Dare to Believe: The Gray Court, Book 1

by Dana Marie Bell

  When a vampire betrays and terrifies his beloved, what can he offer her to make it up? Pancakes, of course. It’s a start, at least. And Alex has to think of the next step quick, because if Helena won’t take him back, he’ll never love again.

  Warning: Contains graphic sex scenes, blood play, and one scene of voyeurism. There’s also a scary part in the middle. The author and her lawyers remind you that this is a work of fiction. In real life, a one-night stand with a stalker is a bad idea, unless the stalker is a vampire, in which case it’s an amazingly bad idea. (Note: No actual elk were harmed in the writing of this novella.)

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Called by Blood:

  She hadn’t been able to concentrate all day. At an important lunch meeting she’d embarrassed herself by spacing out mid-sentence. More than once. After that she’d gone straight to the high school track. That seemed a safe enough place to run. But even running failed to do the trick.

  Alexander Faustin just wouldn’t leave her thoughts. It was like she was in heat or something, and as her temperature rose, her intellect dropped by equal degrees. She didn’t want to tangle with him again, but another moonlight talk was tempting. Because as horny as she was, she was also curious. The journalist in her wanted to know more. Why would a man like that stalk her? She had good instincts—not for relationships, admittedly, but for strangers—and he honestly didn’t seem dangerous. If he didn’t mean to harm her, why did he lie to her? Was it a habit of his? Did he get a buzz from the risk? Maybe another talk would help her see the outlines of his subtle insanity. Then she’d feel better about turning him over to the police.

  That morning she’d Googled his name, trying different spellings and came up with nothing. A Lexis-Nexis search revealed nothing about Alex or Alexander but did yield some hits on a Gregor Faustin who was some kind of nightclub impresario in New York. A small picture of a man in his thirties or early forties scowling at a flashbulb accompanied one of the articles. All she could say was that their coloring was the same. A relative?

  Hell, she didn’t even know if Alexander Faustin was his real name.

  As soon as Lacey left, Helena stepped out onto her balcony and surveyed the back yard.

  “Looking for me?”

  She yelped. He was on the balcony with her, standing in the shadows.

  Helena backed away. “How’d you get up here?”

  He advanced, stepping into a pool of light. He wore the long woolen overcoat, the one that had rubbed against her naked body. It was open. Beneath, he wore a black turtleneck sweater, the chunky fisherman kind, jeans and expensive work boots. GQ Italy. He shrugged. “Ladder?”

  What ladder?

  Helena darted back into the house, slammed the sliding glass door shut and clicked the tiny locking arm into place, thinking that maybe this home-alone thing was not such a good idea after all. She picked up the phone, but didn’t call anyone. Instead, she returned to the door.

  He stood just on the other side of the glass, smiling a crooked smile. What beautiful lips he had. Oh God, he was hot. Why did he have to be so hot? He drew his finger along the glass as if he could touch her face through it.

  “Helena…” He spoke as if they knew each other, as if he’d been missing her for years. “You shouldn’t be afraid.”

  “I don’t know you.” Helena’s voice wavered. She tried to strengthen it. “This is too strange. It’s just not right.”

  Yet she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. Instead she splayed her palm against the glass and he matched it with his own hand, so much bigger than hers. She had thought of those hands all day, how they held her breasts and circled her waist. She’d thought of his mouth on her throat, open and wet.

  “It’s an unusual way to meet, I’ll give you that, but that doesn’t make it wrong. What do you want to know about me? I’ll tell you anything.”

  The glass muffled his voice a little, made it sound like it was coming from a distance. She didn’t know what else to do, so she thought of a question.

  “Well, where are you from?”

  “New York. I live in the city.”

  Ah ha.

  “What are you doing in Colorado?”

  His dark eyes bored into hers, sincere, yet so forceful she lowered her lashes. “I came to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  “My mother told me to find you. That you’d be my perfect one.”

  Mother? Like Norman Bates’s mother? Oh man, that was creepy. “Who is your mother?” she snapped. “And what the hell does she know about me?”

  Faustin was a model of patience, standing out there in the freezing cold. It didn’t seem to bother him. His nose wasn’t even red. And he didn’t seem to mind her shrewish tone either. “My mother’s name is Natalia Grigorevna Faustin.” He ground through those hard consonants like a real Russian. “She lives in Brooklyn. She…well…she dreamed about you, dreamed you and I were meant for each other. It’s sort of an old world thing.”

  “And on the basis of her dream, you came here to find me?”

  He lifted one shoulder and smiled, as if the whole thing was a little embarrassing, but unavoidable. “It’s better than internet dating.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’ve had to resort to that.” Helena sniffed, imagining him striding around Manhattan with hordes of Sarah Jessica Parker types staggering after him in their expensive heels.

  “My family, our traditions, they mean a lot to me, Helena. I’m ready to settle down and I want to do it in the old way. It worked for my parents.”

  “They met by dream?”

  He nodded and leaned his head on the glass. “I think my mother dreamed right, Helena.”

  The longing in his voice stopped her breath. His perfect one. To think that such a thing might exist—a perfect mate. Two halves coming together to make a whole. Never lonely again.

  That was delusional thinking. A good relationship was all about hard work, compromise and mutual respect—not magic destiny crap. That’s why happy couples were as rare as hen’s teeth.

  She put the phone down and twisted her hands together, trying to think of something else to say when she had all of two brain cells firing. “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Two older brothers, Mikhail and Gregor.”

  Gregor. His name really was Faustin, and he really was from New York.

  He slid his palm down the glass and straightened up. “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No, I’m an only child.”

  “Where are your parents?”

  “They’re…they’ve passed on. A year ago. This is their house, actually.” That’s it, tell him you have nobody.

  His brow creased in concern. “So you’re all alone? I’m so sorry.”

  The empathy in his voice brought tears to her eyes. The hormones were surging again, making her sappy. Yes, it was hard to be alone. She loved her friends, but they were not family. Family had to put up with you no matter what. She wanted them back. Before she started bawling outright, she changed the subject. “You’re Russian. Your background, I mean?”

  “Right. But I was born here.”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  “I trade in foreign currency.”

  Whatever that meant, exactly. Helena never had enough money to spare for investment or trading and so paid little attention to the subject. She imagined him sitting at a big table with piles of exotic coins stacked in front of him, even though that was retarded.

  “Do you have a card?” she asked. Also retarded. But she wanted to see something solid, something that proved he had a life outside of hanging around her house.

  His lips twitched in amusement as he reached in his jeans pocket and brought out a slender wallet. “Do you want to see my driver’s license? My social security card?” He flashed these things at her, all legitimate looking. He showed her a couple of credit cards, a library card, a subway pass and a Borders gift card in there too, decorated with candy canes. Then he pulled out a bu
siness card and pressed it against the glass.

  “FFS?”

  “Faustin Financial Services. I also do some investment consulting.” He tucked the card in the door frame and left it there like a salesman. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “I’m a freelance radio producer. I do a lot of work for NPR.”

  “Really? I listen to NPR all the time.”

  A public radio fan? Then he must be her life mate. Well, unless maybe he was Garrison Keillor’s life mate.

  But he seemed interested, truly interested. “Tell me something you’ve produced that I might have heard.”

  “Uh…” Helena’s mind went marvelously blank. It was hard to remember anything when he looked her straight in the eye. A warm fluttering started between her legs. Oh, jeez. “Uh, last week they aired a story about the little kid who rode his bike across America…”

  “To commemorate his brother’s death? I heard that one.” He had the strangest look to him as he said that. Something like pride. “That was your idea?”

  She nodded, dry mouthed. “Look, this is a ridiculous way to talk. I should let you in, but I…”

  “No.” The sudden harshness of his voice made her take a step back from the glass. “Don’t let me in if you have any doubts in your mind, because once you invite me in, I’m going to make love to you. It is the first thing I will do. We will not have dinner or a glass of wine first. We will not chit chat or watch a movie. You let me in this door and I’m taking you. Understand that.”

  Scared of him once again and scared of her own reactions to him, Helena took another step back and hugged herself. “Why are you like this?”

  If looks could melt glass… “You were on the stoop with me. Answer yourself.”

  Helena paced back and forth in front of the sliding glass door, chanting her inner mantra, Dang, oh dang, oh dang.

  Since the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, she’d wanted him, and that was the truth of the matter. He didn’t hide his desire, he was clear in his intentions. That was the difference between them. He told the truth while she waffled and flirted and lied and called the cops when things got too intense. So who wasn’t playing fair?

  Let him in.

  He’d probably talk to her though the door all night, but she didn’t know if she could do it. She couldn’t think. Hell, she could barely stand. Either she had to take him up on his offer or go lock herself in the closet.

  She’d been thinking of him as caught on the deck, behind glass, but she was the one who was trapped. He had all the world behind him.

  I’m tired of being afraid.

  Faustin leaned against the door while he waited for her answer, head down, palms flat against the glass as if he was thinking about pushing the door off its tracks. “I need you,” he said, almost too low to be heard.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Frightened, she wrapped her arms around herself. That gentle pressure made her breasts ache and tingle. Her skin was oversensitive, stimulated by the soft knit of her sweater dress. She’d never been so aroused. Part of it was knowing a man wanted her that much. Another part was knowing that she’d have to risk her life to find out if her instincts were right. The instincts that told her to open the door.

  Trust yourself.

  He’s a public radio fan, for crap’s sake.

  Do it.

  Is Emma ready for a bite?

  The Wallflower

  © 2008 Dana Marie Bell

  A Hunting Love story

  Halle Puma Series, Book 1

  Emma Carter has been in love with Max Cannon since high school, but he barely knew she existed. Now she runs her own unique curio shop, and she’s finally come out her shell and into her own.

  When Max returns to his small home town to take up his duties as the Halle Pride’s Alpha, he finds that shy little Emma has grown up. That small spark of something he’d always felt around the teenager has blossomed into something more—his mate!

  Taking her “out for a bite” ensures that the luscious Emma will be permanently his.

  But Max’s ex has plans of her own. Plans that don’t include Emma being around to interfere. To keep her Alpha, Emma must prove to the Pride that she has what it takes to be Max’s mate.

  Warning: This title contains explicit sex, graphic language, loads of giggles and a hot, blond Alpha male.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Wallflower:

  Emma realized Max had stopped moving. Looking up at him, she found him staring down at her with a quizzical look. “Well?”

  Emma blushed. She’d been rubbernecking in Max’s house, trying to take in everything at once. “It’s incredible.”

  He smiled with satisfaction. “If there’s anything you want to change, you’ll have to let me know.” Gently he placed her on the quilt. “This is now as much your house as mine.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open as he toed off his shoes and socks. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Max began unbuttoning his shirt, diverting her attention from his whole “Mi casa es su casa” attitude. “I was in Simon’s shop when you called about the Madonna, you know.”

  “Oh. Really?” she replied absently. She could barely speak as Max unveiled the finest chest it had ever been her privilege to see. It was lightly sprinkled with light brown hairs, trailing down his stomach to point directly into his pants. Dark brown nipples peeped out from the hair, tempting her into some very sinful thoughts.

  “Yes, I was. And you know what?”

  Emma didn’t know her own name; Max was unbuttoning his jeans. “Um, nope.”

  “You live up to your voice,” Max purred as he slipped his jeans down his legs.

  “Urgh,” Emma choked, “naked.” She could feel her eyes bugging out of her head. Max went commando. A sinful buffet of man-flesh was laid out before her in one single sweep of his hands. She didn’t know whether to sigh or to sob.

  “Yes, I am.” Max laughed huskily. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Emma bit her lip, a sudden attack of shyness nearly paralyzing her. Max didn’t know it yet, but he’d be her first, and from the look on his face she’d better tell him soon.

  “Max?” Emma sat there, her hands clenched in her lap, her gaze riveted to his cock. The thing looked huge, all veined and red, and pointed straight at her. A small drop of liquid seeped from the slit. It twitched a salute to her rapt attention.

  “Yes, Emma?”

  Her gaze lifted to his; unknown to her, they’d turned pure, molten gold. “You remember the talk of other men?”

  He growled low in his throat and crawled onto the bed.

  “Eep,” she whispered, lying down as he prowled up her body.

  “You were saying?” he whispered huskily as he settled his naked body between her thighs. He brushed against her cheek with his lips, a caress so soft she barely felt it. It sent a shiver down her spine. Those same lips continued their incredible journey, trailing down the side of her neck to settle on the bite he’d given her outside the restaurant. Goose bumps raced up and down her arms as he moved his hips in a sinuous motion, brushing his naked cock against her mound.

  “Um, there weren’t,” she squeaked, unconsciously arching up into his body as he scrapped his teeth along his mark.

  “Weren’t what?” he muttered, one hand moving up to start sliding her camisole up her stomach. He paused long enough to caress her there, trailing fire in his wake.

  “Any other men.”

  His hand stopped.

  His mouth stopped.

  His hips stopped. She was really sad when his hips stopped.

  “You’re a virgin?” His voice sounded oddly strangled.

  “It’s not a crime to be one, you know. I’m not the Oldest Living Virgin, or anything. It’s not like I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records,” she babbled. “Besides, I’ve done other things…oh!” His hands had started moving again, with a swiftness that startled her. Her camisole was toast as he ripped it literally from her body, his claws bar
ely scrapping her skin, sending shivers of need once again down her spine.

  Claws?

  Emma had barely registered the fact that Max had used his claws to ruin her favorite shirt when he started working on her jeans. “No! Bad kitty!” She slapped him on the top of his head, determined to save at least some of her wardrobe.

  He lifted his head, his eyes golden and burning, a rumbling sound emanating from his throat as he pinned her hands above her head. Emma thought about struggling, but something about the way he looked had her lying passively. “You’re a virgin.”

  Emma blinked, unsure how to respond. “Duh.”

  Max stared down at her, his eyes narrowing as he studied her features as if seeing her for the very first time. “No man has ever touched you.”

  She thought about telling him about the make-out sessions her one and only boyfriend had talked her into, the oral sex they’d indulged in a few times, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Jimmy was a nice guy, and deserved to live. “Again. Duh.”

  “No man will ever touch you again.”

  Emma studied granite-like features above her. “Even you?” The growl deepened. She sighed, inexplicably happy to hear that sound. “Okay.” She rolled her eyes. “Duh.” She grinned. “By the way, Lion-O, that was my favorite shirt.”

  He looked down. “Damn, Emma.”

  “What?” She looked down, expecting to see something odd, like very dried alfredo sauce decorating one boob or something. Instead she saw the pale pink lace bra she’d put on that morning, the one that was completely see-through. It helped give her confidence to feel the sexy lingerie against her skin, so much so she’d replaced all of her old undies with the lacy stuff.

  From the look, and feel, of things, Max definitely approved.

  Max switched her wrists into one hand. The other trailed down her body to her jeans, undoing the snap and zipper with ease. “Lift your ass, Emma,” he commanded. She obeyed without thinking, shifting so he could ease her jeans down her legs.

  He hissed out a breath at the sight of the pale pink lace panties that matched the bra. Underneath, she was hairless. “A full Brazilian,” he sighed.