CHAPTER 4
Bunny
Nope, definitely not a vampire. Vampires don’t have wings, for one thing.
The moment I watched them spread behind him like he was some sort of dark angel, I knew I’d been wrong to confuse him with an inferior, violent Kind like a vampire.
But my initial mistake wasn’t my fault. Both Morrie’s research and The Network said that Alain D’Ange was a vamp.
Most billionaires are. Oh, and solar-shaded glass on his office windows? Please. That’s in my notes, too.
I clear my throat, trying not to take in the full banquet spearing up before me.
It’s a wonder he doesn’t stake himself with that magnificent wood.
Even not looking at it directly is too much like staring obliquely at the full sun—there’s too much power radiating from his dick.
It’s long, wide enough to do damage, and ropey.
I could wrap my lips around that head and feel like I’m sucking my way into eternity.
Damn oral fixation. I’m going to have to find some lollypops to keep my tongue in my mouth for the next month.
I shield my eyes to break the spell. “You could put your pants on now.”
“I could, but where would be the fun in that?”
“Asshole.” Disgusted—I hope—I march right over to the chair on which he earlier piled his clothing and rip off his pants before throwing them at him. Hard.
He catches them with a laugh, but consents to pulling them on while I turn my back.
And seriously, I would never turn my back on a vampire.
I’m not completely dumb. But gargoyles… there’s a debate among the paranormal community as to whether or not such creatures truly exist, and if so, whether they land on the side of good or evil.
I mean, they’re monsters, right? But the general rule says they’re angel-adjacent, even if few people have ever interacted with them.
So, maybe a little stupid to turn my back on him, all things considered, but not completely dumb.
“I’m dressed now.”
But when I rotate, I find mountains of cut abdomen and chest staring me in the face. The fact that his skin is gray doesn’t take away from the luscious display of masculinity before me. In fact, it kind of adds to it.
Keep it in your pants, Bunny.
He sends me one of those long, slow smiles as his amber eyes shoot daggers into mine just exactly as if he can read my thoughts.
“Can you read my mind?”
“No, but you possess a very expressive face. And that pout that you’re giving me now? That pout can raise armies, Bumps.”
I grit my teeth, ignoring the wave of pleasure washing through me at his words. I mean, I know I’m cute-ish. But honestly, waves of male recruits have never lined up to join my cult. It’s kind of refreshing to find a gargoyle so… besotted? No, that’s not the right word. Intrigued?
Closer. And lustful. Definitely. As with men of all Kinds, prurient interest is hard to hide.
My core clenches down as a wave of heat spears through me.
Nope, not going there with my fake gargoyle boyfriend.
He just laughs and throws an arm around me, dragging me into his rock-hard contours.
“Come on, Bumps. Let me show you to your room. We’ve got a lot to do to make you into my girlfriend, and not much time in which to do it.
Luckily, all these dollars can be spent on a good cause. Who’s your favorite designer?”
“I usually just buy whatever from the thrift store.” Though, I love clothes. In another life, one in which I was born into cash, I could be a fashionista.
“We’re keeping the short skirts. I’m definitely a fan of those gams.”
“That’s not only a sexist thing to say, it’s about seventy years out of date.” I ignore the new wave of pleasure sweeping through me. I do have nice legs, but no one ever seems to notice. It’s always my breasts that they’re drawn to. Damn pin-up body.
“You’ve got gorgeous gams, Bumps. You’re going to be the sweetest arm-candy ever escorted.”
Another wave of heat begins melting my resolve. He’s super sexy when he’s complimenting me. Still. I can’t let his words go unchallenged. He might begin to think I like him.
“Are you sure you’re a gargoyle? Like, angel-adjacent? Because I don’t think you’re supposed to be talking to me like you’re ready to throw me down and fuck me. I’m a fake girlfriend, remember?”
“Oh, I remember, but there isn’t a power in this universe that can ignore those curves, little girl. Now, come on. Let’s see about covering them up so I don’t do something incredibly foolish.”
I give up. He’s impossible to talk to. Impossible to hate, actually. He’s just too… too…
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insane?”
“There’s that pout again. Makes a man want to take a bite of your bottom lip.”
I throw my hands up in the air and glare at him, not that it does any good. He just winks at me.
The room he leads me to is like something out of a princess dream. It’s all shades of white, with pale pink roses in a vase next to the bed, and a pale-pink blanket folded at the end. It isn’t girlie, but it’s feminine in exactly the way I like.
“Were you expecting me?” I ask, gesturing to the flowers.
“I called ahead and told my housekeeper I would be entertaining company. Good thing you agreed to be my girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend.”
“That’s what I said.”
But is it fake or fate? I don’t know about destiny, but a little niggle erupts in my belly and shoots through my blood as I look around, because this room… this room is exactly what I’d choose for myself if I had all the money in the world with which to decorate.
The furnishings are hard lines and soft contours. The spread on the bed is velvety soft and tactile, as is the area rug below my feet. The rest of the floor is white stone. The hardscape bounces the gentle lights of the crystal chandelier.
I’ve always wanted a crystal chandelier. I love sparkly. And pink and white.
When he opens a walk-in closet door, I find mirrors facing me from the other end, and a platform in the middle of the wide space, designed so that the person who inhabits this room can see herself from all angles.
It would be a great spot to have kinky sex.
I could watch gray hands slip down my body…
He slides behind me, filling the doorway from which I gape, his hands landing on my waist as he leans over, just exactly as if he reads my mind—or my red face. Our eyes lock through our reflection. My breathing stutters, stops, and then races like it has something to prove.
“Beautiful from all angles,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
Shivers ride my veins as the space below my belly grows heavy and too full.
“I’ll fill the wardrobe for you. First thing, we’ll have a modiste come to measure you.”
“What?” A modiste? Is he serious? Do they even exist anymore?
“And second,” he adds, raising his hand to flutter back the hair along my face, “some lessons on etiquette. Just a few,” he adds, as I turn quickly in his arms, ready to lambaste him.
My etiquette is perfectly fine, thank you.
“Just because we have a dinner to attend in a few nights with the President.”
“President of what?” I ask, making sure to glare at him.
But I don’t ask him to remove his hands from me. I don’t pull away. I feel myself succumbing to his seductive powers, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Good enough that I’m not falling into him, I guess.
“The United States.”
And okay, fine, I gawk at him once he says this.
Swallowing is hard. My heart is beating so fast, I can’t slow it enough to catch another breath.
His thumb rolls over my cheekbone before he sighs and steps back, his touch disappearing, leaving me strangely bereft.
“You’ll find the bathing chamber through that door.
” He nods to the right. “I’ll ask the housekeeper to find you something suitable to wear tonight.
We’ll stay in. You look tired. Besides, tomorrow is going to require you be rested and ready. ”
And then he leans forward. My pulse beats in my eyes. Everything grows watery. My lips part, waiting for him to make contact with mine.
Instead, he kisses me on the forehead before walking away.
Disappointment fills me. What the hell is happening to me?
+++++
A knock on my door rouses me from a nap that I fell into after showering. I’ve got the cashmere pale-pink blanket pulled over me, but otherwise, I’m naked.
Before I can call to enter, the door flings open.
A woman with a graying bun and stern lines marches in, her eyes anything but kind.
“Miss Winters. Mr. D’Ange wishes you to dine with him in the main dining room.
I have brought a change of clothing for you as he indicated that your luggage was lost.”
Belatedly, I notice that she’s carrying a large box with a pink satin bow upon it. I struggle to sit up, clutching the blanket above my breasts. “Oh, I thought…”
Clothes, Alain mentioned. A box tied like a luxurious present, he left out. Suddenly, I’m wide awake.
And, okay, I’m sort of a sucker for pretty things.
I don’t like to admit it to many people, but Morrie is convinced that I’ll die while being distracted by a fabulous dress in the middle of slaying.
Or heels, which he also says I shouldn’t wear.
But I maintain that if I can slay in a pair of designer shoes that make me six inches taller, I can slay in anything.
Plus, my legs would look so much better in fine shoes.
Alain would approve, I’m sure.
The housekeeper gives me a fifteen-minute warning and huffs back out the door. I don’t even know her name. Not that I care. I’m only going to be staying here for thirty days. I can deal with any unpleasantness for thirty days, her included.
Wasting no time, I unwrap the satin bow and allow the ribbon to slither through my fingers.
This billionaire stuff is heady, not so much for anything I’ll get out of it as for the sensual nature of all the appointments.
Silk-satin ribbon. Velvet bedspread, plush towels, cashmere blankets, heavy sprays of water in the miraculous shower that actually rinses off soap, and mirrors to which the steam doesn’t adhere.
It will be hard to go back to my shoebox apartment that’s decorated in thrift store finds, not to mention the non-existent water pressure.
We’re all very environmentally conscious in Chapel Hill. Stupid environment.
Within the box, I find more velvet, this time in a luscious shade of raspberry-red. It’s a short dress that will probably skim along my curves and fall just mid-thigh. The straps are tiny. The neckline… well, the neckline is indecently low. If I put it on, I’m going to feel like a sacrifice.
The heavy feeling pulls between my thighs again, landing hard and growing. Putting the dress aside, I find a strapless bra and matching thong in softest lace, and in a level below that… My heart nearly beats out of my chest as I take in the designer shoes in matching velvet to the dress.
Cripes, the entire ensemble is couture, even if it’s got to be off a rack. I can’t imagine how much it all cost. More than my annual income from Café? Yeah, more like double.
Still, I waste no time in trying everything on, holding my breath in case the dress doesn’t fit, terrified that I’ll look fat or lumpy.
But when I look in the mirror, turning on the raised platform so I can see all angles, it’s perfection.
My hips, arguably the worst part of my body, look slimmer.
My stomach looks flat. My chest looks amazing.
I’m half-tempted to feel myself up, I look so good. That gargoyle can sure guess sizes.
While I was napping, my hair dried in a ravage of mal-adjusted locks. I find a brush and do my best, but end up using a simple gold binder clip I find in the drawer to pull it all back into a messy bun. Problem solved.
Makeup is harder to find, which is surprising, given Alain cakes the stuff on. But that’s base, or pancake, or whatever they call the flesh-colored stuff. I don’t need that. I need mascara and lip gloss, neither of which is on proffer.
Fine. I have a tube of red lipstick in my purse, and I really should call Morrie and let him know what’s happened.
The reminder twists my gut. Calling my tutelary should have been my first order of business.
I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. I’ve let the seductive gargoyle completely bamboozle me into forgetting my duty to the only man who worries for me now that my parents are gone—the only person in the world, actually, who cares whether I live or die.
Though, honestly, I’m not sure if he’s just trying to protect a slayer for the sake of humanity or if he truly cares for me. He’s paternal, anyway. Avuncular, might be a better word.
I should have called him.
But when I search for my purse, I don’t find it. The last time I saw it was in the car driving from the prison. I must have left it in the back seat.
Fine. I’ll just collect it, make my phone call, and then have supper, because yes, that sound resonating around the room? It’s my stomach, not a hungry hippo.
Maybe I could use some etiquette lessons after all.