Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  “Mila,” I say, shaking her. “Mila, you’re dreaming. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

  She shudders as her eyelids flip open, her eyes sweeping rapidly from side to side before finally resting on my face. It occurs to me I’ve never been this close to her before now.

  I’m mesmerized, like I’m seeing a painting I’ve always admired from afar up close for the first time. There is the tiniest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a small dimple of a scar in the hollow of her cheek, a hint of laughter lines around her hazel eyes. I gulp heavily. “You were screaming,” I whisper, my fingers still squeezing into the satiny flesh of her shoulders. Though she is no longer yelling, I can’t seem to bring myself to let go.

  “Was I?” she asks, frozen in my grip. “I was dreaming about an alleyway and rats.”

  I nod, not daring to take my eyes from her face. One of her hands rests limply across my thigh, and if I were to look down at it—at her—for one second, I fear I’d lose my mind, slam my body and mouth into hers, and exhaust all the passion that’s been building to a crescendo for the past day. But while I can avoid looking, her touch is impossible to ignore, like a red-hot poker burning my skin.

  “It was just a dream,” I say, my gaze still locked on her face.

  She blinks, dark lashes sweeping her pale cheeks. Now that she’s fully conscious, her eyes wander over my body, widening like saucers when they reach my bare chest. I suddenly remember I’m wearing only a thin pair of boxers. My eyes flicker to my naked torso and then inevitably land on her body.

  Unlike Davies’s prediction about her night attire, there are no silky pajamas. She wears a cream-colored tank top and pink-and-white candy-striped shorts. With her shapely legs twisted beneath her and messy blond hair all over the place, she’s just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. My eyes fall on her breasts, swelling against the tight Lycra of the top. I fantasize about cupping them, rubbing my thumbs across the beaded nipples until they stand rigid beneath my fingertips, begging to be sucked.

  I release her as if stung, fighting the rush of my blood to my stiffening length and forcing my gaze to meet hers. I pull back on the bed, feeling the weight of her hand drop from my thigh as I strategically position myself to hide the bulge in my briefs.

  “I’m sorry I woke you,” she says.

  “It’s nothing,” I assure her. “Like I said before, vampires don’t really sleep in the traditional sense.”

  I rise from the bed, hoping the half-light disguises my erection. It’s either move or wait for it to go down, but if I remain sitting beside her a moment longer, drowning in her delicious scent of spring flowers and soap, I’ll probably stay hard forever.

  She watches as I step back into the shadows at the bottom of the bed. “Wait. Would it be totally pathetic if I asked you to stay until I fall asleep?”

  I’m silent for a few seconds. Cat Adair is right; I’m the last damn knight of Camelot. “No, of course I can.”

  I sink into a tub chair in the corner.

  “Don’t stare at me or anything though,” she says. “I’m not one of those attractive sleeper types. There’s drool and snorting—or so I’ve been told.”

  Envy, pure and true, rises within me. I’m suddenly jealous of every man, and even close relation, who has ever seen her drool and snort. “I won’t stare,” I promise, trying not to smile. “I’ll just sit here and count sheep.”

  She twists around to plump the pillow. “Good. There might well be some snoring too. When that starts, feel free to leave.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Hart. I’ll be sure to take that as a cue for dismissal.”

  She flashes a wry smile before turning to face the opposite way. “Night, Vincent.”

  My heart gives out a little. I love the easy sound of my name in her mouth. “Good night, Miss Hart.”

  “Mila, remember?”

  Like I need reminding. “Mila.”

  After a few sniffles, the lump under the duvet goes still and I sit for a while, trying to think unsexy thoughts. Unsurprisingly, they mostly revolve around Lee Davies. I’ll have to buy him lunch to say thank you.

  Using my razor-sharp vampire hearing, I detect the exact moment her heart rate slows, her breathing steady and regular. I ease out of the chair, smiling to myself as a snorting noise erupts from her nose. She was right about the piggy noises.

  I’m about halfway to the door when she flips over. “Vincent.”

  I freeze like a cat burglar on a drainpipe. “Yes?” I whisper.

  Silence. I take a few steps toward her.

  “Vincent,” she says again, my name low in her throat.

  “Yes? Are you okay?”

  No answer. I lean over, trying to see if her eyes are open, though it’s hard to tell because several strands of hair cover her face like a cobweb. I’m reaching across to brush it aside when she lifts a hand and drags her nails down the length of my arm, from my shoulder to wrist, leaving a trail of tingly sparks in their wake. This close, I can smell another lingering scent beneath the soapy freshness—arousal. She writhes under the covers. I’m fairly sure she’s asleep. I should leave, but the sight of her blond hair splayed across the pillowcase like sunbeams, the aroma of feminine sweetness, draws me in like a siren’s song.

  I sweep silky strands from her eyes, and as I do, she reaches up again, her fingertips stroking my arm.

  “Vincent.” Her voice is little more than a moan.

  I’m so close I can practically taste her—mint and summer rain. I groan deep in my throat. It’s a good thing she’s not conscious, because right now my resolve is shattered. I want nothing more than to press my lips to hers, caress her hot tongue with mine, and devour her like a starving beast.

  Then just as quickly as it began, she stops writhing, her arm falling limply back onto the bed.

  The dull thud of her hand hitting the duvet is enough to bring me back to my senses. I spring backward, landing like a cat on the other side of the room and making hastily for the door.

  To my utter shame, my fangs are protruding over the edges of my lips, my cock straining against my underwear.

  I take one last glance at her before leaving the room, vulnerable and small in the bed, knowing without a doubt that I’ll be the one who guards her until the killer is caught, that I will do everything in my power to protect her—not just from him, but from the selfish desires of my own heart.

  Chapter 7

  Mila

  For a second when I wake up the next morning, I forget it’s Saturday. I sit bolt upright in bed, staring around at the sun-streaked room in confusion as the events from last night come tumbling back.

  Apartment break-in, Vincent, the phone call through the wall, my nightmare…

  Oh God, my nightmare. My eyes flick to the squishy plum-colored tub chair beneath the bright square of the window. I asked him to stay until I fell asleep. Could I get any needier? Especially after overhearing him complain about having to babysit me. Christ, why didn’t I have him sing lullabies and be done with it? I cringe as mortifying images of my sleeping face flash behind my eyelids. No wonder he wants me out of his expensively gelled hair.

  Thoughts of his hair set me thinking about the rest of his body, namely all the parts on display last night when my shrieking dragged him out of his man cave in nothing but a pair of boxers. The image of his ripped chest glistening like polished steel in the half-light of the hallway, a thin trail of downy hair disappearing into the promising bulge of his underwear, is branded onto my brain with the permanency of a cattle rancher’s iron. I couldn’t forget if I tried.

  I stumble out of bed and flip open my suitcase, rummaging around for something suitable to wear for breakfast. Pulling on a pair of black leggings and a shirt, I experience my first twinge of homesickness. Usually on Saturdays, I stay in pj’s all morning, watching crap on TV and eating bo
wl after bowl of muesli, while telling myself that any minute I’ll get my act together and leave for the gym. What will Saturdays be like now that I’m Mr. Psycho’s number one target?

  Without bothering to brush my hair, I take a deep breath and make my way to the lounge. Vincent is up and fully dressed—not a sinewy muscle in sight—and sitting at the kitchen island with a laptop open in front of him. He is as crisp and bright as the sunshine filtering through the windows.

  “Morning,” I say, fiddling with the cuff of my red flannel shirt.

  His eyes flick up briefly to meet mine. In the early morning light, they glitter like sun on a tropical sea. “Good morning, Miss Hart.”

  “It’s a beautiful day,” I say, motioning to the window. In daylight, the view is even more spectacular, London’s sprawling landscape spread out like a concrete forest as far as the eye can see.

  Vincent ignores the sentiment and continues to stare at the screen. “There are breakfast things in the fridge and cupboard,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Please help yourself.”

  Clearly I’ve pissed him off with the nightmare thing. As I step past him into the kitchen area, he barely makes eye contact. Maybe the way I gawped at his pecs last night made him feel violated. Though to be fair, how could I not gawp? I’m a moth to the UV light of his heavenly body.

  I pull open one of the steely cupboard doors. The shelves are almost bare, but at the bottom there is a selection of breakfast food—jam, marmalade, a couple of loaves of bread, and two boxes of the exact brand and flavor of muesli I have at home.

  “You have my favorite,” I say, grabbing the cardboard box.

  He flicks a glance over his shoulder. When he speaks, his voice is distinctly less tight. “I noticed a box of it on your kitchen counter last night when you were packing. There are bowls in the cupboard by your knees.”

  “I guess they don’t call you detective for nothing,” I mutter. In the cupboard, I find a shiny, white bowl that looks as if it’s never seen the scratch of a spoon and set it on the counter. I turn around, wondering whether to make another stab at awkward conversation or let it go. The tap-tap of his typing fills the air.

  “Listen,” I begin, “I’m really sorry about last night.”

  Awkward conversation it is, then.

  His broad shoulders tense beneath his shirt, planes of muscle straining through the material. His fingers freeze, hovering above the keyboard.

  “I’m aware I’ve intruded in your personal space and treated you like you’re my…” I struggle to find the right word. I want to say boyfriend or lover, but I don’t want to make my obvious attraction any more obvious. “My…bed toy isn’t conducive to a healthy, working policeman-victim relationship.” Bed toy. Seriously. I need to sew my mouth shut. “By ‘bed toy,’ I mean like a teddy bear or blanket, not a sex toy like a vibrator. Because, I mean, I don’t own a vibrator. I never have. I’d be too embarrassed to even order one online. In case there’s a bomb scare at the sorting office and they have to open it, and then when they realize it isn’t a bomb, the postman delivers it with all the packaging torn and from then on you can’t look the guy in the eye and it just becomes a nightmare, especially at Christmas when you want to order presents. So no, I’ve never owned one.” I stop and a long silence ensues. “Was I just talking about vibrators?”

  He flips the lid of his laptop shut, the hollow snap cutting through the tension in the room. When he spins around on the stool, he is smiling, his beautiful eyes creased at the edges with mirth. “Yes, Miss Hart, you were talking about vibrators, and there’s no need for an apology. If anyone should apologize, it’s me.”

  “You?” I ask, baffled. “Why? You’re not the one discussing sex toys over breakfast. You can probably understand now how I ended up prattling about rats on my date.”

  He ignores the question, staring at the breakfast things on the counter. “I think we need to discuss where we go from here. Professionally,” he adds quickly.

  “About the killer and all that jazz?”

  His luscious lips form a thin line. “Yes. I’ve asked Superintendent Burke and Sergeant Davies to drop by this morning so we can discuss the situation, but in the meantime, I’m sure they won’t mind my disclosing that the fingerprints we took from your neck and face two nights ago match those taken from the window in your apartment.”

  “No surprise there,” I mutter grimly.

  He offers a weak smile. Now that he’s closer, I notice faint half-moons of shadow around his eyes. If he were human, I would guess he had a sleepless night.

  “I know the situation might seem desperate, Miss Hart,” he continues, “but we’ve never been closer to catching this guy. His picture will go out on the news tonight. It’s only a matter of time before he’s caught.”

  “But in the meantime, I’m screwed.”

  A hint of pink climbs his neck, warming his pale cheeks. “In the meantime, you will remain under police protection. That’s what my colleagues will discuss with you when they arrive.”

  I nod. “I’ll just get on with breakfast, then.”

  He slips down from the stool, and a breath catches in my throat as he stands, looming over me, a chiseled Greek god in a suit. A waft of expensive aftershave with a hint of freshly laundered clothes radiates from his body. This man is my nemesis. Every woman has one—a man who strips you of rational thought and action, and leaves you with nothing but base sexual desires. Just standing here, one hand on an unopened box of muesli, I can already sense myself tilting toward him, a flower reaching for sunlight.

  Feeling brave, I glance up into his handsome face. He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the smooth column of his neck. “I’ll leave you in peace to eat your breakfast,” he says.

  I turn back to the muesli. “Okay.”

  When I look up, he’s already left the room.

  * * *

  Before the Columbos arrive, I jump in the shower and wash my hair. Though I’m not particularly bothered by what they think of me, I don’t want to give off the impression I’m flaky or that I’m not taking the case seriously. Of course, it doesn’t do any harm to look your best when staying with the hottest vampire in London either. No harm at all. I blow-dry my hair straight, adding a couple of waves with the straightening iron, before tugging on a knee-length, collarless, cream-colored shirtdress. I give myself the once-over in the long mirror on the back of the door before leaving the room—apart from the dark circles around my eyes, I’ve looked worse.

  Out in the living room, I’m surprised to find the two police officers already sitting on the leather sofas by the window. Davies, the short one, is cradling a mug of coffee in his hands, while Burke, who is tall and gaunt with a schoolmaster’s air of authority, is poring over a laptop. Vincent stands as I saunter in, his gaze dropping from my face to my legs and back again. For a split second, I swear a flash of fear sparks deep within his eyes. Which is ridiculous, because why on earth would he be afraid of me?

  “Ah, Miss Hart,” Superintendent Burke says in a flat voice, without looking up from the computer. “Do take a seat.”

  Vincent, if anyone, should be the one inviting me to sit, but he seems busy waging some inner battle, his gaze fixed on the glass coffee table, brows low over his eyes.

  I sink onto the edge of a sofa. My throat feels dry and I don’t know what to do with my hands. It’s like being dropped headfirst into a job interview.

  “We’re sorry you couldn’t make it over to Scotland Yard yesterday, Miss Hart,” Davies says, taking another gulp from his mug.

  My eyes flick to Vincent, who shakes his head, intimating he hasn’t told either of them about my reasons for not going. I decide it’s best to say nothing, so I just nod and smile, crossing and uncrossing my legs.

  Then Burke snaps his computer shut and fixes me with a level gaze. “Vincent has
told you about the fingerprints from your apartment matching those taken from your person two nights ago, I take it?”

  “Yes. I gather it’s not safe for me to go home until Jeremiah Lopez is caught.”

  All three nod soberly.

  “Did you give Lopez your address, Miss Hart?” Burke asks. “Either before or after your meeting?”

  I picture our date, my nerves and the copious amounts of wine I consumed. I definitely spoke about living in Finsbury Park because that’s how I ended up on the whole super-rat topic. I was describing a house I’d been shown around the corner that turned out to have a rat infestation and got carried away on the subject. But did I go as far as to give him my actual address?

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t give the details. I know I said Finsbury Park. It’s possible I might have mentioned living on the high street. But I wouldn’t have said a number or anything like that.”

  “Miss Hart,” Davies says, “the flat is above a hair salon. Is it likely you mentioned that?”

  I rack my brain as they wait for my answer. It’s hard to remember with them all watching. My stomach feels queasy all of a sudden, the large breakfast I wolfed down churning about like clothes in a washer.

  Vincent slides into the seat beside me. “Why is it important how he found her? We’re supposed to be discussing where to go from here, not dredging up that night all over again.”

  I glance up at him, but he doesn’t return my gaze. His jaw is tight as he surveys his colleagues.