Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Juliet Lyons

  “That’s highly unlikely.”

  “What if it kills Ronin?”

  “Again, highly unlikely.”

  “This spell…what does she have so far?”

  He sits up straighter in the chair. “The spell is a very old one. It involves incantations and a tub of holy water.”

  I arch a brow. “Are you sure Karolina isn’t trying to get you naked?”

  He chuckles, ignoring the question. “She also needs an object belonging to me when I was human, which is no difficulty, and a vial of Ronin’s blood—which is some difficulty, but one I can work with.”

  “This Logan you mentioned. Is he aging?”

  Vincent nods, his blue eyes swirling with hope. “He found his first gray hair a few weeks ago. Also, he has a baby son.”

  I sit bolt upright in my seat. Though I didn’t want to believe any of this might be possible, I’m suddenly breathless with hope. “Oh, that’s amazing.”

  Vincent squeezes my hand. “I don’t want you to have to give up on becoming a mother because of me, Mila. I’ve seen the way you are around kids. You love them.”

  “Oh please, everyone loves kids. The same as everyone loves rainbows and free Wi-Fi. It’s a given. None of that is as important to me as you are.”

  He both frowns and smiles. “I would love to be able to give you a baby one day.”

  An image pops into my head of the two of us surrounded by nappies, that sweet, clean nursery smell lingering around the apartment and Vincent holding a baby—our baby—to his naked chest. The idea gives me a warm, fluttery feeling in the pit of my tummy, and not just because of his naked chest.

  I push the chair back and circle the table, curling into his lap. “Shall we see what she comes up with, then?” I say, burying my head into his clean-smelling neck. “But if it’s in any way dangerous, we’ll go back to my plan.”

  He shakes his head and tilts my chin to kiss me. “I love you, Mila.”

  “I love you too.”

  I always will.

  Epilogue

  Vincent

  Three years later…

  “You should probably take off your shirt,” Mila says.

  Her hazel eyes are as wide and innocent as a child’s, a wicked grin lifting the corners of her pink lips.

  I smile before gazing down at the tiny sleeping bundle cradled in my arms. “Didn’t the nurse say we have to wait six weeks?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Not so we can have sex, Vincent. So you can bond with him. Skin on skin, like it says in the book.”

  “Ah, I see.” I wink at her. “Can’t say I’m not disappointed though.”

  “Here, let me take him while you undress.”

  I gently transfer Louis into Mila’s waiting arms. “Have you got his head supported?” I ask, preparing to slide my arm from under him.

  “Yep, I think so. But go slowly.”

  Once the maneuver is complete, we sigh in relief. As new parents, we exist in constant fear we will accidentally injure the baby.

  I get to work unbuttoning my shirt. Mila watches intently, a blush creeping into her face. As I fling the shirt onto the back of a chair, we give each other the look.

  Six weeks already feels like forever.

  I hold out my arms. “Okay, pass him back.”

  We go through the same process in reverse until our son is nestled cozily against my bare chest.

  “Don’t move,” Mila insists, whirling around. “I need to get the camera.”

  She moves from the living room as fast as her stitches will allow, leaving me gazing into the perfect, chubby, pink face of my son.

  My son. Two words I never ever thought I would earn the right to use. I reach down to unwrap Louis’s blanket and lift him so we’re chest to chest, our two hearts beating together. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and my throat tightens. There is a muffled sob, though it doesn’t come from me. Mila is back with the camera, tears dripping off shiny cheeks.

  “What is it? No batteries?” I ask, looking between her and the camera dangling by its loop from her wrist.

  “No,” she says, swiping at her cheeks. “I’m just so happy.”

  Ah, yes. The happy hormones. They’ve been wreaking havoc on her emotions since she gave birth a week ago. Trouble is, I think they might be catching.

  My eyes fill with moisture. “Me too. We are so blessed.”

  I loop my free arm around her shoulders and fold her into a three-way embrace. A tear almost spills as it hits me that I’m holding everything I care about in the world.

  Mila’s arms go around my waist, her cheek pressed against my shoulder, stray blond tresses tickling my skin. “Being this happy scares me, Vincent,” she murmurs, her voice muffled.

  I squeeze her tight. “I know. Me too.”

  As if wanting to get in on the conversation, Louis lets out an ear-rattling shriek.

  Mila looks up at me, smiling. “Quiet time is over. He probably wants to feed again.” She unbuttons the shirt she’s wearing and takes him from me. I hurry to plump the cushions on the messy sofa, moving a sea of baby paraphernalia aside to make room.

  Once Louis is latched on and feeding, I sink onto the sofa, my arm around Mila. “God, you’re amazing. Do you know that?”

  Mila grins, her freckles joining as she scrunches up her nose. “It’s just breastfeeding.”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  “Don’t or I’ll start crying again.”

  I press a kiss into her hair. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  We’re silent for a few seconds, the only noise the quiet suckling of Louis as he feeds.

  “Oh, I forgot to say,” Mila adds. “An envelope came addressed to you. It’s from London.”

  “Oh?”

  “Might be something from Burke. It’s on the hall table.”

  We haven’t lived in London since I quit the police three years ago, though I’ve stayed in regular contact with my ex-colleagues. Lee is happily married again. Just three months after she left, Sian rang him and begged to come home. He is still bragging about his vampire-killing moment of glory.

  I pad through to the hallway and lift a thick, padded envelope from the table we keep our keys on. The handwriting is swirly and old-fashioned. Not Burke’s. I tear open the seal. Inside is a blue card with a cartoon baby on the front along with the caption It’s a boy! I open the card.

  Dear Vincent,

  Congratulations on becoming a father. Without wanting to toot my own horn, I think I have the potential to make an excellent godfather—the suits, the cutthroat charisma. Remember me in your deliberations. After all, you still owe me for that vial of blood…

  On a different note, you will find enclosed something belonging to you. I’ve had it in my possession for years but didn’t think to return it until now. I figure you might want to pass it on to your son one day.

  Yours,

  Ronin McDermott

  I tip the envelope upside down, surprised when a heavy metallic object tumbles out onto my palm. A flash of gold glints in a shaft of sunlight as I stare down at the crest of my old family ring. One of Ronin’s men must have taken it from Moreau’s fake address the night I dropped it. I’ve never once stopped to think what became of it. I hold it up to the light between my thumb and index finger, its shape familiar and strange all at once. A symbol of a past best forgotten. I drop it back into the envelope and open the little drawer in the table, sliding the envelope to the back, under a pile of old bills.

  Carrying the card back into the living room, I loiter for a moment in the doorway, watching the scene within—the backdrop of a messy, lived-in family room framing my beautiful Mila as she concentrates on feeding our newborn son.

  A home, a family, a real life. This is the portrait I live in now, the faded relic that once
hung on my bedroom wall long consigned to the dust and darkness of the attic.

  One day, I will show Louis the portrait and the ring, and he will pore over them like he would some mysterious fairy tale, safe and secure in the knowledge of a happy ending. The past, after all, is behind us.

  Catching me staring, Mila looks up. “What was it?”

  “Nothing,” I say, propping the card up amid the rows of blue and white on the mantelpiece, where it blends in with the others. “Nothing at all.”

  Order Juliet Lyons’s next book

  in the Bite Nights series

  That Killer Smile

  On sale February 2018

  Read on for a sneak peek at book 3 in Juliet Lyons’s Bite Nights series

  Coming February 2018!

  Ronin

  “Which one? Blond or brunette?”

  I lift my eyes from the amber liquid in my glass to Harper’s smirking face, ghostly white under the flicker of strobe lighting, before following his gaze to the two women perched on shiny high stools at the bar.

  The club is tightly packed, dozens of revelers grinding to the beat of thumping music. To call it dancing would be an insult. There is no finesse or rhythm to the heaving bodies as they sway from side to side, exposed skin glittering with sweat, arms waving wildly—drowning in an ocean of alcohol and lust.

  The women Harper spotted shoot glances in our direction. Predatory stares, red lips parted like an invitation. Even if I couldn’t read body language like most people read flat-pack furniture instructions, I would know their intentions in a heartbeat.

  Sex.

  I survey the scantily clad women with a sigh, waiting for my trouser region to wake up and smell the pheromones. My eyes feast upon their coltish limbs, buffed and bronzed beneath their short skirts, two matching swells of cleavage oozing from tight, strappy tops.

  “Or both?” Harper whispers, dark eyes flashing. Though the loud thud of music mostly smothers his voice, a single arched eyebrow does the talking.

  Both. Not an unusual suggestion by any means.

  I’m admiring the women like a farmer on market day when my attention snags on a third woman standing a few feet behind them. A cloud of wild, curly dark hair is bending over a silver bag while a pale hand rummages desperately inside. Judging by the martini in front of her and the tap-tap of Paulo’s fingers on the bar, she is searching for money. My throat goes dry and my knees tingle.

  Surely, she would never come here.

  A second later, I’m out of my seat and at the bar, ignoring the stares of the two women as I wedge myself into the space behind them.

  “It’s on the house,” I say to Paulo, waiting for the dark puff of hair to lift and reveal her face.

  When she looks at me, my heart crashes in disappointment. It isn’t her. Though similarly built, this woman’s eyes are slanted, catlike, and the color of ebony. Still, that hair. I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch it.

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling and ducking her head.

  I take a step backward, reading her face. Unlike the females behind me, this lady is not at my club for sex. It’s written in the relaxed set of her shoulders, the genuine smile on her full lips. The length in my trousers stirs. Lately, I seem to need a challenge to get off, and with that hair… If her body was arched across my desk, I would hardly know the difference between her and who I thought she was.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, shifting my weight against the bar.

  She blinks a few times, as if she’s recently pondered that question herself. “I came with a colleague.” She skims a gaze over the pulsating mass of bodies on the dance floor as if searching for someone.

  Lying.

  “Tell me why you’re really here,” I say.

  She lets out a sigh and with a quick eye roll says, “I’m a journalist. I’ve been asked to write a column on alternative dating.”

  My brows shoot skyward. “Alternative dating,” I repeat.

  She takes a gulp of her martini, her hand betraying a slight tremor. My eyes track the movement like a tiger eyeing its prey. Her nerves are an aphrodisiac, a direct connection to the fangs prickling beneath my gums like knives.

  “Yes, alternative. You know, BDSM, swinging…vampires.”

  I frown. “Isn’t it a tiny bit prejudiced to consider vampires akin to sexual deviants?”

  Another gulp of martini, faster this time. Her eyes dart across the pulsing room again, reminding herself where the exit is. Despite her obvious desire to flee, her voice is calmer than a church sermon on Sunday. “Not at all. There’s nothing wrong with those things. They’re just…different.”

  “What do you have on us so far?”

  She jerks a little in surprise. Though, really, what did she think I was? A solicitor, a stockbroker, a candlestick maker?

  Her dark eyes widen. “Nothing really. It all seems…normal.”

  Though it wasn’t my original intention to scare her, I can’t help but lean in, closer to her ear, my lips brushing her magnificent hair. She smells of perfume and the London Underground, a faint whiff of spices from cooking. “Stick around. Wait for the bell. Things won’t be so normal then.”

  “The bell?” she asks, a flash of fear lighting up her face. “What bell?”

  I grin by way of response and spin around to the women behind me. They straighten immediately, the brunette spilling some of her cocktail in haste.

  “You should probably sponge that out before it leaves a stain,” I say, motioning to the liquid sinking between the fibers of her tight, white top. “I have some stain remover in my office, if you’d allow me to take care of it.”

  The brunette smiles. A slow, tight curl of red lips. She steps toward me, her voice a cat’s purr. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  I allow my fangs to slip out over my lips so she knows exactly what my intentions are. Like a seasoned pro, she doesn’t flinch. “Ladies first,” I say, extending an arm.

  “Hey,” the blond cuts in. A sneer mars her sugar-candy face. “What about me?”

  Ordinarily, I would take them both, but tonight, I need the brunette alone.

  Harper appears by her side, and I watch with amusement as her hard mask of protest dissolves at the sight of his handsome features. “I would love to keep you company.”

  The Miss Piggy act is dropped. “I’m Natalie,” she says, eyeing his muscular body as if he’s the last sunbed by the pool.

  “I’m honored to meet you, Natalie.” He lifts one of her hands, kissing the back of her fingers.

  Smooth bastard.

  The friend taken care of, I let the brunette walk ahead of me. The stare of the curly haired journalist lasers into the back of my head. Curiosity is rolling off her in waves. I can practically hear her mind turning my words over. Wait for the bell.

  Inside my office, I lock the door and hang back. These days, I rarely make the first move, which has nothing to do with being a gentleman and everything to do with boredom. The brunette prowls around, running red-painted nails over everything: the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, the edge of the buffed walnut desk.

  “It’s pretty tame in here,” she says in husky tones.

  I shove aside a wave of indifference, focusing on the swell of breasts beneath her tight vest. “Is it? What were you expecting? Whips and a rack?”

  She hops onto the desk, knees slightly apart. “Maybe.”

  I watch her for a second, hands thrust deep into my pockets. She isn’t who you want, a voice whispers in a far-off corner of my brain. Why kid yourself?

  “You know, I’ve been coming here for a few weeks,” she says, plucking a glass paperweight of the Tower of London from the desk and examining it. “I know you’re different from the other vampires.”

  “Really? How am I different?”

  “Older, wiser, mo
re sophisticated—and not just because you own this place.”

  A buzz of warning stirs me into action. I pull myself to full height. “Turn around,” I say, my voice coming out in a growl.

  Her eyelids flicker, and she gulps as my fangs extend farther. “I thought you’d never ask,” she retorts, a slight waver in her voice.

  She spins around, fingers gripping the edge of the desk, knuckles bone-white against the lacquered wood. The sight of them gives me pause. So pointless, the voice in my head whispers. Shoving the thought aside, I press myself into her spine, gripping her wrists. Her hair smells of cigarette smoke and hairspray, and as I move the immaculate mane of hair from the bronze column of her neck, she shivers. Without pausing to consider if it’s from arousal or fear, I scrape my fangs over her skin. The taste of chemical tan is sharp on my tongue.

  “Wait,” she says suddenly. “Aren’t we going to have sex before you bite me?”

  I grin into her flesh. Below my waist, I’m not even at half-mast. “No,” I murmur. “That’s not the order I like to do things.”

  Without further warning, I sink my fangs into her neck, the soft pop of flesh filling me with new vigor. She moans loudly, her bottom squirming against my groin, stirring me to life. I half close my eyes as my length stiffens, then I hoist her skirt around her waist and reach for my zipper. A brief glance at her startlingly white derriere affirms there are no panties to remove. As I begin to swallow her blood, I move her legs apart with a knee, bringing a hand between her thighs.

  “Yes,” she whimpers. “Give it to me.”

  I slide a digit around her slick walls, pumping a couple of times to get her good and wet before guiding my erection to her entrance. Just as I’m about to thrust inside her, I sink my fangs deeper. The slow drip of blood oozes into my mouth like an open faucet. I shut my eyes completely as her body sags, a deep, dark unconsciousness seizing her like a thief in the night. I too lose myself, surrendering to the usual fantasy—a cloud of black hair, eyes the color of sunlight on a river, and pink lips caught in a sneer that screams of hate.