by Juliet Lyons
Smiling, I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. Maybe I could flirt information out of him. “Uh-huh.”
He grins, revealing yellow-stained teeth that accentuate his paleness—light-blond hair, washed-out blue eyes. I’m not sure why any of the so-called ancients Logan mentioned felt him worthy of immortality. Though who knows? Maybe he was a regular bite gone awry. “No and not anymore,” he says.
I raise my brows, feigning mild surprise. Obviously I know this already from Logan, but if Marek repeats it, I can pass it on guilt-free. “Not anymore?”
His voice drops to a hush. “At first, when you turn, certain elements can kill you—holy water, wooden stakes, silver.”
I blanch hearing my real name mentioned. Even out of context, it leaves me feeling exposed. “Then they just stop having an effect?”
“Yes, after a few months, once the transformation is fully complete.”
“So, after that, nothing can harm you?”
Marek shakes his head. “Not really, no.”
“Not really?” I repeat, leaning across the table in intrigue.
“Well, the definition of immortality is ‘one who cannot die.’”
“So, no vampire has ever died?”
He squirms on his seat, looking uncomfortable. “It’s not something I’d wish to discuss with a lady.”
I snort, brushing an imaginary speck of lint from the tablecloth. “Haven’t you been around twenty-first-century girls before? Anything goes for us these days.”
Taking a sip of his white wine, he says grimly, “Decapitation.”
I lean back in my seat. At last we’re getting somewhere. “That’s the only way?”
He fiddles with his knife. “As far as I know, yes.”
“What happens to the vampire body afterward?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
“Can’t help you there. Never seen it.”
I slump forward, disappointed. “Oh.”
“I can tell you who I did see die though.”
Here we go. “Who?”
“Frederick J. Rosenhead,” he announces proudly. Without further encouragement, he launches into the story.
* * *
The next day, I wake up with a tummy churning like the spin cycle on a washing machine and a head that feels stuffed with cotton wool. It takes a few seconds to work out it’s because tonight is my date with Logan. I haul myself into a sitting position and lean across to the nightstand, picking up the note I’d found shoved under my door last night.
Don’t forget, 6 p.m. tomorrow.
Your romantic stalker,
Logan
At the bottom is a little smiley face drawn with two vertical lines at the corners of its mouth for fangs. I grin like a buffoon. Tonight, I will pull out all the stops. There is no way I’m leaving that man outside on the street again. One way or another, we will finish that moment against the kitchen counter.
Seven hours later, all stops are officially pulled. I stand in front of my full-length mirror chewing nervously at my painted-red bottom lip and wondering if I went too far. Though I’m confident enough to know I’m attractive, I’ve always considered myself sexy in that disheveled, rock-chick way—tousled hair, jeans, leather jackets, girly dresses teamed with biker boots. Tonight I’m feminine.
I wear a tight-fitting, dark-green dress I bought in last year’s sales, with high, black suede heels. The dress’s sleeves are long and the neckline high, but the back dips low, exposing inches of bare skin. I’ve left my hair straight instead of its usual waves, silky smooth and falling just past my shoulders. I gulp, tugging the stretchy material of my dress farther down my thighs. I never usually get nervous or self-conscious before dates, but tonight, I’m both.
A clutch of fear grips me as I meet my smoky-eyed gaze in the mirror. What if he doesn’t show up?
Taking a deep breath, I decide I’m in desperate need of one of Vera’s famous pep talks. I grab a coat and dash upstairs to her polished front door. On the street, the sky is darkening, a light, misty drizzle starting to fall. I thump the silver knocker hard, hoping she’ll hear over the faint strains of Sinatra drifting from the house. She does. The front door swings inward.
“Darling!” Vera says, arms already open as if she’s been expecting me. She is wearing her trademark black—a long-sleeved jumpsuit that somehow, in spite of her age, she manages to pull off. There are oversize, gold hoops in her ears, and in one hand, she holds a long, black cigarette holder. She could be Holly Golightly in her golden years.
I step into her smoky, Chanel-perfumed embrace, taking care not to brush against her shiny wig for fear of knocking it askew. “Hi, Vera.”
She takes my hand, standing back to look at me. “My goodness, you’re a knockout. Who’s the lucky fella? That vampire I met?” She takes a drag on the end of her cigarette, thick, kohl-lined lashes fluttering. “I haven’t seen a man that handsome in a long time.”
Closing the door behind me, a hot flush creeps up my neck. “Yes, him.”
“Come through to the kitchen, darling, and I’ll fix you a drink. I’m expecting Stan over, but he’s running late as usual. Some tedious charity gala with her.”
Stan is Vera’s gentleman friend. They’ve been embroiled in a love affair since the fifties, despite him being married to someone else their entire relationship. Once, I asked why she’s put up with being a mistress all these years. She said simply she is powerless to stop it, a notion I find unfathomable. I mean, surely you just delete their number?
In her spacious black-and-chrome kitchen, she opens a cupboard and pulls out a crystal decanter of scotch. Even if there isn’t so much as a scrap of cheese in Vera’s gigantic refrigerator, she always keeps enough liquor to stock a downtown bar.
“A small hit of this,” she mumbles, cigarette holder hanging precariously from the corner of her mouth, “and you’ll feel like Greta Garbo.”
I slip onto one of the high stools around the kitchen island, as she glugs a dose of brown liquid into a crystal tumbler before sliding it across the counter like a barman in the Wild West. “Bottom’s up,” she says, easing herself onto the stool beside me.
Taking a gulp, I almost choke. It burns like fire all the way down my throat.
“Good stuff, isn’t it? Vintage, of course.” She pulls on the end of her cigarette holder, blowing a cloud of smoke from the side of her withered mouth. “Now, the man situation. Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him tonight.”
“Why not?” I ask, still clutching my throat. “If that’s all I want from him anyway.”
Vera arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “That isn’t all you want from him,” she asserts, tapping ash into her hand. “Or you wouldn’t be wearing that dress, and you wouldn’t have blushed redder than a bonfire when I asked about him.”
“But…” Damn. Why are old people always right?
“With men like Logan,” she continues, “you have to play the game—lead the chase. They have to feel you’re the ultimate prize. You can’t give it all away before the starting pistol goes off.”
I put the glass down on the tiled surface with a clink. “Vera, I’m not Mother Teresa. There’s only so long I can hold out.” I daren’t tell her I’d have bedded him three days ago given half a chance—or that first night if only I hadn’t lied about my address.
“All I’m saying is make him wait. The longer he waits, the harder he’ll work. Look at Stan. I made him wait five years before I even let him kiss me.”
“He was married.”
She shrugs, taking a drag on her cigarette. “True.”
“Plus, Logan is a vampire. I might as well enjoy it while it lasts. God knows how many other women he has on the side.” Though my voice is steady, my insides recoil in horror at the possibility of him seeing somebody else.
“They are all bastards,” Vera mutters, staring into space
. “Especially the good-looking ones.”
I nod in agreement, almost reaching for the scotch again, but the doorbell rings.
“That will be my bastard,” Vera says with a coy smile, sliding off the stool.
“I better go anyway,” I say, standing up.
I follow her back into the hallway, where she opens the door to Stan. Back in the day, Stan was a hotshot Hollywood director and supposedly quite the looker. Now he is shriveled and stooped, with gray hair and liver spots, an oversized pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his beaklike nose.
“Silver, sweetheart,” he says in his New York accent. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Vera clears her throat, placing a hand on her hip. “You too, of course, doll,” he murmurs quickly, leaning over to kiss her white-powdered cheek.
“Silver has a date with a vampire,” Vera tells him.
Stan nods politely. “Well, I’d say knock ’em dead, kiddo, but in this case, he’s dead already.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” I mutter, as they both bend over, clutching each other and giggling like teenagers.
Vera straightens up. “Remember what I said about tonight.” She holds up her index and middle fingers in a pistol gesture.
“I’ll remember,” I say, though really, who am I kidding? I didn’t wear matching lingerie for nothing.
“He really is so handsome,” Vera says wistfully, gazing out into the night.
“Hey, you got prime beef steak right here, doll,” Stan teases, puffing out his chest.
Vera shoves him. “Stan, your best-before date expired decades ago.”
I give a wave as I leave them, retreating back downstairs.
* * *
At six o’clock on the dot, there is a knock at the door. Stomach in knots, I reach for the latch with a sweaty hand and snatch it open. My breath catches—I feel dangerously like I might pass out. Logan stands in the doorway, wearing his usual black, faded jeans, but this time with a tight-fitting shirt that hugs his muscled body like a second skin. There is a thin, black strip of a tie hanging from the collar and his hair is swept back off his forehead with some kind of wax. I have never seen anyone sexier.
There is silence. I watch the cockiness leak from his face as his wide, green eyes drift over my dress. At one point, he attempts to speak, but the words stall in his throat.
As if waking from a trance, I suddenly realize he is holding something out in front of him—a small bunch of wilted-looking snowdrops, tied at the middle with twine.
“Are those for me?” I ask in a croaky voice.
He blinks several times and extends the bouquet toward me, running a nervous hand through his dark hair. “I didn’t know your favorite flowers, so I brought you mine.”
“Snowdrops,” I say, nodding. “Why, thank you, Mr. Byrne.”
A slow smile unfurls from one corner of his mouth. “I did promise wooing, Miss Harris.”
I reach for the flowers, my fingers brushing his. “You did, and so far, all expectations have been surpassed—though considering there were none to begin with, I wouldn’t take that as too much of a compliment.”
As I close the door behind him, his eyes drop to the hem of my dress.
“Stop it,” I say, unable to stop smiling.
“Stop what?”
“Doing that bug-eyed, staring thing. You either really hate my dress or you just came in your pants.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “I love your dress. I’m just not sure I can last an evening without finishing what we started the other night.” He crosses to the counter, patting the wood with his hand and arching a brow. “Maybe we should stay in after all.”
I wag a finger, propping the flowers on the mantel and grabbing my coat from the sofa. “No way. You promised a night of stalkery romance and Jane Austen chivalry, and you’d better deliver.”
“You bought that dress solely to torture me, didn’t you?” he teases, stepping away from the counter and taking the coat from me.
“Even if I did,” I say, allowing him to help me into my jacket, “it’s no more than you deserve.”
I push my arms into the sleeves, and he pulls my hair from the collar, fingers skimming my neck. I feel him close behind me, his chest pressing into my back. A hand moves to my hip, burning through my clothes like a red-hot poker.
“I could get used to you torturing me like this.” His tone is rough, like jagged glass, and the words send an electrifying shiver down my spine. My nipples harden beneath my dress as I lean back against him, eyes half-closed. His hand squeezes my hip.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish, Byrne,” I whisper breathlessly.
He releases me, breaking the spell. “You’re right,” he says, with heavy-lidded eyes. “We should go before the lure of the kitchen counter becomes too much. Besides, our taxi is waiting.”
I narrow my gaze. “It’s not something weird like a pony and trap, is it?”
He smiles, showing dimples. “Just because I was born into a gypsy family doesn’t mean I pick up dates with a horse and cart, Silver. Next you’ll be after a crystal ball reading.” He offers me the crook of his elbow. “Shall we?”
I nod, grabbing my keys and looping my arm through his, trying to act nonchalant despite the tingly feelings that zip through me at the point of contact.
Outside, I slam the door shut behind us.
“I think this is the first time you’ve slammed the door with us both on the same side,” Logan muses, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. I’m sure it won’t be long before I’m slamming it in your face again.”
There is a black cab pulled up at the curb, engine idling. Logan pulls open the door and bows. “Miss Harris,” he says, waving a hand toward the backseat.
The driver peers over his shoulder at us and shakes his head, clearly unimpressed by all the time wasting. “You get in first,” I say, not moving. “I don’t want you ogling my rear end.”
Logan chuckles, climbing in and offering me his hand, and I step in after him, shutting the door. The driver, impatient to be off, slams into first gear, lurching away from the pavement. Not yet sitting, I stumble, landing on Logan in an undignified heap.
He catches me, one arm gripping me around the waist, the other across my thighs. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” he murmurs, inching tapered fingers up my leg and stroking my inner thigh. “You just had to find a way to sit in my lap.”
“You wish,” I whisper, turning to meet his burning gaze. Unable to stop, I lean slowly toward him, drowning in his clean, freshly shaven scent.
But before my lips can hit their target, he scoops me up and deposits me neatly into the seat opposite. “Put your belt on, Miss Harris,” he says, grinning. “You’re in for a bumpy ride.”
Chapter 10
Silver
I’m unable to hide my surprise as the taxi stops outside the glitzy, chrome facade of the Savoy.
Logan raises his brows. “Will this do?”
“You booked us a hotel room?” I ask, outwardly wearing a look of disgust while internally jumping for joy.
He grins. “No, I’m not that presumptuous. We’re only here for the culinary experience. I’ve never been. Have you?”
“No,” I say with a little snort. “I know I live in Chelsea, but that’s a pure fluke. I’m poor.”
“Not tonight,” he says, reaching past me to pay the driver. “Tonight, we dine like kings.”
He flings open the taxi door and hops out onto the street, offering me his hand. I know I joked about Elizabeth Bennet, but I do feel ladylike as I put my hand in his and step out from the cab.
The taxi reverses, leaving us standing on the street, grinning at each other like two clowns on acid. I feel so light-headed and, well, happy that I don’t even realize he’s still holding my hand. On reflex
, I snatch it away, pretending to smooth my hair, which is starting to frizz in the misty rain. I see a brief look of disappointment flash in his green eyes.
“Come on,” he says, walking backward toward the bustle of people buzzing around the brightly lit entrance. “Our table will be ready.”
Inside, we are led through a white-and-gold lobby to a low-lit room with dark-red, lacquered walls. Our table is next to a mirrored pillar and as I sink into the soft, gray chair, I catch a glimpse of an almost unrecognizable me—flushed and wide-eyed. Hopeful.
Logan’s eyes are glued to mine as the waiter fusses with napkins and menus, rattling off a long list of specials that I don’t even try to hear. I’ll have him, I want to say, for my main, on the side, and slathered in whipped cream for dessert. In the midst of an X-rated fantasy involving me, Logan, and a blindfold, I realize the waiter is asking me what I’d like to drink.
“Er—”
“Champagne,” Logan cuts in. “If that’s okay with you, Silver?”
I nod. Champagne is more than okay with me.
The waiter finally leaves, and I lean back in the seat, trying to relax. I exhale sharply and Logan flashes a dimpled smile. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, fiddling with the shiny cutlery. “How about you?”
“Really fine.”
Arching a brow, I ask, “Is this your modus operandi? Champagne, fine dining?”
“No,” he says, studying me carefully. “Not by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not really into material things.”
I remember Nathaniel and his Lamborghini. “Are most vampires wealthy?”
“Some,” he says, resting his forearms on the table. “Most of us are comfortable anyway. That’s one bonus of living for centuries.” He narrows his eyes playfully. “Are you asking me if I’m rich, Miss Harris?”
“Just curious. Also, this Miss Harris thing—it’s like I’m fifteen again, getting frog-marched to the headmaster’s office.”
He cocks a brow. “I can frog-march you to my office if you like.”
