Dead Perfect (8 page)

The store manager, a short, red-headed man named Fred Barton, led her to a table near the center aisle of the store. Again, there were flowers and refreshments and stacks of Ronan’s latest novel.

Shannah sat down, wishing Ronan was there beside her, but she didn’t have time to fret over his absence for long. Within minutes, she was surrounded by readers asking for her autograph or a photo or both. Most of the comments and questions were similar to the ones she had been asked the night before, readers wanting to know when her next book would be out, if she was planning a sequel to the last one.

During a lull, Shannah glanced around the store, startled to see the man who had introduced himself as Jim standing at a book rack a few feet away. Catching her gaze, he smiled and nodded at her.

Feeling a sudden sense of unease, Shannah nodded back. Was he following her, or was it just a coincidence that he happened to be there?

Her apprehension increased when he walked toward her, one hand reaching into his pocket. Good Lord, did he have a gun? But it was only a book, one of Ronan’s older ones.

“Jim,” he said, handing her the book. “Remember?”

“Yes. I’m surprised to see you here.” She frowned inwardly, wishing she could remember why he looked familiar. She had seen him somewhere besides the signing the night before, but she couldn’t remember where.

He shrugged. “I finished the book I bought last night. It was good, so I thought I’d try another.”

“How did you know I was going to be here today?”

“It was in this morning’s newspaper.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know if it had been or not.

He glanced around. “Your friend didn’t come with you today?”

“No, he had some personal business to take care of.”

“Maybe I could take you out for a drink when you’re through here.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on,” he coaxed with a smile. “There’s a little pub right down the street. We can walk.”

“I’m afraid not.” She signed the book with a flourish and handed it to him. “Thank you for coming.”

“My pleasure.”

As it had last night, the two hours flew by. She thanked Mr. Barton for having her, signed the three backlist books that hadn’t been sold, and was about to gather her things when a man stepped up to the table.

“Excuse me, Miss Black,” he said. “I’m Carl Overstreet.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a business card. “I’m a freelance reporter. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

“I guess not.” She glanced at the card, wishing Ronan was there to advise her.

“Thank you. This won’t take long.”

Shannah resumed her seat, her hands clenched in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was up to a spur of the minute interview, then decided it might be good practice for the radio interview in New York.

Overstreet was right. It didn’t take long. She thought it odd that he asked only a handful of questions, and most of those concerned Ronan and her relationship with him.

Rising, Overstreet shoved his notebook into his coat pocket, thanked her for her time, and left the store.

Shannah followed a few moments later.

Jim was waiting for her outside. He smiled affably, displaying a dimple in his left cheek. “I thought I’d wait around and see if I could change your mind about that drink.”

She was about to say “no” and then she thought, why not? What harm could there be in a drink? “Just a quick one,” she said. “I need to get home.”

“Whatever you say.”

Jim took her arm as they crossed the street. The pub was located on the next block.

The Pub O’Brien was a quaint little place, not too dark, not too crowded. Jim guided her to a table next to a window, held her chair for her, and then sat down. Moments later a pretty young woman wearing a white off-the-shoulder blouse and a short green and blue plaid skirt dropped a basket of peanuts on their table. Jim ordered a beer, Shannah asked for a 7-Up with a cherry.

“You’re not much of a drinker, I guess,” Jim remarked.

“Not really.”

“You’re the first romance writer I’ve ever met,” Jim said. He leaned forward in his seat, his hands clasped, his forearms resting on the table.

She shrugged. “There are lots of us out there. Do you read many romances?”

“A few now and then.”

“Most men don’t.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Their loss, I guess. You write a good story, lots of action. Sometimes I find it hard to believe they’re written by a woman.”

“I’m not sure how you meant that, but I think I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I hope so because that’s how I meant it. So, the man who was with you. Anything serious going on there?”

Shannah hesitated, not sure how to answer that.

“Don’t you know?” he asked with a grin.

“It could become serious,” she replied, “but it’s not now.” She smiled her thanks at the waitress who brought their drinks.

He grunted softly. “So, who is he? Your agent?”

“More like my publicist.” Strange, she thought, that Jim and Overstreet both seemed more interested in Ronan than in her. “He arranged my tour.”

“I see.”

She frowned. “I’m not sure I like what you think you see.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just trying to find out how involved you are with him.”

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“No, I guess not.” He sat back in his seat. “I’m sorry if I came on too strong. It’s just that I find you attractive and intriguing. And that’s rare these days.”

“Thank you.” Sipping her drink, she gazed out the window. The sun was setting in the distance. She wondered if Ronan was back at the hotel.

“Any chance I could take you out to dinner tonight?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She took another sip of her drink, then set the glass aside. “I’d better go. He’ll be waiting for me.”

“All right.” Jim quickly drained his glass and left some money on the table.

Shannah hurried toward the door, acutely conscious that he was behind her. She was suddenly uncomfortable without knowing why.

“Would you like me to drive you back to your hotel?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll get a cab.”

“It’s no trouble.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“All right, Miss Black. It was nice meeting you.”

“Thank you for the drink. Good-bye.”

She watched him walk back toward the bookstore, relieved to be alone.

Ronan was waiting for her when she reached her room at the hotel. “You’re late,” he said, his voice deceptively mild.

“Hello to you, too,” she said, dropping her handbag on the table.

“Where have you been?”

“I went out for a drink when I left the bookstore. Is that all right with you?”

He took a deep breath, let it out in a long slow sigh. “I’m sorry, Shannah. How did the signing go?”

“It was good. Not quite as many people as last night, but they sold most of the books they had so…” She shrugged. “The manager asked me to sign the leftover stock.”

Nodding, he closed the distance between them, his nostrils flaring. “Who were you with?”

“Lots of people.”

“No.” He inhaled deeply. “You were with two men.”

Shannah felt a guilty flush heat her cheeks. “How do you know?”

“I know. Who were they?”

“One was a reporter. Carl something or other.” Rummaging in her handbag, she pulled his card out and handed it to Ronan. “He asked a lot of questions about you.”

Ronan glanced at the card, then dropped it on the coffee table. “What did he look like?”

Shannah shrugged. “Short, dumpy. Thick glasses. He wasn’t Clark Kent, I can tell you that.”

“And the other man?”

“He seemed nice enough. He took me out for a drink. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

“Who was he?”

She shrugged. “He said his name was Jim. Just another one of your many fans. He was at the signing last night, too.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed ominously. “Describe him.”

“He’s a little taller than I am, with blond hair and….” Shannah’s eyes widened as she suddenly remembered where she had seen him before. “Of course! He was the man on the curb across from the photographer’s studio. I thought he looked familiar!”

Hands clenching at his sides, Ronan swore a vile oath.

“You said he isn’t a friend of yours, so who is he?” Shannah asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ronan replied curtly. Jim Hewitt was a vampire hunter. He hailed from Nevada, which begged the question—what the hell had he been doing in North Canyon Creek, and why was he now in Los Angeles? Ronan didn’t like the answer that quickly came to mind. “Did you tell him where you’re staying?”

“No.”

“Did he follow you here?”

“I don’t think so. It was just a drink. What’s the big deal?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right. What’s wrong? Who is this guy? Why are you so upset?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Have you had dinner?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“He’s someone I know. Someone I don’t want to see. Someone I don’t want you to see again.”

“Well, since we’re leaving town tomorrow night, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m going to order some dinner and take a bath. I don’t suppose you want me to order anything for you?”

“I’ve already dined.”

“Of course. I keep forgetting you like to eat in private.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her shoes, then picked up the phone and ordered a shrimp dinner, a piece of lemon meringue pie, and a glass of iced tea.

Hanging up the phone, she looked at Ronan. “I’m going to take a bath now.”

He nodded, then murmured, “Ah, I guess you want me to leave.”

“Good guess. Maybe we can watch some TV later.”

“Call me when you’re ready.”

“All right.”

Drawing her into his arms, he kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry for being such an ass. Forgive me?”

“I guess so,” she said with a sigh. “But, geez, chill out, will ya?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, laughing. “I’ll chill out.”

Still laughing, he went into his own room and shut the door. She really was too young for him, he thought, and in more ways than just her age, but she was still the most delightful creature he had ever known.

Jim Hewitt stood at the end of the bar alone, one hand fisted around a glass of Irish whiskey. Maybe his luck was changing at last! He had gotten a tip from another hunter that Ronan was in a little town in Northern California. He had flown to North Canyon Creek as soon as he had finished his last job. He had spent a week and a half tracking the vampire, getting to know his habits and his hangouts.

Hewitt had followed the woman a couple of times, but he hadn’t been able to find out much about her. The car she drove was registered to Scott Davis in Middletown, New York. The mail in her mailbox was addressed to Shannah Davis. Further investigation revealed that she was twenty-four years old and that she had lived in North Canyon Creek a little over a year. When he’d followed her and the vampire into the bookstore the night before, he’d had no idea she was a published author and concluded that Eva Black was a pseudonym. After leaving the bookstore, he’d done a little sleuthing into Eva Black’s publishing history.

The first Eva Black book had been published seven years ago. Since then, she had published thirteen books, which meant that she either wrote at an alarmingly fast pace, or she had published her first book before she got out of high school, which seemed unlikely. Every instinct he possessed told him that she was a fraud, though what she hoped to gain by masquerading as Eva Black puzzled him. And when the real Eva Black got wind of it, there was sure to be a lawsuit…He shook his head. Nobody in their right mind would pass themselves off as a romance writer just for the fun of it. In the long run, there was nothing to be gained by it except perhaps a lot of embarrassment. So, for now, he would assume she was indeed Eva Black and that she was just very prolific. He knew of authors who wrote several books a year, and one young man who had published a book when he was only fifteen years old, and had that book made into a movie. In the long run, whether the woman was Eva Black or not was of little importance to him. What was important was her connection to the vampire. Was she under the vampire’s thrall, or was she simply someone he had marked as prey? It was a mystery, but he liked mysteries, especially ones that came wrapped in packages as pretty as this one. And while it was the vampire he was after, he wasn’t opposed to mixing a little pleasure with business if the opportunity presented itself.

Tonight, Hewitt had followed the lovely Miss Black back to her hotel. A little subtle sleuthing had uncovered the information that she and the vampire were checking out tomorrow night at six. And he would be right behind them.

Whistling softly, Jim finished his drink. He was about to leave the bar when a man moved up beside him.

“Can I buy you another?” the stranger asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“I think we could help each other.”

“Is that right? What makes you think I need help?”

“You’re after the vampire, right?”

Hewitt shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The tall man hanging out with the author.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jim said, injecting a note of boredom into his voice. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Carl Overstreet. I’m a freelance reporter. I’ve been working up in Northern California for the last few months, trying to get the real story on vampires.”

“And you think Miss Black’s companion is a vampire?”

“I know he is. And you’re a hunter.”

“What do you want?”

“I want an interview with the vampire before you take his head.”

Hewitt laughed. “Right.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’re out of your mind. What makes you think this guy’s a vampire?”

“I saw him in action once, a few years ago.”

“Where?”

“Some little town outside of Sacramento. I was in a bar, a little tanked, and went out the back door by mistake. It opened into an alley. And he was there, bent over some woman’s neck. Scared the crap out of me when he looked up, his eyes red, his fangs dripping blood.” Overstreet shuddered. “I ran back into the bar and out the front door like the devil was on my heels.”

“So, how’d you know he was here, in L.A.?”

“I didn’t. I came down to do a story on Spielberg’s next blockbuster. It was just coincidence that I was in that bookstore in Hollywood the other night. I knew who he was the minute I saw him.” Overstreet shuddered. “That’s a face you don’t forget.”

Hewitt grunted softly. Ordering a glass of whiskey, he moved toward a table in the back of the pub.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s talk.”