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Authors: Heidi Betts
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first place.
But it had been so long since any human had even thought to imagine what he truly was. So long since he’d had someone to talk to, really talk to.
He couldn’t explain the strange urge bearing down on his soul, pushing him to confide in this woman he barely knew. Scratch that—didn’t know at all.
He’d stumbled upon her, mistaken her for someone else, and now wanted to sit down and tell her his life story? Obviously, he was losing his mind. Or maybe her brain tumor theory was contagious.
But the need was so strong. She was beautiful, and already suspicious of his true identity, which meant she would be a rapt audience for his tale. And he wouldn’t mind spending a few more hours with her . . . being open with her, honest with her, having a genuine conversation in which he didn’t need to lie or resort to subterfuge to conceal his true nature.
He would have to remove any traces of their interaction later, of course. He might be feeling momentarily vulnerable and more affable than ever before in his existence, but he wasn’t stupid. And before he would allow her to walk away with her head full of true knowledge about him and his race—or worse yet, allow her to go home and write about him for her tabloid rag—he would turn into the monster humans thought vampires to be and do something dire, if necessary.
Tilting his head in the direction of the bedroom door, he said, “Come with me,” and then started in that direction, knowing that she would be too curious not to follow.
While she was still several paces behind him, he passed through the kitchen, grabbing two long-stemmed glasses and one of the bottles of wine she’d opened earlier. No sense letting it go to waste.
A small smile curved his mouth as she padded across the tile after him while he circled through and headed for the living room. Setting the bottle and glasses on the low glass table fronting the wide sofa, he took a seat before pouring them each a drink. Holding one out to her, he patted the cushion beside him.
She might be wearing layers of his clothes, with very little of her own figure visible beneath, but damned if her own innate femininity didn’t shine right through. He could make out the line of her breasts and the pebbled thrust of her nipples, which had his fangs pricking against his tongue. When she sat, she crossed one leg beneath her, revealing the shape and long musculature that had gotten her through three consecutive shows onstage, even though she apparently didn’t belong there.
He filed that away as something else to ask her about. Perhaps down the road. But first, he wanted an answer to his original question . . . and then he knew she would want answers to hers.
Taking a sip of the nearly black Chateau Margaux, he studied her, just as she was studying him. Like a bug under a microscope. Or maybe more like the slide of a deadly bacteria under a microscope—warily, but with a good dose of curiosity thrown in, as well.
“Now,” he said, “tell me why it is you believe I’m a vampire.”
He was careful not to flash his fangs as he spoke, otherwise her theory would be proven, and she’d have no reason to answer. He also didn’t want to scare her—and for some odd reason, humans tended to react badly to a man who revealed two long, razor-sharp incisors when he smiled. Maybe that’s why he didn’t do it very often. Go figure.
She swallowed hard. Her fingers clutched the glass in her hand so tightly, her knuckles turned white, but she didn’t bother tasting the blackberry wine inside.
“Well . . .” She paused, cleared her throat, and began again. “Powers of deduction, I guess. You’re very elusive. Even though you’re one of the wealthiest businessmen in Las Vegas—possibly the entire United States—you’re rarely seen out and about. And if you do go out in public, it’s always at night.” Her eyes narrowed as she met his gaze squarely, intent. “Always. To my knowledge, you’ve never
But it had been so long since any human had even thought to imagine what he truly was. So long since he’d had someone to talk to, really talk to.
He couldn’t explain the strange urge bearing down on his soul, pushing him to confide in this woman he barely knew. Scratch that—didn’t know at all.
He’d stumbled upon her, mistaken her for someone else, and now wanted to sit down and tell her his life story? Obviously, he was losing his mind. Or maybe her brain tumor theory was contagious.
But the need was so strong. She was beautiful, and already suspicious of his true identity, which meant she would be a rapt audience for his tale. And he wouldn’t mind spending a few more hours with her . . . being open with her, honest with her, having a genuine conversation in which he didn’t need to lie or resort to subterfuge to conceal his true nature.
He would have to remove any traces of their interaction later, of course. He might be feeling momentarily vulnerable and more affable than ever before in his existence, but he wasn’t stupid. And before he would allow her to walk away with her head full of true knowledge about him and his race—or worse yet, allow her to go home and write about him for her tabloid rag—he would turn into the monster humans thought vampires to be and do something dire, if necessary.
Tilting his head in the direction of the bedroom door, he said, “Come with me,” and then started in that direction, knowing that she would be too curious not to follow.
While she was still several paces behind him, he passed through the kitchen, grabbing two long-stemmed glasses and one of the bottles of wine she’d opened earlier. No sense letting it go to waste.
A small smile curved his mouth as she padded across the tile after him while he circled through and headed for the living room. Setting the bottle and glasses on the low glass table fronting the wide sofa, he took a seat before pouring them each a drink. Holding one out to her, he patted the cushion beside him.
She might be wearing layers of his clothes, with very little of her own figure visible beneath, but damned if her own innate femininity didn’t shine right through. He could make out the line of her breasts and the pebbled thrust of her nipples, which had his fangs pricking against his tongue. When she sat, she crossed one leg beneath her, revealing the shape and long musculature that had gotten her through three consecutive shows onstage, even though she apparently didn’t belong there.
He filed that away as something else to ask her about. Perhaps down the road. But first, he wanted an answer to his original question . . . and then he knew she would want answers to hers.
Taking a sip of the nearly black Chateau Margaux, he studied her, just as she was studying him. Like a bug under a microscope. Or maybe more like the slide of a deadly bacteria under a microscope—warily, but with a good dose of curiosity thrown in, as well.
“Now,” he said, “tell me why it is you believe I’m a vampire.”
He was careful not to flash his fangs as he spoke, otherwise her theory would be proven, and she’d have no reason to answer. He also didn’t want to scare her—and for some odd reason, humans tended to react badly to a man who revealed two long, razor-sharp incisors when he smiled. Maybe that’s why he didn’t do it very often. Go figure.
She swallowed hard. Her fingers clutched the glass in her hand so tightly, her knuckles turned white, but she didn’t bother tasting the blackberry wine inside.
“Well . . .” She paused, cleared her throat, and began again. “Powers of deduction, I guess. You’re very elusive. Even though you’re one of the wealthiest businessmen in Las Vegas—possibly the entire United States—you’re rarely seen out and about. And if you do go out in public, it’s always at night.” Her eyes narrowed as she met his gaze squarely, intent. “Always. To my knowledge, you’ve never
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