Dead Sexy

At five, she took another shower and shaved her underarms and her legs—were they hairier than usual? Standing naked in front of the mirror in the bedroom, she looked at herself critically. As far as she could tell, she looked the same as always. Needing to feel feminine, she decided to forego her usual slacks and a sweater in favor of a dress and heels.

At five forty-five, she picked up her handbag, checked to make sure her gun was inside and loaded, and left the house. If she hurried, she could drop off Santiago's car, catch a cab, and get to the restaurant by six-thirty.

Her heart began pounding a bit erratically as she pulled up in front of Santiago's lair. From the outside, the building was disreputable. The windows were boarded up and there was so much indecent graffiti scrawled across the walls, you couldn't see the color of the building's original paint. She wondered how long Santiago had lived there, and where he would go if some developer came along and bought the property out from under him.

After locking the car door, she picked her way across the sidewalk and ducked through the doorway.

She stopped just inside, wishing she had a flashlight. With the sun setting, what little light there was disappeared as she went deeper into the building.

She had almost reached the staircase at the far side of the building when she realized she wasn't alone.

Someone was following her.

She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze searching the shadows. "Who's there?"

Who's there, who's there, who's… ? Her voice echoed off the stone walls.

Had she imagined it? She was about to turn back toward the stairs when a man stepped out from behind a cement pillar. She couldn't see his face clearly in the darkness, but she could smell him. He reeked of old sweat and alcohol and some sickly sweet smell she didn't recognize.

"What are you doing in here, girlie?" he asked, staggering toward her.

She didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her handbag and withdrew her gun.

"Get out of here," she said. "You're trespassing."

"Trespassin'?" He barked a laugh. "You gonna tell me you live here?" He laughed again. It was an ugly sound, filled with menace.

"I mean it," she said. "Get out of here, or I'll shoot."

"Nah, you don't wanna do that," he said, and lunged toward her.

Heart pounding, Regan squeezed the trigger—and still the man came toward her. She couldn't have missed, she thought, not at this range. And then there was no more time for thought.

Before she could fire again, the man was on her. He yanked the gun from her grasp and tossed it away. She struggled against him, fighting with every ounce of strength she possessed, but he was impervious to her blows. Once, her fingers touched something warm and sticky and she knew then that she hadn't missed, and that he was high on something stronger than whiskey.

Muttering obscenities, he wrestled her to the floor.

She screamed when his filthy hands groped under her skirt, inching up her calf to her thigh. Why had she worn a dress? She jabbed her knee into his groin but to no avail. He only laughed that awful laugh. She gagged when his mouth covered hers.

Ad then, suddenly, he was gone.

She heard a startled cry as he was lifted off of her, a sharp sound of pain, and then all was quiet. The air filled with the sharp stink of urine—and the scent of blood.

Scrambling to her hands and knees, Regan searched the floor for her gun, sobbing with relief when she found it.

Gaining her feet, her pistol clutched in a two-handed grip, she moved as silently as she could toward the doorway. If she could just make it outside…

She screamed as a hand closed over her arm.

"Regan."

Relief washed through her at the sound of his voice. Turning, she threw her arms around his neck.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "How did you know I was here?"

His hand stroked her hair. "I always know when you are near. Come."

Taking the gun from her hand, he slipped his arm around her waist and guided her down the stairs to his lair. Inside, he eased her down on the sofa, then dropped her gun on the coffee table.

"You are bleeding."

Regan glanced down at her legs. Blood was oozing from a cut just above her left knee. She looked up at Santiago, thinking that bleeding in front of a vampire wasn't a very smart thing to do.

Fear skittered down her spine when she saw the faint red glow in his eyes.

"Stay here," he said, and fled the room.

Returning a few moments later, he handed her a damp washcloth, then turned his back to her, his hands clenched at his sides, while she wiped away the blood, grateful it was just a scratch.

"Does it bother you that much, the sight of blood? I thought you could go a long time without feeding?"

"The need to feed grows less with age. The desire never goes away. Seeing your blood… you have no idea how tempting it is, or how it arouses me."

Quickly blotting the last of it, she wadded the bloody cloth up and placed it on the table beside her gun, then pulled her skirt down over her knees, glad that it was long enough to cover the wound. "I'm through."

He hesitated a moment before he turned to face her.

"I have to go," Regan said, getting to her feet.

"Then why did you come?"

"I borrowed your car this morning. I hope you don't mind. It's parked outside. I thought you might need it." She didn't realize how silly that sounded until she said it. He was a vampire, the master of the city. He didn't need his car to get around. Why not admit that she had wanted to see him again? The car had just been an excuse.

The look in his eyes told her he knew it, as well.

"Can I use your phone?" she asked. "I need to call a cab and I left my phone at home."

"There is no need. I will take you wherever you wish to go."

"No, I…" Her voice trailed off. She couldn't tell him why she needed a ride. How could she have ever thought coming here was a good idea? Was she subconsciously hoping he would talk her out of her date with Michael? Why had she even agreed to go out with Michael when it was Santiago she wanted to be with? The words, because Mike's not a vampire, whispered in the back of her mind. Vampire or not, it didn't change how she felt about Santiago. "Just let me call a cab."

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed. "Regan, what is going on?"

She blew out a breath. She might just as well tell him the truth and get it over with. "I have a date with Michael."

"Indeed?" The word was clipped, cold. "Is that why you came here? To tell me you are going out with another man?"