by Juliet Lyons
I never wanted to come up for air.
I’m standing too close to use the ear trick. His eyes drag me in, two penetrating blue flames, dark with anger. I gulp, allowing my gaze to wander over his chiseled-from-rock cheekbones, rosy Celtic skin, copper hair slicked back from a noble forehead. He may be an asshole, but there is no denying his beauty.
For what feels like an eternity, neither of us moves. We remain locked onto each other, energy—good and bad—swirling between us like thick fog.
Quite without thinking, I hiss, “Fucker.” After spending my human life afraid to speak, I never managed to rewire the connection between my brain and mouth.
His blue eyes flash, and at once, his lips are on mine and his arms are around my waist. Instead of struggling, I mold myself into the hard contours of his body, my tongue sliding over his, my hands pulling him closer, and I hate myself—Lord, how I despise myself—for how good it feels. It’s as though he brings a magnifying glass up to all the base urges I long to forget, including this—an utterly ridiculous sexual attraction to a demon playboy who’s murdered God knows how many during his thousands of years on earth.
I don’t pull away. I can’t. He absorbs me like a drug. Before I can help myself, my fingers are tangled in his thick, red hair and I’m allowing his hands to cup my ass, grinding against the hard rope of an erection bulging beneath his trousers. We devour each other, eyes and mouths open, until I’m no longer sure where he begins and I end.
But then he takes his mouth from mine, trailing kisses from jawline to neck. Along with the rasp of stubble, I feel a scrape of fangs, sharp as knives, glide across my skin. I shove him away, panting slightly, averting my eyes to the lacquered walnut desk in the center of the room. If I don’t stop this now, I’ll end up sprawled across that desk just like all the other women he’s had in here. The worst part is, I’d enjoy it.
“Consider the debt paid,” I say.
A confused expression clouds his handsome features for a few seconds and then the penny drops. His face becomes a mask of indifference, eyes glinting like diamonds in the artificial light of the room. “Don’t kid yourself that the money in that bag is the only reason you kissed me,” he says, his Scottish accent low and throaty. “Though if those are the kinds of services you’re offering, how much will it cost to get you on your knees?” He cups the sizable bulge in his trousers. “I could use some of that deep throat you’re so skilled at.”
And just like that, I feel nothing but hatred again.
I stare briefly at his crotch. “No thanks. It wouldn’t be worth my time.”
He fixes me with a devilish grin. “Keep telling yourself that, Catherine. One of these days you might believe it.”
I turn on my heel and stride from the room, chin in the air, slamming the door shut behind me. I could be out on Broadwick Street in a flash, but I have my pride and I want Ronin’s pathetic minions to see his lordship hasn’t fazed me in the slightest.
Out in the bar, the vampire Ronin reprimanded for calling me a bitch is nervously polishing glasses. He avoids my gaze as I waltz past, pretending to examine the glass for smudges. Harper, who I’ve met previously, drops me a nod. He sits on one of the leather sofas, flanked by two human women in short, tight dresses. The wave of dread that sweeps over me is so powerful I wobble in my Louboutins. They are precisely the type of women I teased Ronin about in his office—heavy makeup, blown-out hair, and legs up to their eyeballs. There’s every chance in the world that one, or both, will be taking full advantage of his unspent arousal. The thought leaves me nauseous.
Luckily, I make it out onto the street before losing my shit. A panic attack, similar to those I used to get in my human days, grips me. Head pounding, palms slick with sweat, the weight of the world feels as though it’s bearing down on me. I tense up and barge my way through lunchtime shoppers and tourists, desperate to find a quiet stretch of pavement where I can stop and breathe.
Although the evening is drawing in, getting home the vampire way is out of the question. Sunlight, no matter how weak, robs us of the superhuman speed we’re capable of at night. Not wanting the claustrophobia of a cab, I decide to walk, taking the backstreets to avoid the eternal glut of human beings.
By the time I make it back to Hackney, I’m angrier than ever. Only now I’m mad at myself. How could I have let Ronin McDermott kiss me again? Especially considering what happened the last time.
I sigh, trailing past the garish storefronts on the High Street. Although it’s still only October, Christmas is beginning to creep in among the Halloween crap. A few splashes of red among the tacky, orange masks and purple capes. How I dread that time of year.
The sky is turning gray, a sharp chill lacing the air, and even though I don’t feel the cold the way an ordinary person might, there is a sting in my heart that has nothing to do with the weather. Every time I think of Ronin with those two women back at the club, I’m hit by a stab of jealousy so intense I see stars. I must have been out of my mind to go careering off to Soho like that. It’s like a recovering alcoholic attending a party with an open bar.
For years now, aside from that one minor indiscretion with Ronin, I’ve lived a celibate life. At first, I only intended to abstain from relationships, but then I realized that for me, sex and love are closely intertwined. One without the other simply would not work. In the end, I gave up both, spending my days working and my nights at home absorbed in romantic novels and TV shows. But those can only sustain a person for so long, and lately the loneliness has set in like dry rot in an old, neglected house.
Maybe it’s time to change things up, give someone new a chance. An image of Ronin flashes into my mind, the way he looked right before he kissed me, blue eyes burning with passion and desire. He is all about sex. From the hair on his perfectly sculpted head right down to his toes. After everything I’ve been through in my life, a man like him is the last thing I need.
No, if I’m going to get back into the game, I’ll need a gentleman, someone sensitive and sweet and kind. Someone who doesn’t make lewd comments about sexual acts and cup his own private parts to make a point.
A deep voice cuts into my thoughts. “We meet again.”
I look up, realizing I’m already on the corner near my apartment, outside Starbucks. The voice belongs to Peter from next door, who stands before me, a box under one arm and a guitar in the other, a twinkly, boy-next-door smile on his lips.
Is this a sign?
I return his smile, deciding that it is.
“Do you want to grab a coffee?” I ask.
Chapter 4
Ronin
Catherine slams the door so forcefully the whole frame rattles, tiny splinters of wood floating down onto the thick carpet.
The woman has become something of a splinter herself—a sharp one—wedged too deeply to extract and painful beneath the skin. I stare at the door in fury, trying to pinpoint the exact moment she went from being a sexual fantasy to the woman I crave day and night.
I’m still staring when Harper softly opens the door and steps into the room. “Everything okay?”
I reach down for the dropped cigar and place it between my lips. Always good for effect. “Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
Harper nods, rubbing the nape of his neck with ring-laden fingers. “That Catherine Adair,” he begins.
I remove the cigar from my mouth and step toward him, my voice low and menacing. “Don’t ever mention her name to me. Understand?”
He nods again, Adam’s apple bobbing. I find his fear comforting, like slipping into a familiar pair of shoes.
I cross to where the sack of money still sits, abandoned in the middle of the room, and toss it at Harper’s feet.
Reaching into my suit jacket, I remove the letter Cat brought with her. “There’s a hundred grand in that bag,” I say, handing him the piece of paper. “Take it to the office wri
tten on there and demand a receipt and confirmation that the case is settled.”
He picks up the bag. “Of course, I’ll leave now. By the way, Kandy and Jezebel are here.”
For a few seconds, there’s a fog in my brain. As if I’ve forgotten other women exist.
“Shall I send them in?” Harper asks.
I don’t answer right away. I can still feel the heat of Catherine in my arms, taste her in my mouth. Her delicate aroma, like strawberries warmed by the sun, lingers on my clothes. It isn’t a sensation I want to give up. Then I catch sight of the expression on Harper’s face, brows drawn in confusion, mouth slightly agape. He is gazing at me as if he no longer recognizes the man standing before him.
“Send in Kandy,” I say, pulling myself to full height. “She’s the brunette, isn’t she?”
Harper averts his eyes, staring up at the polished-chrome light fixture in the ceiling. “They’re both brunette. You only request brunettes these days, remember? Preferably with curly hair.” He mutters the last sentence under his breath, but I hear it nonetheless.
He thinks I’m whipped, I realize with horror. Well, we’ll see about that.
“I’ve gone off brunettes,” I say, walking to my desk and picking up a lighter. “In fact, I’ve gone off European women altogether. It’s time for something new. Maybe I’ll give Brazilian women a whirl.”
“I’ll get onto the embassy,” Harper replies without a hint of irony. “Do you still want Kandy?”
No. I don’t. The only woman I want is an ungrateful shrew with a chip the size of the Grand Canyon on her shoulder.
“Send her in,” I say, lighting my cigar and perching on the edge of the desk. “I hope she’s in a generous mood.”
Harper grins. “Isn’t she always?”
When Harper disappears from the room, I waste no time in giving my dick a mental pep talk. If you don’t get hard for this chick, you piece of shit, we’re screwed. Because that curly-haired female you like so much hates your guts. Understand me?
Kandy sashays through the door a minute later, wearing a black latex dress with a zip in the front, mahogany curls cascading over her shoulders in glossy ringlets. On her feet is a pair of red heels even higher than the ones Catherine wore. Her eyes are lined in black, her lips painted to match her shoes. She is the type of woman people crash their cars to stare at. The kind who peers from the covers of lingerie catalogues all over the world. A dream girl. A sexual fantasy brought to life.
She does absolutely nothing for me.
“Thanks for asking to see me, Mr. McDermott,” she purrs, a forefinger and thumb moving to the fastener on her dress.
In one fluid movement, she tugs it down, a shrill zip echoing around the office walls. She shrugs out of the latex, where it pools around her feet like a puddle of black tar. There isn’t a scrap of underwear on her slender, sun-kissed body. Without removing her heels, she kicks free of the dress and approaches me, shoulders back, her long limbs as graceful as a cat’s.
At this moment, I’ve never hated Catherine Adair more.
To hold Kandy off, I keep the cigar held firmly in front of me, taking slow drags and blowing smoke rings. Kandy pokes her tongue through them playfully, her dark eyes hooded with lust.
We remain locked in sexual stalemate for what seems like forever, until she takes matters into her own hands by ducking beneath my arm and pressing her mouth to mine. She tastes of stale chewing gum and beer. The contrast to Catherine is jarring.
I twist my head to the side. “No kissing,” I say, feeling like a hooker. God knows I have the sexual history of about a million of them.
Her pout of disappointment transforms into a sly smile as she places a hand on my crotch, her nimble fingers searching for my fly.
Nothing. Not a twitch.
I extract myself from her arms and jump backward in a neat arc, landing on the other side of the desk.
She sighs, wrapping her arms around her breasts. “It’s the scars, isn’t it?” she says, her voice wobbling.
Good God, I’ve made her cry.
Seeing a woman in tears always unsettles me. It reminds me of a time long, long ago, when my mother woke me one night, took me high into the mountains near our home, and explained—tears cascading over her cheeks like the waterfalls we visited each summer near Loch Trool—why I would soon begin to crave the taste of human blood. Why, when I caved in to those feral urges, I would stay frozen in time, locked into eternal life.
“No,” I say, snapping back to the present. “What scars?”
She points to two faded pink marks on the underside of each breast, tears filling her eyes. “From the boob job.”
Staring in astonishment, I ask, “Did you have surgery to please me?”
When she shakes her head, I sag in relief, opening the desk drawer and removing a decanter of scotch and a glass. Perhaps Cat is right. Maybe I do assume the world revolves around me and my penis. “Then why?” I ask.
“My modeling career,” she explains with a sniff. “It’s impossible to be as thin as they need you to be and have nice boobs.”
My mind wanders to Catherine’s beautiful breasts, soft and feminine—perfect. Now there is a woman who will never need surgery. And yet, Catherine Adair isn’t an obvious beauty, not in the way the woman standing before me is. Catherine’s is that quiet sort of attractiveness that creeps up like a thief in the night. The kind that, once you notice, you can’t ever un-notice, no matter how hard you try. It’s enough to drive a person to lunacy.
“It’s not your scars,” I say to Kandy, pulling the stopper from the scotch. “It’s just I’m not myself lately.”
Kandy nods, picking up her dress from the floor. “I think I understand. It’s that woman who was in here, isn’t it? Miss Snooty with the designer shoes? You like her.”
I jerk in surprise, almost spilling scotch all over the desk. Is it really that obvious?
“What’s your real name?” I ask, partly as a diversion, partly because it occurs to me that I haven’t the first notion who any of these women are.
“Annie,” she says, zipping herself into the dress. “Harper made us choose nicknames when we started. He said you wouldn’t care to know our real names.”
He clearly knows me better than I realize. It’s been many years since I cared for anyone.
“Tell you what, Annie,” I say, swilling scotch around the bottom of the glass. “How about we make a deal? Whenever you’re in the club, I’ll send for you. Afterward, you’ll tell anyone who will listen that I had you over the desk like a wild animal. When Harper’s around, we’ll fake a few moans and groans. Harper is a suspicious sort of man, you see? How does that sound?”
She frowns. “We’ll just pretend to have sex? We won’t actually do it?”
“Precisely.”
She stares off into space for a few seconds. “This would actually make my girlfriend very happy.”
I smile. “Well, there you have it—a win-win situation. Before you go, though, muss up your hair a little and smudge your lipstick. We’ll need to be authentic about this.”
She obliges, rubbing her mouth on the back of her hand and raking fingers through her shiny locks. Compared to what most women look like when I’m done with them, she could have waltzed right off the runway.
“Throw in a limp, maybe,” I say, surveying her through narrowed eyes. “Try to look like I’ve taken you to the gates of heaven and back.”
“Okay.” She turns, limping across the carpet to the carved oak door.
“Annie?” I call, hating myself for what I’m about to say.
She turns back. “Uh-huh?”
I lock my gaze on her, throwing not a glamour but a full-on red-eyed stare, my voice a low growl in my throat. A flash of fear instantly lights up her chocolate-brown eyes. “If I hear you’ve repeated any of what we’ve said in here t
oday to anyone, I’ll come looking for you.”
She gulps, shaking her head frantically. “I won’t say anything.”
I drop the glare. “Good.”
* * *
When Annie has left and I’ve finished my scotch and cigar, I decide that if I’m not going to be entertaining ladies anytime soon, I might as well make some calls and find out who the John Doe decapitated vampire is.
I luck out on my second phone call.
Esme, New York’s overlord—or queen, as she prefers—answers the phone on the second ring. “Roger bit it, didn’t he?”
Straight to the point. Just the way I like it.
“That’s why I’m calling. The head wasn’t recovered. I wasn’t sure who he was.”
Esme sighs. “Roger Devine. I turned him at a Duran Duran concert in the late eighties. I haven’t met anyone since who could pull off white linen the way he could.” She sighs again. “Unfortunately, he was a bit of a bore.”
“You’ll not miss him too badly, then?” I ask sarcastically.
I hear a clink that sounds like a spoon hitting china, and her voice fades. “No sugar, Gorka. How many times?”
“What was he doing in England? He certainly hasn’t been a regular at the club.”
“Oh, he wouldn’t have been. He was some kind of financier—told you he was dull—who worked on Wall Street for years until the company transferred him to London.”
“Where did he live?” I ask, scribbling his name down on a napkin. It’s been a long while since I’ve used this desk for anything other than screwing women and I’m fresh out of Post-it Notes.
There’s a long pause. “Gorka’s just pulling up his details now.”
“Gorka is?” I ask, not really caring.
“My latest.”
“Ah.”
A distant male voice recites an address, after which Esme repeats into the phone, “37 Gaumont Towers, EC1. If you send someone over there, tell them to be on the lookout for a Tiffany diamond necklace, would you? It went missing after we broke up.”
