Dirty Rotten Tendrils (38 page)

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Authors: Kate Collins

BOOK: Dirty Rotten Tendrils
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I glanced around to see what artillery lay within my reach. A pair of small ceramic doves? A silk posy? Pink candles?
Get a grip
, that inner voice of reason whispered in my ear.
He’s a customer!
“Can I help you?” I said, my voice coming out in an embarrassing squeak.
He smiled, revealing a set of even white teeth, except for the canines, which were longer than the rest. Wolflike, in fact. “You must be Abby.”
How did he know my name?
He removed a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. “I’m told you have a good selection of houseplants. In particular, I’m looking for these specimens.” He handed me the paper. On it was a list of neatly printed plant names: bloodwort, Dracula orchid, devil’s tongue, wolfsbane, strangle-weed mistletoe, voodoo lily, bat flower.
Was he serious? The only thing keeping that list from being completely ghoulish was the absence of a Venus flytrap. “I don’t have any of these plants in stock, but I’m sure I can order them from my suppliers.”
“How soon would they arrive?”
He had a mere hint of an accent, but I couldn’t place it. Czech, perhaps? “Usually in three to four days.”
“That will do.”
“They may be expensive.”
He shrugged. “Cost isn’t a factor.”
“I’ll need to take down your name and phone number.” I pointed to the cashier’s counter, my excuse for putting some distance between us. “My order pad is over there.”
Instead of moving, he studied me with those icy wolf eyes. “Irish or Scottish?”
“Excuse me?”
“Red hair, green eyes, light skin, and freckles. You have to be Irish or Scottish.”
“Irish. And English—mother’s side.” Why was I telling this stranger my background?
He crouched in front of my chair and picked up my injured foot. “Bad sprain, eh? Did you break the skin?”
“No.” How did he know it was a sprain?
“Good. Always a risk of a blood infection when the skin is broken. Get some staphylococcus in there and you’re in for a rough ride.”
Who
was
this guy?
I removed my gigantic booted foot from his grasp. Being in a vulnerable position made me extremely edgy—not that he was giving off any bad vibes, however. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was strikingly good-looking, virtually thrumming with virility and sex appeal, reminding me very much of my fiancé, Marco.
“Do you want me to order those plants?” I asked, trying not to betray my jitteriness.
He smiled again as he rose. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
The bell jingled and Marco walked in, looking undeniably male in his black leather jacket, lean jeans, and black boots. Steely-eyed and iron-jawed, he swept the room with his dark gaze in an instant, gauging the stranger’s close proximity to me, no doubt assessing my immediate danger.
I was so relieved to see him that I wanted to leap out of my wheelchair and hop across the room to throw myself in his arms. “There you are,” I called, maneuvering my chair around the stranger.
Marco gave the clock behind the cashier’s counter a quick glance. “Am I late?”
“I’m early,” the wolfman said. “I wanted to order some houseplants for my apartment.”
Early for what?
“Ah. Then you’ve already met Abby,” Marco said.
“We haven’t been formally introduced,” the man said, giving me a dazzling smile.
“Abby Knight,” Marco said, “this is Vlad.”
Wait. What?
This
was the man Marco was training to take over the bar? His foxhole buddy when he was in the army? The guy he described as
average
-looking?
Vlad walked up to me and bowed from the waist. Then he took my hand, removed his list from my tightly clasped fingers, pocketed it, and brought my hand to his lips. “Vladimir Serbanescu, at your service. Vlad Serban, to make it easy.” He pressed his lips against my fingers. “Or New Chapel’s resident vampire, if you’d prefer.”

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