Read Online To Catch a Vampire by Jennifer Harlow - Free Book Online

the room, locking everything we can and putting the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. My stomach starts doing somersaults when the door closes but tumbles faster as we reach the steps. I hold onto the guardrail for dear life taking each step slowly.
    “Here, let me help you,” Oliver says, taking my left arm. “Lean against me.” Reluctantly, I do. My left arm wraps around his right and I clutch onto his hard bicep. “Tomorrow you will buy more sensible shoes. You are no good to me with broken ankles.”
    “Yes, pookie.”
    We reach the bottom of the stairs and I pull away, but he holds onto my arm. “Oliver …”
    “You are my wife,” he says seriously. “I help you.”
    He’s right, darn it. We walk arm in arm down to the lower level, past the portrait of Marianna. Someone cackles in the other room, and I near jump out of my skin. I’m a terrible, horrible liar. What if they find out? What if I become dinner? What if they laugh at me? Oliver must sense my fear. He stops us at the bottom, doing something unexpected. He kisses my cheek, slightly cold lips on my hot face. I look at him, not sure what to do. Do I pull away? Do I slap him? I just stare. “Do not worry, my beloved,” he whispers. “I will not let the wolves feast tonight.”
    “There you are,” a woman says in the other room. Gloria, the nudist next door, steps into the entranceway—fully dressed, thank the Lord. She’s in a skintight silver satin dress, her boobs barely contained. We match in that respect. Martini in her hand, she looks Oliver up and down as he often does to me. He allows her to do it, expressionless. “My, my, I can see why you don’t want to share. I certainly hope you change your mind.”
    Another woman, almost identical to the nudist, except with bright red hair and even bigger boobs encased in white lace steps out. She moves behind Gloria, placing her hand lightly on Gloria’s shoulder. I’m Raggedy Ann at a Barbie convention. The woman eye schtups Oliver too, bee-stung lips pursed in approval. Again, he does nothing. A tsunami of anger washes the anxiety away. Beatrice Smythe doesn’t let sluts mentally undress her husband right in front of her.
    “Excuse us,” I say through clenched teeth. I tug on Oliver’s arm to get him moving. We walk past the vultures, my head back and high. Oliver grins like a fool, either from the attention or my reaction. Most likely both.
    We’re the last to arrive at the party. The others sit in black and red silk chairs or on the matching couch. The walls and floors are the same dark wood as the rest of the house. Cole, the concierge, stands behind the bar with martini, scotch, and brandy glasses all lined up with bottles of alcohol and blood. The walls, except for the one with the stone fireplace, are filled with photographs and paintings from various eras. The Wild West, the Thirties—it’s a historical society’s dream room. Above the fireplace is another portrait of Marianna, this time lying nude on a bearskin rug with her black hair styled like Veronica Lake’s.
    The woman herself lounges on another fainting couch near a huge globe, sipping blood out of a martini glass. Unlike the rest, she’s dressed rather conservatively in black velvet capris and white button-down shirt with charm bracelet dangling from her small wrist. Her black hair rests on one shoulder, not a frizz anywhere. Her light brown skin, the same tone as my friend April’s, darn near glows. Her huge lips are painted red, or it could be from the blood. When we enter, her black eyes drink us in. “So good of you to show up,” she says. “I was beginning to worry.”
    The others wait for Oliver’s response. A boy and girl, seventeen if they’re a day, sit next to each other on the couch, the girl’s long red fingernail caressing the boy’s thigh. They could be twins, with the same sandy blonde hair, dark blue eyes, long limbs, and even the same nose. Heck, they even wear the same style clothes,