Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  “So, how long—”

  “Did you get—”

  We both start speaking at the same time.

  “You first,” I say. My face burns so fiercely you could fry an egg on it.

  “I was going to ask if you got much sleep last night,” he says.

  “Not much,” I say. “Unsurprisingly.”

  He nods, another deathly silence dropping over us like a cloak. I feel about sixteen years old, having a conversation with the hottest guy in school.

  When we hit the end of the corridor, there are two options: elevator or stairs. Not liking the idea of staring mutely at a pair of sliding doors, I lead him into the stairwell, my sneakers squeaking noisily on the linoleum as we trudge up the steps.

  “Have you worked here long?” he asks.

  “No.” I stare up at his chiseled profile. “I was living in Australia until a few months ago.”

  “Australia? What took you there?”

  “I went traveling after university and ended up living there for two years. My boyfriend was Australian. Ex-boyfriend,” I add quickly. Just in case there’s any doubt.

  His jaw clenches. “And the ex-boyfriend stayed in Australia?”

  I arch a brow. “Is this another one of your police interrogations?”

  He smiles. “No. Just chitchat.”

  “Oh. Well, actually, he went back to live in Brazil. To be with his wife and kids.”

  Mr. Vampire does a double take before his features drop back into repose. “Ah, I see.”

  “I didn’t know about it, of course,” I say, not wanting him to think I’m of one of those women you read about in Take a Break magazine who only date married guys. “He just dropped it on me one day over dinner.”

  We reach the top of the stairwell, and he holds open the door to let me through. “Hence your venture into vampire dating.”

  “Yes, and look what a great idea that turned out to be.”

  “We’re not all killers, Miss Hart.”

  I grimace. “No, just the ones I pick.”

  He looks at me sideways, eyes dark with speculation. I get the impression he’s trying to suss me out.

  Outside the sky is navy blue, the chilly wind whipping loose tendrils of hair across my face. Strains of salsa music drift across the street from the Cuban restaurant on the corner, soothing amid the rush of traffic. When we reach my car, I turn to him. “This is me. Thanks for seeing me back.” I click the doors open but make no attempt to move, transfixed as I am by his heavenly body. “I’ll return it by courier first thing tomorrow.”

  Waving a hand, he says, “Keep it.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “But it’s Prada.”

  He frowns and smiles at the same time, thrusting hands deep into his trouser pockets. “Is it? I have a lot of suits.”

  “Well, it’s definitely a look that works for you,” I say, noticing how the material stretches over his broad shoulders.

  He averts his gaze. “Thanks.”

  Another thick cloud of tension settles around us until finally, I wrench open the door of the VW. “Good night.”

  “Miss Hart?”

  I sling my bag onto the passenger seat before looking up. “Yes?”

  “I think it would be a good idea if you took my number.”

  I swallow my excitement, trying not to act as if all my Christmases have come at once. “Oh?”

  “Just in case you need me. I mean, us—myself, Superintendent Burke, and Sergeant Davies.”

  A wave of disappointment washes over me as I reach back into the car to pull my phone out. “Sure. Here you go.”

  He takes it from me and begins tapping. “It’s under Vincent,” he says passing it back. “Because that’s my name.”

  For some reason that seems to amuse us and we smile. “Thank you, Vincent. I mean, Inspector Vincent.”

  I climb into the car, and he closes the door after me. I wind the window down.

  “Remember, you can call me anytime—day or night,” he says, ducking down to eye level. “Sleep is not something we vampires do an awful lot.”

  “Okay. That’s kind. Thank you.” I start the engine, wondering how I’ll ever go on with my life knowing his number is programmed into my phone.

  “Oh, and, Miss Hart?”

  I take one last look up into his handsome face. His eyes are the color of a warm summer sky.

  “That Australian ex-boyfriend of yours must be the biggest moron on earth.”

  My heart somersaults in my chest. “He is.”

  Before I can ruin what is quite possibly the best moment of my romantic life, I push the car into first gear. My hand trembles on the gear stick. “Bye, Vincent.”

  “Good night, Miss Hart.”

  Chapter 4

  Vincent

  As if I hadn’t behaved creepily enough with the whole your ex-boyfriend is a moron line, I stand on the pavement and watch as she drives away, waiting until her battered VW Golf turns the corner, onto the main road, and disappears into the throng of traffic.

  I cast my eyes to the star-speckled sky in disbelief. First jacket sniffing and now turning up at her place of work.

  Although, technically, I was only returning her coat. When she didn’t show up at Scotland Yard this afternoon, I suggested it might be a nonaggressive way of checking on her. I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that even if Burke and Davies hadn’t agreed to the idea, I would still be standing here, hanging around like some lovesick dog whose owner just ditched him on the street. In short: pathetic.

  I tighten the knot in my tie. Maybe cutting off my circulation will also sever the uncomfortable stirrings of arousal going on in my trouser department. Last night, after a cold shower failed to dampen my ardor, I decided it had been too long since I had sex, that lusting after Mila Hart was merely a primal reaction to seeing her sexy body so beautifully displayed in that tight black dress.

  So I did what any red-blooded man in that situation would have done: I went through my phone, found the least emotionally needy woman who’d be willing to sleep with me at short notice, and called her. An hour later, I was at her place, pummeling into her as if my life depended on it. Except I didn’t feel better—not during sex and certainly not afterward. I felt empty. For the first time in years, a pit of loneliness seemed to yawn open, dragging me and my resolve down into it. I couldn’t get away fast enough.

  When I got back to my apartment, I did something even more desperate. I went to bed with Miss Hart’s jacket on the pillow beside me, lulled into a blissful daze by the floral scent of her perfume.

  I officially need therapy. Or maybe locking up. Whichever comes first.

  Taking my car key from my pocket, I cross the dark street to the Porsche and slip inside its shadowy interior.

  Over the years, a woman occasionally would get under my skin. There was a Prussian countess back in the mid-nineteenth century, and then Magda, an Italian prostitute, during one of the world wars. Sex solved the problem back then, but I’m not sure that would work with Mila Hart. Seeing her today, all disheveled in jeans and sneakers without a scrap of makeup on her pretty face, should not have sent me into a tailspin. I should not be sitting here in my car practically salivating as I remember the way several strands of blond hair worked loose from her messy updo, moving against the slender column of her neck as she spoke. Nor should I be picturing what it might feel like to brush those strands to one side, rake fingers through her hair, and trail hot, feverish kisses from her jaw to the curve of her breast.

  I ball my hands into fists on the steering wheel. This is even worse than last night. At least then there was still hope these carnal cravings could be laid to rest by a cold shower. Now I know the only thing that will fix this is her.

  But it’s hopeless. Even if she were here beside me right now, buck naked and begging me to make love t
o her, I couldn’t. She’s our witness. I can’t screw the witness, can I?

  I’m deep in thought, trying to recall if my contract says anything about having sex with witnesses, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. Taking it out, I almost believe it’ll be Mila Hart, as if I’ve somehow conjured her up by thinking of her so intensely. The name flashing on the screen, however, reads Catherine Adair.

  “Cat,” I say smoothly into the phone, not sounding at all like a man who has spent the last few seconds deliberating if he could bed a crime victim.

  “Vincent. Sorry I’m only just getting back to you.”

  “It’s not a problem. Did you get a chance to go through your database yet?”

  “I did. As far as I can tell, there is only one profile for Jeremiah Lopez. I’ve emailed you the IP address and credit card information, though I’m guessing that’ll turn out to be a false trail like the other two.” Cat sighs into the phone. “I’m considering suspending the V-Date site until you’ve caught this guy. I feel as though I’m putting lives at risk. Plus, once the press gets hold of it, my good name will be in tatters.”

  She is right, of course. This is exactly the type of case that would trigger a media feeding frenzy.

  “I take it you don’t recognize him?” I ask hopefully.

  “No, which means he’s new to London and, therefore, most likely new to the British Isles too.”

  Unlike me, Cat is a born and bred Londoner. She has traveled, of course, but she’s always lived in the city. If he were from around here, she would know about it.

  “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you?” she asks.

  I grimace. “Ronin McDermott?”

  “Yes. If anyone can tell you who this guy is, it’s Ronin.” There’s an odd mixture of admiration and disdain in her tone.

  “Things aren’t exactly civil between the two of us at the moment.”

  Not only is Ronin McDermott the city’s vampire overlord, he is also an ancient—one of an elite group of vampires who are considered the oldest on earth. Ancients are different from the rest of us; more demon than vampire, they are both faster and stronger, and the only ones who can turn humans. All vampires spawn from this one elite group, so it stands to reason that one of them must know the killer.

  “If Ronin wanted you dead, Vincent, you would be dead by now,” Cat says. “Besides, I get the impression he’s going soft in his old age.”

  I let out a hearty chuckle. Ronin McDermott may be old in years, but he’s far from soft. He wouldn’t be so feared if that were the case. “I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “But I can’t see how he would be interested in helping me. Unless—”

  “Oh no,” Cat cuts in. “Forget it. I’m not going anywhere near that man.”

  I frown, wondering what the deal is with her and Ronin. He isn’t her ancient, so there can’t be any bad blood between them. “You could email him,” I suggest.

  She is resolute. “Absolutely not. Sorry. It’s one thing to allow the police access to my database. It’s quite another to expect me to liaise with a megalomaniac.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’m sorry I asked. I’m going to have to face Ronin one of these days, I suppose.” I pause, watching a group of students traipse by, laden with books and chattering noisily. “Why do you think he used his real likeness for the photograph?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that since you called last night. He’s either really stupid or he’s playing some kind of game. If your department is trying to arrest vampires for historic crimes, maybe he’s someone who’s committed past atrocities.”

  “True,” I say. “But I’m not sure how he would know what the police are up to. It’s not exactly common knowledge.”

  Cat sighs again. “Lives as long as ours are complex webs of secrets and lies. You can’t take anything at face value.”

  “I agree,” I say. “Thanks for your help with this. I’ll look over those emails when I get home.”

  “You’re welcome, Vincent. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  After hanging up, I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and push the ignition key, the Porsche jumping to life. I am about to pull out of the parking space when my phone begins buzzing again, an unknown mobile number flashing up on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  For a few seconds there is silence on the other end of the line. I hear the sound of shallow breathing. Then a familiar, sweet voice erupts with “Vincent? It’s Mila Hart. I’m calling because someone’s been in my apartment.”

  If my heart still beat, it would have stopped. “Mila, where are you?”

  Her voice is fragile, like broken glass. “Outside. On the street. I didn’t know what else to do. I—”

  “Go to a neighbor,” I cut in, “or to a bar or public place. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t wait on the street alone.”

  “Okay. Do you remember my address?”

  How could I forget? “Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”

  “Okay,” she says again. “Please hurry.”

  “I will.”

  Heart in my mouth, I leap out of the car and onto a nearby roof and, for the second time in as many days, take off into the night after Mila Hart.

  * * *

  Mila

  Perhaps for the first time all day, I wasn’t thinking about the killer when I pushed open the door to my tiny flat in Finsbury Park. I was thinking of Vincent Ferrer and the way his voice sounded when he delivered that line about Scott being a moron—all deep and throaty and come hither.

  Engrossed in the memory of his beautiful eyes gazing deeply into mine, I didn’t notice the mess in the living room at first. Then it hit me—I hadn’t left the coffee table upturned like that when I left this morning to visit Laura, and neither had I swept a row of photos off the shelf above the hearth, leaving glass sprinkled around the room like a deadly layer of confetti. I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. The window on the opposite side of the room hung wide open, my IKEA voile curtains billowing like sails as an icy gust of air blew into the flat.

  Thinking the intruder might still be inside, I started to panic. All day I’d been waltzing around in some bizarre posttraumatic denial, but in that second, it hit home that a certain someone probably wants me dead, particularly now that I’m the sole witness. I stepped back into the hall on wobbling legs and half stumbled, half ran down the stairs to the street. Maybe I should have called the police directly or rang Laura to send Tom around, but standing there on the cold pavement, a fine misty drizzle starting to fall, I had the ultimate Lois Lane moment: I called the hot guy.

  Sue me.

  So here I am, hunched in a corner of the Chinese restaurant across the street, drawing suspicious looks from its owners. When I arrived, I told the waiter I wouldn’t be ordering because I’m waiting for the police to show up, but their English is limited. When I tried to explain about the break-in, they only seemed to understand the word police.

  Luckily, just a few minutes later, the door flies open, and Inspector Hottie lands in the restaurant. Even though it’s only been half an hour since I left him back on Holloway Road, the sight of him—tall, blond, and now disheveled to boot—is enough to take my breath away. Judging by the number of female eyes swiveling to the doorway, it appears I’m not alone in my admiration.

  “Miss Hart,” he says with visible relief, cutting across the restaurant floor. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  I stand up, my face flushing more scarlet than the red papier-mâché dragon hanging from the ceiling. “I’m okay. I’m sorry I called you. The window was open and I thought someone might be in there.”

  “Is it still open? Your front door?”

  I nod. “Yes. I freaked and left without shutting it.”

  Out of nowhere, he reaches across and gently brushes my elbow. “Stay here. I’m going to check it out.�
��

  I try to ignore the warm, tingly feeling of his fingers burning through my flimsy gray sweatshirt and slump back into the seat as he retreats out the door.

  A waiter puts a glass of water in front of me. “He is police?”

  “Yes,” I say, pointing out the window toward my building. “Break-in.”

  The man nods and leaves me.

  When Inspector Ferrer returns, he looks fraught. Tension is set in his broad shoulders, and a pulse twitches in his angular jaw. I stand up so fast I bump the table with my knees, water slopping onto the garish orange cloth.

  “What is it?” I demand. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing. At least, whoever broke in has left. I’ve called the station for you. Forensics will come to take fingerprints.”

  “Oh.”

  He stares at me, lips pulled into a tight line, brows low over stormy, blue eyes. “Miss Hart, I think it would be in your best interests if you packed up some belongings and came with me.” His voice isn’t as smooth as it usually is. It sounds croaky, as if he doesn’t want to say the words.

  I frown as his gaze flickers to the window. “Really? Why?” But of course, I know why. I’m in danger. To think I believed it would fade away if I ignored it. Since when have I ever been that lucky?

  Vincent tears his gaze from the window, and we share a tense, knowing look. For a few strained seconds, neither of us speaks.

  “He’s going to come after me, isn’t he?” I ask.

  When Vincent gives a curt nod, my knees go weak. Shivering violently, I sink down onto the chair. Even the thought of Inspector Hot Man catching me in his muscly arms again isn’t enough to quell the fear trickling through my veins.

  Inspector Ferrer slips into the seat opposite. “We don’t know anything for sure, but I think it’s wise to err on the side of caution.” He pauses. “When I say come with me, I mean stay at my apartment tonight. Just until I’ve spoken with my superiors.”