Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  His blue eyes soften as he smiles. “A fantasy to you, maybe.”

  The atmosphere turns awkward again. Something about the word fantasy brings blood flooding into my cheeks. I stare up at the digital counter, waiting for my face to return to its normal color and trying not to imagine how it might feel if he were to suddenly fling me against the elevator walls and shove his tongue in my mouth. I’m pretty sure it would be epic.

  When we reach his apartment, he digs a key card from his pocket and holds it up to a small white square on the door. There is a soft click as the lock opens and he steps aside, waiting for me to enter. When I step into the spacious lounge, I’m rendered speechless by the beauty of his flat—floor-to-ceiling glass spans the entire front of the room, offering a breathtaking view of the city.

  “Wow,” I say, cutting swiftly across the polished oak floor to get a better look.

  Despite the fact it’s dark and the skyline is obscured by low-hanging clouds, the River Thames winds through the shadowy buildings like a ribbon of molten steel. Light from surrounding buildings flickers on its surface like fireflies. In the distance, I can just about make out the ghostly white dome of Saint Paul’s, and beside it, like a silver dagger pointed at the stars, the glassy spike of the Shard jutting high into the sky. Though I lived in London before I went to Australia, and I’ve been back for a few months, it’s a rare treat to see the city in this way. I’m so mesmerized I don’t hear Vincent until he’s standing beside me.

  “It’s a good view, isn’t it?” he says, hands shoved deep into his suit pockets.

  I nod. “It really is the best.”

  “The view is what swung it for me,” he admits, gazing out at the glimmering city below.

  I turn away from the window to take in the rest of the apartment. The decor is minimalist—fawn-colored walls, black leather sofas, dark, wooden floors. The style is open plan with a shiny chrome kitchen and seating area tucked neatly into one corner. He wasn’t exaggerating about not being at home much. The whole place is perfectly unlived in, like a swanky hotel room before check-in. There are no personal effects lying around, no half-eaten boxes of cereal on the countertops.

  “I have a cleaning lady,” he says.

  “No shit.”

  “Shall I show you to your room?”

  I’d rather he showed me to his room, but beggars can’t be choosers. “Yes, okay.”

  I follow him to a door on the opposite side of the apartment, which leads into a wide hallway. He turns the brushed-steel handle of a door to our right and leads me into another space decorated in neutral tones. Again, it looks like it belongs in a hotel. There is a neatly made double bed with cream covers and a desk with a green reading lamp on it.

  He gestures to a beech wood door in the corner. “The bathroom is through there. Hilda, my cleaning lady, always leaves towels, but let me know if there aren’t any.”

  I suddenly realize my suitcase is already parked beside the bed. He must have sped in with it while I was busy fawning over the view.

  “Thank you,” I say with sincerity. Standing there looking at the bed, I’m hit by an overwhelming urge to climb between the sheets right away. I’m drained in every sense.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs. “Now, what shall I get you to eat?”

  I lay a hand on my empty stomach, glancing up into his warm blue eyes. “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll go straight to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  “Of course. I’ll order breakfast in the morning instead.” He takes a step back, hand lingering on the door handle. “I should go make some calls anyway, see that the forensics are on the case at your flat. If you need anything, just shout.”

  “I will, and thanks again for tonight.”

  He makes a little bow. “You’re welcome, Miss Hart.” He turns to leave.

  “Wait,” I say. “You can call me Mila. If it isn’t against your policemanly oath or anything like that.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles. “I’m pretty sure it isn’t.” He pauses before finishing with a quiet “Mila.”

  Ridiculously, my stomach flips, the way he rolls my name around his mouth shooting a warm flutter of desire to the pit of my tummy. When he steps out of the room and closes the door after him, I collapse in a heap on the bed, wondering how this evening turned out to be even more bizarre than the last. I pull my phone from my jeans pocket and consider texting Laura to tell her what happened, but if I do that, she’ll end up calling me. How can I possibly explain where I am without referring to Vincent as “the hot guy”? With his superhearing, he’d be sure to overhear.

  Ditching my phone on the bedside cabinet, I jump off the bed and yank open the bathroom door instead. Like the rest of the place, it’s smart and modern, tiled from floor to ceiling in slate gray, with a shower cubicle you could probably fit a rugby team in. As promised, there is a generous stack of fluffy, white towels on a chrome shelf in the corner near the toilet. I pluck a medium-sized one from the pile and set about seeing how the shower works. I’m fiddling around with the dials when I hear the rumble of a voice through the wall. I turn the trickle of water off and listen. The bathroom, I realize, must back onto his bedroom, or at the least the room he’s in. An office, maybe.

  I should really carry on with my shower and ignore it, but truth be told, I’m nosy, and even more so when the conversation undoubtedly involves me. So rather than undress, I twist the shower dial to off. I grab a glass from beside the sink before pressing it against the tiles and holding my ear to it. The voice becomes clearer.

  “It’s definitely him,” I hear Vincent saying. “He left a note. Though how he’s found her is anyone’s guess.”

  My heart begins to thud in my rib cage, but I don’t pull away. Hearing the panic in Vincent’s voice kills the delusion I’ve been harboring that this nightmare could be over by breakfast. I squash my ear against the glass.

  “The traditional witness program won’t work in this case, Linton. She needs around-the-clock protection from a vampire.”

  There’s a long pause before he says, “No. Absolutely not. That’s not my job. My role is to catch this guy, not babysit the witness. I don’t mind helping out tonight—God knows I’d hate for anything to happen to her—but we’ll need something in place by tomorrow and it can’t be me.”

  My breath catches in my throat, a crushing weight of disappointment bearing down on me. I pull away from the wall and sink down onto the white toilet seat, gripping the edge with sweaty fingers. I’m such an idiot. Who do I think I am? Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard? He’s a professional doing his job. What planet am I on to entertain the notion he’s acting from anything other than a sense of moral duty?

  The rumbling continues through the wall, but I don’t bother to listen anymore. I turn the shower on instead and step inside. When the water is pummeling me like hot needles and I’m confident that not even a vampire will be able to hear, I sit down in the gigantic cubicle and cry until my face all but explodes under the pressure.

  I cry for going on a date with a serial killer and nearly getting killed. I cry over Scott and his ex–lingerie model, until eventually I’m crying about never being able to pick a decent guy, for being so screwed up I constantly go for the ones with emotional attachment issues. It’s a total pity fest. By the time I stop, I’ve even cried for the dead rat in my bed. I mean, what did he ever do?

  Crying is usually cathartic, but when I step out of the shower and see my swollen, blotchy face in the mirror above the sink, I don’t feel any better. In fact, I feel worse, because there’s no way I’m going to look remotely normal at breakfast in the morning. Not that it matters, because after tomorrow, I’ll almost certainly never lay eyes on Vincent Ferrer again.

  Chapter 6

  Vincent

  The first thing I hear when I hang up on Burke is Mila sobbing in the shower. I drop the phone ont
o the bed and ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to check on her with every ounce of willpower I possess. This is exactly why I can’t do as Linton Burke suggests and act as her protector. I’m already too involved.

  Earlier, when she found that dead rat between the sheets, I came dangerously close to letting my guard down. I almost hugged her, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been a lot of things over the centuries—nobleman, soldier, lover—but never a hugger. When it comes to Mila Hart, though, I yearn to fold her into my arms. If I agree to Burke’s plan, become her bodyguard until the killer is caught, there is no way I’ll remain objective.

  In some way or another, one of us will get hurt.

  Besides, she’s only been here a few minutes and already the thought of there being only a thin wall between us is melting my brain. I keep fantasizing about her naked body in my bed, her soft, creamy thighs snug against mine as I plunge into her sweet warmth.

  “Fuck,” I mutter as my length becomes unbearably stiff inside my trousers.

  In an effort to rid my nostrils of her sweet, soapy scent, I take off the suit jacket she returned to me and toss it onto a chair already strewn with clothes. My bedroom is messier than the rest of the apartment, mainly because I tell Hilda not to bother cleaning in here. Over the decades, I’ve deliberately kept my homes as minimalist and impersonal as possible, so when the time comes, I can move on without sentiment. But like any vampire who’s been around for hundreds of years, there are certain things I like to hang on to. A large family portrait, painted before the French Revolution, when we were still considered one of the finest families in France, hangs above the antique medicine chest in the corner of my room—a relic from a long-dead world.

  Often, I wonder if vampirism isn’t some unnatural form of reincarnation. That, instead of casting off our old bodies for new ones, we keep them. Living again as different people in the same outer shell.

  The phone rings again and I sigh, knowing it will be Lee Davies calling to inquire about my mental health after refusing the job of the century.

  Sure enough, it’s him. I almost decline the call but realize at the last second that if anything will ease the aching throb in my underwear, it will be talking to him.

  “Vincey,” his shrill voice echoes. “Burkey boy just told me you said no to taking care of our witness.”

  Here we go. “Yes. Go on, get it over with. Tell me how mental I am and how I make Barry in narcotics look like Bruce Willis in that Die Hard movie you’re always going on about.”

  Lee snickers. “Oh, come on. I mean, she’s pretty easy on the eyes, isn’t she?”

  “That’s not the issue,” I say wearily, wishing I’d never taken the call in the first place.

  “Just saying, having her around 24–7 wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. She might even wander about in a pair of those silky pajama things women like to wear.”

  “Lee, how on earth did you rise through the ranks of the Metropolitan Police? She’s a witness.”

  “Chill out, Mother Teresa. I’m only messing. I’m not suggesting you actually go there—merely pointing out how cushy it would be to have her around for a few weeks. Beats stale coffee and late nights poring through internet records with two doddering old gits like us.”

  A thought occurs to me. “Are you still at work now?”

  “Course I am. I came straight in when we got the call about the break-in. I’m waiting on a DNA and fingerprint match from the windows to the ones left on Miss Hart last night.”

  I decide to take the wind out of his sails, cruel though it is. “I take it you still haven’t spoken to Sian about this UPS guy?”

  There is silence before a weary sigh breezes down the line. “I haven’t had the chance. She was at her spin class this evening—don’t even ask me what that is—but she wore her new leopard-print yoga pants. The ones he delivered yesterday.”

  I loosen my tie, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. “What other evidence do you have of her infidelity? Other than taking more interest in her appearance?”

  “Well.” I hear crunching down the line, like he’s eating a packet of nuts. “She’s gone off sex for starters, and then there’s the issue of her phone—it’s never out of her sight these days. Superglued to her hand, it is. Trust me, I know the signs.”

  He would because he very nearly had an affair himself a few years back. “Are you just going to wait it out? Not say anything?”

  “All’s fair in love and war, Vincey. Although it’s killing me, I’m no angel. If I want to stay married, I’ll just have to sit tight until it fizzles out or maxes out our bank accounts—one or the other.”

  “Lee,” I say, “do you think this might be a sign your marriage isn’t meant to be?”

  “Nah. We were made for each other. This is just a blip on the road to old age. Now, are you sure you’re not going to take Miss Hart on? Burke’s talking about outsourcing her, paying some other vampire to keep her safe.”

  I almost drop the phone. “What? No way. How can he even consider that? Who?”

  “For a vampire and police officer, you are surprisingly out of the loop when it comes to current affairs. All the big stars and royal families are hiring vampires as bodyguards these days. Think about it—sharp reflexes, heightened senses, speed. There are companies who specialize.”

  The idea of some strange vampire protecting Mila Hart for money pierces my heart like a knife. “What if I ask Catherine Adair?” I say, the idea only just popping into my head. “We trust her and she’s female, so Mila might feel more at ease.”

  “I don’t see a problem with that,” Lee says, still crunching.

  “I’ll call her now, let you concentrate on finishing whatever it is you’re eating.”

  “Pork rinds,” he says, the words muffled by further chewing noises.

  “I won’t even ask.”

  I hang up and hit Catherine’s number. There is no way I can let Mila be outsourced. No way.

  Catherine answers on the third ring. “Vincent, what can I do for you? You’re not going to ask me to talk to Ronin McDermott again, are you?”

  I let out a nervous laugh. “No, but I do have a favor to ask.” With that, I launch into the events of this evening, about how Mila is in danger and Burke is considering outsourcing her.

  “And you can’t help because you fancy her, right?” Catherine asks bluntly.

  I leap off the bed, checking the door is closed before hissing, “What?”

  Catherine laughs. “Oh, come on. Why else wouldn’t you do it? I’ve gotten to know you quite well over the years—you’re practically the last surviving knight of the Round Table. The only reason you wouldn’t offer to protect a lady is if her honor is going to be compromised in some way—in this instance, by you.”

  I’m silent. What’s the point in denying it? “Will you do it or not?” I say finally.

  “No,” she says.

  My shoulders sag with disappointment. “I understand. It was a big ask.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to help—God knows it might even be fun to have a roomie for a while. It’s just I can’t get involved in all this right now. I have my business to think of. I hope you understand. I’m done with all that dark vampire crap. I don’t mind passing on some information here and there, but harboring your witness is taking it a step too far.”

  Strange, I thought I was done with it all too. “I do understand, Cat. I’m sorry I put you in this position.”

  “What are you so afraid of anyway? That you’ll fall in love with her and she’ll die?”

  I suck in a short, sharp breath as if punched in the gut. Funny how it often takes another person to show you the truth you’ve been running from for the past three hundred years.

  When I don’t answer, Cat says, “Oh shit, Vincent. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. None of this is your concern,
nor should it be. I’ll let you get back to your evening.”

  “My evenings involve feeding the cat and watching Netflix. Trust me, you’re not interrupting anything.”

  I smile. “Thanks anyway.”

  “Wait—I know it’s none of my business, but if you do like her, even a smidge, don’t push her away. Love is messy, but it’s always worth it.”

  Not if someone dies, it isn’t.

  “I’ll bear that mind. Speak soon.” I hang up before she has a chance to go all Freudian on me. Not only am I decidedly not a hugger, but I’m also not a fan of heart-to-hearts.

  Dropping the phone on top of my jacket, I open up my hearing to the next room. The shower has stopped running, and there is a soft rustle of sheets, a creak of bedsprings. Before my overzealous libido begins feeding me more smutty images, I do something I haven’t needed to in a long time. I jerk open a drawer in the ancient walnut dresser beneath the window and remove the miniature portrait I keep hidden beneath a pile of yellowed, old papers.

  Although the once-velvet frame is now threadbare, the picture itself is as vibrant as if it were painted yesterday. But the reason I need to see it is not to conjure up the memory of the sitter’s inky midnight hair or the delicate buttermilk hue of her skin. Time has crumbled that infatuation like waves against a cliff. No, I take it out because I need to remind myself why love is dangerous for my kind, why passion has no place in my life, why it does and always will end in disaster. I stare at the portrait long and hard, remembering the birdlike weight of her body as she took her last breath in my arms; her amber eyes, ordinarily as bright as dawn, dark with betrayal and loathing. With that image secure in my mind, I slide the portrait back into its hiding place and slam the drawer shut.

  Because no matter what anyone says about love being worth it, I know firsthand that when it costs a person her life, it isn’t.

  Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night, I’m jolted from my half doze by the sound of a woman screaming. Mila.

  I bolt out of bed and burst into the guest room, ready to pounce on whoever has managed to find a way into my apartment. Only there isn’t anyone in the room but her, thrashing around beneath the cream duvet and screaming like a banshee. For a split second, I stupidly wonder if she’s seen a spider, but in the light from the hall, I notice her eyes are closed and the words spilling from her lips are the nonsensical mumblings of someone trapped in a nightmare. I leap onto the other side of the bed and grip her gently by the shoulders, trying not to admire how soft her skin feels beneath my rough fingertips.