Authors: Emma Holly

Tags: #Ghost stories, #Vampires, #Horror, #Paranormal, #Fiction, #Romance, #Paranormal romance stories, #Motion picture producers and directors, #Occult fiction, #Ghosts, #Occult & Supernatural, #Love stories

Angel at Dawn (10 page)

BOOK: Angel at Dawn

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Christian was in front of the central mirror, resignedly presenting the latest outfit, when the painfully stylish manager had an epiphany.

“Black,” he declared to his assistant, one hand tapping at his lips. “Or navy. Take all the things I put in the ‘yes’ pile and pull them off the racks in those colors. Neckties, too,” he added, snapping his fingers to speed his subordinate up.

He turned a marginally less peremptory look to Christian. “Don’t wear the ties unless you absolutely have to. I mean, if your mother dies, all right. Otherwise, they don’t exactly scream
rebel
. Stick to silk shirts with the collar open. One button. No cotton. No light colors.” He squinted at the Stetson Christian was still wearing. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to lose that monstrosity.”

“Miss Wei likes the hat,” Grace broke in as Christian’s neck stiffened. “She thinks it’s part of his signature. Because he’s from Texas.”

The manager looked unsurely from Grace to him. “It’s
brown.
”

“It’s him, Damon,” Grace insisted. “It’s a real man’s hat that a real man has worn. If he didn’t have it, he’d just be another pretty-faced young actor.”

Christian was no more a real Texan than he was a young man. All the same, he was glad to hang on to his headgear. Given his aura’s preserving powers, he’d had to work to get it this broken-in. Childishly, perhaps, he smirked at the clothier.

“Fine,” the manager surrendered. “Far be it from me to second-guess a beautiful woman.”

“They’re the ones who’ll be buying tickets,” Grace said pragmatically. “Though, of course, we appreciate your expertise. Christian looks great in your selections. As always, you’ve got the eye.”

“And you, Miss Michaels,” the flattered manager simpered back, “are always welcome to borrow it.”

The rest of their transaction unfolded smoothly. Now that the manager had decided what Christian ought to purchase, all that remained was totaling the damage.

“Send the bill to Miss Wei,” Grace said, giving Christian a start.

They were at the front counter, and Grace was scribbling on a store notepad. The motion of her hand, the way she bit her lip in concentration, momentarily enchanted him. She wasn’t his Grace then, but she attracted him all the same. She was a modern woman, more so than the female from Snacks R Us. Her own thoughts ran through her head, her own private dreams. Christian was a part of them, but not romantically, not if he accepted her earlier reaction as genuine. That made him shake his head. He hardly knew how to find his place in this scheme of things.

“Here,” Grace said, handing the manager what she’d written. “When your staff has finished the alterations, this address will take delivery.”

Christian felt uncustomarily off balance as they exited the store, as if
he’d
been bought and paid for. The sun hadn’t set. Even with his hat and despite the thin layer of car exhaust, it was bright out for him. Eyes stinging, he slipped his aviator sunglasses on. At least he wasn’t woozy. The Coppertone had done its job on that front.

“Naomi doesn’t have to buy my clothes,” he said.

Grace’s brows lifted. “You don’t need to be insulted. They’re already in the budget.”

She’d parked by the curb in front of the store, where the car was doing its impression of a flamingo. He was too sluggish to reach the driver’s door before she opened it for herself. Annoyed by his urge to play gentleman, he circled around to his side. The relief of sitting down was almost too great. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drop off in front of her.

“You can sleep if you want,” she said. “I’ll wake you when we get to the hairstylist.”

He shook his head and said nothing. Her concern, mild though it was, bothered him. He was no green-behind-the-ears fledgling. He could stay awake for one damn day. Shrugging, Grace pulled onto a street of ticky-tacky shops and squat palm trees. Women in too-tight clothes sauntered the sidewalks self-consciously, seemingly waiting for someone important to notice them. Hollywood was supposed to be glamorous, but Christian didn’t see it. Even at night, with the neon lit, it looked tawdry and fake to him, a stage set with the paint showing.

“It’s the dreams that make it sparkle,” Grace said, responding to some expression he should have been hiding. “Dreams draw people here—the chance to do something big, to step
inside
of a fantasy.”

“That isn’t what drew you here.”

She looked at him, maybe as surprised as he was by his certainty. “I wanted to pull the strings, to create the fantasy.”

Christian thought about that. He liked that she’d answered him, maybe more than he should. Having a lucky insight was no substitute for being able to read her thoughts.

“Did Naomi really say my hat was my signature?”

The warmth of Grace’s laugh startled him. “No,” she said, shooting him a quick grin. “You just looked like you’d had enough.”

“That man kept saying my legs were skinny.” Christian nearly blushed at how sulky this complaint came out.

“They aren’t,” Grace assured him. “They just seem that way because they’re long and your shoulders are very broad by comparison.”

Now he had to fight a flush of pleasure. He was being ridiculous. He knew there was nothing wrong with his body. The nature of the change from mortal to immortal shifted any human’s genes to their ideal. He was the most aesthetic version of himself. The vainest vampire in the world shouldn’t need better.

C
hristian reckoned a simple haircut couldn’t be worse than what he’d just gone through. Initially, his expectation appeared correct. The stylist, whose name was Sandy, was seeing them in the basement of her house in Los Feliz. She was a thirtyish young woman with a pleasant manner and gentle hands. She didn’t chatter like the clothing shop manager, simply sat him in the salon chair and turned his face back and forth.

She’d outfitted her cellar like a small beauty shop, down to the easy-wipe Formica counters and tri-fold mirrors. Catching sight of himself reminded him to dim his looks with his glamour. He didn’t want Sandy too dazzled to do her job.

“Wow,” she said after a minute of considering him. “You and Viv are going to look crazy in a two shot.”

Christian assumed this was a good thing.

Grace sat on the counter in front of him, her elbow on her knee and her fist pushing at her chin. “I was thinking Elvis with a bit less Brylcreem and maybe not so much flop.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” The stylist trailed one nail in a swooping motion across his brow. “A flop might bring out his vulnerability.” She laughed when Christian’s head jerked back. “Don’t think you’ve got any of that, tough guy?”

“He’s
very
manly,” Grace concurred. “You should have seen him bristling at Damon.”

“That super-priss from Mattson’s? I wish I had!”

At this, both women broke into giggles.

Christian hadn’t heard Grace do that in half a millennium. In spite of his irritation at being the butt of their joke, a thrill of heat coursed dangerously up his thighs. The stupid part of him wanted to make her giggle like that for him.

Preferably while rolling around in bed.

“I’m right here, ladies,” he said acerbically. “No need to talk around me like I’ve gone deaf.”

“Sorry,” Sandy said, swallowing a last snigger. She walked behind him to undo the tie that held back his hair. She spread its length across his shoulders with a professional purse to her lips. “Hm. Nice and thick.”

“And
black
,” Grace couldn’t resist adding. “It’ll match all his new silk shirts.”

“Ha-ha,” Christian responded. “So glad I could amuse you.”

He was glowering, but she wasn’t afraid. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they met his. She looked so alive, so happy, that he wanted to kiss her again, to seize her knees and push them wide under that full pink skirt. The need he felt to please her was far too strong. His grip tightened on the salon chair’s arms, threatening to snap them. As if she couldn’t help herself, Grace’s gaze slid tellingly to his lap. What she found there painted her cheeks bright red. His nostrils flared at her deliciously rising scent, but at least she’d stopped grinning. Maybe she suspected how close he was to “mauling” her again. She slid off the counter as if it had burned her.

“I’ll just . . . get out of your way,” she said to Sandy.

“I don’t need that much room,” Sandy said. Evidently oblivious to the undercurrents, she swirled a vinyl cape around him. “Why don’t you grab another chair and sit close?”

“Yes,” Christian drawled, enjoying having rattled his antagonist. “Samson that I am, I might need my Delilah to hold my hand.”

C
onsidering the bumps they’d hit along the way, this had been a surprisingly pleasant day. Grace had worked with Sandy on Miss Wei’s films before, and they’d always gotten along. The work the stylist had done for
It Came from Venus
had been stellar. Joining her in ribbing Christian had made him seem less intimidating. Christian himself had been a better sport than Grace expected. She didn’t know many men who’d have tolerated being led around like he was today.

In addition to which, she had to confess she enjoyed when he got angry—like poking a tiger until it bared its teeth.

With a tiny, inexplicable shiver at the idea of Christian’s teeth, Grace shut off the car and turned to him. It was dark, and they were back at his bungalow. The light above the door shone through the windshield, falling full on his handsome face. Sandy had outdone herself. With his dark locks shorn, Christian looked an entirely different man—the opposite of Samson, to be truthful. Hard as it was to credit, he was even more seductive.

If he guessed what she was thinking, it didn’t please him. The corners of his mouth turned down.

“It’s just a haircut,” he said coolly.

“I know.” She fought a smile for what a haughty grouch he was. “I just can’t stop staring. You’ve been transformed.”

His eyebrows beetled the slightest bit. “Transformed.”

“You look . . . suaver now, I think.”

Christians brows went up as subtly as they’d drawn down. “So before I looked like a hick?”

“No,” Grace laughed. “Maybe a bit old-fashioned, like you didn’t quite belong in this time. Now you could walk into any LA hotspot and be the talk of the town.”

Christian was staring at her very strangely, his straight and narrow mouth gaping open while something like consternation wrinkled his high forehead.

“What did I say?” she asked.

His expression went as blank as if he’d wiped it clean with a cloth.

“What?” she repeated.

“If you’re toying with me . . . ”

His voice was smoke pushing through his throat. Her shoulders tensed at the implied threat, even if she didn’t understand why he was making it. She couldn’t stop herself from shrinking back, but as she did, he leaned closer.

This didn’t frighten her half as much as it should.

“Christian.” Her hand came up to brace against his chest, which was hard as iron beneath her palm. He’d backed her all the way to the Fury’s door. She couldn’t retreat any farther, and some reckless part of her was glad. Seen from inches away, the glint in his eyes caused both dizziness and heat to swirl inside her.

“It’s still in there somewhere,” he said.

“What’s still in where?”

She was breathing too quickly, while he didn’t seem to need air at all.

“The truth,” he said so softly she barely heard.

“The tr—”

His silken lips brushed hers, silencing her as a tingling shudder ran down her spine.

“The truth about what you did to me.”

He pulled away, slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. She wondered if he’d really said what she thought, because it didn’t make sense to her. Her skin was pulsing, every cell wishing he’d come back. Then time seemed to run at a different speed. He was outside the car, closing the door firmly.

“Wait!” she gasped as he stepped away.

He hesitated, then leaned down to her open window.

Take me,
she wanted to say, her chest aching with a longing too huge to understand.
Take me now and don’t let me go again.

That, of course, didn’t make any more sense than him.

“The read-through,” she said. “Of the script. It’s tomorrow night at eight at Miss Wei’s house.”

His dark, cool gaze traveled down her body, a flush seeming to follow the path it touched. In contrast to that heat, her nipples were icy pebbles under her bodice. Grace saw his fingers clamp the edge of the door.

“I’ll be there,” he said tightly.

Four