Dead Perfect

With a sigh, she turned on the light and propped the pillows behind her back. Digging his book out of her bag, she began to read.

Chapter Six

Ronan listened to the sound of Shannah’s footsteps as she paced the floor overhead. Her scent filled the house. He knew she was doubting her decision to stay here, knew she didn’t trust him. Her agitation increased her heartbeat. He could smell the blood flowing through her veins.

It called to his hunger, even as her fear aroused his instinctive urge to hunt.

He heard the faint creak of bedsprings as she got into bed, his mind instantly swarming with images of her lying there, her hair spread out on the pillow, her body relaxed as she waited for sleep.

Not trusting himself to stay under the same roof with her in his current condition, he fled the house.

Plagued by his unholy thirst, he stalked the dark streets until he found a woman leaving a café, unescorted. He followed her to her car and slid into the passenger seat.

She stared at him in alarm. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of…” The words died in her throat when she looked into his eyes. “No, please…”

He didn’t blame her for being afraid and yet he felt his anger rise as she cowered back against the car door. Perhaps he was being too harsh. Perhaps he shouldn’t be irritated by her fear. He knew how he looked when the hunger was upon him. He had seen the same look on the faces of others of his kind.

She thrust her handbag at him. “Here, take it, take it all, but please don’t hurt me.”

Take it all. Did she have any idea what those words meant to one of his kind? To take it all, to drink it all, to revel in the power that came from drinking a mortal’s life and memories? Of course, she was referring to something else entirely.

“What makes you think I want your money?” He hated himself as soon as the words left his lips.

What was wrong with him? He never toyed with his prey, never frightened them. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic.

She only stared at him, her body trembling uncontrollably.

“Listen to my voice,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Nothing to be afraid of.” She repeated the words. There was no expression on her face, no emotion in her voice.

He drew her into his arms. “Relax, now. Close your eyes. You have nothing to fear from me.”

She went limp in his embrace. Her head lolled back against his arm, exposing the long clean lines of her neck, and the frantic pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

With a low growl, he bent his head and surrendered to the ravening beast within him.

Shannah woke with the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears. Sitting up, the blanket clutched to her chest, she turned on the light, her gaze darting around the room, lingering in the shadows in the corners.

Just a bad dream. That’s all it had been. Just a bad dream. Expelling a shaky breath, she realized she had fallen asleep while reading Dark’s vampire book. Just a bad dream. But it had seemed so real…glowing red eyes staring down at her, bared fangs only inches from her throat, a sudden sharp pain that quickly turned to sensual pleasure…So real.

She lifted a hand to her neck, her fingers probing the skin below her ear, relieved to feel nothing more than her own smooth skin.

She took one last look around the room, turned off the light, and slid under the covers once more.

“That settles it,” she murmured. “No more books about vampires before bedtime.”

Ronan spent the next few weeks coaching Shannah. He gave her a list of all his books and a brief synopsis for each one.

“I want you to read the books so you’ll be familiar with them,” he told her. “If you memorize the outlines for now, you’ll be able to respond intelligently if someone asks you what a particular book is about.”

He gave her answers for every possible question he thought she might be asked, questions like how much research she did for each book, and did she visit the different locales she wrote about, and why she had decided to write romance novels in general and paranormal romances in particular, and wasn’t she afraid of giving her readers unrealistic expectations about love and happy endings.

Tonight, they were sitting on the sofa in the front room, his books spread out between them. A fire burned in the hearth, adding a cheerful glow to the room.

“Another question interviewers might ask you is, don’t you think that by writing romance novels, you’re feeding into a dangerous fantasy.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Shannah asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know. But you can’t say that. If they ask you that question, just say that if that’s the case, then you’re in good company, since many of the classics, fromCinderella toJane Eyre , are basically romances with happy endings.”

“That may be all well and good for your books,” she said glumly, “but there’s no such thing as a happy ending in real life. Everybody knows that.”

He was inclined to agree with her, but didn’t say so.

“I mean, look at the statistics. Three out of five marriages end in divorce.”

“Have you ever been in love, Shannah?”

“I thought I was once, but…” She shrugged as if it was of no importance. “It didn’t work out.”

She had been hurt, though she didn’t say so. It saddened him to think that one so young should have been hurt so deeply.

“Another thing they’ll ask you about is fan mail. I get quite a lot, although most of it comes as email these days.”

“People actually write to you about your books?”

“Oh, yeah.” Most of the letters were from women, of course, thanking him for giving them a brief respite from housework, or for helping them through a rough time in their lives, or for giving them a newfound love for reading. One letter he particularly cherished had come from a teenage girl who wrote that his books had saved her life. She had been contemplating suicide and whenever she felt that way, she went to her room and read his books. He also received mail from men from time to time, though most of them were inmates at various prisons and institutions.

“Do you write back?” she asked.

“Of course. Anyone who takes the time to sit down and write a letter deserves an answer.”

“Could I read some of your fan mail?”

“If you like. But not now.”

“What about my life?” she asked. “I mean, your life. What should I say if they ask about your past?”