Microsoft Word - The Mammoth Book of Vampire Romance.doc (7 page)

“I’ll need an address. And, of course, a deposit.”

He swallowed hard again. “Yeah. Sure.” He leaned forwards as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “When will you . . . do it?”

I was pretty sure Miles had explained my modus operandi when Jeffrey had contacted him. (How this kid had managed to find Miles in the first place might be an interesting story, if I were nosier.)  But he seemed too rattled and nervous to remember, so I generously answered him anyway. He slid a slim

envelope across the table to me.

“Within the next two weeks he’ll disappear, never to be  seen again.” I verified the amount on the cashier’s cheque inside  the envelope, then looked up and caught Jeffrey’s eye in one of  my more menacing stares. “If you’re killing him for an  inheritance, you’ll have a long wait before he’ll be declared  dead. His body will never be found.”

He shivered. “I don’t care about the money. I just want him

dead.” There was a sheen of tears in his eyes, though none fell.

Generally,  I don’t like to ask my clients any questions. I trusted Miles  –  sort of  –  not to give me innocent victims, and hey, since I had to eat anyway, I might as well get paid for it.  But maybe I was getting soft in my old age. I couldn’t help being just a little  curious, seeing as this kid was nothing like my usual clients.

51

“What’d he do?” I asked. I think Jeffrey was relieved to be

able to tell me.

“He killed my mother.” The anguish in his voice told me  that his grief was still fresh and raw. “He married her for  her  money because he knew she was already sick. Then when the  cancer didn’t kill her quickly enough, he poisoned her.”

OK. This was definitely not sounding like my usual case. I know I said I didn’t care about the details, but I couldn’t help prodding just a little bit. “And have you told this to the police?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Everyone says she died of natural causes, but I know better. She was supposed to haveanother couple of years, and then six months after she married this asshole, she’s dead. And he’s got half her estate.”

I supposed it did sound kind of suspicious, at least to a grieving son. I tucked the envelope with the cheque into my pocket book, wondering if I was going to end up killing an innocent person after all.

But then  I brightened. I had two weeks to make the kill, and  I had an (admittedly) almost feline enjoyment of playing with my food. With a little clever investigating, I could find out for myself whether Ross killed his  old lady or not. If it turned out he didn’t,  then Junior here could be my flavour of the month. I don’t make a habit of killing my clients  –  Miles rather frowns on that  –  but I thought I could make an exception if it turned out that Jeffrey had hired me under false pretences. It wasn’t like  Jeffrey’ s death would ever be attributed to me.

“Give me two weeks,” I said, reaching across the table to  shake his hand again. “After that, you won’t have to worry  about him any more.”

52

After Jeffrey left, I slipped back inside and took a seat at the bar beside one of the drunken losers I’d noticed earlier. He was

such a sorry specimen, I might not even have needed my  supernatural powers of persuasion to wrap him around my little  finger, but I didn’t want to hang around this dive any longer  than necessary. The  moment I managed to catch his attention  – not easy when his tequila was so much more interesting  –  I  mesmerized him with my gaze. No one paid any attention to us  as I led him back to the grimy, unisex bathroom. Based on the  taste of him, there was more alcohol than blood running through  his veins and I swear I felt a bit tipsy after I drank. No, I didn’t  kill him. While I need to feed every night, I only have to make a  kill every few weeks, to recharge my psychic battery. If I don’t  recharge it, my body will slowly wither and die, and that’s  where my line of work comes in handy.

After I left, and had a short, dark and disgusting nap to sleep it off, I decided to take a first pass by my target’s house. It was well after midnight by now, so I didn’t expect to do more than a drive-by, just to familiarize myself with the neighbourhood, but when I got there, it was to see lights blazing all through the house.

I parked my car (an intentionally nondescript brown Camry)

by the side of the road and took in the sights.

It was a nice neighbourhood, a typical example of wealthy suburban America. Houses on what I’d estimate were one-acre lots, many of them hidden from the road by generously wooded front yards. Wealthy, but not ultra-wealthy, if you know what I mean. These were houses, not mansions. I frowned a bit and wondered whether someone living here really had enough money to tempt a man to marry and then murder her. I wouldn’t have thought so, but then money makes people the world over act like idiots.

53

It started  raining, a heavy summer downpour that could last for five minutes or five hours. I made an impulsive decision to meet my soon-to-be victim this very night.

No way was I going out in the rain in my expensive leather pants. Luckily, I was in the habit of keeping a duffle bag with a change of clothes in the back seat. Comes in handy when my meals aren’t as . . . tidy as they should be.

The street was deserted, everyone with any sense asleep snug in their beds, so I didn’t worry about being observed as Ichanged into jeans and a T-shirt. The T-shirt had been a gag gift from Miles. It was white, with the words “BITE ME” emblazoned in bold black letters across the chest.

I pushed open the car door and stepped out into the rain. I was soaked through before I’d  closed the door behind me.  Luckily it was a comfortably warm night.

I splashed my way down the driveway towards the  Blackburn house, stealing glances at the lighted windows as I approached, but I didn’t catch sight of my quarry. I was going to be pissed if I’d got drenched only to find him not home after all.  I rang the doorbell, then took advantage of the covered front porch to wring some of the water out of my hair. The porch light flickered on, and I noticed that my white T-shirt had predictably,

gone see-through in the rain. My sheer lace bra ensured that my  assets were plainly visible. I’m not what you’d call modest, but I  figured it would enhance my disguise as a helpless damsel in  distress if I pretended to be, so I crossed my arms over my chest  as footsteps approached. I even hunched my shoulders a bit as if  I were cold.

The door swung open, and I caught my first sight of Ross

Blackburn.

54

My immediate impression was that he was far too young to have been married to a woman old enough to be Jeffrey’smother. I wouldn’t have put him as a day over 30. My second impression was . . . hubba hubba! If I were in the market for a toy boy, I’d have been wiping the drool from my chin. The look he gave me  –  a long, slow, up and down, followed by a frown and a disdainful sniff  –  suggested I was not making a similar

impression.  I unfolded my arms, ostensibly to free my hand to  brush my hair out of my eyes. I have to admit, though, I was a  little miffed when he didn’t even glance at my chest.

“Yes?” he prompted, because I’d apparently stood there

gaping too long.

“My car broke down,” I told him while batting my  eyelashes. “May I use your phone to call a tow truck?” The  batting eyelashes didn’t seem to make any more impression than  my boobs. I must have been losing  my touch.

“No cell phone?” Blackburn asked with a raised eyebrow.

What an asshole! Here was this helpless, drenched, sexy woman standing on his doorstep at an ungodly hour and he’d so far shown no inclination to invite me in out of the cold. OK, so it wasn’t actually cold, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“I left it at home,” I said and I let him hear the edge of  annoyance in my voice. “Look, yours is the only house with  lights on. Sorry to bother you, but if you’ll just let me make a  quick call, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

The corners of his mouth tightened in displeasure, but he stepped aside and opened the door wide enough to let me in. A spoken invitation would have been much nicer, but it seemed I wasn’t getting one. I gritted my teeth  against the painful resistance as I crossed the threshold. His non-verbal invite was

enough to get me through, but not enough to make it a pleasant

55

experience. Luckily, either I was a good enough actress to hide  my discomfort, or he was sulking over my unwanted intrusion,  since he didn’t seem to notice the effort it took me to come

inside.

“Wait here,” he ordered me, and I wanted to smack him.  Where did he get off giving me orders? It wasn’t like I was the  hired help! I thought about dear little Jeffrey and let a small  smile curl my lips. In a manner of speaking, I was hired help  after all.

Blackburn wasn’t gone long. Before I’d even had a chance to look around, he emerged from what I presumed to be a powder room, carrying a fluffy white hand towel. For the first time, I realized the foyer was made of beautiful, shiny hardwood, and that I was so wet I was dripping on the small rug that fronted the door.

I took the towel from him almost gratefully. I supposed I couldn’t blame him for not wanting me to drip  all over his hardwood.

“Thanks,” I said as I began to blot water from my hair.

“No cell phone and no umbrella,” he mused. “It appears you

were ill-prepared for this evening’s outing.”

I glanced up at him from under my fringe. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was being a jerk or if that was supposed to be friendly banter. I’m usually better than that at reading people.

“I also didn’t bring a spare car, a hairdryer or condoms,” I  quipped. “I’m ill-prepared for just about anything except a quiet  evening at  home.”

56

For the first time, a hint of humour glinted in his eyes. Eyes,  I might add, that were the kind of smoky grey hue that would look blue if he were wearing a blue shirt. Yum.

“I can’t help you with the car or the hairdryer, but if you  need condoms,  feel free to ask.”  The humour had drifted down  to his lips, which were now curved into a faint, but truly sexy,  smile. As far as I could tell, he still hadn’t taken in the view my  wet T-shirt offered.

I let the towel settle around my shoulders and peered  up at him, trying to get a read on him. I noticed the gold band that circled his ring finger. I’d neglected to ask Jeffrey how long ago his mother had died, though I knew from his fresh grief it had been recent. I thought it  notable;  however, that Blackburn still wore the wedding band. If he’d married and murdered her for her money, it seemed like he’d dispense with the ring while in the privacy of his own home.

He saw the direction of my gaze, and the smile faded.  “Please forgive my . . . erratic manners.  My wife passed away last month and I’m not quite myself yet.”

“Oh!” I gasped in feigned surprise. “I’m so sorry!” I  reached out to touch his arm in a gesture of feminine sympathy.  He looked appropriately sad, but it was hard to see that crack  about the condoms as anything but flirting. Of course, some men  flirt by instinct. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Thank you,” he said, gently extracting his arm from my

grip. “The phone is this way.”

I prised my wet sneakers off and left them on the doormat, then followed Blackburn through the dining room and into the kitchen. He indicated the phone on the wall, then settled his butt against the butcher-block counter across from me and watched with unnerving intensity as I dialled.

57

“You must not be new to car trouble,” he said.

I frowned at him as the phone began to ring. “Why do you say that?” As soon as the words left my mouth, my brain caught up and I knew what he was about to say.

“You’ve memorized the number for the tow truck.”

I grinned  ruefully;  I was letting myself get too hot and bothered by Mr Ross Blackburn. Hormones and clear thinking don’t go together. “My car’s a piece of shit,” I confided.  “Pardon my French.”

Finally, Miles answered the phone with his usual brusque,

“Yeah?”

“Hi,” I said. “This is Gemma Johanson. I need a tow truck  at . . .” I gave Blackburn a raised eyebrow, and he told me the  address, which I dutifully repeated.

“That so?” Miles asked. He was used to calls like these,  though usually I warned him in advance that I’d be calling and  let him know who he was supposed to be.

“How long will it take?”

“How long do you
 
want
 
it to take?” he countered.

“An hour!” I wailed in mock dismay, and Miles snorted  with laughter at my acting. “It’s after midnight, and I’m stuck in  some stranger’s house. Can’t you get someone here faster?”

“An hour, eh? I take it this one is going to die with a smile

on his face?”

I sighed dramatically, wishing Miles would get his mind out of the gutter. Never mind that mine was there right with him.

58

“Oh all  right!” I said with exaggerated patience. “But I’m not

keeping my host up for a whole hour.”

Another snort of laughter. “I’m sure you’re quite capable of