Bespelling Jane Austen

by Mary Balogh

  He walked toward me with the cool, male strut of an aroused vamp. Oh, he was hungry, definitely hungry, fangs out, and hard when he pressed against me. “I think…I think tonight I’ll have dessert first.”

  I shivered with fear and desire. “Frank, I’m not using any protection. My spell for the evening wore off.”

  He nibbled at my mouth, my neck, my ear. “Don’t worry. You haven’t dated a vampire before, have you?”

  “Not really. No.” There was no point in lying to him.

  “Two things to remember, Emma. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, and I can guarantee you won’t think about Knightley anymore.”

  “I don’t think about Knightley!” I exclaimed with great indignation.

  “You thought about him in the lobby.”

  “Well, yeah. I did, but… Here’s a third thing to remember, Frank. You don’t read my thoughts.”

  “Okay. Do you want to cast yourself some protection?” This was the most awkward question of a paranormal encounter, which made the condom thing ludicrously easy in comparison.

  “No.” I unbuttoned his shirt and touched his hot skin. He smelled delicious, of sweat and male and arousal. Now I wanted to bite him.

  “Okay.” His hands slid up my thighs, under my short polka-dot dress. “I’ve been wanting to do this all night. I watched the way your dress moved when you walked. I loved watching you cross your legs when you sat.”

  He hooked his thumbs into my panties.

  “Condoms are in the bedroom,” I gasped.

  “We won’t need them for a while.”

  He was right. I stopped thinking about anyone except Frank. And then I stopped thinking at all.

  CHAPTER 4

  “EMMA?”

  I opened my eyes. The darkness of night had given way to the slate gray of early morning. The sound of traffic outside had diminished and from the direction of the zoo, a gibbon gave a tentative early-morning whoop.

  “I have to go.” Frank sat on the edge of the bed, wearing his shirt and boxers. His hair was mussed and he looked sleepy and rumpled.

  “Okay. I could make coffee,” I said, hoping that he would make me coffee and bring it to me in bed and then I could get his clothes off.

  “No, it’s okay. You go back to sleep.”

  “What do you have to do at…” I squinted at my clock. “At four in the morning?”

  “Racquetball at five, then get a couple of billable hours in before a breakfast meeting.”

  “I’d love to make you late, counselor.”

  He leaned over to kiss me in a friendly sort of way, not a fang in sight. “I’d love that, too, gorgeous, but I have to get going.”

  I watched him step into his pants and button his shirt, and then pause in front of the mirror, although I wasn’t quite sure what he could actually see there, to shove his hair into a semblance of tidiness. All very graceful and sexy, just a normal vampire morning after. He sat on the bed again to put his socks on, keeping out of my reach.

  I would have loved to pull him back into bed with me, but I felt tired and sated and slightly sore—naturally a vamp would know some positions I’d only seen on the Internet, and some that I don’t think anyone had seen anywhere. And I liked to look at him, this exotic male creature wandering around my bedroom.

  “I’ll text you.” He bent to kiss me and nuzzled my neck. “God, you’re so sexy.”

  I heard his footsteps across the parquet floor then muffled by the rug in the living room, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing.

  Frank’s most recent nuzzling at my neck seemed to have resulted in a sting rather like a minor burn. I touched it with my fingers.

  Oh, holy shit. I leaped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. God, I looked a mess, mascara ringing my eyes and my hair on end, no wonder he couldn’t wait to get out of the apartment. And there on my neck, were two little puncture wounds and a trail of dried blood. No bruise—a vamp who knew what he was doing wouldn’t bruise you.

  I couldn’t believe it. Sometime during the night I’d let him bite me. He must have thought I was an absolute slut, and by vamp standards I was, letting him bite me on the second date. Oh, God. Would my name and number be written in vampiric runes on the walls of every legal office men’s room in D.C.?

  Worse yet, I couldn’t remember him doing it, let alone giving him permission. What was that he’d said? I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.

  So I could only conclude that I’d allowed, or, worse, asked him to bite me. And while Frank was busily fulfilling his biological destiny I had had unprotected (in the magical sense) sex. What else might I have done, or said, that I couldn’t remember?

  At least I didn’t feel light-headed—he couldn’t have taken very much blood. It was more of a token bite, a vamp marking his territory, a cute little drama starring Frank as a mutt and me as a fire hydrant.

  What an idiot I was.

  I returned to the bedroom, stripped off the sheets and hurled them into the laundry basket, trying to ignore the seductive wafts of male vampire and sex that rose from the linen.

  Then I stepped into the shower, turned on the water as hot as I could stand and stayed there for a very long time. Never again, I swore. I would not let Frank Churchill’s fangs, or any other part of his anatomy, near me. I would keep my clothes on and swaddle myself in enchantment when in his presence.

  Pink, squeaky clean, wearing a fluffy blue bathrobe that dated from my undergraduate days and that only one man had ever seen, I wandered into the kitchen and made coffee. My cell phone, lying on the table, made the annoying buzzing sound that indicated I had a text message.

  If it was from Frank, I decided, I’d delete it immediately. Fervently hoping that his opponent would crack his handsome skull during his racquetball game, I pressed the plunger of the coffee press down and splattered hot liquid down the front of my bathrobe and all over the kitchen counter.

  R U OK?

  It was my sister. I couldn’t say I was relieved, because if she had picked up on my distress, I’d have to offer some sort of explanation. Or maybe there wasn’t anything witchy in Isabella’s message at all, only that she was concerned because I hadn’t e-mailed or called in the last few days. I’d been too busy sending flirty little messages to Mr. Frank the Fang.

  I mopped up the counter, poured myself a cup of coffee and decided to delay things by sending her an e-mail. I then made the discovery that my laptop, half in and half out of its bag, was turned on, the lid cracked open. I was sure—fairly sure—that I’d put the bag down on the table when Frank and I entered the apartment. I knew my thoughts had been on something other than checking my e-mail or playing computer games.

  Maybe Frank had woken even earlier than I thought and checked his e-mail, but he had a highly sophisticated cell that did everything except make toast. So why would he want to use my laptop? And not say anything about it?

  I touched my fingertips to my violated neck. This wasn’t good, any of it. And I wasn’t going to e-mail Isabella, because she’d immediately wonder what I was up to before six in the morning—she knew better than anyone how I could hardly bear to drag myself out of bed before it was fully daylight. No, I’d drink my coffee, do the laundry and go to the gym. I would not hang around the apartment becoming paranoid and imagining the worst. I’d made a mistake, that was all, and I hoped I’d learned something from it.

  And, however much I might deny my stupidity, I’d had a terrific time in bed with Frank (the bloodsucking creep). I almost regretted that I couldn’t remember the biting.

  “OOH, FLOWERS!” SAID HARRIET with her usual grasp of the obvious.

  They were indeed obvious, a small forest of sunflowers, roses and hydrangeas, a few birds of paradise poking out of the top, and some orchids to round everything off. I hoped they weren’t for me. The bouquet, which lost a few blooms squeezing through the office doorway, screamed Put a ton of the fanciest flowers in the biggest vase you have to impre
ss the little lady.

  Frank’s pre-deflowering bouquet had been an understated cute masterpiece of Shasta daisies.

  “Who are they from?” Harriet was almost jumping up and down with excitement.

  “Frank,” I muttered as I opened the card.

  For my delicious sexy Emma.

  I sent him an e-mail: Thanks for the flowers. Emma.

  A perky out-of-the-office reply bounced back to me. Frank, it appeared, was out of town until after the weekend, something he’d neglected to tell me this morning. A night of great sex did not compensate for being made to feel like a fool the next morning, something I’d learned ten years ago, or thought I had. A pen cracked in my fingers with a small flash of fire. I was reminded of Jane Fairfax’s sparking ice cubes.

  “I like your scarf,” Harriet said. Obviously, she was dying to know if there were any telltale marks beneath.

  I took cover behind the monstrous blooms that took up most of my desk. “Thanks. We have a lot of e-mails to answer from last night. Can you see if you can find a nerdy sort of male for Missy Bates? I more or less promised her a lunch date.”

  I made my obligatory gushing phone call to the restaurant to thank them for last night and see if anyone had left any personal items behind—cell phones, the occasional dental retainer or pair of eyeglasses, and once, according to my sister, a single shoe, as though Cinderella had attended.

  “Thanks again, and we’ll see you in two weeks,” I finished, about to disconnect the call.

  “Two weeks?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  I could hear the rustling sound of pages being turned. “I’m sorry, Miss Woodhouse. I have it here that your next event was canceled.”

  “Canceled? How about the next one?”

  More rustling. “We don’t have any more bookings for you until September.”

  “Oh, no.” This must have been something Isabella forgot to tell me about. Maybe the restaurant had misunderstood, thinking that with Isabella abroad, the agency’s bookings should be canceled. “Do you have any evenings this summer where we could have the party room and a few tables in the courtyard? Please?”

  They looked, I begged, cajoled and threatened, but it was no use. Hartfield’s bookings, if they had ever existed, had disappeared into thin air. I glared across the office at Harriet who was making soft amorous growling sounds on the phone, and finally plucked a flower from the bouquet and threw it at her to get her attention.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  I explained the situation to her.

  “Why would Isabella do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Maybe it was why she’d called this morning. “We’d better get to work on finding another location. Can you call the Washington Paranormal Paper and the Post about our ads, please—keep the space but tell them we’ll send new copy. And let me know if you think of somewhere suitable—you know the city better than me.”

  Two hours later my desk was giving off occasional sparks and a bird of paradise wasn’t looking too good after spontaneous combustion followed by a dousing with cold coffee.

  “Nothing,” I said. “They’re either too expensive or they just won’t work. Any luck?”

  “Well…there is one place.”

  “Great! Where?”

  “The roof of your building. I know Knightley rents it out on weekends and it’s really nice.”

  “Harriet, you’re brilliant! Did you call him already?”

  She shook her head. “I think you’d better talk to him.”

  “Why? Okay, no big deal.”

  I left a message on his work phone, thinking feverishly. We could have an awning for shelter against the evening sun—the vamps would throw hissy fits if we didn’t provide some shade. There was a clubhouse on the floor below we could use for the one-on-one, five-minute sessions, or if it rained, and we’d have the events catered, get some pretty flowers in containers for decorations—it would work brilliantly. Just so long as Knightley agreed, and if Thursday nights were available. Or at this point, any night. I scribbled figures on my notepad, figuring out the cost of more e-mail blasts, bigger ads, more promotion.

  Right on cue the agency’s bookkeeper, Larry, called. “Hi, Emma. We have a few problems.”

  “Problems? What sort of problems?”

  “I’m having trouble reconciling things. I’ll e-mail you the details. I’m fairly sure we can sort it out easily. Take a look and get back to me.”

  My heart sank. From only my few weeks at the agency I knew I was in for hours of cross-checking and poring over reports.

  I took a break and tried calling Isabella, but got her voice mail. I assured her I was fine and so was the agency, and that we’d talk soon.

  Finally, I retrieved a message from Knightley saying he’d drop by my apartment with contracts over the weekend and to call him back—our first piece of good news all day. I called back—straight onto his voice mail, of course—and told him I’d be home the next morning.

  I asked Harriet what she was doing for dinner.

  She smirked. “I have a date.”

  “Not that Bob Martin guy, I hope.”

  “Actually, yes. Is there a problem with that?” She bared her teeth.

  “So long as he isn’t a client. He seems really nice, but don’t you think he’s a bit—” short, shy, hairy “—I mean, I think you might get bored with him.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. What are you doing?”

  “Going out to dinner on my own.” It was a split-second decision. I didn’t want to talk with anyone—Harriet would have been okay because then we could have talked business and I wouldn’t have had to put on a front of everything being great. I wanted some good food and wine and solitude.

  “Not with Frank?”

  “He’s on a business trip.”

  She nodded. “How about Knightley, then?”

  I made a face.

  ISABELLA’S E-MAIL THE NEXT morning made me whoop with glee and hit the print button.

  Knightley knocked on the door at almost exactly the same time.

  “Look!” I flung the door open and handed him the picture.

  He frowned. “A snowstorm in a cone?”

  “You have it the wrong way up. Look. It’s a baby. Isabella’s baby. I’m going to be an aunt!”

  He gazed at the picture, now the right way up. “That’s a…?”

  “Yes. That blob is my niece or nephew. Isn’t that great?”

  “Oh, wow,” he said, his voice soft. “A baby.”

  “You are such a girl,” I said, elbowing him. His gray eyes were filled with tears.

  He sniffed. “It’s amazing. Do you think that’s an arm or leg?”

  “Possibly. I think it pretty much looks like a shrimp.”

  He laid a manila folder on the kitchen table. “Do you want to call her? I can always come back later.”

  The phone rang and I grabbed it, thinking it might be Isabella.

  “Emma? Oh, Emma. You’ll never—I can’t believe—I said, ‘Jane, there must be a mistake, you—’ but the guy from the dealership—and we don’t have a—you must come—” the sound became muffled.

  I waved at Knightley who was edging toward the door. Missy Bates, I mouthed. I covered the phone. “I think she’s in some sort of trouble.” I took my hand away. “Missy. Missy? Are you there? I think you have the phone upside down. Okay. What’s wrong? Take a deep breath. Start over.”

  She responded with another flood of words. Even for her, this was incoherent.

  Knightley took the phone from me. “Knightley here. Calm down, Missy, tell me what’s wrong.”

  He frowned as she shrieked and babbled. Eventually, she had to pause for breath. I heard, quite clearly, “And you’re in Emma’s apartment? Oh, that’s—I’ve always thought—but…” and she was off again.

  “Okay,” Knightley said. “We’ll be over. Twenty minutes.”

  “What’s going on?” I said. “Is she hurt? It’s not one of her cats, is
it? Have they called 911?”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not that sort of emergency. No one’s hurt. It’s something to do with Jane. Come on, I’ll drive.”

  I stuffed the ultrasound picture into my jeans pocket and we ran out to the elevator. Knightley’s BMW was parked a couple of blocks away.

  “This is very impressive,” I said, settling into the leather seat. “No Doritos on the floor. No apple cores in the ashtray. You’ve come up in the world, Knightley.”

  “Put on your seat belt.” He eased the car out into the Saturday-morning traffic.

  If we hadn’t been on our way to help a distressed friend, with the additional worry of not knowing exactly what her problem was, I would have enjoyed the ride. In a year or so, when Isabella and Jim were back in town, we could bicycle, towing a toddler in a brightly colored cart, or take him or her to a café where we’d sit at an outside table in the sunshine. They might even have a dog, like the couple running with a golden retriever loping along beside them. Later, my niece or nephew could be one of those kids in a car crammed with sports or music gear, on their way to soccer or orchestra. And me…Aunt Emma. I liked the sound of it.

  But I wondered where I’d be then; would I still be in D.C.? Would I have found someone special and be contemplating a family of my own?

  Knightley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he expertly steered the car west across town. We turned onto Wisconsin Avenue, sleazy and cheerful, tourists browsing sidewalk displays of watches and beads and designer knockoff purses, and then onto one of the picturesque cobbled side streets.

  “I’ve always liked these old houses,” he commented. “Not worth what you pay, though. I’d like something with a bigger yard.”

  I wondered if he, too, was daydreaming about a future family.

  A few more turns and we were on the block where Missy lived. Knightley slowed as we both started to look for a parking space.

  To my surprise Missy and Jane were outside on the brick sidewalk. For a moment I wondered if they’d locked themselves out. I could hear Missy talking and talking, and still hear her when Knightley squeezed his car into a tight parking space and we opened the doors. As we walked toward them, I could see that Missy was excited rather than agitated.