Tall, Dark and Paranormal: 10 Thrilling Tales of Sexy Alpha Bad Boys

by Opal Carew

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll walk. If I’m lucky, maybe I can come up with some ideas before I get home.”

  Megan frowned as she hailed a cab. “Don’t forget what I said about Drake. It doesn’t make you any less of a writer if you ask for his help.”

  Simone didn’t agree with her friend on that, but didn’t argue.

  The cab Megan hailed pulled up to the curb and she hurried forward to open the door. “I’ll call you later to see how you’re doing on your book. I bet you’ll already be back on track by then.”

  Simone wasn’t so sure, but she merely gave her friend a wave, then fell into step with the rest of the people heading down Broadway toward the Theater District. As she crossed over 74th Street, she mentally went over what she’d written of the story so far. The heroine was a corporate attorney whose love life had taken a backseat to her career and the hero was a gorgeous guy she had run into a few times at the shop where she stopped to get coffee every morning. While that was a great start, Simone had to come up with something else to bring them together. Unfortunately, she had no idea what that “something else” was. Hell, she didn’t even know what the hero did for a living. Then again, if she did, she would have been halfway through the rough draft by now.

  Simone’s hand tightened reflexively on the strap of her shoulder bag as she turned down 72nd Street. What if she was done as a romance writer? What if she’d run out of ideas and never wrote another book again? What if her publisher decided to use one of those ghostwriters like Drake Parrish to author books in her name from now on? The thought was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She loved writing with a passion. It was her life. She couldn’t imagine ever doing anything else.

  Drama queen, she thought as she crossed the street to avoid the construction being done on the sidewalk ahead of her. Every author experienced writer’s block once in a while. It came with the job. She’d work through this dry spell, she told herself as she pushed open the door of her brownstone apartment building, and when the book ended up being another bestseller, she’d laugh at how foolish she’d been to think she was washed up.

  Walking over to the row of mailboxes on the wall, Simone unlocked hers and took out the stack of mail inside. She thumbed through it to see if there was something interesting in the pile and was just about to pull out the latest Victoria’s Secret catalog when she heard someone thumping down the steps behind her. She knew without even looking that it was Emily Holden, the elderly woman who lived three doors down from her on the fourth floor. For some reason Simone couldn’t fathom, the woman wore heavy hiking boots year-round, regardless of the outside temperature. At least Simone could always hear her coming.

  Simone quickly tried to cover up the lingerie catalog with the other mail, but it was too late.

  “Don’t tell me you’re looking at that trashy catalog again, Simone,” the woman reprimanded in a deep, gravelly voice. “Didn’t I tell you only harlots wear clothes like that?”

  Simone bit her tongue and forced herself to smile. “Yes, you did, Miss Holden. But remember, I just get this for research purposes.” She’d given that excuse to the woman several times over the years and hadn’t budged since.

  Emily Holden let out a loud “humph” as she opened her mailbox and pulled out its contents. Simone’s eyes widened. Was that a Field & Stream magazine? What kind of old woman read a magazine like that? Obviously the same kind who wore hiking boots.

  Simone was about to tell the woman to have a nice day and make a quick escape when Emily Holden snapped her mailbox shut and fixed her with a penetrating look.

  “Have you started that western I suggested to you a couple of months ago? You know, the one about the rancher and the schoolmarm?”

  Simone stifled a groan. “I’m working on it.”

  The old woman’s mouth tightened. “Well, I should hope so. I’m telling you, books have gone to hell in a handbag since Louis L’amour died. If you wrote stories like he did instead of that pornography you’re always putting out, I might actually read it. And you might actually get a man, too, if you could talk about something they’re interested in instead of all that sex.”

  Simone wondered if that’s why the woman was reading Field & Stream. She wanted to point out that on the average men thought about sex every fifteen seconds, but decided she should probably just keep that to herself. Smile pasted on her face, she slowly backed toward the stairs.

  “I promise you’ll be the first to know when I’m done with that western. Have a nice day, Miss Holden.”

  Whirling around, she darted up the stairs before the older woman could stop her. Holding the mail in one hand, Simone used the other to dig in her purse for her keys as she hurried up to the fourth floor. A low-rise walk-up, the building was old and small, but the apartments in it were cozy and well maintained. Simone had been thrilled to find something so affordable on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. It was rent controlled, too, which was a big plus.

  Once inside her apartment, she set down the mail on the small table in the entryway, then walked through the living room and into her bedroom. If she wanted to get any writing done, she needed to change out of the jeans she was wearing and put on something more comfortable. Like her usual pair of cotton shorts and a tank top. Being able to wear whatever she wanted was one of the things she liked best about being a writer. Every day was casual Friday. As she pushed down her jeans and stepped out of them, she had a crazy urge to throw on a lace teddy while she wrote her “pornography” just to spite Emily Holden, but thought better of it. Shorts and a tank top would work fine.

  Ten minutes later, Simone was curled up on the couch with her laptop and a bottle of flavored water, determined to get something down on paper. After writing and deleting one line of text after another for almost three hours, however, she decided to take a break and make herself something to eat. It was a little early for dinner, but then again she hadn’t eaten much for lunch, so it wasn’t surprising she was hungry.

  Throwing a frozen dinner in the microwave, she set the timer and pushed the power button. While she waited for it to heat, she leaned back against the counter and flipped through the new Victoria’s Secret catalog as she mulled over different plotlines for her story. She especially liked the one in which the hero, an editor for a magazine similar to Field & Stream, was being sued by a man who had gotten a hook stuck in his face after reading an article on fly fishing. Of course, the hero would have to turn to the heroine and her legal expertise to defend him and they would fall madly in love while preparing the case. Simone made a face as she turned to the next page in the catalog. What the hell did she know about fly fishing? Nothing except that it involved wearing waders and standing thigh-high in a lake. She supposed she could always ask Emily Holden for help on the subject, but that thought wasn’t very inviting. The woman would probably want to turn it into an instruction manual.

  She tossed the catalog on the counter as the microwave dinged. God, how she needed a brainstorming session with her editor. Why the heck did the woman have to go on maternity leave now?

  Simone tried to come up with some other story lines while she ate dinner, but she kept coming back to the fly fishing idea. Oh, what the heck? She might as well see what she could do with it. She grabbed her laptop and started typing, letting her mind wander to see where it would lead. But after two hours and eight pages of meaningless dribble, she came to the conclusion it was never going to work. As she read over what she wrote, she realized she had the makings of a great horror story, not a romance. The vivid description of the claimant’s fly-fishing injury was just going to end up making her readers sick.

  With a groan of frustration, Simone highlighted what she just wrote and hit the delete key. What the heck was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she write?

  Her gaze strayed to her purse. Maybe she should take Megan’s advice and email Drake Parrish. It wasn’t as if she was asking him to rewrite her story. All she needed was a little push in the right direction. It was exactly what
her regular editor would do if Simone emailed her and asked for help.

  Before she could stop herself, Simone jumped up and ran into the entryway. Grabbing her purse off the table, she snatched the business card out of her wallet and went back to the couch. Putting her computer back on her lap, she pulled up her email and typed in Drake Parrish’s address, then wrote Megan Elliott of Hewitt Literary Agency Said You Could Help Me With My Book in the subject line.

  Simone hesitated. She chewed on her lower lip as she considered how to describe her problem. Maybe she should simply explain it to him the same way she would if she were asking her editor at Carrington for help. Reaching up with one hand to push her hair back from her face, she sat up straighter on the couch and typed.

  Drake,

  I’m having a problem with the book I’m working on and my agent, Megan Elliott, suggested you might be able to help me. For some ridiculous reason, I can’t seem to figure out how to get my hero and heroine together. They’ve run into each other at a coffee shop a couple of times, but I have no idea where to go from there. I was wondering if you could give me some suggestions that would get me moving in the right direction. I’m not asking you to ghostwrite the book or anything, just give me a few ideas. If you have a minute, maybe you could take a look at the attached document and see what you think.

  Thanks,

  Simone

  She read it over and attached the manuscript, then quickly clicked the send button before she could stop herself. Almost immediately, she regretted it. What did she expect this Drake Parrish to do, anyway? How was he supposed to come up with a story line for her characters when she couldn’t? It wasn’t as if he knew them any better than she did. And what would she do if he did come up with an idea? She’d probably have to spend the whole day trying to rewrite it to fit her style. Besides, he was a guy. No matter what Megan said, Simone found it hard to believe a man could write romance. In her experience, men had absolutely no clue about the subject.

  * * * * *

  “You’ve got mail!”

  Standing on the terrace of his Upper East Side apartment, Drake Parrish ignored the voice coming from his laptop and took another swallow of bourbon. He should figure out how to shut the damn thing up so it wouldn’t bug him every time an email came in. On second thought, maybe not. His email was one of the few connections he had to the outside world. Every time he heard those stupid words, he found himself perking up like freakin’ Pavlov’s dog. Man, that was sad.

  Of course, the computer wasn’t his only form of contact with other human beings. He usually said a couple words to the delivery people from the take-out restaurants and local grocery stores. He even talked to some of his clients on the phone once or twice a month. And then there was his friend, Beck. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a social life compared to most, but it was something.

  He took another swallow of whiskey and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. His apartment overlooked Central Park and from where he stood he could see the glow of Times Square. God, it had been a long time since he’d been down to that part of the city. He wondered how much it had changed.

  Letting out a sigh, he rested his forearms on the railing and gazed down at the busy street below. Even though it was well after midnight, there were still a lot of people out and about. Then again, this was New York. There were always people out and about. He shook his head. Hard to believe that in a city so crowded, he could sometimes feel so alone.

  Inside the living room, the computer chimed again. “You’ve got mail!”

  Drake groaned. He wasn’t sure how it could be possible, but the voice sounded more insistent than it had the first time. Sometimes he wondered if he might actually be going insane when he thought stuff like that. It was an animated voice. It wasn’t being insistent. His computer could give a rat’s ass if he ever answered his email.

  “Stop thinking so damn much, get off your ass and go read your email,” he muttered.

  Downing the last of the bourbon, Drake went into his apartment and walked across the living room to the counter that separated it from the kitchen. Grabbing the bottle of bourbon there, he poured himself another drink. He started to set the bottle down on the granite countertop again, but then changed his mind and put it with the other alcohol in the cabinet below instead. He’d set a two drink limit years ago. It was never a good idea for a guy like him to get too drunk or too depressed. That was all this city needed—a drunk, depressed zombie.

  Picking up the glass, he crossed the living room to the big desk by the window that overlooked the park. A lot of people would kill for a view like the one he had, but he’d give it up in a second just for the chance to be normal again.

  Drake firmly pushed those dismal thoughts aside as he sat down in front of his laptop and pulled up his email. While it loaded, he considered the idea of going out for a walk later that night. Thanks to the curse the Voodoo priestess put on him, he couldn’t simply go for a walk whenever he wanted. The notion of how people would react if they discovered they had a zombie living in an upscale Manhattan apartment was more than he cared to think about. They’d probably show up in the lobby with pitchforks and torches demanding the doorman drag out the beast.

  That didn’t mean he never went out, of course. He just had to be very careful about when he did. He usually only left his apartment in the early morning hours when the streets were quiet and deserted. Even then, he skulked around like some deranged weirdo.

  As the years went by, though, he’d gotten so paranoid he left his apartment less and less. These days, he counted himself lucky if he got out once or twice a month. He knew his fear of discovery was turning into a real phobia. Even now, just the thought of going out made his heart start to beat a little faster. What if he turned when he was on the far side of Central Park? It might be relatively deserted at that hour, but there was still a chance someone could see him. And if the curse did manifest itself, how would he get past the concierge at the desk in the lobby? The guy was asleep most of the time, but not always. Would he be able to slip past him? Drake’s hand tightened on the glass. Maybe he’d put it off for tonight.

  He swore at his cowardice as he sipped his drink. He hated what the curse had turned him into, and not just on the outside, either. He never used to be afraid of anything. Risk had always been something to be calculated and accepted. Now it was something he avoided at all costs.

  Drake swallowed hard. He might not like the coward he’d become, but on some level, he actually liked himself better now. He had been a money–grubbing, womanizing bastard who only cared about what he could get out of the world. Just thinking about the kind of man he’d been back then made him feel ill. He was so damn disgusted by the way he’d lived and the things he’d done, it was hard looking at himself in the mirror sometimes—even when he wasn’t a zombie. As painful as it was to admit, he had gotten exactly what he’d deserved when that old woman had cursed him for the way he had treated Cia Devereaux.

  Shaking his head, he scrolled down the list of new emails. The subject line of the first one read Instruction Manual—Nelco Hair Removal System (Need ASAP!). Damn, that sounded boring as hell to read. He hated editing instruction manuals, but they helped pay the bills, so he probably should take a look at it. His finger hovered over the mouse pad, then moved to the down arrow instead. Maybe he’d leave that one for tomorrow. No one needed to read about hair removal this late at night.

  Hoping the rest of his email was more interesting, he moved on to the next one. It was from a writer named Simone Kent and according to the subject line, she needed some help on a book. Now that had potential. Editing instruction manuals was more of a part-time thing anyway. The real money came from the work he did as a consulting editor for a literary agency. Editor was sort of a misnomer, though. He liked to think of himself more as a book doctor, since he did everything from giving authors ideas about where to go in their stories to rewriting whole manuscripts that just didn’t work.

  He recognized Simone Ken
t’s name, but couldn’t place where he’d seen it. He didn’t remember ever working with an author by that name.

  Drake clicked on the email and read through it. Ah, another poor author stuck in a rut. He actually enjoyed these types of jobs. Admittedly, trying to nudge a writer toward a plotline they could be comfortable with was sometimes challenging, but in a fun way. Taking another swallow of whiskey, he clicked on the attachment and started to read. A few paragraphs in, he realized why her name sounded familiar. He’d know her writing anywhere.

  Getting up, he walked over to the built–in bookcase that lined one whole wall of his living room and ran his finger along the middle shelf until he came to the books he was looking for. When he found them, he pulled out one and looked at the cover. It featured a hunky bare–chested guy and a nearly naked woman in front of an exotic waterfall in some tropical setting. Across the bottom was written Hot and Heavy by Simone Kent. He should have recognized the name, considering he had every one of her books. Which he’d bought purely for research purposes when he had first started editing romance books, of course. She was a damn good writer and if he remembered correctly, a real knockout in the looks department, too.

  Drake turned over the book to look at the photo on the inside back cover and let out a low whistle. She was a damn knockout all right. Not in any over-the-top, Hollywood bombshell kind of way, but in a more sensual, girl-next-door kind of way. With that long, midnight–black hair, those big, blue eyes, and full, pouty lips, she was just the kind of woman he fantasized about. God, he wouldn’t mind having a woman like her in his bed. His mouth twitched as he put the book back on the shelf. What the hell was he thinking? Considering he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in the past eight years, he definitely had no right daydreaming about one as sexy as Simone Kent. Right now, he’d be happy if his geriatric neighbor across the hall hopped in bed with him.