, sir, were not listening very well.”
“Look, buddy—”
“I am not your buddy.” Mr. Gorgeous had a strange accent, American, but thick and heavy, sort of like her blood at the moment. “I will ask you one more time to step away from the lady and find someone else to pester.”
“Or what?”
Delilah gaped, amazed as stool hog stood up to the new guy who was half his age and twice his size, yet lacked one bit of body fat. Talk about a brick shit house. He glanced at her briefly and she purred. Yup, literally purred like a happy little pussy cat.
The tall man wasn’t smiling and she was astonished her annoying little friend had the balls to stand up to him. He was quite intimidating from his starched black collared shirt all the way down to his booted feet. Her eyes took a little detour about midpoint in the journey and that goodness looked intimidating too, but in a totally yummy way.
Where do I sign up for that?
Sexy scowled at stool hog and growled, “Leave.”
All expression fell from the hog’s face and he suddenly looked as if he might wet himself. She frowned as he nodded.
“I believe you wanted to apologize to the lady.”
Stool hog looked confused for a moment then turned to her and in a completely monotone voice said, “My apologies. I should have kept my undesired opinions to myself. Forgive me.” He then walked away.
She watched him dredge his way through the pulsating crowd and toward the door. When he was gone she took a deep breath and plastered on her sexiest smile, her shoulder lifting coyly under her 1950’s inspired cherry red dress.
“Hi.”
Her confidence wavered when Mr. Sex on a stick didn’t smile back. Rather, his scowl seemed to penetrate right through her clothing as he gravely eyed her from head to toe.
Great, another critic. If he wasn’t interested, why the fuck had he interfered?
She sighed. Thankfully her drinks arrived. Tossing a ten on the bar she flung back her head of Bettie Page styled black hair and let the tart, red headed slut rush down her throat. She returned the empty shot glass to the bar with a triumphant click. If Lance and McGuire weren’t here by the time she finished her beer, she was out.
Grabbing the cool pilsner, she ignored Captain Security Yummy Pants and moved to find a new place to lurk and wait for her friends. When he caught her wrist, the dark frothy beer sloshed and almost fell out of her hand. Her gaze narrowed and his expression softened.
“My apologies. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. Please, allow me to sit with you.”
Something soft like butter filled her belly as her wrist burned under the press of those long fingers. Nothing but a field of night chirping crickets going on in her head—not a single reply came to mind—so she sat. Of course the bartender pranced right over when Yummy Pants sat down.
“What can I get you?” she cooed.
“I will have a brandy.”
Interesting. Very, “it was the butler in the study with the wrench.” Sophisticated.
He stared straight ahead as he waited. Delilah sipped her lager and observed him from the corner of her eye. He seemed…surly…quiet…stiff. But damn, he was sexy.
“Soooo,” she said, unable to take the silent treatment much longer. “You come here often?”
He turned and looked into her eyes. Wow. His gaze dropped quickly to her breasts and back to her face. Her cheek twitched. Was he interested or not? His glance was almost dispassionate, as if he were disappointed. No one had a gun to his head. Maybe she should leave.
He had her radar all twisted. Sighing, she finished her beer in three long chugs. As she prepared to leave, the bartender returned with the stranger’s brandy. Delilah rolled her eyes at the way the booze slinger preened for him.
Sexy Pants kept that broody appraisal right on Delilah, appearing totally disinterested in the bartender. It was the strangest eye fuck she’d ever been victim of. Static filled the air and her mind was already stripping him naked. He seemed to be doing the same, but why the frown? Enough. She was leaving.
“The lady will have another of whatever she was drinking.”
>
She stilled. Escape delayed again. Come on, man, make up your mind. She sat and the bartender left to do his bidding.
“Thanks,” she mumbled, confused.
Rather than acknowledge her gratitude, he said, “What is your name?”
“Li.”
“Lie?” The frown darkened.
“Not Li as in lie. Li as in Delilah.” She held out her hand. “Delilah Sterling, at your service.”
“My service,” he muttered under his breath as he turned away from her outstretched hand and sipped his drink.
Like a moron she lowered her palm and brushed it over the skirt of her dress, as though she was wiping something away—maybe embarrassment.
She turned back to the bar and let her shoulders slump. Wait, what the hell was she doing? Why was she letting this guy intimidate her? He was either going to be polite or she was going to find better company. Straightening her shoulders, she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Christian Schrock.”
Schrock. What nationality is that? German? “You’re not from around here, are you Christian Schrock?”
“No, I am not.”
“You in town on business?”
“Yes, business.”
“What is it you do, Christian Schrock?” She liked saying his name. Schrock! Hey, Christian Schrock, how ‘bout a nice, wild fock?
She pursed her lips, holding in a giggle. Which wasn’t hard because he was scowling at her again.
Seemingly not amused with all things her, he said, “I am a farmer.”
She did laugh then. “A farmer? Like the one on the dell?” He didn’t look like a farmer. She tried to imagine him on a tractor in a straw hat. Nope. Wasn’t happening. She’d be more likely to believe foreign drug lord masquerading under a dodgy alibi. “You should really come up with something better than that if you expect people to believe you.”
Call Her Mine Page 1
