A Vampire's Promise (3 page)

My eyes strayed over to the bar. I'd told myself I wasn't going to look because I couldn't care less, but I'm a lousy liar. It's not every day I find a guy who can rock my world with a single look. Crushing disappointment left an unexpected hole in my gut. The Viking was gone. So was Miss Juicy.

R
eaching the double entry doors, I turned back around. Catching Laycee's attention, I put one hand to the side of my head and made the universal gesture that said
call me
. She waved in acknowledgment, so I pushed the door open with my butt and continued on out.

If I'd been looking where I was going I would have seen him, but I was busy rummaging in my purse for my keys and never stood a chance. Crashing into a wall of solid muscle knocked the breath out of me, and I began to fall backward. The only thing that saved me from landing on my ass was a pair of strong hands grabbing my upper arms and holding me as my knees buckled.

“Shit! I'm so sorry!” I blurted, automatically taking the blame for the collision as my feet scrambled for purchase. As my uncoordinated dance played out, my purse hit the deck and spilled its contents. The hold on my arms loosened, and we both bent to retrieve my belongings.

I never realized how much junk I carried until I saw it spread out at my feet for the entire world to see. They say you can tell a lot about a woman from the contents of her purse. I hate to think what mine says about me. Disorganized, messy, and juvenile. The last a direct reference to the Spongebob Squarepants Band Aids I carry. Just in case. Slightly embarrassed, I began shoveling everything back inside the leather tote. It was no easy task. Even with help.

“You forgot one.”

I looked up to see long, slender fingers wrapped around a tube of Pearly Pink lip gloss.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful it hadn't been the emergency tampon I also carried.

Getting up off my knees, I looked at him. And wished I hadn't. Across a busy room, he'd been incredibly good-looking; this close, he was drop-dead gorgeous.

The night air was heavy, and the humidity hadn't let up one lick. I could feel the sweat starting to bead at my hairline. A few more minutes and I'd feel like I'd just taken a shower. Only I'd be hard-pressed to say with any certainty if the cause was atmospheric pressure or the way he was looking at me. I took a step back

“I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?” he asked as his brow furrowed with concern.

For a moment I thought he was talking to someone else, and I actually glanced over my shoulder, expecting to see Miss Juicy, but the bartender was nowhere in sight. We were the only two people standing on this side of the door. I turned back and gave him my full attention.

The porch suddenly seemed to have shrunk in size, becoming far too small for the two of us, and I became acutely aware of his presence filling every inch of available space. Something else I hadn't taken into account was how the distance between us inside the bar might have altered his physical proportions. Obviously, I'd been able to tell he was tall and broad through the shoulders, just not how tall or how broad. And I really hadn't allowed myself to take more than a superficial look at his features, a mistake I decided to correct.

The light streaming through the window behind me highlighted the bone structure of his face, revealing planes and hollows that caught my interest. He was definitely magazine cover material and then some, but this was no pretty boy hoping he'd look more adult if he skipped shaving. I avoided his eyes, already aware of their effect. His nose was long and straight, dividing the symmetry of his face perfectly, and his mouth . . . yeah, that was a place I didn't need to spend too much time examining either. Wide enough to balance his features, the full bottom lip was a suggestive promise all by itself.

If he thought any woman needed a reminder of his masculinity, I could have told him the five o'clock shadow was unnecessary. The determined line of his jaw, with a chin that hinted at stubbornness, was proof enough. Even the long blond hair did not detract from his maleness. His face matched his body. Strong, hard, and definitely alpha male. I stared back at him, and my own body unexpectedly zinged. Something it hadn't done for quite a while.

“I'm fine,” I managed to get out, still able to feel his fingers wrapped around my arms. “I didn't hurt you, did I?” Amusement flickered across his face at my concern.

“No, at least not this time.” His voice was smooth, like melting honey, and it sent weird little thrills running through me.

“Excuse me?” I forced myself to get a grip and focus on his mouth, which wasn't the smartest move on my part.

“You did quite a number on my ego earlier, and a man's ego, as I'm sure you know, is a fragile thing.”

I managed not to snort, which would have been rude. That particular statement might be true about any other man on the planet, but not him. “Oh yeah?” I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You sent back my drink.” The dimple appeared and winked at me. “May I ask why?”

“I don't accept drinks from guys I don't know.”

Good Lord! Could I sound any more sanctimonious? But I noticed he paused, as if considering the validity of my answer.

“Any chance I could ask you to reconsider?”

Oh, shit! I blinked at him. I couldn't possibly have heard right. And then the sensation that we'd met before prickled again, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand up.

“Sorry, am I being pushy?” he asked.

His words slid up and down my spine, and the smile he gave me said he wasn't sorry at all. An alpha male, he was simply following the rules of an age-old game. A game that I was being invited to play. And suddenly I knew this was about so much more than a drink.

“Pushy?” I mumbled.

“Yeah.” The smile became flirtatious. “It means forceful, insistent, and . . . you're staring at me.”

“Oh Christ! I'm sorry.” I apologized again and dropped my eyes, which meant I was now looking at his belt buckle, or rather the area just below it. His jeans were a snug fit. Shit! I looked back up at his face, perturbed at the unaccustomed warmth burning my cheeks. This guy was rattling my cage in ways I'd never thought possible. “Look, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but . . . have we met before?”

He didn't laugh at me, even though I'm sure he was tempted, nor did he regard me with some sort of patronizing sneer. Instead he became surprisingly serious. “Why, do you think we have?”

I was the one who laughed. Too loud, and too shrill. One of those Oh-God-I'm-such-a-moron laughs. No doubt the reason he seemed familiar was because he was a model and I
had
seen him before. Only it was in a magazine and, let's be honest, who really gives more than a cursory glance at pictures of men selling aftershave or deodorant? But that still didn't explain why he would be in a dive like this in the first place. Unless—

“Oh God—you weren't stood up, were you?” The words tumbled out of me before I could stop them.

His smile was very superior. A man like him, with his face and body, didn't get stood up. Ever. Not only was I behaving like an idiot, I was behaving like a rude one. My question was way out of line, and I felt awful, apologizing for the third time in as many minutes. What the hell was wrong with me?

“I'm sorry, it's just that you don't seem like the normal type of . . .” What? Supermodel? Fantasy calendar poster boy? Exotic male dancer? None of which I had any experience with, but I would bet my last dime they wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this out of choice.
Way to go, Rowan! Let's get a backhoe in here because I really think you need to dig that hole a little deeper.

I wanted to bite my tongue just to shut it up. He said nothing. Instead he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the railing, watching me squirm. And he was enjoying it far too much, if the gleam in his eye was any indication. All I could do was gawk at his perfect toothpaste-commercial-white grin.

“Look, I'm sorry, please forget I said anything.”

“Only if you'll let me buy you that drink.”

I didn't get him. After what I'd just said, any other man would have been running in the opposite direction. Fast. It suddenly struck me that perhaps he was one of those guys who can't accept it when a woman says no. Their egos tell them that anything with ovaries is instantly smitten in their presence. With this new train of thought running through my head, I narrowed my eyes and stared at him, seeing him in a different context.

I tried to imagine what Laycee would tell me to do. It wasn't much of a stretch. I could almost hear her whispering in my ear to check if he'd had a tonsillectomy—with my tongue. Her words about playing it safe and my empty bed rolled around inside my head.

My very own pinup uncrossed his arms and slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, waiting for me to give him an answer. The easy grin had vanished; his face was serious as he waited for me to speak. I looked up and caught the unnatural shade of blue of his eyes. No one had eyes that color, which meant he was wearing contacts and, strangely, that made me feel better. He wasn't so perfect after all.

And there was something else. He still might turn out to be a jerk—I didn't have enough evidence one way or the other to be sure—but for whatever reason, he really did seem to be interested in me. At least he was giving off all the right vibes. If he'd actually come over himself instead of sending Miss Juicy, I might have had some first-impression nerves, worried that I had lipstick smeared on my teeth or something, but I would have invited him to sit down and join us. Yeah, life is full of moments labeled woulda, shoulda, coulda.

I sighed and looked at him, feeling my stomach do a lazy, really good kind of roll. Apparently my body had some very definite ideas what my answer should be, and that in itself disturbed me. My physical reaction to him was unnerving. He was unnerving.

“Why?” I finally managed to blurt out.

“Well, not only did you refuse my drink, you're also the only woman who made a point of avoiding me when you went to the bathroom.”

I laughed again. Not quite the moronic sound I'd made before but still steeped in anxiety.

“Sorry, maybe another time,” I told him.

O
kay, so I wasn't expecting him to be crushed by this second rejection of mine, but he could have faked being disappointed. It would have been the polite thing to do. He didn't. Instead he tilted his head slightly as if he hadn't been expecting me to say anything else. And then it was his turn to look at me, narrowing his eyes as if, on a purely academic level, he was mentally listing my reasons for saying no. I imagine it didn't happen very often.

“Then may I walk you to your car?” The look he gave me this time didn't make me think we had met before. It made my thigh muscles jump. My body was more than happy to accept a consolation prize.

None of this made any sense. If I wasn't going to let him buy me a drink, why would I allow him to potentially trap me between parked cars in a poorly lit parking lot? What did he think I was? Desperate, easy, or stupid? Turning his head, he looked out over the sea of vehicles.

We were standing close enough that anyone passing would know we were talking, but far enough apart that we weren't
together,
if you know what I mean. I stared at his hands. They were large, the fingers long and well-manicured, and it didn't look as if he made his living with them. Unless he was a surgeon or something. And then I thought about Laycee's current beau, and checked for a wedding band or a telltale tan line. I saw neither.

“I'm sorry?” I said, suddenly aware he'd been talking and I hadn't heard a word.

As he turned back toward me, his hair fell over his shoulder like a white waterfall. It reached the middle of his chest, and with his pale blond features, he really did remind me of a Viking from a storybook. All that was missing was the horned helmet and sword, although I remember reading somewhere that horned helmets were usually saved for religious ceremonies, not for battle.

“A parking lot isn't always the safest place,” he said, “especially when the lighting isn't good.”

He was right about that. The lighting here was nonexistent. I had parked beneath the only functioning pole in the entire lot, but the illumination it put forth was about as strong as the night-light in my bathroom. And just as effective.

Then, as if to illustrate his point, one of the good ol' boys stumbled out of the bar. How he made it down the three steps off the porch without falling over was a miracle in itself. Having reached the bottom, the drunk turned and leered at me. At least I think that's what he was doing, but he could just as easily have been trying to work out why he was now outside the bar. Still, I could tell from the way he screwed up his face that he wanted to say something. Probably proclaim himself the best thing that was ever going to happen to me. Thankfully, the effort of getting his brain and mouth in sync took more skill than he currently possessed. The Viking took a step forward and the drunk swiveled his head dramatically. He hadn't realized I wasn't alone. With a baleful glare at my porch companion, he belched, thought better of trying to hit on me, and took off. I watched him weave his way unsteadily through the parked cars.

“I hope he's not planning on driving,” I mumbled under my breath.

“He isn't.” The reassurance came from behind my shoulder, making me jump. I hadn't realized the Viking had moved that close to me. “He's just going to climb in the back of his truck and sleep it off.”

“Friend of yours?” I mean, how else would he know that?

The mane of blond hair moved across his shoulders. “No, but I saw him give his keys to the young lady behind the bar earlier.”

My inner bitch perked up.
With her assets, I'm surprised you even noticed!

He gave me a strange look, almost as if he, too, had heard the voice in my head. I flexed my fingers, making my own set of keys jingle noisily.

“May I?”

My would-be protector smiled as he stepped past me and stretched out his hand toward the open lot. A stranger was offering to walk me to my car, and I couldn't help but hear the warning bells that went off in my head. He might be a deranged serial killer! Yeah, but he did have a nice smile. Of course, so did most serial killers. I think it's some sort of prerequisite. It was on the tip of my tongue to refuse his offer, but I could definitely feel something zinging. Somehow, I didn't think he was dangerous. Well, not in a homicidal maniac way.

“Thank you, I would appreciate that.” I used my best you-better-not-fuck-with-me voice as I stepped off the porch, determined to prove a point to myself, if no one else.

We headed for the far end of the parking lot, maintaining the same distance between us. I don't know if he had still been conversing with Miss Juicy when Jake had arrived, but part of me hoped so because then he would know I was on a first-name basis with a member of law enforcement. You can always recognize a cop, even when they're dressed like the rest of us.

My car, which I affectionately refer to as the POS, came off the General Motors assembly line sometime in the mid-seventies. It still ran fairly well, with help from the guys down at the local garage, and it got me pretty much wherever I wanted to go. I don't think, however, the folks in Detroit actually have a name for the paint job it had been given by a previous owner. I know I didn't, but Pimping-It-Purple came close.

The good thing was, no one was ever going to steal it.

The bad thing was, no one was ever going to steal it.

“Well, here I am,” I said, in my best cheerleader imitation.

Whatever his first impression of the POS, he did a magnificent job keeping it to himself. He walked slowly around my car, doing whatever it is guys do when they walk slowly around cars. Checking to see how much duct tape was holding it together? When he reached the front of the car, he paused, standing beneath the pathetic arc of light, and I realized he was more than gorgeous. He was . . . beautiful. How could I not have noticed?

The T-shirt he was wearing fit like a second skin, almost shrink-wrapping his upper body, and he didn't require a visual reminder of passing puberty. Permitting myself a glance south, I saw the rear of his jeans was just as great as the front, and I was appalled at being so easily swayed by his physical appearance. Realizing I was on the verge of stepping into something I had no idea how to handle, I put my key in the lock in the driver's-side door, relieved to hear the soft thunk as it released.

“Your friend was right about one thing.” The honeyed voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Yeah? And what was that?” I turned back around, knowing I was probably about to be fed a line of absolute BS, but wanting to hear it anyway. This is what happens when you have no love life to speak of.

A grin lifted the corners of his mouth, which looked very kissable. “I
was
looking at you.”

The flame exploded somewhere just below my solar plexus and rushed up my chest and neck before slapping me in the face. I was grateful the light wasn't any better. What the hell was I supposed to say now? For the first time in—well, never—a guy was actually telling me that he'd been staring at me. On purpose. And not just any guy.
This guy
. Only I still couldn't figure out why.

At this point my brain went into some sort of shutdown, like a computer that freezes up and needs rebooting. My body was lighting up for him like it was the Fourth of July, and I stopped questioning his motives. Any vestige of good sense completely evaporated as the vain hope that he might want to separate me from my underwear filled my head.

With absolutely no idea what had gotten into me, I was filled with the urge to peel off his T-shirt, cover him with whipped cream, and lick it off . . .
slowly.
I have never, and I mean
never,
had this type of reaction to a guy. Frantically I tried to remember if Laycee's well-intentioned lecture applied to sudden, all-consuming lust. I didn't much care.

Nervously I waited for the potential father of my children to say something else, but he remained quiet. Moving from the front of the POS, he stopped barely an arm's length away from me and folded his arms across his chest. I watched, fascinated, as his biceps bunched and flexed. Some girls like a tight ass, others a well-defined six-pack, but me? I'm an arm girl. Nicely toned forearms, a great pair of biceps, topped by a terrific set of shoulders. I am so there.

“Wh-why would you b-be looking at me?” I stuttered, sounding like Minnie Mouse on crack. Ogling him was affecting my voice.

“Why wouldn't I want to look at you?” He seemed genuinely puzzled, and not at all distracted by my speech impediment. “Why wouldn't any man?”

He didn't move, but I suddenly felt as if he was surrounding me, using his body to push me back against the side of my car. And then, just as quickly, the odd, claustrophobic feeling vanished.

“Are you sure you won't reconsider?” he asked. “About the drink, that is?”

Oh my God, was he for real? Shit! Shit! Shit!

“Yes.” The word rushed out of me before I lost my nerve.

“If you'd rather, we could just have coffee—”

What was wrong with him? Hadn't he heard me?

“Yes!” This time I shrieked.

He looked startled and then relieved, almost as if he had been expecting me to turn him down again.
Three strikes and you're out!
The dimple appeared in his cheek. God, it was sexy.

“Great. Is tomorrow night okay?”

My brain unfroze itself, rebooted, and rescued me by closing down my tongue. Apparently it couldn't be trusted to function properly. All appropriate responses were going to be reconfigured as head movements. I nodded at him.

“Shall we meet here, around eight?”

I nodded more vigorously, which I think he took as a sign of encouragement because he closed the distance between us, giving me the insane idea he was going to kiss me. Of course, he didn't. Instead, he reached behind me and opened the car door. I got inside.

Keeping one hand on the roof, he leaned down, and the scent of something flooded the space between us. I didn't know if it was his cologne or shampoo or soap, but it made my senses purr.

“I like your car,” he said with a grin. “It's a classic.”

No one had ever called the POS that before.

“Th-thanks. It's old.” I managed to squeak. Not quite Minnie now, but still a close relative.

“Don't worry”—he flashed the dimple at me again—“wait until you see mine. It's even older.”

He closed the door, and I hurriedly rolled down the window, my hand cranking the lever for all it was worth, in case he had more he wanted to say to me. He did.

“Drive carefully. See you tomorrow.”

I barely noticed the ride home. The POS managed to negotiate the twisting county road with no guidance from me whatsoever. Or at least that's how it seemed. Perhaps she, too, had been charmed in the parking lot.

It had been an eventful night. I had a date. In the grand scheme of things a single woman going on a date was nothing to get excited about, except I hadn't been on one for, geez—had it really been that long? I was stunned at how simple a process it had been. He'd asked and I'd said yes. Okay, so I hadn't actually managed to articulate the word, but I had nodded like a demented bobble-head doll. Suddenly I jerked the wheel and nearly ran the car off the road.

Shit! I had a date, all right—with a guy whose name I didn't even know!