A Vampire for Christmas

by Laurie London

  They’d talked about many things that night—their mutual love of travel, sushi, old horror flicks, watching golf on TV though neither of them played, early Aerosmith tunes. He made her laugh and seemed truly interested in her. And then there was Augustus. God, that cat loved him, which was really saying something. Augustus hated everyone.

  But whenever she delved into topics about Trace’s work or family, he’d deftly changed the subject. She hadn’t realized what he was doing until she thought about it later. Like a politician, he presented only what he wanted her to know about him. Even though she’d had what was probably the best sex of her life, the man was a mystery.

  And yet, there was something so familiar about him, too. Something that she couldn’t quite place. Like a well-worn groove in the road, she seemed to fit comfortably with him without really thinking about it. She’d resigned herself, however, that it had just been a one-night stand and decided to forget about him.

  Then, yesterday, he’d called, wanting to hire her to decorate his home for a big party he was throwing.

  At first, she’d considered telling him no. Despite Kari’s code of ethics, having had sex with someone wasn’t a good way to start a new client relationship. But when Trace told her again how impressed he’d been with her portfolio, she caved. His flattery had totally stroked her ego. Besides, decorating an estate in Rainier Falls, an exclusive, gated community in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains, would look great in her portfolio. She’d be a fool to turn down the opportunity.

  She crossed her legs and retied her wool coat, straightening the ends of the fabric belt. Had she remembered to remove the sales tag? A quick check of the sleeves and back collar confirmed that she had. After making the appointment and thinking about what she’d wear, her old coat had seemed a little dated, so she’d splurged on a new one. Surprising what a stylish coat, heels and a good haircut did for one’s image, she thought as the car finally came to a stop.

  She was merely concerned with her business image, because the last time Trace had seen her, she’d been naked. Her face heated at the memory, even as her heart quickened at the knowledge that she was about to see him again. Not a very professional image by a long shot, so she had quite a big deficit to overcome.

  The door opened and the gloved hand of the driver reached in. She exited the vehicle to see a huge mansion looming in front of her. She took a deep breath, hardly believing she was going to be in charge of decorating such a place. It looked more like an English countryside manor with its ivy-covered stone exterior, gabled roofline and massive wooden door. An unexpected architectural style here in the Pacific Northwest, it was much larger than she had imagined. Not knowing how many floors and wings it had, she estimated the footprint to be at least ten to twelve thousand square feet.

  She turned to thank the driver, but he’d already climbed back into the limo.

  A flutter of movement drew her attention as she strode toward the door. Glancing up, she saw a darkened second-story window, its draperies settling back together in the middle, as if someone had parted them to look out on her a moment ago. Despite the wool scarf around her neck, a shiver of cold whispered down her spine.

  She shook the sensation off as she focused again on the house. She couldn’t wait to see the inside. Did it have a single, grand staircase leading up or two on either side of the foyer, meeting at a second-story landing? An impressive chandelier? An entry table with fresh flowers? Marble flooring or travertine? What kind of artwork was on the walls? Postmodern? Impressionist?

  Tucking her hair behind one ear, she took a deep breath and raised the heavy brass knocker. But before it could make a sound, the door swung open with a mighty creak of hinges, and Trace stood in the doorway.

  Although he wore jeans, a white T-shirt and boots, he could’ve been heading into a corporate board meeting given his confident and commanding presence. He filled the whole space. She tried not to notice how broad his shoulders were or remember the feel of his muscular back and tight ass flexing under her fingertips.

  “Hello, Trace,” she said, keeping her tone businesslike.

  “Charlotte.” He nodded, hesitating for a moment before he grasped her outstretched hand, then quickly releasing it.

  His warmth lingered on her skin like ripples on the surface of a pond long after the skipping stone hit the bottom. She absently rubbed her thumbs along her finger tips as he closed the door behind her.

  “Look, Charlotte, before we get started, I just want to make sure you know that whatever happened between us back at—”

  Cringing, she held up her hand, interrupting him. He didn’t need to voice all that. “Don’t worry. What happened is in the past. This is business only.”

  A strange expression crossed his face. Relief probably. Most likely he’d expected her to react differently.

  “Good,” he said, confirming her assessment.

  A tiny part of her wished she hadn’t been correct. That he saw her as something more. A woman he wanted to get to know on a deeper level, and not just someone he’d spent one night with and now viewed only as an employee. She quickly shoved that futile longing out of her mind and considered the task before her.

  The place was just as she envisioned. A grand staircase led to a landing and branched off into twin sets of stairs that curved around to the second story. A massive chandelier with thousands of crystals sparkling overhead cast an array of colors against the walls. The effect was almost magical. She made note to capitalize on that somehow with the decorating. Marble flooring, not travertine, stretched in every direction. And straight ahead on a Louis XIV center table, Christmas lilies were arranged in a blown-glass vase.

  She exhaled slowly. “Your home is absolutely stunning.”

  He smiled, his eyes suddenly more blue than gray. A glint of something she couldn’t identify lurked behind them. “Thank you. The estate has been in the family for many years.”

  “Is it just you here?” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t brought that up on the phone. At her place, she’d casually asked if he’d ever been married, to which he’d answered no. Sure, he could’ve been lying, but she was almost positive he wasn’t. And yet now that she was here, she felt a little…uneasy.

  “Except for my grandmother, who arrived yesterday for the holidays, yes.”

  “Your grandmother?” A rush of relief eased her tension.

  “Yes, I’ll introduce you in a few minutes. You’ll love her.” An undefinable expression crossed his face for a moment. Resignation? Defeat? Was she reading him correctly? If so, for some strange reason, it made her feel…happy.

  She took a few steps farther in the foyer until she was almost directly under the chandelier.

  This place, these things seemed oddly familiar. As if she’d been here before, which was impossible and yet… She imagined hearing Christmas music playing in the background, silverware clinking against china, the sounds of laughter.

  Something else was there, too. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Her skin prickled as if brushed by another lick of cold air and she rubbed the back of her neck.

  Something frightening. She shivered and fingered the tiny beaded tassels on her wool scarf.

  For goodness’ sake, she chastised herself as she unbuttoned her coat and slid her purse from her arm. There was nothing frightening about Christmas. Halloween—yes. Christmas—no.

  Like any designer who could visualize things before they became reality, she simply had a vivid imagination. And this was a huge, if not Gothic, old mansion.

  “Okay,” she said, shaking off those ridiculous sensations. “Let’s get started.”

  WHAT THE HELL had he agreed to? Trace asked himself as he led Charlotte into the sitting room. He was a weak man. That’s all there was to it. That, and a damn liar.

  As the limousine pulled up the long driveway and stopped at the base of the stone entry steps, he’d watched from the upstairs hallway. The door opened and it had been those legs of hers he saw first
as she climbed out. Her skirt had ridden up high on her thighs. A few more inches and he imagined he’d have seen her panties. She did a cute little shake of her ass as she pulled down the skirt then closed the gap in her coat. Heaven help him, that move had gone straight to his groin. He’d absently reached down to rearrange himself, then had taken the stairs two at a time down to the first level.

  If he had any hopes of keeping things platonic between them, he had to stop letting Charlotte affect him that way. He couldn’t make the same mistake he made last year.

  “Ah, there you two are,” his grandmother said, setting down her daily crossword puzzle and smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  Trace shot her a reproachful glance, still not believing she’d talked him into having Charlotte decorate the house.

  After the conversation with Jackson about throwing another party this year, he had to admit the prospect did have its merits. So he’d consulted with his grandmother, whose counsel he’d always valued. Of course, she thought it was a wonderful idea.

  “Will Charlotte Grant be handling the decorations again, too?” she’d asked.

  He wasn’t fooled by her cloying tone. “Absolutely not.” He’d planned to hire another firm to handle the party.

  Little good that had done. His grandmother had almost made the call to Charlotte herself.

  Now she rose hesitantly, pushing herself up from the sofa.

  “Grandmother, please.” He rushed to help her, steadying her frail body. “This is the woman I was telling you about,” he said pointedly. Although she’d lived a long time and had plenty of experience dealing with a human’s memory being altered, he felt the need to remind her that she was to act as if she’d never met Charlotte. He tried his best to ignore the stab of guilt at the charade.

  “Don’t fuss over me,” she said to him. “I’m fine. And you must be Charlotte. How do you do, my dear?”

  Charlotte extended her hand. “Very well, thank you.”

  “I’m Victoria Westfalen, but please, call me Vik.” An impish look crossed her face and he felt the beginnings of a headache. Although she was in the twilight of her life, having lived through many centuries, she was as sharp as a tack and had a wicked sense of humor. “It really is lovely to see you…” Her voice trailed off and she hesitated. Trace held his breath. She wasn’t about to say again, was she? “No wonder Trace is so enamored,” she continued, spinning a gnarled finger in the air. “Turn around, dear. Let me look at you.”

  “This isn’t a fashion runway,” he growled, his mood darkening. “Miss Grant is here to do the decorating, not to be a decoration herself. That is, if she’ll even take the job.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Trace. I just wanted to get a better look at her, that’s all. When you get to be my age, looking in the mirror doesn’t have the same appeal it once did. Seeing a cute young thing like her brings back an old lady’s fond memories from a long time ago.” There was that sparkle in her eye again, no doubt caused by the knowledge that Charlotte had no idea his grandmother wasn’t referring to a point in time approximately eighty years ago. More like quadruple that.

  Charlotte laughed. “I don’t mind. My grandmother used to do the same thing. Though she also corrected my posture, told me to enunciate and examined my hands to make sure I was using the miracle cream she ordered from TV. I…I miss it, actually.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. How long ago did she pass?”

  “Several years ago now,” Charlotte answered. To Trace she said, “You’re a lucky man to still have yours.”

  “Well, you come sit next to me, my dear.” She patted the sofa next to her.

  Trace ran a hand over his jaw. She might as well have said, “Come into my lair where we will plot against the sensibilities of my grandson.” Last year, she’d made no bones about how much she liked Charlotte. Unlike the old cronies on the Council, his grandmother had always been progressive in her thinking.

  “Trace,” she continued, “will you have Marcel prepare a pot of tea and a few finger sandwiches? And the cream scones, too. Charlotte had a long drive out here and I’m sure she’s hungry.”

  “Oh, I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you. I ate a little something before I came.”

  “Nonsense. You haven’t truly lived until you’ve tried Marcel’s pastries.” His grandmother cupped a hand to her mouth as if she were letting Charlotte in on a secret. “They’re to die for.”

  Trace left them in the sitting room discussing various brands of hand cream. The holidays couldn’t come and go fast enough.

  CHARLOTTE HAD TO CRANE her neck to see the ceiling in the formal living room and mentally calculated the height. Although the room was large enough to accommodate a very tall tree, she didn’t want to go much more than about sixteen feet, purely from a logistical standpoint. “Real or fake?”

  “Excuse me?” Trace asked from the arched entryway.

  “Are you thinking of a fresh tree or an artificial one?”

  He looked up from his phone for a moment, one eyebrow raised as if he hadn’t heard the question. “Just do whatever you think is necessary.”

  Some help he was going to be. She talked through a few of her ideas. A large tree near the window, greenery on the fireplace mantel, Christmas-themed ornamentation, naturally.

  “Sounds good to me.” He didn’t look up from his phone, just kept punching away.

  She narrowed her eyes, suddenly needing to test him. Let’s just see how much he’s paying attention. “And then I’ll bring in a moose head and nail it to the wall over there. It’ll have giant antlers and I’ll stuff a bunch of mistletoe in its mouth.” She glanced over to him and saw him nodding, so she continued. “I’ve got a life-size blow-up Santa that we’ll set on the sofa and we’ll also dress a blow-up doll in a Mrs. Claus outfit. We’ll put red and green lights, the large ones, everywhere. From the ceiling, around the doorways, in all the potted plants.”

  Still he nodded, concentrating only on that damn phone. If he was playing Angry Birds or some other game, she was going to be seriously pissed.

  “Then we’ll crochet some red and green pillow cushions for the sofas and I’ll get a holiday sweater for you to wear at the party. You know how everyone loves wearing Christmas sweaters. You’ll have a light-up tie that twinkles when you turn it on. You’ll be the envy of all your guests. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds great.”

  She groaned loudly. “You’re hopeless, you know that?” Impossibly gorgeous, but hopeless nonetheless.

  “Pardon?” He dragged his attention from the phone and looked up. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot of work-related issues hitting the fan right now.”

  “I see.” Why had he even bothered asking her to run her ideas past him if he wasn’t going to listen to a word she was saying? He should’ve just turned her loose in the house and told her to go for it.

  “And, no,” he said with a chuckle. “I nix the moose head idea, but the blow up dolls could be interesting.”

  The laugh that burst from her throat came out more like a snort. Embarrassed, she clamped a hand over her mouth and almost dropped her notebook. He grinned and her face heated up. Great, she’d totally misread him. He had been listening after all. She made a mental note not to underestimate him the next time.

  “Are you always that creative?” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

  What did he expect, she thought, lifting her chin slightly. He’d been glued to that phone the whole time. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”

  “You didn’t?” He advanced toward her. She wanted to step backward, but knowing the sofa table was behind her, she stood firm. “So you were testing me.” He leaned in close, his breath ruffling her hair. The smell of his cologne was warm, but subtle.

  Her heart raced as she imagined running her hands over his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. She would press her nose to his skin, breathe him in, and— Good God, what was she thinking? She grabbed the edge of the table behind her in an
effort to regain some control. “I suppose I was.”

  With his lips parted slightly, he examined her face slowly. Her earrings, her hair, her forehead, her chin. When he stretched out his arm to her, she stilled. But instead of touching her, drawing her close, he reached past her to fish a piece of candy from a crystal bowl on the table. As he unwrapped it, she saw the faintest hint of a smile. Like he knew precisely the effect he was having on her and was enjoying every minute.

  “Rest assured,” he said. “I couldn’t not pay attention to you even if I tried.” Then he turned and she had no choice but to follow him out of the room.

  He took her down a wide, window-filled gallery, and Charlotte tried to focus on what she was hired to do, rather than on her hot tour guide. Curiously, all the windows were outfitted with retractable shutters. If she hadn’t been examining all the details, she may not have noticed them because the windows were unshuttered now, the blackness outside pressing against the panes.

  When they entered the library, her heart rate jumped. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A ladder on a track reached to the second set of shelves above them. Everywhere she looked, there were books. Probably more than some small-town libraries could boast.

  The atmosphere seemed charged, almost electric. Like the room was filled with possibilities. Which, she supposed, was accurate.

  Needing a distraction, she examined the large antique desk set at an angle near the window. The top was well polished, the scrollwork on the front exquisite. It had to be several hundred years old. She ran her hands over the wood and for some ungodly reason, she found herself wondering if any of its owners had ever had sex on it. It would’ve been unplanned, of course. Sex on a hard surface wasn’t something one set out to do. It would’ve happened spontaneously.

  Her belly tightened, heat concentrating between her legs.

  What was wrong with her? Her imagination. These sensations. Clearly, her night with Trace had addled her brain, had left her completely out of sorts.