Vampires Need Not...Apply? (37 page)
“You don’t believe me?”
He shook his head and grinned with a well-polished arrogance only found on the face of a Hollywood actor. She quickly wondered if he’d ever met her mother but then dismissed the thought. She didn’t want to think about her mother; the pain was simply too fresh.
“No. I do not believe you,” he stated dryly.
The nerve!
“You did find me in the jungle, didn’t you? Wasn’t I unconscious?” She pointed to the large lump on her forehead. “And wearing this?”
“Yes, but I believe you were searching for something else.”
Nosy rake.
“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Mr.…”
Arrogant Nudesunbather? Mr. Nomanners Perfectbottom?
“Backlum Chaam.”
Backlum? What an odd—Oh! He’s in character.
“Sure, Joe. Whatever blows your wig, but—”
“The name is not Joe, it’s Chaam. I just said it.”
Margaret blinked.
Deep, deep into character.
“And I assure you, I do not wear a wig. This is my real hair.” He gave his shiny black mane a proud tug.
“I meant—Oh, never mind. Listen, it’s been great, Mr.
Chaam
, but I gotta skedaddle; my father is probably wondering where I am.” She wished. Her father was likely dead. Or injured.
Stay calm. You’ll find the ruin. You’ll find him…
If only she’d insisted on knowing exactly where the excavation site was hidden. Instead, she’d done what her father had asked—fearing his anger—and stayed near the village, spending her days painting, learning Spanish from the local children, or swimming with a friend she’d made: a young woman named Itzel who didn’t speak a lick of English.
“Have a lovely afternoon.” She flashed an awkward grin and turned toward the shoreline.
A firm grip pulled her back and twirled her around. Two powerful arms incarcerated her body and smashed her against an astonishingly firm, naked chest. His touch instantly ignited that gunpowder, and…
Combustion!
A wave of carnal heat ripped through her body.
Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my Gooood
… Margaret felt her face turn a lascivious red. Beads of volcanic sweat seeped through her pores. Every muscle in her body wound up with merciless, unchaste tension, like ropes anchoring a massive sail, a sail blowing her ship toward the most delicious place ever. And then…
Release.
Maggie braced herself on the man’s bountiful biceps as the tension snapped and silent fireworks exploded throughout her body.
Oh my God.
Had she just… had she really just…?
He cleared his throat. “Was it as good as it looked?”
She let out an exaggeratedly long breath.
What the flapdoodle?
“You’re not an actor, are you?” she asked, unable to keep her voice from quivering.
He shook his head from side to side. “No. And you are no human.”
Turn the page for an excerpt from Book #3 in the Accidentally Yours series,
Wondering which screw in her head had come loose
this
time, twenty-four-year-old Emma Keane strapped a parachute to her back in preparation for another fun-filled jungle mission.
“Dammit! Stop wiggling!” she barked over her shoulder. “And that had better be your flashlight!”
Well, actually, it was a cranky, rather large warrior named Brutus strapped to her back and wearing the parachute because she had yet to find time for skydiving lessons.
Dork.
In any case, looking like a ridiculous, oversized baby kangaroo wasn’t enough to stop her from making this nocturnal leap into enemy territory—Maaskab territory. She had scores to settle.
Emma sucked in a deep breath, the roar of the plane’s large engines and Brutus’s growls making it difficult to find her center—the key to winning any battle. And not freaking out.
Funny. If someone had told her a year ago that she’d end up here, an immortal demigoddess engaged to the infamous God of Death and War, she would have said, “Christ! Yep! That
toootally
sounds about right.”
Why the hell not? She’d lived the first twenty-two years of her life with Guy—a nickname she’d given her handsome god—obsessed with his seductive voice, a voice only she could hear. Turned out, after they finally met face-to-face, their connection ran blood deep. Universe deep, actually. A match made by fate.
Emma rubbed her hands together, summoning the divine power deep within her cells. One blast with her fingertips and she could split a man right down the middle.
“Careful where you put those,” Guy said, cupping himself.
Emma gazed up at his smiling face and couldn’t help but admire the glorious, masculine view.
Sigh.
She knew she’d been born to love him, flaws—enormous ego and otherworldly bossiness—and all.
His smile melted away. “Please change your mind, my sweet. Stay on the plane, and let me do your fighting.”
“Can’t do that,” she replied. “The Maaskab took my grandmother, and I’m going to be the one to get her back. Even if I have to kill Tommaso to do it.”
Guy shook his head. “No. You are to let me deal with him.”
Emma felt her immortal blood boil. She’d trusted Tommaso once, and he’d betrayed her. Almost gotten her killed, too. But she’d known—well, she’d
thought
—it wasn’t Tommaso’s fault. He’d been injected with liquid black jade, an evil substance that could darken the heart of an angel. That’s why, after he’d been captured and mortally wounded, she had begged the gods to cure him.
Then she did the unthinkable: she’d put her faith in him again.
Stupid move.
He’d turned on her a second time, the bastard. Yes, his betrayal—done of his own free will—was her prize on that fateful night almost one year ago, when her grandmother showed up on their doorstep in Italy, leading an army of evil Maaskab priests, her mind clearly poisoned.
“If Tommaso hadn’t helped her escape, we could’ve saved her,” she said purely to vent, because she really wanted to cry. But the fiancée of the God of Death and War didn’t cry. Especially in front of the hundred warriors riding shotgun on the plane tonight.
Okay, maybe one teeny tiny tear while no one’s looking.
“Do not give up hope, Emma.” Guy clutched her hand. “And do not forget… whatever happens, I love you. Until the last ray of sunlight. Until the last flicker of life inhabits this planet.”
Brutus groaned and rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed by the sappy chatter.
Emma elbowed him in the ribs. “Shush! And how can you of all people be uncomfortable with a little affection? Huh? You bunk with eight dudes every night. That’s gross by the way. Not the dude part. I’m cool with that. But eight big, sweaty warriors all at once? Yuck. So don’t judge me because I’m into the one-man-at-a-time rule. That’s messed up, Brutus.”
Brutus growled and Guy chuckled.
In truth, Emma didn’t know what Brutus was into or how he and his elite team slept, but she loved teasing him. She figured that sooner or later she’d find the magic words to get Brutus to speak to her.
No luck yet.
Accepting a temporary defeat, she shrugged and turned her attention back to the task at hand. She took one last look at her delicious male—nearly seven feet of solid muscle with thick blue-black waves of hair and bronzed skin.
Sigh.
“Okay. I’m ready,” she declared boldly. “Let’s kill some Scabs and get my granny!”
She glanced over her other shoulder at Penelope, their newest family member. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated the anger simmering in her dark green eyes. Pissed would be a serious understatement.
Emma didn’t blame her. What a cluster.
“Ready?” Emma asked.
“You better believe it,” Penelope replied. “These clowns picked the wrong girl to mess with.”
Guy frowned as they leaped from the plane into the black night.
Penelope. Approximately Three Weeks Earlier
“Sorry, but did you just say…? You want me to
what
?” I stared at the flaming redhead who’d trotted into the crowded café off the snowy New York street, helped herself to the chair across from me, and swiped her finger through the creamy froth of my eagerly anticipated cappuccino.
Rude!
Didn’t matter that the woman was disturbed, which she clearly was; the pink scuba mask on her head was a dead giveaway, as was the hot-pink mink coat.
“You heard me, Penelope,” she said, rapping her glittery pink fingernails on the tabletop. “Five hundred thousand dollars—okay… I’ll make it one million. But not a penny more!”
How the hell did she know my name? And had she really offered me money for what I thought? Was today April Fools’? No. It was November 30.
Then it dawned on me. I was being punk’d. Wait. That show was canceled. Yes, Ashton had moved on to corny camera commercials, a sitcom, and a very unflattering Ringo Starr beard.
Well, double dammit, whatever was going on, I didn’t have the patience for this today; I’d just received bad news. The worst kind of bad news.
I dog-eared my book,
Spanish for Linguistic Tards
—never too late to learn another language, you know—and slapped it down. “I don’t know which of my friends orchestrated this crappy prank, but I’ve got work in twenty minutes, and it’s going to be a long, long night—”
“Hold your jicama!” she interrupted, shoving her index finger in my face as her phone squawked. She quickly dug through her oversized pink fuzzy handbag and pulled out the device. “Wassup? Yeah. Yeah. Oooh my…” The odd woman, who appeared to be in her thirties, continued her egregiously loud banter while stroking the lapel of her furry coat.
I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if anyone else inside the bustling café was witnessing this obnoxious display. Oddly enough, not one person was.
Whatever. Didn’t matter. I’d already decided to go find my pre–night shift triple-skinny cappuccino (hold the weirdo finger) elsewhere.
I pushed away from the table, and she latched onto my wrist, instantly igniting a surge of numbing static throughout my entire body. Every muscle ground to a halt. Except my pounding heart. That worked fine.
She narrowed her eyes and then made a little no-no wave with her scrawny, pale finger.
“Yeah. Uh-huh. Oooh. Nice,” she continued, chatting on her phone while I experienced the world’s quietest panic attack. “I’m thinkin’ we go with the chicken fingers.” She shook her head a few times. “No, silly. Real ones. I love crunchy food.” Pause. “How the hell should I know what to do with the chickens? Make them some special shoes.” Pause. “Yup. Yup. Clothing is optional. Except for the clowns. They get too carried away with the ball jokes. Seriously. It’s disturbing. Even for me.” Another pause. “We can talk about it later, Fate. I gotta take care of this girl before she throws a hissy.” Pause. “Yes. It’s
that
girl. This is gonna be dramalicious!”
She ended her call and sighed happily in my general direction. “Gods, I rock. I should be a ride at Six Flags. They should name a country after me—Wait! No. The planet. They should name the entire planet after
magnifique moi
!” She suddenly snapped back her head and locked her eyes on the ceiling. “Oh yeah? You just try it!”
I couldn’t move my head, but from the corner of my eye, I noticed a little black dot.
A fly? She’s talking to the fly?
She then pointed right at the little bugger. “That’s right! I’ll take you down. I’ll cut you, bitch!”
The fly buzzed away.
The woman shrugged and then leaned into the table. A wide, evil grin stretched across her elfin face. “Okillee-dokillee, Penelope. Let’s not play games—for the next five minutes, anyway—Pin the Tail on the Donkey is my favorite, though. Just in case you were wondering.” She snorted. “I like it when they squeal.”
Her paralyzing grip didn’t allow a response, but I was all ears; this woman scared the crappity crap out of me.
“I know everything about you,” she continued. “You’re Penelope Trudeau. You were raised right here in good ol’ NYC. Your mother has been fighting a mysterious illness for the past year, which is why you’ve put off going to grad school even though you’ve been accepted to several excellent programs.”
Who the hell was this woman? She recited every fact about my life, including how I was a size 8—or size 10 after the major holidays and sporting events—had a black belt in karate, was afraid of spiders, and had no intention of celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday tomorrow. Birthdays freaked me out.
“My brother and I mean business, Penelope. This isn’t a joke. Though…” She snorted twice. “… Did you ever hear the one about the porcupine who married the sheep?”
She released my wrist.
Ever so slowly, my body sparked back to life. Terrified, I blinked several times before nodding no. She was insane. Truly. Unequivocally. Bonkers. And she apparently knew how to do that Vulcan grip thing. Not a good combo.
“Well, their children were able to knit their own sweaters!” She chuckled loudly and slapped her knee.
Then, for no apparent reason, her expression transformed into a void of human warmth. It sent shivers deep down into the pit of my stomach, which was now telling me to run. Run far, far away. I didn’t know if her offer to pay me one million dollars was genuine or the ramblings of a madwoman, but God save me, I didn’t want anything to do with her.
“So, you in or out?” she asked, crossing her arms. “One million dollars, honey. It will solve all your problems: help your mother, pay for school… What’s one little egg and nine months of your life?”
The insane woman continued staring as I realized I had full control of my body again.
The words “My womb is not for rent!” exploded from my mouth, and the entire café fell silent. Everyone stared with gaping mouths.
“Oh, sure.
Now
you’re all paying attention,” I mumbled.
I turned my attention back to Ms. Nut Job and slowly stepped away, preparing to make a mad dash for my life. “I’m not interested.”
“Great!” She popped up from her chair and flicked her hand in the air. “You’ll get half the money now—just for showing up to the party. I mean that figuratively, by the way—’cause you’re not invited to my
actual
party. Friends and family only. Plus a few people who won the raffle. And some clowns. And my unicorn—don’t ask.”