Dead Perfect

Tears burned the backs of her eyes and dampened her cheeks. She didn’t want to die, not now.

She was only twenty-four. There was so much she wanted to do, so many places she wanted to go, so much of life she had yet to experience. And she was afraid. Afraid of the pain, afraid of dying.

His hooded gaze met hers, cool and direct. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Who are you looking for?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Have you a name?”

“Shannah.” She wiped her tear-damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Good-bye.”

She tried to turn away but her legs refused to obey. Caught in the dark web of his gaze, she could only stand there, her arms limp at her sides, staring up at him while hot tears trickled down her cheeks. She had never really noticed how handsome he was. Not in the way that the blond, bland young men in Hollywood were handsome, but in a dark, mysterious and forbidding sort of way. He had short thick eyelashes, a fine straight nose, a strong jaw line. He looked like a man who knew what he wanted in life and wouldn’t hesitate to take it by fair means or foul.

“You’ve been following me for the last five months,” he said brusquely. “Who did you think I was?” He glanced past her to the wrought-iron gate. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

She felt a rush of heat climb up the back of her neck as she searched her mind for a convincing lie but his gaze continued to hold hers captive and she suddenly lacked the will to lie to him.

“I thought you were a vampire,” she said, thinking how foolish the words sounded when spoken out loud.

One dark brow lifted. “A vampire?” he murmured. “Indeed?”

She nodded, embarrassed now. “But it’s still daylight, you know, and you’re awake instead of closed up in your coffin so I guess I was wrong…” She bit down on her lower lip, aware that she was babbling like an idiot. “I’ll be going now. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Shoulders drooping with discouragement, she turned away, took a few wobbly steps and with a small moan, tumbled down the porch stairs.

Ronan stared at the girl sprawled at the bottom of the steps, at the thin trickle of crimson oozing from a shallow cut in her forehead. He took a deep breath as the intoxicating scent of her blood was carried to him on an errant breeze. Was there anything in the world that smelled as sweet?

Muttering an oath, he turned on his heel and went back inside the house, only to emerge a moment later swathed in a heavy black hooded cloak that covered him from head to heel.

Bracing himself for the pain to come, he flew down the stairs, swept the girl into his arms, and darted back into the house, kicking the door shut behind him.

Eyes closed, he stood in the entryway for a moment, panting heavily, his skin tingling and tightening in a most unpleasant way. When the worst of the pain receded, he glanced down at the girl in his arms. She was unconscious, her breathing labored, her cheeks ashen. She was far too thin. Her skin was feverishly warm. There were dark purple shadows, like bruises, beneath her eyes, hollows in her pale cheeks. He could hear the beat of her heart, slow and heavy, smell the life-giving blood that flowed sluggishly through her veins and oozed in thick red drops from the shallow cut in her brow.

The crimson droplets beckoned him. His hold on her tightened. He licked his lips as the hunger stirred deep within, searing his insides, demanding to be fed.

Unable to resist either the pain of his hunger or the temptation of her blood, he lowered his head and licked the blood from the wound.

And tasted death.

Chapter Three

Shannah woke slowly. Her eyelids felt heavy and it was an effort to open her eyes. For a moment, she stared blankly at her surroundings. The walls were painted taupe with white trim.

The ceiling was white. A fire burned in the hearth across from the canopied bed on which she lay. A thick white carpet covered the floor. Heavy draperies the same color as the walls covered the room’s single window. The dresser against the far wall looked like an antique, as did the high-backed oak rocking chair in the corner. Large, expensive-looking paintings hung on the walls—one was of a stately park where people in eighteenth-century clothing strolled along tree-lined lanes; one was of a Paris cathedral; the third depicted a quiet lake beneath a full moon. The fourth painting was of a dark castle set upon a windswept hill.

Where was she?

Where was he?

Her head ached and when she touched her fingertips to her forehead, she made two discoveries—her fever was gone and there was a rather large bandage taped above her left eye. She didn’t remember being injured. Frowning made her head hurt worse.

It wasn’t until she slid her legs over the edge of the bed that she realized she wasn’t wearing anything save for her bra, panties, and a dark blue velvet robe with a black satin collar.

When she stood, the robe’s hem dragged on the floor and the sleeves fell past her hands. She glanced around the room, looking for her clothes, but they were nowhere in sight. She checked the closet and the chest of drawers. Both were empty.

She walked across the floor, her bare feet making no sound on the soft thick carpet. Putting her ear to the door, she listened for a moment before she opened it and stepped out into the hallway.

A glance up and down the narrow corridor showed several doors. None of them were open.

Clutching the collar of the robe in one hand, she tiptoed along the hallway, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her feet.

She paused at the top of the landing, listening, and when she heard nothing, she padded quietly down the staircase.

At the bottom, she paused again.

Was she inhis house? And if she was, where was he, and why were there no clothes in the closet? She had come here looking for a vampire. Now that her fever was gone and she was thinking more clearly, she knew how foolish that had been. Vampires were creatures of myth and legend.

But what if he was something even worse?

Where had he put her clothing? She could hardly walk back to her apartment in her bare feet, wearing nothing but a too large bathrobe, nice and comfy as it was.

Moving as quietly as she could, she made her way into the kitchen, thinking to fortify herself with a cup of strong black coffee.

No such luck. The cupboards were empty. The stove and the refrigerator looked new and unused. The fridge was empty. There was no table. Odd, that there was no food in the house but then, maybe he never ate at home. Still, it was mighty strange that he didn’t at least have the basics. Or a few dishes.