Chapter 1
Most women would be concerned about waking up next to a vampire. But not Julie Winters. She’d been waking up to the vampire in question, Andrew Hartaway, roughly once a week for the last five years—ever since she’d sold him this house.
Julie spied her black lace thong pinned under Andrew’s thigh and yanked it free. She’d learned long ago that once the sun rose, he could sleep through just about anything. And since it was already noon, he was sleeping so deeply he may as well have been dead. Which he was, by most standards.
Even after all this time, it still seemed funny that he didn’t breathe. His body didn't move. Breathing was a mere affectation he put on to blend in with the living when necessary. He’d explained that more than once. But he wasn’t big on explaining much else about what it meant to be a vampire.
Next to the atrociously ornate carved wooden bureau (Andrew insisted on calling it a bureau) she snatched up her little black dress. Andrew had given it to her last week, insisting she wear it to her birthday party last night. Not that he needed to insist. It was an amazing dress, and utterly sinful, with sheer mesh over most of the top half and little beads and satin swirls covering just enough skin to keep it legal. The bottom half was more fabric, less mesh, ending about halfway down her thighs, and the whole thing clung to her like Saran Wrap. The man had no taste in furniture, or decorating, but wow, could he pick out a dress.
Julie took a quick shower using Andrew’s Irish Spring, and decided not to wash her hair. He didn’t have any conditioner, anyhow. What was it with men? Plus, she was eager to get back to her place. Not that there was any real rush. She could probably stay all day, but never had. She sometimes wondered what he would do if he awoke in the evening and found her still there. Besides, there really wasn’t anything to do at Andrew’s house when he was asleep. Other than indoor plumbing, he wasn’t really into modern conveniences. It might seem like a man born in 1882 would find television, telephones, and the Internet fascinating—but not Andrew. He stuck to the old ways and pursued only those interests that would pay off in the long run. Food, shelter, anonymity, and enough wealth to make those necessities a reality.
After a thorough swish of mouthwash (she wasn’t allowed to keep a toothbrush at his place) Julie wiped the makeup smudges from her face, put the massive diamond studs back on her ears (an unanticipated, but spectacular surprise from Andrew last night) and put her evening clothes back on. They smelled like the party. Expensive cigars, expensive wine, and cheap sex.
Cheap sex? Where did that come from? The sex wasn’t cheap. Then again it wasn’t expensive either. Expensive sex came from hookers, right? Sex with Andrew was more like something that just happened. A lot. In fact, every time they got together.
The sex itself was always good, usually great in fact. Something they both enjoyed. Her brain offered up all the usual explanations: mutually beneficial, no strings attached, no commitment, just for fun. And while that was certainly how it had started out, was that still how she really felt? What about the rest? Shouldn’t there be something more? Did she still like how their relationship worked, or had she just learned to repeat what he always said—and what she’d been saying to herself all these years?
She returned to his bedroom for her shoes and to gather up the birthday cards from his friends.
His friends. By now, it seemed like they should be her friends too. But she knew down deep, they really were just his friends. And that made sense. Most every one of the them was some sort of “underworld creature” for lack of a better term. Vampires, werewolves, the occasional demon, and a few others like her who could keep their mouths shut and reap the benefits necessitated from an underground society. At least she’d come away with two good client contacts at the party. One man (well, vampire) she’d met, and another contact through a friend of Andrew’s who was going to pass her information along.
If Andrew knew how ridiculous he looked sleeping in the frilly, Victorian bedroom, he might have been willing to update the room. It reminded Julie of a movie set from an old-time, high class brothel right down to the gilded headboard and purple satin sheets. Not at all what she would have pictured for the modern vampire.
He lay there naked, flat on his back, with his hands on his chest as if posed for Vampire Quarterly or perhaps Playgirl/The Vampire Issue. He may have been legally dead, and officially about 130 years old, but he still had the goods in the right place, and knew how to use them. He had the body of a lean, muscular twenty-eight-year-old and a sex drive to match. (Scratch that, he had the sex drive of an eighteen-year-old.)
He’d even done some modeling for a few years in the ‘80s—the 1980s, that is. Even though he was a very average 5’ 10”, he was considered perfect model-height in the modern world. At the time, he’d cut his hair short and dyed it black to appear in print ads for Calvin Klein, Swatch, and Dr. Pepper. (Julie had searched for them online, since Andrew was smart enough not to keep evidence of his longevity in his home.) And while he’d been tall-ish a hundred years ago, his average height helped open modeling doors. That, and the fact the rest of him wasn’t average. A body like that really never went out of style.
Since then, he’d vowed never to cut his hair again. It grew at the typical rate compared to how he aged, but since he aged so extremely slowly it had taken most of the last thirty years to extend past his shoulders again.
Now, his hair had returned to its natural red color and was long and curly. During his waking hours, he kept it tied back in a leather wrap like a fancy ponytail. But while he slept during the day, he allowed it to be free and loose and wild. Splayed against the purple sheets, it looked comic-strip orange. Or perhaps like a ferocious mane on a sleeping beast. Either way, he seemed a little bit vulnerable, and Julie liked looking at him like this.
She considered pulling the sheet up over him, but it wasn’t as if he was cold, or would even appreciate it. Besides, it seemed too kind. Too endearing. She knew she wasn’t supposed to feel those kinds of things for him, but part of her wanted to take care of him. To be honest, part of her wanted some security in return. She did her best to push those thoughts away. Best to avoid any excessive introspection, especially on her birthday. And especially this birthday.
Thirty.
As of today, she was officially thirty. And that just sounded wrong. Thirty was such a different number than 29.
She found the black satin pumps under the bed, and grinned a little, remembering how he’d taken them—and everything else—off of her last night. She wished she could kiss him awake, and thank him for throwing her such a wonderful party, and the dress, and the earrings, but that just wasn’t an option at this time of day.
Then the grin and the happy thoughts were stripped away.
A long, shiny blond hair lay under Andrew’s elbow. She knew she shouldn’t be surprised. He’d admitted on several occasions that he had a thing for blondes.
The problem was, Julie’s hair was decidedly brunette.
At the Right Time Page 6
