by Heidi Betts
A tall stone wall and ominous, spike-tipped, wrought-iron gate lined the front of the property along the main road. Large, towering trees spanned the drive and hid the house from prying eyes. And the manor itself was nothing if not imposing, reminding Jillian of every gothic novel she’d ever read, making her feel like Jane Eyre making her way to Thornfield Manor…or worse, a character in one of Edgar Allan Poe’s horrifying stories.
Before her mind could wander too far in that morbid and frightening direction, she took a deep breath and reminded herself of why she was here.
She had a job to do, sure. And if she did it well, it could very well put her in good stead for years and years to come.
Angelina Ricci was the founder and owner of an amazingly successful matchmaking business.
So it happened to be called Love Bites, Jillian thought with a mental shrug.
So Angelina tended to cater to single vampires like herself.
Being a vampire wasn’t against the law, nor was it as disreputable a condition as it had once been thought. Now that the world knew vampires existed and had come to realize they weren’t the evil, bloodthirsty monsters fictional accounts had made them out to be, they were just another part of normal society.
Which wasn’t to say they didn’t still make people—humans, like Jillian herself—nervous, but the majority of folks weren’t carrying concealed stakes or wearing wreaths of garlic around their necks. There did seem to be a rather strong trend in fashion these days for cross and crucifix jewelry, though.
Jillian didn’t have much experience with vampires…or maybe she did, but she just didn’t know it. It wasn’t like they were required to wear giant red Vs on their shirts to identify them in public. With the exception of maybe being a tad unnaturally pale if they hadn’t fed recently, they had the ability to blend in perfectly with humans and couldn’t necessarily be branded as blood-drinkers unless they chose to be.
Though Angelina’s reputation as both a matchmaker and blood-drinker preceded her, Jillian knew her only from a brief meeting several months earlier at a lavish charity event Jillian had planned. They’d only chatted for a few minutes during the soiree, but had seemed to hit it off and kept in touch afterward with the occasional e-mail.
Then yesterday, Angelina had picked up the phone and asked Jillian for a favor. Or rather, tossed a fat, juicy lead in her direction, informing her that she had a close and very wealthy friend who was interested in hiring out her services for the holidays.
The holidays. Three-plus solid weeks of guaranteed work.
The holidays were always a crapshoot in the events planning business. They could be extremely busy…or slow as a garden slug. Companies might throw extravagant parties for their employees…or they could just as easily hand out moderate Christmas bonuses. Charities might hold Christmas-themed fund-raising events in the hopes that contributors’ hearts were softer during the holidays…or they could opt to simply send out donation request cards or assign volunteer Santas to stand on street corners and ring bells until passers-by dropped coins into a bucket.
Guaranteed work for all of December was, for Jillian, a not-to-be-missed opportunity. And given the state of her personal life lately, she could use a nice, meaty project to focus on, something to take her mind off of Will and their ugly breakup.
And if that hadn’t been enough to gain her immediate, undivided attention, the mention of renowned restaurateur Connor Drake certainly was. The man was famous. Or perhaps a better term was infamous. He owned restaurants all over the world. Five-star establishments with six- and eight-week waiting lists for reservations. Eateries that catered to the rich and famous and were a paparazzi’s wet dream come true.
A man like Connor Drake could make or break a woman like Jillian. If he liked what she did for him, he could put her company on the map. If he didn’t, he could put her out on the street. She would be decorating bus stop restrooms and organizing get-togethers beneath the city’s most popular bridges if he badmouthed her to his friends and acquaintances.
Her chest tightened at the thought, turning more than just her palms damp. If she wasn’t careful, her first meeting with the illustrious Mr. Drake would end up with him thinking she was suffering from swine flu.
In addition, if she did a good job for one of Angelina’s closest friends, the professional matchmaker might send even more business her way in the future. Weddings and anniversaries and potential contacts money couldn’t buy. Jillian might end up planning primarily nighttime events for the living dead, but she supposed there were worse avenues to success.
Pulling up in front of the large, gray-stone mansion, she noticed that the estate wasn’t quite as daunting up close as it appeared from a distance. Snow-covered flower beds lined the walk, and other hedges of various sizes and shapes decorated the expansive landscape. There was even a pristine white birdbath in the center of a gardenlike area. No birds were showering at the moment, but in summer, she imagined it was a very popular avian hangout.
With her thick leather binder in hand, Jillian started up the wide stone steps guarded by a pair of angry-looking lion statues. She was moderately surprised not to find gargoyles guarding the entrance, but the big granite cats were every bit as intimidating.
As was the matching lion’s head knocker in the center of the thick, dark wood door. She rapped three times in quick succession, waiting only a few brief moments before her summons was answered.
She honestly expected to find The Addams Family’s Lurch or a similar character on the other side, but instead, the Drake Manor butler looked frighteningly normal. A middle-aged man with thinning brown hair and wearing a plain black suit opened the door and smiled in greeting.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
Jillian’s own smile came naturally in response to his friendly demeanor. “I’m Jillian Parker, the events coordinator. I have an appointment with Mr. Drake.”
“Connor or Liam?” the butler asked, waving her inside and closing the door behind her.
His question caught her temporarily off-guard. Though she’d done a bit of research into Connor Drake after Angelina’s call—thank God for the Internet—and knew that he had a younger brother and sister, her anxiety over meeting and having to work with the family patriarch had apparently given her tunnel vision and superseded everything else.
She swallowed nervously and licked her suddenly dry lips. “Connor,” she said. “Unless Liam is in need of a party planner, as well.”
The minute the words were out, she felt her face flush and wished for a bolt of lightning to flash through the ceiling or a giant sinkhole to open up beneath her feet—anything to bring about her immediate demise and put a stop to the flapping of her runaway tongue.
This was ridiculous, she thought, and ordered herself sternly to get a grip. She’d organized events for million-dollar corporations…weddings for local debutantes (some who made Bridezillas look like a very special episode of Little House on the Prairie)…and birthday parties for the richest and most spoiled Sweet Sixteens in the state.
Throwing together a private holiday gathering for one man, regardless of the size of his bank account, would be a piece of cake.
Before she could correct her minor faux pas, footsteps sounded from the far end of the foyer and a deep voice said, “Liam definitely doesn’t need any help where parties are concerned. He seems entirely too proficient at them, as it is, if the amount of time he wastes in nightclubs is any indication.”
Jillian turned to find a tall, darkly handsome gentleman marching in her direction.
If she’d thought the long, shadowy driveway and mysterious-looking house—both outside and in—were intimidating, they had nothing on the man now bearing down on her. To the naked eye, he appeared as normal as any other professional businessman she’d ever seen in a dark blue suit, complete with polished shoes, and a demure silk tie. But power emanated from him in waves, overwhelming everything in its path.
His hair was ink black and perfectly style
d; his complexion was smooth and, while not dark, not pale, either. She took that to mean he wasn’t hungry and relaxed slightly, realizing that she’d unconsciously raised her shoulders in an attempt to protect her throat.
Oh, no, she wasn’t vampaphobic.
Liar.
But it wasn’t that she was a bigot. She didn’t resent their existence; she just didn’t quite understand it, and not knowing the details of how they lived, fed, felt, believed, apparently made her nervous. Something she would have to get over if she intended to work with this man—and with any luck, many more like him.
“That will be all, Randall. Thank you,” he said to the butler, who nodded before slipping away.
He turned his full attention on her, and she felt it like a physical caress even before he held out his hand and introduced himself.
“Connor Drake. You must be Miss Parker. Angelina speaks very highly of you.”
She took his hand and wasn’t at all surprised by the zip of electricity that raised the tiny hairs on her arm and warmed her all the way to her core. His gray eyes were cloudy and bore through her as though he could see into her soul.
Forcing herself to wet her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, she said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Drake. And, please, call me Jillian.”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod, releasing her hand. “Then you must call me Connor. Let’s go into my study where we can talk.”
She followed him through the large entryway, their steps echoing on the parquet floor as they passed a wide, curved staircase and moved down a short hall lined with gilt-framed paintings.
Though it wasn’t easy to drag her gaze from her new employer’s wide back and head of glossy black hair, Jillian made an effort to take in her surroundings, making a mental note of what appeared to be Connor Drake’s personal tastes—rich, classic, somewhat subdued. The more she knew about him or could glean from his home during this meeting, the better able she would be to fulfill his desires for a successful event.
He led her into a room lined with bookshelves and over to an ornately carved desk roughly the size of a small frigate. Taking a seat behind the desk—very lord-of-the-manor of him, but then, he was lord of the manor—he gestured for her to sit in one of the guest chairs on the opposite side.
Once they were comfortable and the preliminaries were out of the way, Jillian opened her folder and removed a pen, reminding herself that she was here to work.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I understand from Angelina that you’re interested in throwing a Christmas party or event of some sort. She wasn’t specific, but she did mention that you’re looking for something traditional and family oriented.”
He made a noise low in his throat that was part snort, part scoff. “That’s what I’d like, certainly, but unless you’re Jesus Christ Himself and able to work miracles, I’m not sure anything in your repertoire is capable of making our holidays family-oriented.”
“I’m sorry?” she said, brows dipping as she voiced her confusion.
With a sigh, Connor leaned back in his chair, linking his hands at his waist. “My brother and sister are…less than traditional, to say the least. Where I respect past customs, they thumb their noses at them. They would rather spend Thanksgiving or Christmas Day out with their friends, barhopping and flaunting their…” He paused, shooting her a curious glance. “You know we’re vampires, right? Angelina was clear on that?”
Though she hadn’t been prepared for the topic to come up—at least not so soon or in such a direct manner—Jillian nodded, trying not to show her surprise or unease.
With a slight tip of his own head, Connor continued. “I’m not ashamed of what I am, but I don’t feel the need to advertise it everywhere I go, either. It’s rather like religion—whatever your beliefs, they’re your own; you don’t need to go around announcing to everyone you meet that you’re Catholic or Baptist or worship the sun god Ra. Maeve and Liam, however, like to use their vampirism for sheer shock value. They hang out in vampire clubs, flash fang at every opportunity, do ‘tricks’ as though they’re part of some damn circus act.”
“And you’d prefer they blend in a little more, stay home for the holidays.”
His eyes glimmered and the tight line of his mouth relaxed marginally. “Yes. Is that so terrible?”
“Not at all. I’m not sure what I can do to help, though. I’m not a psychologist; I can’t convince them to become more reserved in their behavior or care about the same things that are important to you.”
A moment of complete and utter silence passed. Jillian wouldn’t have been surprised if crickets suddenly broke into song beneath her chair.
Shortest job interview ever, she thought, sure that he was about to give her the boot. Which wasn’t good for her résumé, but didn’t bode well for her plans to prove she wasn’t a prude, either.
She should have told him that of course, she could rein in his recalcitrant siblings in a mere three weeks and give him a warm, homey Christmas, to boot. She wasn’t only a party planner, she was also a babysitter and part-time, out-of-control-vampire wrangler.
And afterward, maybe she would click her heels together three times and whisk herself off to the merry, merry land of Oz.
“Can you give me a Christmas I’ll enjoy? One with all the trimmings that won’t make me want to run screaming into the early morning sun? If you can do that, then you’ll make me a very happy man, and I’ll”—his voice lowered to what could only be described as a growl—“I’ll take care of my brother and sister.”
BITE THREE
Connor’s level of confidence where his younger siblings were concerned was quite a bit lower than his declaration made it sound.
Did he wish he had the power to influence Liam and Maeve’s attitudes and actions? Certainly.
Had he had any success in doing so thus far? Not even remotely. And nothing that had happened in recent memory made him think he ever would.
But sitting across from the lovely Jillian Parker—the events planner Angelina had sent to help keep his holiday from becoming a complete and abysmal failure—he suddenly felt the need to preen…or at least to act as though being the patriarch of his family carried some weight with his unruly brother and sister.
Angelina had told him Jillian was good at what she did. His longtime friend had apparently attended several events that Jillian’s company had organized, and had been quite impressed.
What Angelina hadn’t told him was that Jillian Parker was hot with a capital H and two Ts.
From the moment Randall had opened the door and invited her in…from the moment he’d stepped out of the library and sniffed the air, he’d known she wouldn’t be just another random woman drifting in and out of his life. She smelled of peaches and cream and just a hint of honey, all of which seeped into his pores and set his blood on fire.
It had been all he could do to walk calmly across the foyer to introduce himself. To take her hand instead of her mouth.
He hadn’t been able to resist slipping his middle and index fingers over the inside of her wrist, however, to feel her pulse. To feel the beat of her heart in the one, slim vein, and the heat of her life’s blood that called to his own.
Having her here, working in his home, was going to be an experience, that was for sure. And an exercise in self-control; something he’d always prided himself on…but now couldn’t be entirely certain of.
Her blond hair was swept up in a loose knot at the back of her head, a few wisps falling free to frame her heart-shaped face and dust the pulse at her neck. He could see the gentle throb on both sides, even with the short distance that separated them.
She had bright blue eyes surrounded by light lashes and a raspberry-tinted mouth that could only be described as infinitely kissable.
Since it was winter in Boston, she was dressed more warmly and demurely than he suspected was the norm. Charcoal slacks and a thick red sweater with a deep, wide cowl neckline covered her from shoulder to ankle, but he
could very well imagine the luscious figure hidden beneath.
Professional on the outside, sexy as hell on the inside. A flush of intense arousal heated his skin at the thought, moving south at a rapid pace.
Even in stylish boots with a two-inch heel, the top of her head only reached his chin while standing. But though petite, her form was lush and curvaceous, and made him feel both protective and possessive. Unusual given their short acquaintance, but not something Connor was inclined to question at the moment.
Clicking the tip of her pen, Jillian crossed her legs and adjusted the pad on her lap, ready to take notes.
“That I can do,” she murmured, oblivious to the fact that he was nearly chewing nails on the other side of the desk, his mind having wandered hell and gone from worries about an ideal holiday celebration to stripping her of that soft sweater and exploring every inch of her soft, white skin.
Thankfully, the wide desk hid the proof of his distraction, but if he didn’t drag this out for a while, she and everyone he came in contact with in the next little while would know exactly what he was thinking of doing to his attractive new party planner.
“So tell me what it is you’re looking for in a holiday event. What would make your Christmas flawless with a capital F?”
Exhaling a deep breath, he rocked back and forth slightly in his cushioned black leather executive chair and did his best not to picture her beneath the tree on Christmas morning—naked and waiting for something that definitely started with a big, hard capital F. And it wasn’t flawless.
“I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but when I think of the perfect Christmas, I imagine the end of every sappy holiday special you’ve ever seen. A table brimming with all of the traditional holiday fixings…family gathered ’round, holding hands, singing carols, sharing stories, laughing….” He trailed off, reluctantly raising his head to meet her gaze. “Hokey, isn’t it?”
She offered him a gentle smile that was both friendly and sensual. Or maybe he was simply reading too much into it because Jillian Parker apparently couldn’t breathe without expelling sensuality like a thick, rich perfume.
