When it comes to vampires and cowboys…
nobody does it better than Kimberly Raye!
“Kimberly Raye is a wonderful writer whose powerful
imagination creates such appealing and realistic
characters that will draw readers and captivate them.”
—A Romance Review on Dead End Dating
“Kimberly Raye has done a wonderful job of creating
characters that are unique and imaginative!”
—Romance Reviews Today on Dead and Dateless
“Humor, witty dialogue, a good setup and a great hero
and heroine make Raye’s book sparkle.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Texas Fire
“Amusing, erotic…A very naughty book!
You’ll love it.”
—Romantic Reviews on Sometimes Naughty,
Sometimes Nice
“Kimberly Raye pens a delightfully sexy and
funny tale with wonderful characterization,
warm dialogue and humorous scenes.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Ms. Raye’s creative plotting and vivid
characterizations herald a strong new voice in
romantic fiction.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
Blaze™
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to Skull Creek, Texas! Where the women are smart and sexy and the men are…vampires?
Yep, that’s right. We’re talking bloodsucker with a capital B.
Of course, Dillon Cash, the hero in my newest Harlequin Blaze novel, Drop Dead Goregous, isn’t just any old vamp. Dillon, once the geekiest guy in town, is reveling in his newfound vamp charisma. His mission as the new undead stud extraordinaire? To break the town’s standing record for sleeping with the most women. A piece of cake when every female within a fifty-mile radius now finds him irresistible.
Every female, that is, except Meg Sweeney. Meg, his old high school friend, isn’t the least bit anxious to hop into bed with him. No, she’s more anxious to learn the secret to his sudden sex appeal. Meg—who was once a card-carrying member of the Geek Squad herself—is ready to sex up her own image and Dillon’s just the cowboy to help her. Or so she thinks…
I hope you enjoy this next installment in my Texas vampire series. I would love to hear from you! You can visit me online at www.kimberlyraye.com or write to me c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.
Enjoy, and y’all come back now, ya hear!
Kimberly Raye
KIMBERLY RAYE
Drop Dead Gorgeous
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA TODAY bestselling author Kimberly Raye has always been an incurable romantic. While she enjoys reading all types of fiction, her favorites, the books that touch her soul, are romance novels. From sexy to thrilling, sweet to humorous, she likes them all. But what she really loves is writing romance—the hotter the better! She started her first novel in high school and has been writing ever since. Kim lives deep in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with her very own cowboy, Curt, and their young children. She talks regularly with her therapist (aka her editor) and spends most of her time cooking up new story ideas. She’s also an avid reader (she reads all the Blaze books) who loves Diet Dr. Pepper, chocolate, Toby Keith, chocolate, alpha males—especially vampires—and chocolate. Kim loves to hear from readers. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com or at www.myspace.com/kimberlyrayebooks.
Books by Kimberly Raye
HARLEQUIN BLAZE
6—THE PLEASURE PRINCIPLE
127—THE SEX SOLUTION
131—THE FANTASY FACTOR
191—TEXAS FEVER
198—TEXAS FIRE
233—TALL, TANNED & TEXAN
264—BOYS OF SUMMER “The Sweet Spot”
358—DEAD SEXY
For my caring, supportive, ultra-fabulous editor
Brenda Chin, for NOT moving to England.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
1
IT WAS THE BEST SEX she’d had in months.
The only sex.
Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing except that the elusive O came courtesy of a red fluorescent vibrator called the Big Tamale rather than some hot, buff cowboy with a slow hand and an intoxicating smile.
Margaret Evelyn Sweeney, aka Meg, hit the three different Off buttons—vibrate, swivel and aye carumba—and stashed Big in its matching red case. She drew a deep breath, swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet.
Five minutes later, she stood in her kitchen and leaned over a hot-pink three-ring binder—her own personal Pleasure Manual—to document tonight’s results. She flipped to page fifty-eight, which included a quick summation of last Tuesday’s class entitled Masturbation Mania and a worksheet for homework. She scribbled in the date and tackled the questions.
Intense sensation? Check.
Spontaneous groaning (the good kind)? Check.
Uncontrollable moaning? Check.
A full-blown scream? Check.
Overall level of satisfaction?
She eyed the scale that ranged from one to ten, zip to zowee, and finally circled seven before moving on to the last question.
Did this sexual experience include a partner? She ignored the crazy urge to jot down a big fat yes. This wasn’t about soothing her fragile ego and saving face with the other women in the painfully small town of Skull Creek, Texas.
The whole purpose of attending carnal classes with a certified carnal coach was to invest in her future. Sadly enough, she was thirty years old and she could count on one hand the number of romantic entanglements she’d had in her lifetime.
Actually, she could count them on two fingers. Three if she included her encounters with her good buddy and childhood friend, Dillon Cash. While Meg had been a mega tomboy, Dillon had been a major geek. Either way, they’d both never really fit in with the opposite sex—not romantically—and so they’d turned to each other back in the ninth grade when they’d realized that they were the only ones—with the exception of Connie Louise Davenport, Reverend Davenport’s daughter—in the entire freshman class who hadn’t known how to French kiss.
Okay, so they hadn’t known how to kiss, period. No quick pecks. No slow, lingering smooches. No open mouths and plunging tongues. They’d been fifteen and very green, and so it had seemed like a good idea to work out the awkwardness with each other.
Several hours, a bootleg copy of a Nine 1/2 Weeks video, and a dozen clumsy attempts later, they hadn’t been any more skilled than when they’d started.
In fact, the entire experience had solidified what she’d known from the get-go—Dillon was and would always be just a good friend. She hadn’t liked him like that.
No heart stutters. No tummy tingles. No rip-off-your-panties-and-go-bonkers lust.
Which was why, despite the experimental kissing, she felt inclined to leave him out of the tally when it came to her sexual past.
That left Oren and Walter. She’d lost her virginity to Oren, aka the Orenator, at the ripe old age of eighteen. He’d been the best defensive end the Skull Creek Panthers had ever seen, and he’d taken them to the state championship during his senior year. And he’d actually liked her, enough to ask her out for Homecoming. They’d gone to the school dance, and then they’d gone parking down by the river.
Ten minutes in the backseat of his daddy’s Chevy listening to recaps of the Cowboys vs. Redskins game, and she’d had enough. She’d thrown her arms around him, pressed her body up against his and offered herself shamelessly. Other than a few initial moments of shock and a frantic “What are you doing?”, he’d finally given in to her persistent lips. She’d lost her innocence along with one of her new hoop earrings and her undies.
Yes!
Not that the experience itself had been all that great. While he’d given in, he hadn’t taken the initiative and swept her off her feet. Rather, she’d taken the lead, pushing and urging and giving a whole new meaning to her nickname Manhandler Meg.
Still, it had been the principle of the thing. It had been the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chance to start over. To completely forget the tomboy she’d once been and embrace all that was feminine.
Change.
That’s what it had all been about. Meg had grown up being a carbon copy of her father. He’d been a single parent—her mother, a diabetic, had died of renal failure shortly after Meg’s birth—and an athletics coach at the local high school. Growing up, Meg had been determined to follow in his footsteps. She’d watched him, learned from him, idolized him, and then one day he’d been gone.
She’d been barely seventeen and it had been the start of the summer after her junior year. She’d gone home early to pack (they were going camping to celebrate the end of classes) and he’d stayed late to finish cleaning out his desk. He’d been in a hurry to get home, not wanting to lose their camping spot at a local state park. He’d failed to stop at a nearby intersection and had been hit by an approaching car. That had been the end of him.
And the end of Meg.
The old Meg.
She’d gone to live with her grandparents and, much to their surprise, had packed away her soccer ball and kneepads. She’d ditched her favorite baseball bat and glove, her autographed Troy Aikman football and her lucky San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey. Even more, she’d packed away her all-time favorite sweats and the lucky Dallas Cowboy T-shirt her dad had bought her. She’d taken out a subscription to Cosmo and had learned all the latest fashion trends. She’d even forfeited helping her granddad on his tractor so that her grandmother could teach her how to sew.
In one summer, she’d traded in her love of sports for an infatuation with shoes and clothes and all things feminine, and had started her senior year as a different Meg. A woman determined to forget her past, to bury it right along with her father.
When Oren had chronicled their night on the wall of the boys’ locker room, her undies hanging from one of the locker pegs as proof, she’d been thrilled. The male population of Skull Creek High would finally see her as more than just a competitive edge during game time. She’d been so good at sports that she’d become the best buddy of every male athlete in school. They’d asked her advice on everything from touchdowns to golf putts.
They’d never, however, asked her out.
She’d been convinced that that one wild night with Oren would be enough to change her image.
She’d been wrong.
This was Skull Creek. The classic small town where people left their doors unlocked and the sidewalks rolled up at six o’clock every evening. Forget crime. The most exciting news centered around the occasional boob job or cheating spouse. Strangers were scarce and everyone knew everyone.
And that meant that once she was Manhandler Meg, she’d always be Manhandler Meg.
While she’d managed to change who she actually was, she’d never been able to change everyone’s perception of her.
Not way back when Oren had written about her and the entire football team had assumed it was a really great practical joke—she’d gotten so many high fives that her hand had been raw—and not now that she wore high heels and sexy clothes and ran her own dress boutique, It’s All About You, a small, exclusive shop located on Main Street, smack dab between Dillon’s computer repair shop and the town’s one and only full-service spa, Pam’s Pamper Park.
People still saw her as a chip-off-the-old-Sweeney-block. The women rarely felt threatened and the men…Well, they actually respected her.
While she knew that most females would kill to be valued for their minds rather than their bodies, once, just once, she would like to have a man actually see her as a sex object.
So make a real change, pack your bags and get out of Dodge.
She’d thought about it. But the notion of leaving her grandparents—even though they now lived an hour away in a retirement community outside of Austin, and she only saw them a few times a month—was even less appealing than being known as Manhandler Meg for the rest of her life. They’d helped her through her father’s death, loved her, raised her, and she intended to return the favor. They’d been there for her when she’d needed them the most, and she intended to be there for them when the time came and they eventually needed her. She couldn’t do that if she was God knows where.
Which meant she was here and she was staying.
Walter had been her second romantic entanglement. One that had continued over the years, on during football season and off after the Super Bowl, which kicked off the start of tax season—he was an accountant. While she knew Walter found her attractive, he also liked to pick her brain for betting advice (he spear-headed the weekly football pool at his office). When he won, he got very happy and the sex was pretty good—if she initiated (Walter wasn’t one for making the first move). When he wasn’t making money betting on his favorite sport, he was so boring he made a wedge of cheese look exciting.
He was neck-deep in IRS forms and for the past three months, she’d been flying solo.
A good thing, she reminded herself. Walter wasn’t the man for her and so she’d broken things off for good after the last Super Bowl. She didn’t want a man who only wanted her some of the time. Even more, she didn’t want a man who didn’t want her enough to make the first move. She was through initiating sex.
Hence the classes.
They’d originally been given by Dillon’s sister, Cheryl Anne, who’d been desperate to break out of her shell and do something wild and crazy with her own life. She’d succeeded for a few weeks before she’d realized that actually having sex was much more preferable than talking about it with a bunch of clueless women eager to spice up their relationships. She’d handed over her classes to Winona, the owner of the only motel in town, and had married her long-time boyfriend. Cheryl Anne was now living the American dream.
Not that Meg’s goal was to get married. Maybe. Someday. If the right man came along. Right now, however, she simply wanted to have sex with a man who really and truly wanted to have sex with her. A man who couldn’t keep his hands off her.
A man who wanted her badly enough to make the first move.
The classes would teach her how to increase her sex appeal to the point that she was irresistible. Hopefully.
Meg finished documenting her results, closed her Pleasure Manual and headed back upstairs to her bedroom closet. After careful consideration, she settled for a hot-pink shell, a frayed blue jean miniskirt with rhinestone trim and a pair of high-heeled sandals she’d picked up on her latest shopping trip to Austin. The outfit met all of her must-haves—feminine and sexy and uber-trendy—which was why it had made it into her closet in the first place. As owner of the one and only upscale boutique in town, she wanted her own personal wardrobe to reflect her business image. While she might be striking out when it came to changing everyone’s perception of her personally, professionally she was batting one thousand.
Her shop had bec
ome the go-to place for every special occasion—from proms to anniversary parties to the occasional hot date. Women sought her advice on clothes, shoes and accessories, and her shop had even been named Business of the Year three consecutive times in a row by the Skull Creek Chamber of Commerce.
But while her shop was making the news, Meg wasn’t.
Meaning she’d yet to garner even a mention in Tilly Townsend’s infamous Hot Chicks list. The list was published every six months and featured the ten hottest bachelorettes in town. Likewise, Tilly also did a Randiest Rooster list that named the ten hottest bachelors. The list was the ultimate when it came to popularity—a who’s who of the most sought-after singles in town. The women were smart, successful, vivacious and irresistible to men. The newest version came out in exactly two weeks and Meg wanted to be on it.
Meg ignored an inkling of hopelessness and headed for the shower.
She spent the next half hour upstairs getting ready and the last fifteen minutes downstairs sucking down a Diet Coke and rereading her notes on last week’s lesson. She was seated at her table, about to get to the Understanding Your Vibrator section, when a tongue lapped at her bare thigh.
She glanced down at the black-and-gray Blue Heeler who’d pushed through the doggy door and now stood next to her. Tail wagging, tongue lolling, the animal stared up at her, a pleading look in her big brown eyes.
“Don’t even think it.” She wagged a finger at her. “You know what the vet said. Sugar isn’t good for a dog your age.” Babe, named for the infamous Babe Ruth, obviously disagreed. She wagged her way over to the pantry and stared hopefully at the closed door.
“You can’t have any,” Meg told the dog, pushing to her feet. She bypassed the pantry to retrieve a small box from a nearby cabinet. “Doc said you could have a veggie biscuit instead.” She held out the foul-smelling treat. Babe approached, took one sniff and wagged her way back over to the pantry. She nuzzled the door. “No,” Meg said, but the dog kept pleading.
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