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Authors: sierra dean

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It wasn’t like I was worried about eating my boyfriend or anything.

Well, most of the time. Every girl has her days.

During my time in New York I’d had two semi-serious relationships, and one of the men had lived with me until my peculiar sleeping habits got too weird for him. For over a year there had been no one in my life, and I’d gotten pretty content being unattached.

And that’s when my best and only human girlfriend decided to put her nose into my business. Mercedes Castilla was a detective with the NYPD and in her third go-round of being twenty-nine. Also perennially single, she seemed to have given up on her own love life and had taken over mine instead.

That was how, on a Saturday night in August, I found myself scrutinizing my rear end in a mirror and was less than thrilled with the results. Maybe vampire hunting didn’t give me an excuse to avoid the gym after all.

“Explain to me again why I have to do this?” I asked into the phone crammed between my shoulder and ear.

“You want me to tell you why you’re going out to dinner with a handsome, unmarried, well-educated detective?” Mercedes was sarcastic at the best of times, but tonight it was honed razor sharp. I gathered she was getting annoyed with my hesitations.

“Yes?” I replied, not entirely sure I wanted her to respond. I pulled on my favorite jeans and rechecked my butt. A slight improvement. Sighing with a little too much drama, I put my hands on my hips, arching my shoulders back to see if my cleavage had grown since the last time I looked. Was it wrong to cancel a date because of too much ass and too little boob?

“Secret.” Now her voice did nothing to hide her irritation. “You have cancelled on two different guys I’ve tried to set you up with. One of them was my
cousin
.”

“He could only meet me at five,” I grumbled.

“So?”

“You know my schedule.” Yeah, my not-burning-into-a-cloud-of-ash schedule. It was pretty strict.

“And you couldn’t have moved things around for an early dinner? I don’t think Keats is that much of a hardass.”

I gave up on my reflection—yes, half-vampires and all vampires for that matter have reflections—and flopped backwards onto my bed. Staring up at my water-stained ceiling, I prayed it might collapse on me before nine o’clock.

“Okay, tell me one more time what’s so great about this guy?” I wound my loose curls around my fingers and then let them unfurl on their own.

“I mentioned handsome and unmarried, didn’t I?”

“I suppose, given your apparent opinion of me, I should be happy your criteria was aimed somewhere higher than
breathing
, shouldn’t I?”

“Not breathing is a deal breaker.” The humor was gone, and her tone was dead serious. Mercedes hated vampires. That she was human and believed they existed was impressive enough, so I had opted not to tell her about my undead half. “Plus, he likes dogs.”

A short, loud gasp of shocked laughter escaped my mouth. She might not know about the vampire half, but she certainly knew about the werewolf one. “You’re hi-
lar
-ious.”

It was at about that moment I realized I was no longer alone in my itty-bitty apartment. It began with a shift of atmosphere, which gave me the sense someone else was taking up space belonging to me. There was no noise to confirm my suspicions, but there didn’t need to be.

Vampires don’t tend to announce themselves politely.

“Cedes, I need to go.” Sitting up on the bed, I looked into the evening gloom of my living room. I may be able to see in the pitch black, but you need to have a target willing to be seen in order for that to work. Even darkness has its shadows.

“You better not be pretending to be sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” I replied. I wanted her off the phone, but I didn’t need her to worry. She was a detective after all, and she would know if I sounded uneasy, so I kept my tone playful and even. My eyes, however, were in full-on predator mode.

“Nine o’clock, Secret. I’ve told Tyler to call me at nine-oh-five if you haven’t shown up, and so help me God, girl, if you aren’t there, you will have some
serious
explaining to do.”

“Okay.” I hung up on her without further argument, which would probably worry her more than if I’d started screaming,
oh my God, there’s a vampire in my apartment!

The vampire in question now stood in the doorway, looking far too pleased with himself. He leaned against the doorframe, all five feet ten inches of lithe, catlike grace and two centuries of practice at acting casual. Holden Chancery wasn’t the kind of man most girls would refuse entry into their bedroom.

I wasn’t most girls.

“I gave you a key so you would
stop
breaking in, not so you could come and go as you please.”

Holden’s hair was cut a shade too long but was perfectly groomed. He tossed it out of his eyes and fixed me with a miffed stare only a vampire could manage. His eyes were a rich chocolate brown tonight, so I knew he’d fed. All the same, his gaze traveled from mine down to my throat. I may have been half vampire, but I still had a pulse, and it made me incredibly interesting to the full-bloods I worked with.

“You said I could use the key if there was business,” he said, only half listening.

“Business?” My interest perked up. Perhaps there would be a valid excuse to get out of my date with Detective Tyler after all. I clapped my hands together twice to get his attention off my neck and back to my face.

Girls who think boobs are their most distracting assets haven’t been watched by a vampire.

Holden shook out of his trance and refocused on me.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked with a smirk, which was unusual for him. He often appeared quietly content, like a fat cat after a visit from the milkman, but never looked outright happy. Vamps have a bad habit of only showing in-between emotions—pensive, annoyed, thoughtful, wistful and, of course, brooding. You’d be more likely to provoke the undead to anger than make them bust a gut laughing.

Of course
this
vampire had heard the entire latter half of my conversation with Mercedes.

“Tell me about the business.” I grabbed a plain black V-neck T-shirt off the floor and pulled it on over my head. It was rumpled but still smelled clean. I didn’t wear perfume because my nose was sensitive at the best of times, so the shirt held only the faint scent of laundry detergent. I liked it.

“Are you going to wear
that
on your date?” He sounded offended.

I looked down at the shirt. It fit, it didn’t stink and the wrinkling was minimal. What was his problem? “Well, better this than no shirt at all, right?”

He made a noise of disgust, and before I’d seen him move, he was in my closet.

“
Hey
.” I was up and off the bed, following him to my disorganized mess of clothes.

There was a stream of grumbles and sighs from inside the closet as he shoved back hanger after hanger, shaking his head each time. “What exactly do you
do
with the money we give you?”

“Rent and shoes?”

Holden took a blue, flowing, peasant-style top off the rack, held it up to me and grimaced, then released it into my arms.

“This?” I inspected it, questioning his judgment.

“
That
is getting thrown out.” He snatched up another hanger, this one holding a slinky black cocktail dress I’d used once to bait a vampire at the Russian Tea Room. He handed the garment to me, his eyes alight with a triumphant glow. “This is what you’re going to wear.”

“My Russian prostitute dress?” I was incredulous. He couldn’t be serious. It was skin-tight satin cut three inches above the knee and tried its hardest to make it seem like I had boobs. But wasn’t it more suitable for a first date where the guy was paying for something other than the meal?

“You can’t wear jeans on a first date, Secret. Not if you want there to be a second.”

I would have liked to dispute what he was saying, but for the better part of the eighties Holden had been an editor-at-large for
GQ
. How do you argue with someone who made a living knowing what defined style, even if it had been in the eighties?

Begrudgingly, I admitted defeat.

“I’ll wear this…as long as you tell me about the business once I’m in it.”

“Deal.”

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