Some Girls Bite (19 page)

Mallory slid into the chair next to him, filling him in on her fabulous dance experience, his eyes alight with amusement as she chatted with vital animation, pushing her hair behind her ears as she talked. I sipped at my cocktail and downed the water that waited for us.

Suddenly, the song ended and the club became silent, even as strobes flashed around us. A haze of fog began to flow around our feet, a prelude to the ominous beating vibe of Roisin Murphy’s “Ramalama,” which began to spill through the room. The club’s dancers, who’d paused tremulously between songs, waiting for the signal to move again, screamed joyously, and began thrusting to the music once again.

We rested for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular, when Catcher took the drink from Mallory’s hand, deposited it on the table, and led her back to the dance floor. When she turned back to me, her face radiating shock that he’d had the nerve to expect her to follow without a fuss, I winked back.

I rolled the ice around in my drink, watching Mallory blush as Catcher swayed against her, when a voice next to me suddenly asked, “Good song, don’t you think?”

I looked over, surprised to find a smiling man with his arm stretched along the booth behind me. His hair was cropped, vaguely wavy, and dark brown, framing cut cheekbones, a cleft chin, and a strong jaw dotted with a day’s worth of stubble.

But for all that he was handsome, it was the eyes that pulled me in, that focused the attention. That accelerated the pulse. His were dark, and set beneath long, dark eyebrows. He peered at me beneath long, black lashes, his gaze seductively masked. The lashes rose, fell, rose again.

Sexy Eyes wore a fitted black leather jacket—trim lines, Mandarin collar, very alt-rock—over a black shirt that snugged his lean torso. Around one wrist was a watch with a wide leather wrap-band. Altogether, the look was urban, rebellious, dangerous, and damn effective on a vampire. And he was
definitely
a vampire.

“It’s a great song,” I answered, having finished my look-see, and inclined my head toward the dance floor. “And the kids seem to like it.”

He nodded. “So they do. But you aren’t dancing.”

“I’m taking a breather. I was out there for nearly an hour,” I told him, practically yelling to ensure that he could hear me over the pulsating music.

“Oh? Like dancing, do you?”

“I get around.” Realizing how that sounded, I waved my hands. “That’s not what I meant. I just mean I like to dance.”

He laughed and settled a bottle of beer on the table. “I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” he said, smiling softly and giving me a full-on look at his eyes. They weren’t brown, as I’d first thought, but a kind of mottled navy blue.

And I was struck by the thought that when he finally kissed me, they would flash and deepen, silver pulsing at the edges—

Wait. When he
finally
kissed me? Where in God’s name had that come from?

I narrowed my gaze at him, guessing the source of the trickery. “Did you just try to glamour me?”

“Why do you ask?” His expression was innocent. Too innocent, but a corner of my mouth twitched anyway.

“Because I’m not interested in finding out what color your eyes turn when you kiss.”

He grinned wickedly. “So it’s the condition of, what, my mouth that’s on your mind?”

I rolled my eyes dramatically, and he laughed and tipped back his beer, taking a swallow. “You’re wounding my ego, you know.”

I gave his body, at least the portion that wasn’t hidden under the table, a quick appraisal. “I doubt that,” I told him, and took a heartening sip of my own cocktail. A quick glance around the club confirmed the suspicion, revealing more than a few women—and a handful of men—whose eyes were glued to the man beside me. Given the intensity of their gazes—and my penchant for stepping on toes—I wondered if he was some kind of vampire celebrity I was supposed to know about. Afraid of being gauche again, I didn’t want to come right out and ask, so I decided to carefully steer my way toward an introduction. “You come here a lot?”

He wet his lips and looked away briefly, then back at me, grinning wildly like he knew a special secret. “I’m here quite a bit. I don’t remember seeing you before.”

“It’s my first time,” I admitted. I inclined my head toward Mallory and Catcher, who swayed at the edge of the crowd, their bodies mashed together from the waist down, their hands at each other’s hips. Quick work, I thought, grinning at Mallory when she caught my eye.

“I’m here with friends,” I told him.

“You’re new—newly made, I mean.”

“Four days. And you?”

“It’s impolite to ask someone his age.”

I laughed. “You just did!”

“Ah, but this is my place.” That explained the secret smile, but since I knew nothing about the club, it didn’t give me any helpful information about who he was.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I held up the half-full cocktail in my hand. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

He nodded and sipped his own beer. “How are you finding vampiredom?”

“If it were a house,” I answered after some serious consideration, “I’d call it a fixer-upper.”

He snorted, then covered his nose with the back of his hand while sliding me an amused glance. It made me smile to think that even cute vampire boys got beer up their noses. “Well said.”

I grinned at him. “We do try. How do you find vampiredom?”

He crossed his arms, cradling the beer against his chest, and gave me a once-over. “The perks are nice.”

“Oh, come on. Surely you’ve got better lines than that.”

He looked heartbroken. “I’m pulling out all my best material.”

“Then I’d hate to see the bottom of that barrel.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and moved closer, the motion sending little sparks across my skin, then panned an outstretched hand in front of us. “Imagine a landscape of nothing but astrology references and naughty limericks. That’s what you’re going to reduce me to.”

I covered my heart in mock sympathy. “I’d say that I’m sorry to hear that, but mostly I’m sorry for the women who have to listen to it.”

“You’re killing me here.”

“Oh, don’t blame this on me,” I said on a laugh. “It’s the material that needs work.”

“Oh, I blame you,” he said solemnly. “I’m going to die a lonely man—”

“You’re immortal.”

“I’m going to live a long, lonely life,” he quickly corrected, slouching down a little in the booth, “because you’re being overly critical about my pickup lines.”

I patted his arm, the muscle firm beneath my hand, and felt a sympathetic blush cross my cheeks. “Look,” I told him. “You’re a nice-looking guy.” Under. Statement. “I doubt you need pickup lines. There’s probably a desperate woman out there just waiting for you to come along.”

He mimicked pulling a knife out of his chest. “Nice-looking?
Nice?!
That’s the kiss of death. And you think a desperate woman is the best I can do?” He made a frustrated sound, the effect of which was dampened by the impish tilt of his mouth. Putting the bottle back on the table, he stood up. I thought I’d managed to scare him away, until he held out a hand. I raised questioning brows.

“Since you’ve wounded me, I figure you owe me a dance.”

There was no room for debate in the pronouncement, no space for error or adjustment. Was it the male vampire mind, I wondered, that precluded the possibility of discussion? That couldn’t comprehend a challenge to authority? Or maybe it was an authority issue. Based on what I’d heard about his sports fixation, I didn’t think this was Scott Grey, the head of the House that bore his name. Whoever he was, he exuded that same sense of purpose as Ethan. He was high on the ladder, whatever House claimed him.

And I, of course, was but a lowly Initiate. But a lowly,
single
Initiate, so I stood and took his hand.

“Good,” he said, eyes twinkling, then linked our fingers together and led me to the dance floor, which gave me another chance to appraise. He was a couple of inches taller than me, maybe right at six feet. His bottom half was as rock-and-roll as his top—dark, distressed jeans that perfectly encased his long legs, black boots, and a thick leather belt that held the jeans at his hips. And best of all, a divine tush that was perfectly framed by the designer denim. The man was a walking Diesel ad.

When he found a spot for us, he turned back to me and lifted my hands around his neck, put his hands at my hips, and moved in perfect syncopation to the music. He didn’t try complicated dance steps—no twirls, no bends, no demonstrations of his prowess. But he moved his hips against mine in time to the throbbing beat, all the while staring down at me with a quirky half smile. Then he wet his lips and leaned forward. I thought he meant to kiss me, and I flinched, but instead he said, his lips close to my ear, “Thanks for not refusing me. I’d have had to slink out of my own club.”

“I’m sure your ego would have withstood it. You’re a big, strong vampire, after all.”

He chuckled. “Somehow, you don’t seem all that impressed with vampiredom, so I wasn’t sure I had that to recommend me.”

“Fair enough,” I gave him. “But you’ve got really nice . . . shoes.”

He blinked, then cast a dubious glance at his boots. “They were in my closet.”

I snorted and plucked at the sleeve of his jacket. “Please. You’ve been planning this outfit for a week.”

He burst out laughing, throwing his head back to revel in the moment. When he settled down again, occasionally wracked by aftershocks of laughter, he smiled keenly down at me. “I admit it. I give a shit what I look like.” Then he plucked at the thin cap sleeve of my shirt. “But look what it got me.”

There was no response I could give to that other than to beam back at him for the compliment, so that was exactly what I did. He smiled back and put his hands at my hips, and I settled mine to the firm curves of his shoulders, and we danced. We danced until the song changed, jumping immediately to something faster, something stronger, and then we kept dancing—silently, intently, as bodies moved around us.

I realized then that part of the buzz, of the vibration of my limbs, wasn’t from the raucous music. It came from him, from the tangible hum of power that rode beneath that trim, stage-ready form in front of me. He was a vampire, and a powerful one.

The music changed again, and he leaned forward. “What if I asked for your phone number?”

I grinned up at him. “Wouldn’t you like my name first?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “That’s probably important information.”

“Merit,” I told him. “And you are?”

His response wasn’t what I expected. His cheery grin faded, and he froze in place, even as people moved around us. His hands dropped from my hips, and I self-consciously tugged my hands back from his shoulders.

“Morgan. Navarre, Second. Which House are you?”

That explained the vibe of power. I had a bad feeling about his reaction to my answer, but offered anyway, tentatively, “Cadogan?”

Silence, then: “How did you get in here?”

I blinked at him. “What?”

“How did you get in here? My club. How did you get in here?” His gaze took on a steely glint, and I guessed that flirty, getting-to-know-you time was over. Then I remembered Catcher’s words, his warning that Cadogan was looked down upon for drinking from humans.

I scanned his face, trying to read his expression, trying to gauge if that was where the sudden anger had come from—some irrational bit of House discrimination. “Are you joking?”

He grabbed my hand and yanked me through the dancers off and away from the dance floor. When we were back in the club proper, he forced me to a stop and glared at me. “I asked how you got in here.”

“I came in through the front door just like everyone else. Would you just tell me what’s wrong?”

Before he could answer, his troops arrived, a cadre of vampires who clustered around him. Front and center was Celina Desaulniers, Chicago’s most famous vampire. She was as beautiful in person as she was on TV. A pinup-worthy, comic book-curvy vampire—slim build, long legs, tiny waist, voluptuous bosom. She had long, wavy black hair that set off bright blue eyes and porcelain skin. Hiding very little of that skin was a short sheath dress of champagne-colored satin, which was gathered into intricate folds at the bodice. Her heels matched the shade perfectly.

She looked at me with obvious disdain. “And who is this?” Her voice was honey, thick-flowing and effective, even on boy-crazy me. I felt a brief, insistent urge to fall to her feet, to beg her for forgiveness, to move closer just so I could brush a hand against her skin, which I knew would be soft as silk. But I clenched my hands against what I belatedly realized was another Navarre attempt to glamour me, my resistance strengthened by the fact that Mallory and Catcher had joined us, and stood behind me supportively. Celina’s eyes widened, and I guessed she was surprised the trick hadn’t worked.

“Merit,” Morgan crisply said, the tattletale. “Cadogan.”

“Would someone please explain to me what the problem is?” I got no response to the question. Instead, Celina looked at me, looked me over, arching a delicately shaped eyebrow. She repeated Morgan’s name, an implicit demand.

“You need to leave,” Morgan said. “We’ve got humans here, and we don’t allow Cadogan vamps in the club.”

I stared at him. What did they think I was going to do? Start munching on dancers? “Look, the guy at the door let my friends and me in here,” I said, intent on making them understand, on pushing through blind prejudice. “We weren’t causing any trouble—we were dancing. We certainly weren’t harassing humans.”

I looked to Morgan for support, but he only looked away. That small act of rejection, of denial, pricked. Frustration began to give way to anger, and my blood began to fire. I moved to take a step forward, but a hand at my elbow stopped me.