That Killer Smile

by Juliet Lyons

  Anger rises inside me as I remember the rumors doing the rounds over at Ronin’s seedy nightclub. Ever since we spent that one night together all those years ago, he’s been at me. He can’t stand the idea of there being a woman in the universe immune to his slimy charms.

  I open the kitchen cupboard and grab a latte mug, slamming it onto the counter. I didn’t even find him attractive before that night.

  Okay, that’s a lie. It’s impossible not to find him attractive. With burning blue eyes and high cheekbones, he’s everyone’s type. But it ends there. He’s ugly on the inside. On the inside, he’s Voldemort.

  Like most vampires, I don’t fully understand the origins of those who created us, but for me, Ronin is evidence enough that demons exist. Perhaps the worst part is that he’s now masquerading behind this whole bad-boy-turned-good facade. I mean, speed dating. What is he playing at?

  I flick the switch on the coffeemaker and take out a latte capsule from the huge glass jar next to the sink. I’m considering what it might take to murder an ancient—the term we use for the earliest vampires, the only ones who can change humans into one of us—when I hear a soft knock at the door. If it’s Mrs. Colangelo again, I may be tempted to bare my fangs.

  Abandoning the latte, I bound across the room and tear open the door, my best fuck off face charged and ready to go. But instead of the powdered visage of Mrs. Colangelo, I find myself staring at a T-shirt-clad chest. A man’s chest.

  I lift my gaze in confusion, meeting soft-gray eyes, intelligent and kind-looking, half-hidden behind a pair of wire-framed specs.

  Who knew midday was hunk o’clock around these parts?

  “Oh,” I say, pulling myself to full height—which, at five foot one and a half, isn’t much. “I thought you were Mrs. Colangelo.”

  The hunk smiles. It’s off center, and he has a tiny chip on one of his incisors, but other than that, it’s a pretty charming sight. “No. I’m Peter. I’m moving in next door. The postman put your mail in my box by mistake.”

  It’s at this point I realize he’s clutching a small wad of envelopes in his tapered fingers. Musician’s fingers.

  “Right,” I say. “Mrs. Colangelo mentioned we have a new arrival.”

  I sense the latter out in the downstairs hallway, earwigging. The whiff of lavender water is always a dead giveaway. “Hi, Mrs. Colangelo,” I call out. “I’m meeting the new neighbor. The one you think is cute!” I catch a tiny squeal of indignation as a door slams.

  Hunky Peter bursts out laughing, eyes crinkling behind his glasses.

  “That was mean,” I admit. “But she’s very nosy.”

  He continues to smile, giving me a once-over so discreetly a human woman might have missed it. Definitely not gay. “I sort of got that impression,” he murmurs.

  “So, Mrs. Colangelo tells me you’re a musician. What sort of music will be keeping me awake at night?” To my chagrin, my voice oozes flirtation.

  “Jazz mainly. But don’t worry, I have a studio on Mare Street, so I shouldn’t be keeping you up.”

  “That’s a shame,” I mutter.

  We stand for a few seconds, not speaking. He has lovely hair, dark brown, worn in that messy-chic way that’s all the rage these days.

  “Anyway, I better give you these,” he says, handing me the letters. “Catherine, isn’t it?”

  I narrow my eyes. “How did you know?”

  “It’s on the letters.”

  “Oh. Right.” For God’s sake. Dumb much?

  He smiles. “Well, it was good to meet you, neighbor.”

  “Right back at ya.”

  He holds up a hand in farewell. “Bye.”

  Mirroring his gesture, I hold up my own. “See you around.”

  When I’ve shut the door behind me, I lean against it. Across the room on the sofa, Wentworth studies me through half-closed lids.

  “He seems nice,” I say to the cat. “Friendly.”

  Wentworth’s eyes widen, as if to say Who are you kidding?

  “I was not flirting,” I point out. “Most people seem nice at first. It’s human nature to hide all the bad stuff.”

  I cross back into the kitchen and flip through the mail. Most of it is junk, but a manila envelope with a red stamp catches my attention—Harvey & Co. Law. I tear it open, my stomach lurching as I begin to read.

  Dear Sirs,

  We are instructed by Mr. Aaron Leech in relation to an incident on September 8, whereby he was admitted to hospital following an encounter with a vampire met through your dating website, V-Date.com.

  Mr. Leech, who was visiting a nightclub at 66 Broadwick Street when the incident occurred, sustained injury to a vital artery and collapsed on the premises. He was taken to Middlesex University Hospital, where an emergency blood transfusion was performed.

  As a result of your failure to vet the safety of the vampires using the site, we have advised our client that he is entitled to damages for your negligence. If you do not compensate our client for the sum of £100,000 by December 1, we are instructed to issue a claim in the High Court without recourse to you.

  Yours faithfully,

  Harvey & Co. Law

  Once I’ve finished reading, I go back to the beginning and read it over and over again, my head thumping with rage each time I get to the part about 66 Broadwick Street.

  Clearly not content with poaching my clients with cheap tricks, Ronin is now hell-bent on ruining me completely. Without a doubt, it was he who suggested legal action, probably to divert attention from that creepy club of his.

  I stand for a moment, clenching and unclenching my fists, contemplating a joyous scenario where the ancient explodes in a puff of black smoke and is never heard of again, before snatching my heels up from the floor and shoving my feet into them.

  I crash out of the apartment, and this time, when I reach the stairs, I don’t turn back. This time, Ronin is going to feel the full force of my wrath.

  Chapter 3

  Ronin

  The pictures on my desk are making me anxious, and not just because the subject matter is a headless corpse.

  I pluck a glossy photo from the pile, examining it closely. The male is chest-down in a muddy patch of weed-strewn grass, hands the color of mushrooms peeking out from the cuffs of a dark suit jacket.

  I scan the image, searching for any rings or cuff links we might have missed at first glance. There’s nothing. I’m no detective, but I’d wager his jewelry was stolen after he was killed. Which means the perpetrator is most likely human.

  Greedy creatures, humans. It’s a small wonder they didn’t snatch his Gucci loafers too.

  Harper quirks a brow. “What do you think?”

  I sigh, shaking my head. There’s never a moment’s peace around here. “I think we have a problem.”

  As London’s vampire overlord, I’m solely responsible for any misdeeds on my turf, whether the victim is a subjugate of mine or not. This one is not, as it happens. Even without the evidence of a face, I can tell. When one of my subjects bites the dust (quite literally, in most cases) I feel a physical severing—a loss. It’s hard to explain, but it’s possibly similar to ESP between identical twins.

  “He can’t have been very old,” Harper says, motioning to the photograph in my hand. “Or the hands wouldn’t be so fleshy.”

  “Aye, he would have to have been turned sometime last century at least.”

  Aside from the first few months of life when holy water, daylight, and silver can cause premature death, vampires can only be destroyed by decapitation. With the head severed, the corpse rots, decomposing as if the vampire life had never been lived at all. If killing me were this simple, I would be nothing more than a few specks of dust on the breeze.

  Harper leans back in the leather chair, dark eyes fixed on the headless images. “It’s a shame the police got to t
he body before us. It’s already been on the local news.”

  I toss the photo back onto the desk with the others. “I’m not too worried about the police. I’ve spoken with an acquaintance at Scotland Yard who’s made it abundantly clear that vampire-on-vampire crime is not something they prioritize. Hence why they were happy to send us these photos and let us deal with it. What I am concerned about are the ancients who will be sticking their noses into our business when they sense one of their own has bit it.”

  Harper cocks his head to one side. “Do they know about the new venture? The speed dating and whatnot?”

  The corners of my mouth curve into a smile as I remember the phone call from earlier today. Catherine Adair calling to bawl me out. She’s perhaps the only person who’s ever told me to fuck off and lived to tell the tale. Which, of course, is the main part of the allure. I get hard just thinking about it.

  “They don’t know. It’s no one’s business but mine.”

  Truth is, none of us ancients ever fully recovered from our exposé. Our laws and structure, once as clearly defined as cut glass, are now like a house of cards. One clumsy move, and the whole lot collapses.

  “Clear these away, Harper,” I say, staring at the macabre pictures fanned across the desk. “Put them in the safe with the ones of last week’s body.”

  Isaac Levine. Who was one of mine.

  While Harper tidies up, I lean back in the chair and pull out a cigar from the desk drawer. I’ve been smoking a lot lately. Not that it matters to my health. I could ingest a factory load of Cuban Habanos without so much as clearing my throat. Nonetheless, it’s a good indicator my stress levels are through the roof.

  I’m about to light up when I hear a commotion down the hall. A female is giving out to Paulo in the bar. I daren’t hope it is who I think it is.

  A second later, the door to my office bursts open, and Catherine Adair appears, a frantic-looking Paulo stumbling in her wake.

  “I couldn’t stop her,” he splutters, wide-eyed. “Bitch is crazy.”

  A surge of anger rears up inside me. Before he finishes the sentence, I dive on him, pinning him to the wall like a fly in a web. His legs thrash wildly as I grip his scrawny throat in one hand. “You never speak of her that way again, understand?”

  Paulo nods, eyes bulging as I lower him to the carpet and release my grip.

  “Get him out of here,” I say to Harper with a jerk of the head. Harper is staring between Catherine and me in confusion. A look that begs the question Why are you defending her?

  He manhandles Paulo through the door, closing it swiftly behind them.

  Once they’re gone, I spin around to Catherine.

  She is livid. More furious than I’ve ever seen her. Her wild, black curls hang loose over her shoulders, her brown-green eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Don’t think you’ve defused the situation by standing up for me, you manipulative bastard,” she says, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from one of her pockets.

  Inside my trousers, my cock stiffens. I run a gaze over her body, drinking her in like she’s a rare vintage scotch. She’s dressed for the office, a cream blouse covered in miniature hearts with black cigarette pants that show off her tiny waist. Though small in stature, she’s as shapely as a nineteen fifties pinup. I have slept with many women, most of them models or dancers, but none come close to having the physical effect on me she does. When I notice her shoes—black, shiny ones with a heel that could pierce a man’s heart—the throbbing in my underwear reaches fever pitch. I imagine mashing my lips to hers, pushing her up against the same wall I held Paulo against, and tearing the clothes from her body.

  She flings the paper at me, where it lands next to the abandoned cigar I dropped on the plush, red carpet at my feet.

  “A letter from the lawyers of Mr. Aaron Leech,” she hisses, eyes flashing. “A client of mine and a customer of this shit hole who’s suing me for a hundred grand. Sound familiar?”

  I lift an index finger. “Did you get a haircut?”

  Her face turns a hot shade of red. “Read it, prick.”

  “Say please.”

  “Read it.”

  If it were anyone else, they’d be begging for their life by now. By rights, I should at least be a tiny bit mad. Instead, I’m a bundle of unspent arousal and excitement.

  Not caring whether she notices or not, I give her another once-over, my gaze lingering on the swell of breasts beneath her blouse. She folds her arms across her chest defensively, breaking me from my lust-induced reverie.

  Using the tip of my shoe, I kick the fallen paper into the air and catch it, smoothing out the creases to read. When I’m finished, I glance up at Cat. She taps her foot impatiently, her beautiful, pink lips pursed.

  “I have no idea who Aaron Leech is,” I say truthfully.

  “Bollocks.”

  “It’s the truth. Do you have a photo?”

  She releases a short, angry sigh. “There’s one on the V-Date website.”

  I reach into my pocket and pull out my smartphone, tossing it to her. “Show me.”

  With trembling fingers, she begins tapping at the screen. A few seconds later, she throws it back, and I flip it over to see a dark-skinned man in his twenties. Ordinarily, I never remember the humans who come to the club, but his face reminds me of a night a few months back, of a journalist staring at his unconscious body in horror.

  “I remember him,” I say, flicking my gaze back to Cat. “He did wind up at the hospital, as I recall.”

  Though I sense she’s bursting to insult me again, I cross the room to the marble fireplace on the far wall and push the corner of a large oil painting that hangs over the mantelpiece. It swings out with a pop, revealing one of the club’s numerous safes. I jab in a code before twisting the heavy door open.

  “What are you doing?” Cat demands haughtily.

  Ignoring her, I remove an empty cloth sack and begin throwing bundles of cash inside.

  When I shut the safe again and turn around, her brows are drawn, her jaw clenched tight. “Please don’t tell me you’re doing what I think you’re doing,” she says.

  I chuck the bag onto the floor between us. “Take it. Pay him off. Before I do it for you.”

  * * *

  Cat

  For a few seconds, I’m lost for words. But as I stare between the bag on the floor and Ronin’s chiseled face, it all becomes clear.

  “This is about you wanting me to owe you, isn’t it?” I hiss, fixing my gaze on his left ear. It’s a trick I learned from the last time we met. If I don’t look directly into his eyes, there’s less chance of being drawn into their swirling, blue depths.

  He smiles, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable, do you know that?”

  “Pffft,” I erupt. “I’m unbelievable? I’m not the one trying to tank my business by spreading rumors and launching a dating service. I’m not the one going out of his way to ensure our paths keep crossing in the worst possible ways.”

  He frowns, displaying the first sign of irritation since I crashed into the room. “I’ve already told you, mo chridhe, it wasn’t me who started those rumors. And as for the speed dating, well, it was a free country last time I checked. I’m offering you the cash because the fella was injured in my club. Which means technically he’s my responsibility. If you don’t take the money now, I’ll have someone deliver it to his lawyer’s office later. I have their address now, after all.”

  He waves the letter in the air like a victory flag.

  “I’ll call them up,” I blurt out, voice quavering. “I’ll tell them you’re a madman and not to accept it. I’ll say it’s not your money at all, that you conned the life savings from some poor old man with dementia.”

  Ronin arches a brow, tucking the letter into an inside pocket of his jacket. “That’s some novel you’re writing there, Cath
erine, but I doubt they would argue if I write them a Coutts check, do you?”

  I’m all out of ammunition. “I loathe you.”

  For a split second, his cocksureness wavers, the steely-blue eyes darkening. But only for a moment. “The problem isn’t me, Catherine,” he says, edging closer. “The problem is you.”

  I straighten up. “That’s the most irritating thing about you, Ronin—you always think you know better than everybody else. I’m not sure whether it’s because you’ve been around longer than the rest of us or because you’re just a massive asshole. Either way, you don’t know the first thing about me.”

  He flashes a cocky grin, raking his gaze over me as if he has X-ray vision. “You don’t loathe me, mo chridhe. You just can’t get over the fact you’re an uptight puritan who loved the kind of sex I gave you that night we spent together.”

  I let out a high-pitched laugh. “That’s right, Ronin. Let’s not forget for one second that the world revolves around you and your penis. Actually, I’m surprised you’re even bothering to get dressed these days. I would have thought you’d have developed a penchant for silky, red pajamas and slippers by now.” I motion to the cigar on the carpet. “Looks like you’ve nailed the smoking part, and God knows the Playboy bunnies must be hiding around here somewhere.”

  He scoffs. “Jealous?”

  “Please, you’re not that good in bed.”

  Except he is—or was. Better than good. But I can’t think about that right now. Or ever again, actually.

  “Paulo was right about you,” he murmurs. “You are a mad bitch.”

  I close the distance between us in a single stride and smack him across the cheek. It’s like hitting stone. He doesn’t so much as flinch. For some bizarre reason, this ignites a hot stab of lust in the pit of my stomach. His scent—a masculine blend of whiskey, leather, and woodsmoke—infiltrates my senses. I’m transported back to that night some years ago when we went at it like two wildcats in his bed.