The Real Werewives of Vampire County

by Ivy, Alexandra; Fox, Angie; Dane, Tami; Haines, Jess

  It could be amazing.

  “Heather?” he asked, waiting for my answer.

  He wasn’t going to beg. I liked that in a vampire. Oh my God, was I actually considering this?

  “Voodoo vampires, huh?” I asked. It could be interesting. And I’d never been to New Orleans.

  “If I go”—I ran a finger down his chest—“will I get to sleep next to you?”

  He pulled me closer. “Yes.”

  A smile tickled the edges of my lips. “Kiss you?”

  His voice grew husky. “I hope.”

  “Would I have to let you bite me?” I hoped.

  He nibbled kisses along the soft spot in front of my ear. “If you’re lucky.”

  I tilted his chin my way for a long, lingering kiss.

  “Okay,” I said, before I lost all control and jumped headlong into bed with him. “I’ll go to New Orleans.”

  “Ha!” He let out a very unvampirish whoop before tackling me back onto the bed.

  “But I have a few rules,” I said, wriggling against him. Anticipating what was to come.

  “I can’t wait,” he said, propped above me.

  “I will not wear high heels.”

  “Done.”

  “I absolutely refuse to do any more breaking and entering.”

  “Prude.”

  He kissed his way down my neck until I almost forgot rule number three. “And,” I said, running my fingers through his thick, blond hair, “I will not fall in love with you.”

  I could feel him smile against my neck. “We’ll see.”

  WEREWOLVES IN CHIC CLOTHING

  TAMI DANE

  Michelle Stewart waited her whole life for something exciting to happen. As an eight-year-old, she dreamed of learning she was actually a princess, inheriting a crown and massive fortune.

  Didn’t happen.

  As a teenager, she hoped to be discovered by an Elite Modeling agent in the mall.

  Didn’t happen.

  As an adult, she fantasized about being swept off her feet by her Prince Charming and living a storybook happily-ever-after.

  To everyone—but Michelle—it appeared she was living that last fantasy. In reality, Michelle wouldn’t live to see any of her dreams come true....

  CHAPTER 1

  I think I might have just moved into Stepford. If you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t ... what are you waiting for? The Stepford Wives (I’m talking about the original film) is a classic.

  Back to Stepford. Why do I think I’ve moved there? Let me paint a visual picture for you. I was driving a rusty U-Haul, twenty-five years’ worth of personal possessions, including my collection of vintage purses, packed into beat-up cardboard boxes. I was rolling past one perfectly kept home after another. The flower gardens were weed-free, grass freshly mowed. And everyone I saw was smiling.

  It was damned creepy.

  Maybe I’d lived in the city too long. I wanted to hear someone yell, “Fuck you!” I ached for the reassuring sound of a horn blaring in anger. Instead, I was getting happy birdsong and the distant rumble of a lawn mower.

  Why did this bother me so much? Because if this suburban nirvana was anything like Stepford, there was absolutely no way I was going to fit in. I hate cooking. I kill plants. I’ve never been crafty.

  And ... what the hell was I doing?

  You’d better be worth it, Jonathan Stewart.

  One look at Jonathan Stewart, and almost every niggling doubt in my mind immediately evaporated.

  Hellooooo, handsome.

  FYI, Jonathan Stewart, my soon-to-be fiancé, is traffic-stopping gorgeous. He’s also powerful, successful, generous, kind—downright perfect ... and he was standing in his driveway, wearing the world’s biggest smile.

  I am the luckiest woman alive.

  Now, back to my story.

  Jonathan was at my door, yanking it open before I’d even gotten the truck shifted into PARK. “Hello, beautiful,” he said, pulling me out of the vehicle.

  “Hello back,” I said, sliding my arms around his waist. We kissed, and I saw stars. I heard angels singing, too. Then again, that might’ve been the robins. My knees were a little wobbly by the time the kiss ended.

  Jon brushed my windblown hair out of my face. “How was your drive? I wish you would have let me handle the move for you.”

  “My drive was fine, thank you. And there was no point in hiring movers to load a few cardboard boxes.” I motioned toward the house, which was huge and immaculate. “So, this is where you live?”

  “We. This is where we live.” Jon stepped to the side, one arm still curled around my waist. He motioned to his picture-perfect brick house. “Christine Price—soon to be Christine Stewart—welcome home.”

  “Home,” I echoed, letting him guide me inside. “Oh ... wow.” I couldn’t believe this ... showroom ... was going to be my home. First, it was huge, but I’d already said that. And beautifully decorated, and ... there was absolutely no way the particleboard and laminate “furniture” I’d just hauled across three states was going to fit in here. We meandered through the foyer, past the sweeping staircase leading to the second floor, down a hallway that led to the rear of the house. On our way, we strolled past a formal living room that looked like it had never been used, past a formal dining room that also looked unused, and finally an office-slash-library. The hall ended at an open space housing the family room and eat-in kitchen.

  In the family room my eyes jumped from one thing to another. The sectional sofa screamed, Sit on me! The ginormous flat panel TV on a wall gleamed in the sunlight. A pair of comfy-looking leather club chairs created a cozy nook that inspired me to grab a book and cuddle up to read. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining the back wall beckoned me, the lush green landscape beyond framed in drapes (were they ... happy sigh! ... silk?).

  The whole place whispered expensive. Tasteful. Classy.

  Jon looked proud. “I want this place to feel like home. If there’s anything you’d like to change—and I’m hoping there is—I want you to do it. Just tell me what you want, what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

  I tested one of the chairs. Heaven. “Thanks,” I said, beaming as I ran my hand over the arm. I pulled in a deep breath, drawing in the scrumptious scent of the leather and the equally intoxicating aroma of the man standing next to me. Whatever cologne he was wearing, it was pure aphrodisiac. “But everything looks so new. I don’t see why we’d need to change a thing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.” He grabbed my hands, eyes twinkling, and pulled me to my feet. “Don’t get too comfortable yet. I still need to show you the rest of the house.”

  He escorted me into the kitchen, which sported all the essentials of fine suburban living. Stainless steel appliances, natural stone countertops, beautiful wood cabinets and floor. There were two ovens. Two. I rarely put one to use. How would I ever find a reason to use two? Jon informed me the stove was a chef’s stove, whatever that meant. It was big and looked dangerous. I decided I’d stick with microwaving for now. The fridge, on the other hand, was also enormous but not at all scary. It was well stocked with all my favorite foods. There was even a month’s worth of my fave ice cream in the freezer.

  This man deserved a kiss. I gave him one. And a second. And a third.

  He growled like a man-bear—how I adore the way he growls—scooped me up into his arms, and turned a one-eighty, heading back toward the front of the house.

  With one arm looped around his neck, I swallowed a girly giggle. Would this be my life from now on? Filled with toe-curling kisses, manly growls, and a never-ending supply of German chocolate ice cream? I didn’t dare hope so. A past full of heartache, hardship, and frustration had shattered the lenses in my rose-colored glasses a long time ago.

  That didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy this moment.

  “Now, to show you our room.” Upstairs, Jon turned into the first room on the right, and I literally gasped.


  “No way. Is this really our bedroom?” I asked, gaping like a kid who’d just stepped into the world’s largest toy store. I was beginning to see a trend here. The bed, just like the stove and refrigerator and television downstairs, was gigantic. Who would need so much space to sleep? Then again, I wondered if that space was intended for something else, something besides sleep. As a few possibilities played through my mind, I licked my lips.

  Jon said, “I just had this room redesigned. But if you don’t like it—”

  “I love it.”

  “Good.” Jon dropped me on the bed. It was like landing on a cloud. He palmed my cheeks and stared into my eyes, his expression dark and manly and one hundred percent sexy. “I want you to be happy.”

  “I have a feeling I’ll be very happy.”

  “You can bet I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of that.” He tipped his head, and I closed my eyes, bracing for another mind-blowing kiss. But a knock on the door had me snapping them open and Jon jerking back.

  “Dad.” Joshua, Jon’s twelve-year-old son, was standing just inside the door, his cell phone in his hand. He had the world’s worst timing. But I’d heard that was true for all kids. “Can I go to Ethan’s house?”

  I scrambled to my feet and tried to pretend my face wasn’t about to combust into flames. I was slightly aware of Jon pushing to his feet beside me.

  I stuttered, “Josh, it’s good seeing you again.”

  Josh gave me one of those looks, the kind that said, “yeah, whatever.”

  Jon said, “Josh, I told you, I need your help today. Christine’s moving in.”

  Josh’s expression darkened. “But Dad, it’s Labor Day weekend. School starts Tuesday. It’s my last weekend of summer vacation—”

  “Jon,” I whispered, turning to face my hot, sexy almost-fiancé. “If you’re making Josh stay home for my sake, it’s okay. I’d rather he go play with his friends, have fun.”

  Josh adopted a convincing sad puppy expression.

  Jon thought about it.

  “Please,” Josh said, his voice doing that preteen-boy cracking thing. Ugh. I was about to become a stepmom to a teenager. Good times were coming my way. I could see it already. “I’ll be back by seven. That’ll still give you plenty of time to make me work.”

  “Fine. By seven. Not a minute later.”

  Josh roared out of the house as fast as his twelve-year-old legs could take him. When the deep thump of the front door slamming echoed through the house, Jon strolled to the bedroom door and closed it. Turning, he gave me a look hot enough to melt lead. “Now, where were we?”

  I fell onto the mattress, batting my eyelashes at him. “I think you were about to make me very happy—” I gave a little shriek as he pounced on me like an overgrown jungle cat.

  Angled over me, Jon gave me a Cheshire grin. “Ah, yes. And so I was.”

  Okay, so there was at least one thing about this Stepford setup I’d like....

  Jon nibbled on my earlobe.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Urk,” I said.

  “Damn,” Jon said. He scowled. “The hell with it. They’ll go away.” He went back to nibbling, and I went back to melting.

  The freaking doorbell rang a second time. Jon kept on nipping my neck, but I wasn’t into it anymore. I was distracted. When the bell rang a third time, I shoved him. “Okay, Dracula”—it’s a silly pet name, but the man has a thing for necks—“we’re going to have to take a timeout. I can’t get into the mood with all that ding-donging.”

  Jon sighed. It was his turn to give a sad puppy look. It was clear where Joshua had learned it.

  “Won’t work.” I pushed on his chest until he was upright.

  “But it worked for Josh.” Ding dong. “Ignore it.” He grabbed my hand, flipped it over, and scattered tickly little kisses over the inside of my wrist.

  Ding dong.

  “I can’t ignore it.”

  Ding dong.

  Sheesh, whoever that was, they were persistent.

  Jon motioned to me. “Stay put. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I decided I was okay with that plan ... until I heard a woman’s voice downstairs. Laughing.

  I’d just left the best job of my life, said sayonara to every friend I had in the world, and hauled everything I owned three hundred miles. I didn’t do that to sit upstairs and listen to my soon-to-be husband flirt with another woman.

  After a quick mirror check—a girl needs to make a good first impression—I headed downstairs to see why my not-quite fiancé hadn’t returned to me yet.

  I wasn’t happy with what I saw when I reached the foyer. The world’s most perfect woman—Stepford, I’m telling you—was standing a little too close to Jon for my comfort. She was holding a covered Pyrex pan with something red in it. As I stepped onto the stone tile, the visitor’s attention snapped to me. So did Jon’s.

  “Hi,” I said to them both.

  Jon and the Stepford wife began chattering at the same time. Jon stopped.

  Mrs. Perfect beamed at me. Perfect blond hair. Perfect makeup. Her dress was very well-maintained vintage. 1950s. Silk. I was guessing Harvey Berin. She was wearing a wedding ring. “Hello, Christine, I’m Samantha Phillips. I live next door. So good to meet you at last.” She shoved the hot dish into my hands, cherry pot holders keeping them from blistering. “I made a pan of lasagna, thinking you’d probably be too busy to cook tonight.”

  The scents of tomato sauce and garlic and cheese tickled my nose. “How thoughtful. Thank you.” I took the pan to the kitchen and set it on the stove. I heard Jon and Samantha following me.

  “Thank you,” Jon echoed.

  When I turned around, I found Samantha standing with her hands clasped in front of her A-line skirt. I shoved the pot holders into her empty hands. “Thanks again.”

  She jammed one hand into a skirt pocket, produced a business card. “I guess I should get going. Don’t want to keep you from your work.” She extended her arm, offering the card. “If you need help with anything, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m home all day. I can be here in a blink. Michelle and I used to—” She cut herself off. “Forgive me. Michelle was a good friend.”

  “It’s okay. I understand.” I accepted the card and set it on the counter. “Thanks again. I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

  “Okay, then. I can see myself out.” Samantha threw a cute little wave at Jon and hustled toward the door. I watched Jon watch her leave. When he finally glanced my way, I probably wasn’t looking too happy.

  “I’m sorry about that. Samantha and my first wife were close. She had a very hard time after Michelle died. But I’d rather not talk about that right now.” He hauled me into his arms. “Michelle was my past. You are my future. And if you’re worried about Samantha, don’t be,” he said. “She’s very happily married. And I’m very happily almost-married.”

  The man knew just what to say.

  He also knew just what to do. He kissed me until I couldn’t breathe and I’d forgotten all about whatshername and her lasagna and her stupid cherry pot holders.

  Oh yes, I was definitely feeling better now. Warm. Tingly. Happy.

  “Shall we head back upstairs?” I asked, dragging my fingernails down his chest. I hadn’t seen that chest in three weeks. Long-distance dating sucked. It was so good to be done with that now.

  “Yes, let’s go.” Jon tossed me over his shoulder like a caveman. I gave a little shriek of surprise, flopping over to give his cute butt a smack. He gave me one in return as he headed toward the staircase.

  Then the doorbell rang again.

  “Ohmygod,” I said to his back. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Ignore it.”

  Ding dong.

  Still atop Jon’s shoulder, I wriggled. “I just want to have sex. Who would’ve thought that would be such a problem?”

  “It isn’t a problem. Let’s go have sex.”

  Ding dong.

  “No. Set me down.”


  Jon grunted.

  Down I slid. On the way, I happened to notice he was sporting a somewhat obvious hard-on. I motioned to his crotch. “You might want to cover that up.”

  He glanced down, looked up, and gave me a crooked grin. “Maybe it’ll chase whoever it is away so we can get back to what we were doing.” He yanked open the door, and another attractive woman stepped into my new home.

  The woman either didn’t see me or didn’t care. Tall. Brunette. Slim. And also well dressed—her clothes weren’t designer, but they looked like they’d been tailored to fit her perfectly. She blurted, “Jon, I need to talk to you right now about Carson. He’s—”

  “Lindsay Baker,” Jon interrupted, motioning toward me. “This is Christine. Christine’s moving in today.”

  Lindsay finally realized I was standing there. “Oh! Hello.” She shook my hand. “So good to meet you. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She thumbed over her shoulder, toward the open door behind her. “I live across the street.” Looking slightly wilted, she frowned. “I’m sorry I forgot you were moving in today. Jon told me last week. He’s been very excited.” She glanced at Jon. “I’m guessing Samantha’s already been by to welcome Christine?”

  “Yep,” I said. “She brought lasagna.” That was slightly bitchy of me to rub it in, I’ll admit. I’ll probably pay for it, one way or another.

  Lindsay’s smile was only slightly forced. “Of course she brought lasagna. Enjoy. The woman is the best cook on the block, now that Michelle—I mean, Samantha makes everything from scratch. Me, I’m lucky if I don’t burn a frozen pizza.”

  “Yeah, me too,” I admitted. Two neighbors. Two welcomes. And both had mentioned Michelle, Jon’s deceased wife. I was beginning to worry I had some insanely perfect shoes to fill.

  We exchanged a smile. For some reason, regardless of her mention of Michelle, I had a feeling I might get along with this neighbor. The jury was still out on Samantha.

  “Anyway, I guess I’ll head out now. I’m sure you’re both very”—Lindsay’s gaze paused on Jon’s crotch before jerking away—“busy.”

  “Thanks for coming by.” Jon grabbed the doorknob, ready to close the door behind her.