Sweet as Sugar, Hot as Spice

by Kimberly Raye

  “I’m not so sure I want my way. Being apart has helped me evaluate my position, and I think I like being single.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got the freedom to come and go as I please. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that by tying myself down to one person for the rest of my life.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be. It’s about freedom, isn’t it? You don’t want to give up yours and so you don’t want to marry me.”

  “It’s not about freedom,” she admitted. “It’s about trust, and if you say I told you so, I’m going to hang up this phone and you can just go marry some redwood tree specialist.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were jealous.”

  “I am not jealous. I am, however, extremely tired of all this.” She fell silent and he knew the next words were hard for her. “I miss you, Donovan. And I love you. And I need you. And if you tell anyone, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

  He laughed. “You won’t have far to go. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  “Linc, you’re the favorite to walk away with the Winston Cup this year, particularly now that you’ve won the Daytona 500. But you were in the same position last year, and you blew it on the last race three months ago in Atlanta. What’s to say it won’t happen again?”

  Linc stood behind the podium at the press conference following the new season opener. He thought about smiling and giving the reporter some spiel about how he was too much man for one woman—the story Danielle had carefully devised over the past three months since November to boost his bad-boy image and reaffirm his bachelor status. Instead, he shrugged. “I had personal matters to deal with.”

  “Running for the mayor of Adams, Georgia?”

  “That, and other things, and so it just wasn’t meant to be last year.”

  “And this year?” the reporter pressed. “You lost the election, so you don’t have to worry about doing double duty. It seems you could have a winning season if you give it your all.”

  “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “Any comment about the breakup of your marriage?” another reporter called out.

  “Some things just don’t work out as planned. It happens.”

  “So why haven’t you filed for divorce?” another voice called out.

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Is it because you still love her?” yet another voice called out.

  “Again, that’s none—,” he started before his gaze found the source of the question.

  An attractive blonde wearing a black leather miniskirt and a black Linc Adams T-shirt stood up. She wore a minimal amount of makeup, her full lips a soft pink. She had high cheekbones and a small nose with three freckles sprinkled across the top. Familiar green eyes gazed back at him.

  “Do you?” she asked him again.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Her eyes glimmered with what looked like joy before the emotion faded and her expression turned exasperated. “Then why don’t you tell her?”

  “I already did, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. She didn’t love me.”

  She looked sad for a moment before she stiffened. “Maybe she did, but she was too scared to tell you. Maybe you were right about her. Maybe she was afraid to commit.”

  “Was she?”

  She licked her lips and it was all he could do not to climb over the podium and haul her into his arms. But he needed to know that this wasn’t one of the wild and crazy dreams he’d had over the past few months. He needed to know that it was real.

  That she was real.

  His fingers balled into fists and he waited.

  “Yes,” she finally said. “Then.”

  “And now?”

  “She’s still scared. But she’s more afraid of not committing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she loves you.” She licked her lips again. “I love you.”

  The words sang through his head and he reached her in a few swift strides. He kissed her then, hard and hot and hungry at first. And then slow and sweet and thorough before he finally pulled away and stared down at her.

  The room went crazy around them. People hooted and hollered. Cameras flashed and video cams rolled.

  But Linc didn’t care about any of it. His attention fixed on the woman in his arms. The woman smiling up at him. The woman who loved him as much as he loved her.

  “You know, I think it might be a pretty good year, after all.”

  “Pretty good? I expect fantastic, buddy,” Eve told him. “And I expect it for a hell of a lot longer than a year. Try the next sixty.”

  “Are you trying to scare me off?”

  “Is it working?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Because I’m serious. I’m not scared anymore of turning into my mother or being with you or making a total flop of a documentary. In fact, I’m not making documentaries, at all.”

  “They didn’t like it?”

  “They loved it, but it wasn’t a documentary. I created a fictitious character who writes breakup cards. Sophie Martin, creator and poet behind Ode to a Toad Breakup cards. She’s single and successful and a generation seXer. The series follows her through twelve different story lines all centered around sex and its changing role in her generation. It’s informative without being preachy, and funny and sexy, and they loved it. So much, in fact, that they want to turn it into an actual series.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Thanks to your sister. Her raps inspired the whole greeting card thing. Look, I know that greeting cards and sex and my try-anything-once attitude is so totally different from you and your driving and your whole conservative upbringing. And while I have decided to reexplore my blond roots and settle down some, I can’t promise that I won’t wear sexy clothes. Or get a tattoo. Or have something pierced. I might not be as wild and bold as I pretend to be for my mother, but I do like being different.”

  “I like you because you’re different. I don’t want you to change, Eve. I fell in love with you, and I’ll keep loving you.”

  “Despite what your family may think?”

  “They’re my family and I love them, but I don’t have to please them. I never will, and that’s okay. The only person I want to please is you.”

  “Through sickness and health?”

  “I do.”

  “Through bad hair days and good ones?”

  “I do.”

  “Through good times and PMS hell?”

  “I’ll have to think about that one.” She punched him and he smiled. “Through good times and PMS hell,” he vowed, planting a kiss on the tip of her nose. “From this day forward. Till death do us part.”

  “I do,” she murmured, and then she kissed him.

  Epilogue

  If I could have everyone’s attention,” the disc jockey’s voice boomed over the PA system set up in the far corner of the large observation deck at the Lake Sonoma Winery.

  Banquet tables draped in crisp white linen filled the rest of the space that overlooked the beautiful countryside of Dry Creek Valley. A crescent moon hung in the clear sky, surrounded by twinkling stars. Candles floated in giant crystal bowls at the center of each table, giving the entire place a fairy-tale-like aura. It was the perfect place for a wedding.

  A double wedding.

  Ruella watched as Eve, clad in a floor-length, fitted white gown walked hand in hand with Linc toward the center of the dance floor. He wore a black tuxedo and a huge smile. A round of applause erupted for the attractive couple, followed by a quiet hush as everyone waited for Jacqueline and Donovan to give up their seats at a nearby table.

  Ruella’s gaze shifted to her daughter as she unfolded herself from a chair. She wore her no-nonsense signature beige, her dress a floor-length satin shift with a matching blazer. It was simple. Too simple for a wedding, in Ruella’s opinion. Even so, Jacqueline had never looked more beautiful. Where her
dress lacked sparkle, her eyes more than made up for it.

  Now, that is.

  Before the ceremony, however, she’d been a nervous wreck. Thank heavens the event had been held at a winery. While Eve had chosen the winery for sentimental reasons—she’d first met Linc at nearby Sears Point Raceway—Jacqueline had agreed because of the wine. She’d been nervous enough about marrying Donovan, and so she’d jumped at the chance to have several thousand bottles of courage on hand. Just in case.

  “Each of the happy couples will share their first dance as husband and wife,” the disc jockey went on.

  Jacqueline’s smile dissolved and she disengaged herself from Donovan’s arms and approached the music setup. She whispered a few quick words that wiped the smile from the disc jockey’s face before turning and walking back toward her new husband.

  “That is, each of the happy couples,” the disc jockey hurried on, “will now share their first dance as two, um, equal, independent partners fully capable of making separate, independent choices.” The young man paused, his gaze going to Jacqueline, who nodded and urged him on. “Despite,” he continued, “the fact that they’ve signed their names to a legal document that often tries to hinder such choices.”

  Laughter echoed around the room and Ruella glanced toward a nearby banquet table where Skye, who wore a leopard-print bridesmaid dress, sat next to Clint. The one-year-old twins bounced on their laps and clapped excitedly. Across the table, Xandra, looking beautiful and vivacious despite the same outlandish dress, sat next to Beau, who cuddled his sleeping four-month-old daughter in his strong arms. A tiny crown of baby’s breath sat on the infant girl’s head.

  Ruella’s gaze shifted back to the dance floor and Eve and Linc, who smiled at each other. Nearby, Donovan stared deep into his wife’s eyes, as if oblivious to the cameras and the hundred-and-fifty-plus guests that overflowed the observation deck. Ruella watched as her son-in-law touched his lips to Jacqueline’s and warmth filled the old woman’s heart.

  It seemed as if her entire family had each found their own happy ending. Finally. Thankfully.

  The knowledge helped to ease the sudden surge of regret that washed through her because she still often found herself wondering what it might be like to meet her own special someone. To feel her heart flutter and her palms sweat. A what if that never failed to sneak into her thoughts when she was just getting into Wheel of Fortune, or about to shout a loud Bingo! at Seniors’ Night.

  Not that she gave it too much thought. She’d found peace and contentment in her own life and that was enough.

  Champagne sparkled from the glass in front of her and she reached for the bubbly. She’d just taken a sip when she heard the deep voice.

  “May I?”

  Her gaze shifted to the old man who stood behind the seat next to her. He was average height, his snow-white hair a dark contrast to the black suit jacket he wore with matching trousers. A crisp white shirt and a black bow tie completed the outfit. He had pale blue eyes partially hidden behind a pair of wire-framed glasses. The faint scent of Old Spice filled her nostrils.

  He wasn’t particularly attractive, but he certainly wasn’t ugly, either. He was average. Ho-hum. But her stomach flipped anyway when he smiled at her and revealed a row of straight white teeth.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asked when she simply stared up at him.

  “I, um, no,” she finally said when she realized that she’d been staring at him. “Help yourself. I’m Ruella Farrel . . . Jacqueline’s mother.”

  “Eve’s grandmother,” he added. “I would have known you anywhere. She’s the spitting image of you.” He pulled back the chair and set his cake plate down on the table.

  “The spitting image about fifty years ago.”

  “Nonsense. You don’t look a day over twenty-nine.”

  “Now I know why you’re wearing glasses.”

  He grinned. “I’m Wilbur Wilkie,” he said as he slid into the seat next to her. “I live in Eve’s apartment building.” His arm brushed Ruella’s and heat sizzled along her nerve endings as he leaned in closer, as if to whisper some torrid secret. “But I’m not just her neighbor. We’re practically family.”

  “You’re related to Linc?”

  “My blue heeler was romantically involved with her labradoodle. Damned mess, it was. Seems Eve had no clue that my Lady and the Tramp was a male. Meanwhile, I had no clue that Killer hadn’t been fixed. Why, they took to each other like flies to a fresh-baked apple pie.”

  “I see.”

  “Can’t say as I blame them, what with spending all that time together. A man can get mighty lonely with nothing but Wheel of Fortune to keep him company in the evenings.”

  Ruella turned a surprised look on him. “You like Wheel of Fortune?”

  “It’s my favorite show.” He flashed her another grin before reaching for his punch. His strong hands cradled the cup and a thrill danced up her spine.

  Ruella stiffened. A thrill? Why, she was much too old for such a thing. She’d come to that conclusion months ago. Her gaze hooked on his mouth as he took a bite of his cake. He had really nice lips. Strong. Not too thick. Not too skinny. Inviting, even.

  Awareness skittered through her and she drew a deep, shaky breath. All right, so she was old. She wasn’t dead. Not yet.

  “I, um.” She cleared her throat as he turned those pale eyes on her. Come on, old girl. You can do this. “Are you by any chance married, Mr. Wilkie?”

  “Widowed.”

  “Seeing someone?”

  He grinned and caught her gaze. “Only you.”

  Ruella smiled. Why, she just might get her own happy ending, after all.

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Kimberly Raye lives deep in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with her very own cowboy, Curt, and their young children. She’s an incurable romantic who loves Diet Dr Pepper, chocolate, Toby Keith, chocolate, alpha males, and chocolate. Kim loves to hear from readers. You can visit her on-line at www. kimberlyraye.com or www.gotsexauthors.com, or write to her c/o Warner Books, 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  More Kimberly Raye!

  Please turn the page for a preview of

  Dead-End Dating

  Available April 2006.

  * * *

  Prologue

  For those of you who don’t already know me, my name is the Countess Lilliana Arrabella Guinevere du Marchette (yeah, I know), but my friends call me Lil.

  I mean, really, what were my folks thinking? It’s hard enough being a single, jobless, five-hundred-year-old female vampire in this day and age without the whole pretentious French royalty thing and an ancient lame-ass name that doesn’t even fit in the box on a Visa application. Talk about another cross to bear. (Oops, poor word choice. My bad.)

  Let’s just say life is tough for any woman, and death isn’t much better. We’re still expected to live up to this whole Night-Feeding Barbie image—perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect incisors—and procreate, hunt for the family, and make sure little Morticia doesn’t color on the walls and baby Vlad doesn’t eat the eyes off his Count Dracula doll. Talk about stress.

  For the typical committed female vampire, that is.

  I, on the other hand, haven’t had a decent date in the past one hundred years, much less found Count Right, so my life is a bit simpler. (Notice I say “simpler,” rather than lonelier. Because I am not, repeat not, lonely. I’m a single, hot, happening vampire with a flair for accessorizing, a handful of super-sweet friends—literally—and a very expensive therapist. ‘Nuff said.)

  Now where was I? Oh, yeah—making my own way in the world. First on my list is finding an apartment (a girl can only live with her parents for so many centuries without having a nervous breakdown). Second is getting a job. Neither of which should pose a problem for someone like me. Pure vampires (those born rather than made) are an ambitious, take-charge-and-make-things-happen race, and so most of us are filthy rich. If I were
so inclined, I could easily use my family’s green to find a suitable apartment in Manhattan (complete with a live-in maid, which would almost be worth being eternally indebted to my folks considering the fact that I HATE to clean) and go to work for my father managing the Midnight Moe’s at the New York University location.

  What is Midnight Moe’s, you say? Think copy machines. Think printing services. Think two hundred locations nationwide (near a university near you). Think bor-ing.

  While I have nothing against copying or printing, I simply can’t see myself standing behind the counter from dusk till dawn, wearing a lime-green Polo shirt with “Midnight Moe’s” embroidered across the pocket, and matching Dockers. Lime green is so not my color (I’m a winter and anything out of my range makes me look, well, dead.) As for the Dockers . . . They’re Dockers (shudder). So you can see why the thought of spending eternity gainfully employed in the family business is enough to make me want to stake myself.

  You’ve probably guessed by now that I’m not like most other vamps. Except maybe one, that is. My father says I’m the spitting image of my great aunt Sophie, who nuked herself, just last year, in a tanning bed she purchased off the QVC channel. She was a total nonconformist when it came to the whole vamp image, with her blond highlights, pale peach nail polish, and addiction to Hawaiian print shirts. Personally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a Hawaiian print anything. Likewise, why would I crawl into a Sunsation 5000 when Clinique makes the most rockin’ sunless tanning spray in the perfect shade of medium gold? Not! I don’t care for pale peach, either, but I do have highlights and I’m definitely a nonconformist (aka, the daughter that was switched at birth, or so my mother tells the women in her Happy Hunting Club).

  You see, I don’t do black. I don’t prowl the streets, biting unsuspecting victims (unless he’s really, really cute). I don’t sleep in a cramped coffin. I don’t go all orgasmic at the mention of Marilyn Manson (Hell-o? The guy is so totally unhot, even if he does have the whole night creature look going on). Nor am I a cold, ruthless, unfeeling bitch (unless you’re the Princess Colette DeVille du Guilliam, the blond-haired, blue-eyed SLUT who stole my very first boyfriend).