“He’s good in bed.”
That was it. That was the only reason Meg Sweeney was thinking such crazy thoughts about love and marriage and happily-ever-after with a man like Dillon Cash. A vampire. He was the first to make her feel like a vibrant, sexy woman. Of course, she would feel more than friendship for him.
More, as in gratitude. Concern. And, of course, lust. He was hot and sexy. It only made sense that she would want him more than her next breath.
And fear. Not of him, but for him. She still couldn’t shake the tightening in her chest when she’d seen him hit the ground last night or the all-important fact that he was still in danger.
Someone was still out there and it was just a matter of time before something happened.
A strange melancholy wrapped around her. She set aside the newspaper. “We should get going. We’ve got a busy Saturday ahead of us.”
Terry nodded, gathered her composure and headed into the front part of the store to unlock the front door. Meanwhile, Meg sat down at her computer, determined to get a stack of orders finished before her first fitting.
She did her best to ignore the doom that settled in her gut and told her today was going to be the worst day of her life.
Impossible.
That day had already come and gone a long time ago and Meg wasn’t ready for a repeat.
Not now. Not ever.
18
IT WASN’T THE WORST DAY of her life, but it was close.
Meg came to that realization as the hours passed and things seemed to go from bad to really bad.
First she discovered that the new seamstress she’d hired had eloped to Las Vegas. The woman had taken Chantal Mortimer’s twenty-fifth anniversary dress for a simple hem three days ago. That morning, she’d appeared in the wedding announcements section of the Skull Creek Gazette wearing said dress and a wedding ring the size of a small third world country. Chantal had been furious—and jealous because her own ring weighed in at a whopping half carat less—and had demanded her money back. Meg had given her a prompt refund, only to have the woman rant for a full hour before she’d headed over to the diner for a complimentary lunch courtesy of the boutique.
Then Margie Westbury arrived. Margie had ripped her dress for tonight’s banquet at the Elks lodge and now needed a new one, which wouldn’t have been a problem had she not been a size twenty-eight special order. Tammy Greenburg wanted a one-of-a-kind sequined number she’d seen on CMT and couldn’t understand why Meg didn’t stock oodles of them (ahem—they call them one-of-a-kind for a reason). Sue Carrigan had gained twenty pounds and couldn’t fit into the wedding dress she was scheduled to wear in exactly one week. And Honey Harwell nixed all ten of the special order dresses Meg had had overnighted for her Saturday afternoon fitting.
Then Terry’s ex showed up. Not once, but five times.
And to make matters as bad as they could be, Meg couldn’t stop thinking about Dillon.
Images played over and over in her mind. Memories. From when they’d been kids and he’d taught her to play chess and boot up her computer. Last Christmas when he’d handed over a new collar for Babe and a matching leash. The night at the motel when she’d seen him up close and personal for the first time since the turning. She’d gotten her first dose of pure, unadulterated lust then and she’d been craving it ever since.
Add a wonderful friendship to the overwhelming emotion, and it was no wonder she felt so mixed up inside. So drawn to him. That, and the fact that they were truly linked now that he’d drunk from her.
She could feel him, smell him, sense him.
Sensations that grew stronger once the sun dipped below the horizon and dusk settled over the town.
She knew the moment he opened his eyes. She felt the steady beat of his heart, the jump of his pulse and the power that lived and breathed inside of him. She even felt his determination.
Dillon Cash was coming for her.
Her pulse leapt and for a split second, she felt a rush of excitement. He was the first man to really and truly sweep her off her feet. The first to go nuts and ravish her. Her fantasy come to life.
It wasn’t the man himself that made her heart beat faster.
No, it was the idea of him.
That’s the conclusion Meg finally came to as the day faded into evening. She fought down a wave of nerves and picked her way through the front of the store, snatching up anything even close to Honey’s size. The girl was still there, planted in a chair in the main dressing room, her iPod blaring as she waited for Meg to return with more choices.
Meg added a crimson-colored shift to her already overflowing arms and then turned to yet another rack. Her thighs touched and rubbed. Flesh grazed the twin prickpoints and desire knifed through her, sharp and fierce. Her legs trembled and her breath caught, and the dread churned deep inside of her.
Because the more turned on she was, the harder it would be to resist him.
She would resist. She didn’t want to lose him as a friend.
That’s what would happen. Romantic entanglements were fleeting. She knew that firsthand.
If she acted on the crazy lust burning her up from the inside out, she would enjoy herself for a little while. Maybe even a long while. But eventually Dillon would move on to another woman, or morph back into his old self and lose the desire for her that he felt right now. Either way, the fire would die, and so would their friendship.
She wasn’t going to let that happen.
He’d been the one constant in her life over the past few years. The one person she’d always been able to count on. She didn’t want to lose that.
She wouldn’t.
Which was why when he showed up, if he showed up, she would simply set him straight and tell him the truth—while she really enjoyed the sex, she didn’t have any romantic feelings for him and so it was best that they stop pretending and go back to being friends.
Her skin prickled as she retrieved the last dress and turned toward the dressing room. Awareness skittered up and down her spine.
He was coming, all right.
Good. The sooner she set the record straight, the sooner she could salvage their friendship.
If only she didn’t get the sinking feeling that it was already too late.
TONIGHT WAS THE NIGHT.
Dillon stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel.
He was going to put it all on the line and pour out his heart. Meg would listen, throw her arms around him and everything would be okay.
Or not.
He ignored the doubt, pulled on his clothes and snatched up his keys. It was early in the evening and Garret was still downstairs in his own apartment. Probably getting ready to go out and feed.
His own stomach grumbled as he bypassed the fridge—and the blood. But he’d had enough last night to last him awhile. He felt strong, his senses alert, his nerves alive. No, what he wanted now had nothing to do with the crimson heat flowing through her veins. He wanted more this time. Everything.
He spent the next ten minutes punching his way through security codes. Meg hadn’t dealt with the same when she’d fled that morning because the alarm had been on a timer that hadn’t kicked on until 9:00 a.m. Otherwise, she would have set off a world of noise when she’d hightailed it and ran.
She was still running, but not for long. Dillon intended to catch her and talk some sense into her. They could make it. Jake and Nikki were proof.
But Nikki loves Jake.
Meg loved Dillon, too. He knew it. He felt it. She was just too stubborn to admit it. But now was not the time to be ornery. Not with the rest of their lives at stake.
Fifty or so years if his instincts were correct and the Ancient One was close.
Forever if not.
He didn’t know, he just knew that however long he had, he wanted to spend it with Meg Sweeney. Starting tonight.
He climbed onto his motorcycle and gunned the engine.
But first, he had something to take care of.
“DROP THE MACE, MOM,” Dillon said a half-hour later as he stood in the front yard of his house and felt the woman who’d come up behind him.
In the blink of an eye, he whirled and faced her. She wore a black bodysuit, a determined expression and enough bug spray to kill every mosquito in Texas. And in her hand, she was holding the biggest can of Mace he’d ever seen. His gaze shifted to the second figure. His dad reeked of bug spray, as well. He also wore the same black bodysuit, as well as a mask. Thick bifocals perched on his nose and covered the eyeholes of the black knit. He clasped a stun gun in one hand and a net in the other.
But the older man wasn’t the threat right now.
No, the tension washed off his mother in huge waves. She was worried and scared and she wasn’t backing down until she had Dillon hog-tied in her tent.
“It’s for your own good, baby,” she told him, taking a tentative step forward. “They’ve brainwashed you and it’s up to us to rewire you.”
“I promise. I’m not brainwashed.”
“Of course you don’t think so. No one who’s brainwashed ever thinks that they are. That’s what makes it so obvious that you’re under their spell. Who is it? Those Moonies? A satanic cult? That group I saw on CNN that worships Krispy Kreme donuts? I knew I should have let you have donuts as a child. Then you wouldn’t have been so anxious to run out and get your sugar high somewhere else.” Anguish fueled her voice. “But I was trying to protect you. Really I was.”
“I know.” His own voice was smooth and calm, a direct contrast to the nervousness raging inside him. He felt as if he were a child all over again, showing his mother his infected cut, disappointing her. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You did a good job raising me.”
“I failed. Not once, but twice. No more.” She stiffened, taking another step toward him. “I’m doing my duty now. I’m saving my baby.” Another step and her finger went to the spray trigger.
“Drop. The. Mace.” He stared deep into her eyes and said it once more. He didn’t want to push her too hard. He wanted her conscious for this.
At the same time, if he didn’t resort to a little mind over matter, he was going to find himself hog-tied, hanging upside down in a nearby tent, his mom stuffing Krispy Kreme’s donuts down his throat before he could get a word in edgewise.
Her mouth dropped open and her hand went slack. A glazed look came over her and the can clattered to the ground.
He turned to his father, but the man wasn’t staring at him as if he’d grown two heads. No, he was staring at his wife’s catatonic body.
“Just put the stun gun away,” Dillon told his father, but the older man had already stuffed it into his pocket.
“I’ve been trying for years to get your mother to shut up like that.” His father peeled off the mask he’d been wearing and eyeballed his son. “How’d you do that?”
“You really want to know?”
“Are you kidding?” A grin tugged at his father’s mouth and genuine interest gleamed in his gaze.
The tension coiling in Dillon’s gut eased just a little. Maybe telling them wasn’t going to be as bad as he’d thought.
He spent the next half hour sitting on the front porch, filling his dad in on the specifics of what had happened to him while his mother sat in a small lounge chair, a passive look on her face.
Other than an initial rush of disbelief, his father didn’t seem all that shocked. If anything, he looked somewhat relieved and Dillon found himself remembering what Meg had said about the truth being the only thing that made any real sense.
She’d obviously been right.
At least as far as his dad was concerned.
Dillon shifted his attention to his mother. While she hadn’t been able to move, she’d heard every word. Dillon had made sure of that. He fought down his own fear, lifted the trancelike veil and waited for her reaction.
She took one look at him, let out a shriek and passed out cold.
It wasn’t exactly the “It’s okay. I love you anyway, son,” he’d been hoping for, but at least she hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest.
“Give her some time,” his father clapped him on the shoulder as he pushed to his feet.
“What about you? Are you all right with this?”
“I don’t know.” The man shrugged. “It’s pretty unbelievable. At the same time, your mother’s been living in a tent for three weeks straight now, so I’m not beyond buying the impossible.” His gaze collided with Dillon’s and worry lit his expression. “I just want you to be okay.”
“I am.”
“Good because I was afraid I was going to have to zap you with the stun gun. I still haven’t figured out how to do it without goosing myself.”
Dillon helped his father load his mother into the car for yet another trip to the E.R. for smelling salts. And possibly a mental evaluation should she start spouting off about the story he’d just told them.
But it was a chance he had to take. He was through playing it safe and worrying over each and every consequence. No more being scared.
No, he was facing his fears and acting on his feelings for the first time in his life.
He only hoped Meg was ready to do the same.
He fought down a rush of uncertainty, climbed onto his motorcycle and headed into town.
MEG IGNORED THE URGE to throw her hands into the air, or better yet, slide them around Honey Harwell’s neck.
The young girl stood center stage in the back dressing room. It was almost seven and Elise had yet to return. Other than Terry and Hank who were once again having words in the back alley, Meg and Honey were all alone.
Meaning no one would hear if she decided to get physical. That, or wash the girl’s smart mouth out with a little heavy-duty soap.
She resisted the appealing thought and summoned her patience. “Let’s try this once again. It’s the perfect cut and color.”
“It sucks. It more than sucks. It royally sucks.”
Where was a good bar of Ivory when she needed one?
Meg drew a deep breath and tried a different approach. “It doesn’t suck as much as the others, right? I mean, they sucked so bad they reeked,” she reminded the girl of her earlier comments.
Honey seemed to think. “I hate this. I want to go home.”
“Then try the dress on again because that’s the only way you’re getting out of here. Your mother said to pick something by the time she got back or she was taking your iPod.”
“This bites,” Honey breathed as reached for the dress.
Amen.
Meg pulled the curtains on the dressing room and debated whether or not to pick up the phone and call 911.
“…over, I’m telling you.” Terry’s voice carried from the partially open back door where she stood with Hank—again. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“But I love you, baby. You mean the world to me. All those other women didn’t mean crap.”
“I don’t care about them. That’s the past. I’ve moved on. So should you.”
“But you can’t just make love to a man and then turn your back…”
Meg bypassed the phone and retrieved a small can of Mace she kept under her cash register. She’d promised Terry to let her handle Hank her own way. As long as he kept a mild tone of voice and didn’t get physical, Meg intended to keep that promise. But at the first sign of real trouble, she was giving him a face full.
She was just about to head back into the dressing room to check on Honey when she heard the rumble of a motorcycle. She turned in time to see Dillon pull up to the curb in front of her shop and kill the engine. Muscles rippled and bunched as he climbed off the sleek black chopper.
Her heart shifted into overdrive as the bell on the front glass jingled.
He wore a pair of jeans and black T-shirt. His jaw was set, his face determined. Emotion blazed in the deep green depths of his eyes, so fierce and telling and—
No!
Panic bolted through her and she opened her mout
h before he had the chance. “Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?” He arched one blond brow and stepped toward her.
She took a step back. “Don’t say what I think you’re here to say.”
“I told my folks.”
“You’ll just ruin everything,” she rushed on before his words registered and she caught herself. “Come again?”
“I told them and they were okay with it.” He shrugged. “At least my dad was. The verdict is still out on my mom. I realized something yesterday. For all my newfound boldness, I’ve still been holding back. Afraid.” His eyes glittered with a knowing light. “Just like you.”
Before she could blink, much less open her mouth and voice the denial that sprang to her lips, he was standing in front of her. Large, strong hands cradled her face. “Don’t be scared.”
He touched her so softly, so tenderly that her throat tightened. “I’m not afraid of you,” she finally managed to whisper.
“No.” He forced her gaze to meet his. “You’re afraid of you.”
His words sank in as he stared down at her, into her. He saw the frantic thoughts that raced through her head. The anxiety. The denial. The fear.
She fought against the notion and stumbled backwards, away from his warm hands and his probing stare. “I am not.”
“Yes, you are.” He let his hands fall to his sides, but he didn’t look the least bit happy about it. His fingers clenched and it was all he could do no to reach for her again. “You’re afraid to let go, to fall in love, to be in love. Because if you don’t put yourself out there, you can’t get hurt.” His gaze darkened and suddenly she saw herself sitting on the floor in the kitchen, Babe in her arms, the policeman lingering nearby. “If you don’t have anything, then you can’t lose it. That’s why you’re afraid of love.”
Her throat constricted and a rush of tears burned the backs of her eyes. She blinked and fought for her voice. This was crazy. He was crazy. “I love a lot of things. Babe. My grandparents.”
“You loved them before your father died. But since, you haven’t let yourself get close—really close—to anyone. You’re afraid, all right. Afraid to live, to love, to be yourself. That’s why you’ve tried so hard to change all these years. You want to forget the woman you were, to bury the past.”
Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 19
