Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  A barman with eyes the shade of liquid gold hovers over me. “What can I get you to drink?”

  Obviously he didn’t get the make Vincent Ferrer suffer memo in time.

  “Malt whiskey and soda,” I say, hoping alcohol will ease the tight band of fear squeezing my chest. If it doesn’t, at least I’ll have something to do with my hands.

  A few minutes pass. The amber-eyed barman brings me the whiskey and I drum fingers on the polished wood. After throwing a glance at a raucous couple laughing their heads off at some unheard joke in the corner, I turn back to find Ronin McDermott lounging in the chair opposite, as if he was there all along.

  His hair is longer, russet strands curling over the tips of his ears, but aside from this, he looks the same as ever—broad shoulders, steely blue eyes, cheekbones like sharpened knives. He wears a well-tailored dark-blue suit with an open neck. Though his accent is mellow, there’s a definite whisper of Scots to his dialect. It’s thought he was once an ancient Scottish warrior, though of course, no one knows for sure.

  “Vincent,” he says in acid tones. “You wanted to see me.”

  I try not to shrink beneath his unflinching stare. “Ronin. How have you been?”

  His Celtic features are hard as he skims me with a cold glare. “Why are you here?”

  I sigh, reaching into my jacket pocket for the photos of Jeremiah Lopez. “I was hoping you could enlighten me as to who this man is.”

  As I’m unfolding the page, Ronin’s hand shoots out, closing around my wrist in a viselike grip. A sharp stab of fear rips up my arm, chilling me to the bone.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Vincent, but this sounds a lot like you need a favor,” he says through gritted teeth.

  Meeting his icy blue gaze, I nod.

  He drops my arm and shakes his head, his deep voice rattling in his throat like thunder. “You dare to come to my club after all these years, after you betrayed my trust and honor, and expect me to do you a favor?”

  Keeping my face impassive, I say, “It’s in your best interests, Ronin. This man has killed two women already. Think of the impact it might have on our kind if humans begin to see us all as bloodthirsty monsters.”

  He leans back in the chair, eyes narrowed. “What do you care for our kind these days, Vincent? I’d have thought you’d be too preoccupied playing detective with your new friends.”

  A spark of anger flares within me. “You asked me to be your spy, Ronin, and I tried to put aside my misgivings because I owed you. But doing so put lives at stake. We were lucky no one was seriously hurt.”

  “How was I supposed to know Anastasia would get involved? Or that Logan Byrne would go gooey-eyed over a human? Besides, it all worked out. Anastasia is wiped from the face of the earth and Logan got his happy ending. They’re married now, you know? With a baby son.”

  A stab of regret pierces my heart. Although I’m pleased for Logan, a vampire friend who met the love of his life and regained his humanity, the sentiment is tinged with envy. There will be no happy ending for me.

  “I know,” I say, gazing into my drink.

  “Who’s the woman?” Ronin asks.

  Damn.

  “What woman?”

  Ronin leans back in his chair, a smug glint in his eye. “There is always a woman, Vincent.” He wags a bony finger across the table. “I don’t believe for one second you would be sitting here if there wasn’t some Lady of Shalott metaphorically tied up somewhere needing your help. The last time I saw you looking this forlorn was the French Revolution. There was a woman involved then too, if I remember rightly.”

  Without taking my gaze from his face, I unfold the picture and slide it across the lacquered tabletop, trying not to let my emotions get the better of me.

  Ronin reaches down, grasping the photo between his index finger and thumb. I take a sip of the whiskey, feigning indifference, though I’m fairly sure if my heart still beat, it would be pounding out of my chest.

  “He’s been here,” Ronin says, tossing the picture back across the table.

  My voice catches in my throat. “Who is he?”

  “No idea. But he likes to drink, I can tell you that much.”

  I shudder. Ronin doesn’t mean alcohol. Alcohol, though soothing, has no real effect on a vampire’s nervous system. By likes to drink, Ronin means from the arteries of human beings. Blood.

  Although it’s true enough vampires do not need blood to survive, some crave its sweet taste as dangerously as if they did. We call it bloodlust, and much the same as human alcoholism, it destroys lives. Unfortunately, in this instance, it’s not just vampires who suffer from its ill effects.

  “When was he here?” I keep the questions short, a ploy we use often in the police. The idea is that there’s little time for the interviewee to conjure up any mistruths.

  Ronin shrugs. “A couple of months back. I only saw him the once. I assumed he was just passing through.” He pauses to stifle a yawn. “Will there be anything else?”

  We eye each other suspiciously. I want to ask him to put the photo out among the other ancients in his circle. At least one of them would claim him for their own. But this is Ronin. He could well be playing me. Deciding to cut my losses while the going is good and my head is still attached to my body, I stand up, scraping the chair on the dark, wooden floor.

  Tucking the folded square back into my jacket pocket, I say, “Thank you, Ronin.”

  One brow quirked, he drops me a nod. As I turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

  My shoulders sag. It was all going so well. “Yes?”

  “I’ll circulate that photo, find out who he belongs to, if—”

  I brace myself, waiting for some devilish bargain. More spying on my colleagues, perhaps the release of some locked away ex–vampire buddy of his.

  “If you put in a good word for me with Catherine Adair.”

  “Cat Adair?” I ask in disbelief.

  He nods. For the first time since he sat down, his blue eyes shine a little less coldly. “Get her to come here if you can.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Ronin rolls his eyes. “Oh relax, I want to do the opposite of kill her, if you get my meaning.”

  I frown. “She despises you.”

  For some strange reason, this seems to please him. He smiles, chuckling to himself. “Yeah, she does, doesn’t she?” he mutters. “Don’t you love it when women get all riled up?”

  “Not if it means they hate me.”

  Ronin chuckles again. “What can I say? I’m centuries old. I like a challenge. Get her to see me and I’ll find out who Bloodthirsty Bill is. Do we have a deal?”

  I sigh. Suddenly, spying on my colleagues seems entirely more doable. “I wouldn’t say we have a deal, but I will certainly pass on your request to Cat.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Ronin dismisses me. I waste no time in getting out. Within a few seconds, I’m back on the street and clicking open the Porsche, relief rising inside me like an air bubble in a hot spring. It’s over and I’m alive. I can pick up Mila from Scotland Yard and take her home. The thought fills me with warmth. Spending these past few days with her has made me more content than I’ve felt in decades.

  The TV had been a whim. I told myself it was to keep her occupied during her stay, but really it was to make her happy. I knew that as soon as I saw her face that morning, when she smiled at me over the empty boxes and polystyrene, and the ice in my heart melted. Ice I hadn’t known was there until that moment.

  Loneliness is a curious thing. Often, we don’t realize it’s crept up on us until the void is suddenly filled. It’s like in winter, when we forget to miss the sun’s warm rays. Then when summer returns, we wonder how we ever coped without it. Mila is that sunshine. A bright, pure-white summer’s day. But those days never last, and the cold always returns.

  But not t
onight. Tonight I will pick her up and take her home with me, sit beside her on the sofa—an ever cautious twelve inches apart—and pretend that I’m not secretly learning by heart the soft lines of her profile, or the way she twirls a strand of honey-colored hair around her index finger when she’s bored. With her intoxicating scent—wildflowers, fruity shampoo, and fresh air—I’m an addict in my own home.

  Nighttime is just as difficult. Knowing there are only a few thin walls between us, I lay awake remembering that night she said my name in her sleep, the way she touched my arm. I daren’t ponder the possibility she might return my ardor. Because that would be terrible—both the best and worst thing that could ever happen.

  Davies of all people is the only one with the slightest clue about how I feel. He clocked the way I was staring at her that morning at my apartment and read me the riot act out in the hallway. While it’s fine, in his opinion, for me to date multiple women at the same time if I choose, it isn’t okay to form a forbidden and clandestine attachment that might result in deep feelings of affection. As Burke would say, it just isn’t cricket.

  At Scotland Yard, I park underground and head upstairs to our offices to collect Mila. As soon as I step out through the steel doors of the elevator, I hear her animated voice drifting along the corridor. It appears that while I’ve been gone, she and Davies have bonded over his marriage problems.

  “You have to talk to her,” Mila is saying. “How can you think this will all just go away? Every time she’s online shopping you’ll always wonder: Is she ordering those guest towels because we need a new set? Or is it solely to ride the UPS man again?”

  “Maybe he’ll be moved to a different route,” Lee pipes up.

  “Oh yeah, like that’s going to stop the sex bunnies in their tracks.”

  I push open the door, my eyes darting about until they land on Mila. Is it me, or does she look pleased to see me?

  A slow smile unfurls from the corner of her rosebud mouth. She sits up straighter on the swivel chair she’s slumped in. “You’re alive.”

  She doesn’t get up, but like that night at her flat when I almost hugged her, the urge to greet her with more than just words coils within me like a dangerous snake.

  I grin like a buffoon instead, momentarily losing myself in her eyes—the shade of early autumn leaves. “I’m alive.”

  “Any joy on Psycho Sammy?” Davies asks, stuffing a Dorito into his mouth and crunching it loudly. It’s then I notice they’re sharing a party-size bag of Doritos, a jar of dip between them on a pile of brown files.

  I cross the room and perch on a chair opposite them. “Nothing groundbreaking.” I will, of course, share what Ronin said about him liking a drink and all the rest, but not in front of Mila.

  Davies clocks the raised brow I give him and nods. “Mila here has been giving me marital advice,” he says, changing the subject.

  I use this as an excuse to allow my gaze to linger on Mila for a little longer than necessary. “So I heard.” She looks as pretty as ever, the tiny smudge of sour cream at the edge of her mouth doing nothing to divert my attention from her plump lower lip. If only she knew the secret fantasies I have about that lower lip of hers, it would make her toes curl. I tear my gaze away, turning back to Davies before my brain connects to my groin again. “So, will you take Miss Hart’s advice and ask your wife what’s going on?”

  He sighs, wiping a splodge of dip from his gray trousers. “I’ll think about it.”

  Mila looks at him, head tilted, like he’s an injured puppy.

  “Did you also tell Miss Hart about how you almost succumbed to temptation yourself a few years back?” I ask, stifling a smile.

  Mila’s face transforms from sympathetic to disgusted in a millisecond. “Lee! I shared my Doritos with you.”

  Lee holds up his hands. “That was different, and besides, nothing ever happened. Not in the end.”

  “Who was she?” Mila asks, frowning.

  “Her name was Anita, and we were working on a case together,” Davies explains. “One of those really intense ones where the bodies are piling up faster than poker chips at the Casino Royale. We were a little like those two off the TV show—Mulder and Scully. The Mulder and Scully of Essex.” He pauses to stare off wistfully into the distance, before continuing. “But like I said, nothing happened. We didn’t even kiss. But nevertheless, I came clean to Sian about it. Told her I was attracted to another woman. We had some marriage counseling and I transferred here to Scotland Yard. That was the end of it.”

  Mila, who almost choked with mirth on her Doritos when Lee mentioned the Mulder and Scully thing, licks her fingers. I try not to drool. I’ve never wanted to be a woman’s fingers so badly.

  “This explains everything,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Even though you claim nothing ever happened between you and Scully, Sian has been insecure ever since. So much so that when her own temptation came knocking, quite literally, she didn’t think twice before taking the plunge.”

  Several lines appear in Lee’s bald head. “Do you think?”

  “There’s been a power imbalance,” Mila continues, leaning forward. “You’re out at work all day, meeting God knows how many women, and she’s at home wiping down surfaces and potting marigolds. It’s no wonder she’s trying to readdress the situation.”

  There’s a long silence while Davies processes this new information.

  “Did you also tell Mila about your urges to wine and dine the women of London?” I tease.

  Lee cuts me a look of daggers. “Hadn’t you two better be on your way before you miss one of your favorite TV shows?” Davies retorts smugly. I told him about buying the television and he wasn’t fooled for a second that I did so for any other reason than to please my attractive new guest.

  Mila screws the lid onto the dip. “We should make it back in time for Housewives of the Home Counties if we leave now.”

  Davies’s grin widens. “Yes, Vinnie, you don’t want to miss Housewives of the Home Counties.”

  Throwing him a scathing look, I stand up. “After you,” I say to Mila. “Be sure to take the Doritos. Davies is supposed to be on a diet.”

  Davies flips me the bird. “Yeah, well, we can’t all be Brad Pitt, can we?”

  “Vincent doesn’t look like Brad Pitt,” Mila says, shaking her head. “He’s more Chris Hemsworth.”

  Davies rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Chapter 9

  Mila

  “Is Hunk O’Rama picking you up this evening?” my colleague Janice asks.

  We’re both in our usual morning positions—sitting, bored out of our brains, at the front desk. Matters have escalated to the point where we get excited when the plant guy comes around to water the displays. Having his freshly cut grass scent wafting around reception reminds us of what it’s like out in the real world. That, and he usually has gum.

  “Yes,” I say, avoiding her laser gaze. “He’s picking me up. As usual.”

  As far as my work colleagues are concerned, Vincent and I are in the midst of a whirlwind romance. The only valid excuse I could think of under such short notice and one, I have to say, I’m enjoying a lot more than I should.

  I feel Janice’s gaze on me. “He’s very keen, isn’t he?” she points out for the hundredth time.

  “And why shouldn’t he be?” I challenge. “Do I not deserve love?”

  Janice chuckles nervously, patting her sleek, black bob. “Of course, Mila. It’s just…”

  “What?” I demand.

  She begins pecking at an imaginary thread on her Marks & Spencer trousers. “Well, he’s not one of those controlling types, is he?”

  I stare at her blankly. Knowing Janice, anything could be going on inside that brain of hers. For a fiftysomething woman who crochets bobble hats in her spare time, she has a surprisingly sordid i
magination.

  “A dom,” she says, turning pink. “I’ve read about them in the Daily Telegraph. They’re usually rich and go for women of a lower social status.”

  “Janice,” I shriek. “Are you asking me if I’m his submissive?”

  “Well, the Daily Telegraph says—”

  “No, Janice,” I cut in. “I’m not in a sadomasochistic relationship.”

  Though if I had to be, I could do worse than Vincent. A lot worse.

  “Sorry. I had to ask. Some of the girls in marketing put the idea in my head.”

  “I wasn’t aware my private life was such a hot topic.”

  If only they knew the truth. Still, I’d take catty glares from marketing over pity any day.

  Just then, Paul O’Geary appears out of the lifts—or Leery O’Geary, as we refer to him behind his back.

  “Looking radiant as ever, ladies,” he says in his smarmy voice, slithering over to the desk like a serpent.

  Janice releases a high-pitched giggle, which nearly makes me gag. Though in her defense, it’s not like he’s entirely hideous to look at. Some might even say good looking. Not to me though. I’ll never find another man attractive again after living with Vincent. It’d be like existing on cold gruel and dirty water after a diet of oysters and champagne.

  “How are things up in sales, Paul?” Janice asks brightly.

  Being far less tolerant than my reception buddy, I pretend I’ve just received a fascinating new email and stare at my computer screen instead.

  “Sales is awesome, thanks, Janice,” he says.

  I feel his gaze drilling into me, but I refuse to look up. Once, while I was making coffee for a client in the little kitchenette off reception, he accidentally-on-purpose pinned me against the counter and tried to feel me up. Then, when I shoved him off, he had the nerve to pass it off as a big misunderstanding. Asshole. I should have reported it, of course, but it was only my third day on the job and I panicked about what might happen. Since then, I’ve studiously ignored him.