Dead Perfect (4 page)

“When I must.”

She slid a glance at him. “So, what kind of car do you have?”

“An old Firebird.”

“Black, I’ll bet.”

He turned to look at her, one brow raised.

She shrugged. “It wasn’t that hard to figure out.” She glanced pointedly at his attire. “You seem to like black.”

He looked thoughtful a moment before replying, “It suits me.”

When they neared the mall, he said, “Pull over. It’s early yet. Maybe we can find you something appropriate to wear.”

“Excuse me?”

“For the photo, Shannah. For the book cover, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” She pulled into the parking lot, found a place to park, and cut the engine.

It was Friday night and the mall was crowded. Ronan followed Shannah up the elevator to the second floor of Nordstrom’s, trailed after her as she moved from rack to rack in the Women’s Department, assiduously avoiding the mirrors that were virtually everywhere.

When a saleslady approached Shannah and asked if she could help, he told the woman they were looking for something suitable for a professional portrait. With a nod, the woman led them to another department and quickly picked out several outfits in Shannah’s size.

“I want to see you in all of them,” Ronan called as Shannah followed the saleslady toward the dressing rooms.

He waited for her near the entrance, his hunger aroused by the proximity of so many women, the sound of so many beating hearts.

Shannah emerged from the dressing room a few moments later clad in a mauve pantsuit.

He shook his head.

He rejected the next outfit, and the next, smiled when she appeared wearing a pair of navy blue slacks, a bright pink silk blouse, and a navy blue jacket with bright pink piping on the lapels. It made her look confident and successful.

“We’ll take it,” he said.

He bought her three other outfits for public appearances, pantyhose, shoes and matching handbags, as well as underwear, a nightgown, and a robe. He bought her several casual dresses with shoes to match, a couple pairs of jeans, sweaters and blouses. He also bought her a set of luggage and a day planner.

“This is too much,” she said. “Really.”

“You’re supposed to be a successful author,” he replied. “You need to look the part. Can you think of anything else?”

She shook her head as they left the last department store. “I don’t know how we’ll get all this into my car.”

“We’ll manage.”

He was heading for the elevator when she stopped at the entrance to the food court. “I’m hungry.”

“What do you want?”

“A corn dog and a root beer.”

Nodding, he waited while she put her packages down, then handed her a twenty-dollar bill. He was glad to see the line was thankfully short.

He felt his gorge rise at the myriad scents that assailed him, not only the smell of food and drink but the odor of the mall itself. But it was the scent of blood all around him that was the most unsettling. He could hear it pumping through a hundred hearts, smell it flowing, thick and rich and red, through the veins of the men and women closest to him. It aroused his thirst and with it, the urge to hunt. With an effort, he fought it down.

“Let’s go,” he said when she returned carrying a cardboard tray. “You can eat it in the car.”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

He shrugged. “I don’t like crowds.”

When she reached for the packages she had been carrying, he took them from her hand. “I’ve got them,” he said, his voice gruff. “Let’s go.”

She frowned at him but knowing it was useless to argue, she followed him out of the mall to the car.

He loaded the packages into the back seat and the trunk. “I’ll drive.”

Again, she didn’t argue, merely pulled her keys out of her pocket and dropped them into his outstretched hand.

He seemed tense, though she didn’t know why.

She wolfed down the corn dog, surprised at how hungry she was and how good it tasted. The root beer, too, tasted better than any she’d had in a long time.

When they reached his house, he parked the car in front, slid from behind the wheel, walked around the front of the car and opened her door. When she reached for one of the packages in the back seat, he waved her off.

“I’ll do it.”

“At least let me help.”

“Go to bed.”

Shannah stared at him. “What?”

“I said go to bed.” There was a strange glitter in his eyes; his voice was deep, a low growl that brooked no argument.

She didn’t argue, didn’t linger to ask what was wrong. Instead, she ran up the porch steps and into the house and didn’t stop running until she was upstairs in the bedroom with the door locked behind her.

What had she gotten herself into?

Agitated and more than a little afraid, she paced the floor, then came to an abrupt halt. How had he found her apartment? She hadn’t given him her address or her phone number. He didn’t have her last name. She knew he hadn’t followed her home when she ran away. She had glanced over her shoulder more than once to make sure he wasn’t behind her.

So, how
had
he found her?

And how had he persuaded her to invite him inside? She’d had no intention of doing so. And how had he convinced her to participate in this charade? She’d had no intention of doing that, either. Yet here she was, sharing a house with a complete stranger, albeit a very handsome stranger, who had just bought her a wardrobe worth a small fortune and was willing to pay the rent on her apartment and a salary while she pretended to be him. It seemed too good to be true. As her mother had often said, anything that seemed too good to be true probably was.

What had she gotten herself into? He had scared her tonight when he’d told her to go to bed. There had been something in his eyes, his voice…She shivered at the memory. Maybe she should tell him she had reconsidered his proposal and changed her mind.

Sleep, she thought, she needed to get some sleep. Perhaps things would look clearer in the morning.

She changed into the nightgown he had bought for her, turned out the light, and slipped under the covers, only to lie there in the dark, wide awake, wondering if her decision to stay here was going to turn out to be the biggest mistake of her life.

With a sigh, she turned on the light and propped the pillows behind her back. Digging his book out of her bag, she began to read.

Ronan listened to the sound of Shannah’s footsteps as she paced the floor overhead. Her scent filled the house. He knew she was doubting her decision to stay here, knew she didn’t trust him. Her agitation increased her heartbeat. He could smell the blood flowing through her veins. It called to his hunger, even as her fear aroused his instinctive urge to hunt.

He heard the faint creak of bedsprings as she got into bed, his mind instantly swarming with images of her lying there, her hair spread out on the pillow, her body relaxed as she waited for sleep.

Not trusting himself to stay under the same roof with her in his current condition, he fled the house.

Plagued by his unholy thirst, he stalked the dark streets until he found a woman leaving a café, unescorted. He followed her to her car and slid into the passenger seat.

She stared at him in alarm. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of…” The words died in her throat when she looked into his eyes. “No, please…”

He didn’t blame her for being afraid and yet he felt his anger rise as she cowered back against the car door. Perhaps he was being too harsh. Perhaps he shouldn’t be irritated by her fear. He knew how he looked when the hunger was upon him. He had seen the same look on the faces of others of his kind.

She thrust her handbag at him. “Here, take it, take it all, but please don’t hurt me.”

Take it all
. Did she have any idea what those words meant to one of his kind? To take it all, to drink it all, to revel in the power that came from drinking a mortal’s life and memories? Of course, she was referring to something else entirely.

“What makes you think I want your money?” He hated himself as soon as the words left his lips. What was wrong with him? He never toyed with his prey, never frightened them. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic.

She only stared at him, her body trembling uncontrollably.

“Listen to my voice,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Nothing to be afraid of.” She repeated the words. There was no expression on her face, no emotion in her voice.

He drew her into his arms. “Relax, now. Close your eyes. You have nothing to fear from me.”

She went limp in his embrace. Her head lolled back against his arm, exposing the long clean lines of her neck, and the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

With a low growl, he bent his head and surrendered to the ravening beast within him.

Shannah woke with the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears. Sitting up, the blanket clutched to her chest, she turned on the light, her gaze darting around the room, lingering in the shadows in the corners.

Just a bad dream. That’s all it had been. Just a bad dream. Expelling a shaky breath, she realized she had fallen asleep while reading Dark’s vampire book. Just a bad dream. But it had seemed so real…glowing red eyes staring down at her, bared fangs only inches from her throat, a sudden sharp pain that quickly turned to sensual pleasure…So real.

She lifted a hand to her neck, her fingers probing the skin below her ear, relieved to feel nothing more than her own smooth skin.

She took one last look around the room, turned off the light, and slid under the covers once more.

“That settles it,” she murmured. “No more books about vampires before bedtime.”

Ronan spent the next few weeks coaching Shannah. He gave her a list of all his books and a brief synopsis for each one.

“I want you to read the books so you’ll be familiar with them,” he told her. “If you memorize the outlines for now, you’ll be able to respond intelligently if someone asks you what a particular book is about.”

He gave her answers for every possible question he thought she might be asked, questions like how much research she did for each book, and did she visit the different locales she wrote about, and why she had decided to write romance novels in general and paranormal romances in particular, and wasn’t she afraid of giving her readers unrealistic expectations about love and happy endings.

Tonight, they were sitting on the sofa in the front room, his books spread out between them. A fire burned in the hearth, adding a cheerful glow to the room.

“Another question interviewers might ask you is, don’t you think that by writing romance novels, you’re feeding into a dangerous fantasy.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Shannah asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know. But you can’t say that. If they ask you that question, just say that if that’s the case, then you’re in good company, since many of the classics, from
Cinderella
to
Jane Eyre
, are basically romances with happy endings.”

“That may be all well and good for your books,” she said glumly, “but there’s no such thing as a happy ending in real life. Everybody knows that.”

He was inclined to agree with her, but didn’t say so.

“I mean, look at the statistics. Three out of five marriages end in divorce.”

“Have you ever been in love, Shannah?”

“I thought I was once, but…” She shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It didn’t work out.”

She had been hurt, though she didn’t say so. It saddened him to think that one so young should have been hurt so deeply.

“Another thing they’ll ask you about is fan mail. I get quite a lot, although most of it comes as email these days.”

“People actually write to you about your books?”

“Oh, yeah.” Most of the letters were from women, of course, thanking him for giving them a brief respite from housework, or for helping them through a rough time in their lives, or for giving them a newfound love for reading. One letter he particularly cherished had come from a teenage girl who wrote that his books had saved her life. She had been contemplating suicide and whenever she felt that way, she went to her room and read his books. He also received mail from men from time to time, though most of them were inmates at various prisons and institutions.

“Do you write back?” she asked.

“Of course. Anyone who takes the time to sit down and write a letter deserves an answer.”

“Could I read some of your fan mail?”

“If you like. But not now.”

“What about my life?” she asked. “I mean, your life. What should I say if they ask about your past?”

“Tell them whatever you wish, as long as it’s either true or can’t be proven a lie. I’m sure someone will ask you how you started writing. My typical answer is that I started writing because I was bored with television.”

“That’s easy enough.”

“Another question you’re sure to be asked is how you do the research for your love scenes.”

“You’re not serious?”

“It’s a very popular question.”

“So, what do I say? That I take notes while I make love?”

He stared at her a moment, and then laughed. “That’s a far better answer than anything I’ve ever come up with.”

“I was kidding.”

“If you say it in jest, it might be answer enough,” he remarked, thinking he liked her more and more every day.

Shannah sat up straight and stretched her back and shoulders. “I’m hungry.”

His gaze darted to the pulse beating in her throat. He was hungry, too, he thought.

Always hungry, whenever she was around.

She cocked her head to the side and regarded him through curious eyes. “Why don’t you ever eat with me? I’m not that bad a cook, you know.”

“I prefer to eat in private,” he said. “It’s a particular quirk of mine.”

“That’s really weird.”

“I suppose so.”

“If you like to eat in private, how come there wasn’t any food in the kitchen when I got here?”

Damn the girl, why did she have to ask so many questions that were best left unanswered, at least for now?

“Weevils,” he said, thinking quickly. “They were into everything, so I threw it all out.”

She looked at him, her expression skeptical. “Even the dishes and the pots and pans?”

Bless the girl, she didn’t miss a trick! “Why don’t you go fix yourself something to eat?” he suggested. “I need to go out for a short time.”

“You go out every night. Where do you go?”

“Maybe some day I’ll tell you.”

She made a face at him, then left the room.

He stared after her. She was far too bright and asked far too many questions for his liking. If he was smart, he would send her on her way and forget about the book tour. Staying home wouldn’t hurt his career and he was certain he could mollify his editor and his agent. And if he couldn’t, well, he could always change his name and find a new publisher. The only thing was, he liked having Shannah around. She had bloomed in the last few weeks. Where she had once been frail and sickly looking, she was now the picture of vibrant good health. Her skin glowed, her hair was thick and lustrous, her eyes bright and clear. She was a beautiful young woman in the prime of her life.

And he wanted her.

Shannah stood at the stove, stirring a pan of chicken noodle soup, her mind filled with questions, all of them about her mysterious host. She wondered where he slept, since she slept in the only bed in the house, and where he kept his clothes. She never saw him during the day. He didn’t eat. She had noticed there were no mirrors in any of the rooms.

The word
vampire
whispered, unbidden, through the back corridors of her mind.

She dismissed it with a shake of her head. He had answered the door when the sun was still up. He couldn’t be a vampire if he was active during the day, even though he looked like one.

She laughed out loud. Who knew what a vampire looked like? In books, they were often described as skeletal figures with hairy hands, long bony fingers, and glowing red eyes. In movies, they were often portrayed as funny and sexy, like George Hamilton, or handsome and sexy, like Frank Langella.

Ronan was definitely handsome and sexy. Maybe he
was
a vampire.

A vampire who wrote best-selling romance novels. Right.

She poured the soup into a bowl, pulled a box of saltines out of the cupboard, and sat down at the table. For weeks now, she had been able to eat anything she wanted without getting sick to her stomach. She felt wonderful. The small mirror she carried in her purse told her she looked better than she ever had in her whole life. Her skin practically glowed. Her hair was thicker than before. Was this a sign that death was imminent? Her doctor had said she might enjoy a burst of good health before the end.

Her doctor. She had an appointment with him tomorrow. She had been feeling so good the last few weeks, she had forgotten all about it until now; now she was tempted to skip it. If she was better, why bother going? And if she wasn’t? Why bother going when they couldn’t do anything to help her?

She finished her soup, washed the dishes and put them away, then went into the living room. Ronan hadn’t returned, so she picked up the book she had been reading. He really was a terrific writer. She had read three of his books so far and every one of them had been a keeper, a real page turner. She wondered where he got all his information about vampires, then shrugged. He had a computer. You could find anything you wanted to know on the Net. Plus he had hundreds of books. Some of them could be research books, she supposed, though she had never heard of vampire research books. But then, there were a lot of things she had never heard of.

Settling back on the sofa, she opened the book and lost herself in another world.

Ronan stood in the doorway, his gaze on the woman who was so engrossed in one of his books that she didn’t even realize he was in the room. It pleased him to think she was so caught up in a world that he had created that she wasn’t aware of her own surroundings. The thought made him smile. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing that others enjoyed his work. He had a dozen boxes filled with fan letters, as well as a number of files on his computer where he stored his email according to the year it had been received. But the fact that Shannah enjoyed his stories pleased him more than anything else.

She really was lovely, he mused, and then frowned. It occurred to him that she was quite young, probably too young to have written as many Eva Black books as he had. If asked, she would have to lie about her age. These days, with collagen injections, Botox, skin peels and plastic surgery, it was hard to judge a woman’s true age. Of course, it wasn’t unheard of for an author to turn out more than one book a year. He wrote two books a year, sometimes three. One author he knew of, who was much more famous than he was, wrote six books a year, but she was a law unto herself. He often wondered how she found time to do anything else.

Ronan took a step into the room. The movement caught Shannah’s attention and she glanced in his direction.

He jerked his chin at the book in her lap. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, very much, although I have to admit I was surprised when you killed off the housekeeper.”

He laughed softly. “Always keep the reader guessing,” he said, taking a place on the sofa. “If you kill off a major character, it keeps the reader wondering who else you might knock off before the end of the book.”

“Ah. I’ll have to remember that in case it comes up,” she said, and then frowned. “There’s so much to memorize, I know I’ll never be able to remember it all.”

“Sure you will.”

“What if I forget something?”

“Then just fake it.”

“What if my mind goes blank? What if I freeze up during one of the radio interviews?”

“Shannah, stop worrying. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

“But…”

“If it proves to be too much for you, or you really can’t handle it, then we’ll just cancel the tour and come home.”

“Just like that?” she asked, snapping her fingers.

“Just like that.”

“You’re awfully kind.”

Ronan stared at her. Kind? He had been called a lot of things in five hundred years, but kind had not been one of them.

His gaze moved over her, lingering on her lips. What would she do if he drew her into his arms and kissed her? Would she be shocked? Repelled? Or would she kiss him back?