Dead Perfect

“Yes, the ones written by Eva Black.” He had written the ones by Ebon and Raven, as well, but they had been published before she was born.

“Wow, I’ve never met a real writer before. Could I read one?”

“If you like.”

She moved to the bookcase, her gaze roaming over the shelves. “Why don’t you use your own name?”

“I write mostly romances,” he replied easily. “I thought they would sell better if readers thought they had been written by a woman.”

Even his editor didn’t know he was a man. With his need to sleep during the day, and the differences in time between one coast and the other, it was virtually impossible for them to communicate by phone. Ronan had informed his editor and his agent that he slept days and wrote through the night, and since writers tended to be a little eccentric, they had accepted his excuse. All their correspondence had been by letter or email.

She nodded. “How long have you been writing?”

“I’ve been writing for a number of years,” he said, “but my first book was published seven years ago.” In truth, he had been writing for more than sixty years, but he had been Eva Black for a relatively short time. He often wondered what his editor would think if she knew that her publishing house had been selling his books under various pseudonyms since 1946.

Skimming the titles, Shannah ran her fingertips over the spines of the books. Pulling one from the shelf, she read the back cover blurb.

After a century of searching, he had found the woman of his dreams. Being a vampire had brought Paul Stark nothing but misery and loneliness until he met Lily Adams. It seemed a cruel trick of fate that Lily came from a long line of vampire hunters. Their attraction was mutual and immediate. Only two things stood between them—his lust for her blood, and her determination to kill every vampire she found.

She looked at him over the top of the book. “This is about a vampire.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him speculatively, her eyes narrowed. He could see all her earlier suspicions roaring back to life.

“I write about pirates and unicorns, as well,” he said, looking amused. “And doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”

She felt a rush of heat flow into her cheeks. “I get the message,” she muttered. Just because he wrote about vampires didn’t make him one. “Could you tell me where my clothes are?”

“I sent them out to be cleaned. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced down at the robe she was still wearing. “Do you have a T-shirt or something that I could wear until then?”

“I think so.” Heat pooled in his groin at the thought of her wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing more.

With a nod, she tucked the book under her arm and left the room.

Ronan leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers steepled. Since Eva’s last six books had made all the bestseller lists, including the prestigiousNew York Times list, his editor had been after him to let them put his photo in the backs of his novels. A couple of the talk shows wanted to interview him on early-morning radio and his agent had been pressuring him to do so. Thus far, he had refused for obvious reasons. But what if Shannah pretended to be Eva Black? He could send Shannah’s photo to his editor. Shannah could do the interviews at the radio stations.

It was an intriguing idea. He could please his agent and his editor and get the publisher off his back all at the same time.

He turned back to the computer screen, his senses acutely aware of the woman in the kitchen.

She was making spaghetti sauce. He could smell tomatoes, basil and oregano. But mostly, he could smell the woman. The scent of her blood was tantalizing, more so now that he had tasted her.

His hands curled over the edge of the desk. Why had he let her stay here? Did he really think he could keep his hunger under control when she was so close, so available? His grip on the edge of the desk tightened. The wood creaked under the strain.

Muttering an oath, he rose and began to pace the floor. Over the centuries, he had seen death in all its forms. None of them were pretty. Only a few mortals were lucky enough to expire peacefully in their sleep. She was dying, and she was far too young, and far too fair, to succumb to such a cruel fate. So he had given her a few drops of his blood to buy her a little more time, though he didn’t know how much. A couple of days, a couple of weeks, perhaps a month or so, if she was lucky.

She didn’t want to die.

He could arrange that. He knew how, though he had never bestowed the Dark Trick on anyone before. It was tempting, so tempting, but that would defeat his purpose for letting her stay.

Aside from wanting photos and pestering him to do interviews and local book signings, his editor and his agent were both pressuring him to go on tour. It would be good publicity, they said. Readers liked to meet their favorite authors. It would be beneficial to meet the managers of some of the larger romance-friendly bookstores. It would be good for sales.

He had stalled as long as he could but he was running out of valid excuses.

Hence his need for Shannah. He could give her enough of his blood to form a link between them. He would be able to read her thoughts; if he wished it, she would be able to read his.

They could go on tour together, with her pretending to be him when necessary. Through the link, he would be able to give her the answers to whatever questions readers or the news media might ask about his writing, at least after sundown. And if her health started to fail again, he had only to give her a little more of his blood.

It seemed an easy solution to the problem, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Now, he had only to convince her. And if she refused…He smiled. She would agree, whether she wished it or not.

Going on tour would solve another problem, as well. He grimaced, annoyed with himself for choosing to quit the field rather than to simply stay and kill the vampire hunter who had come to town. He didn’t know if the hunter was hunting him or if it was merely coincidence that the man had come to this place at this time. Ronan leaned against the edge of his desk, his fingertips drumming on the surface. He didn’t want to kill the man if he didn’t have to, but, should it become necessary, he wouldn’t hesitate to do what had to be done.

Dropping back down into his chair, Ronan picked up the magazine he had bought a few days earlier. It was a national entertainment magazine, published weekly. An article touted on the front cover had caught his eye. The story “Vampires Among Us—Truth or Legend?” had been written by a freelance reporter named Carl Overstreet.