“Not interested.” She eyed him. “Maybe you should go bite some necks somewhere else.”
“I need to drink very little at my age.”
“If you’re a vampire, then how old are you?”
“I am nearly 400 years old.”
He looked no more than thirty. A very hot, but creepy, thirty.
“I should be able to go wherever I want and not worry about getting harassed by some dead guy.”
“I’m not dead.”
“Undead, then.”
He made a frustrated sound in his throat. “You don’t believe me.”
“Obviously not.”
“The witch told me it shouldn’t take long to convince you of my intentions.”
“Which are?” Julia turned to face him again.
He stepped closer. “To woo you, to take you as my wife, to make love to you and worship your body until our desires are sated, and to sire you as a vampire so we will never have to be apart again.”
That probably shouldn’t have turned her on. This guy spoke like something out of a 1950s horror movie. But there was something about him . . .
Something familiar?
Nah.
“I don’t believe in vampires,” she told him, but her voice sounded a bit breathy now. “And I don’t believe in soulmates.”
He leaned closer and pushed her hair behind her ear so he could whisper, “Let me prove it to you.”
It was working, damn it. Sad but true, she was starved for male attention. She’d put up her “girl power” front for years now, shunning relationships that didn’t seem like they had the legs to go for . . .
To go for what? she thought. Eternity?
She didn’t believe in true love. And she sure didn’t believe in soulmates. Then why the hell was she letting this self-proclaimed warm-blooded vampire nibble on her ear?
And why was she letting him kiss her, there in the middle of the bar in front of everybody? That was something Julia’s bar-hopping buddies did on their nightly hunt for masculine prey. Not her.
But soon enough she was kissing him back. So much for her half-hearted protests.
After a moment she felt a twinge of pain and pulled away. “What was that?” she asked.
“Sorry.” Evan was frowning, his brow lowered. When he looked up at her she realized that his eyes were black. Like, black. Not darker, not shaded because it was low light in the club. But black, even the whites. “I didn’t mean to taste you so soon.”
She touched her tongue to realize that she’d cut it on something and was now bleeding. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” she asked.
“It happened when I tasted your blood.” He looked away. “I can control myself. You don’t have to worry about your safety, I assure you.”
She pushed at his upper lip, drawing it back from his teeth.
“You have fangs,” she stated.
“Yes. You may not have noticed them before. They are very small unless my hungers are triggered.”