CHAPTER 7
Bunny
The swimsuit the housekeeper lent me is far too big, but I don’t think Alain notices.
He sits in the corner of the covered rooftop, pretending to do some paperwork at the small table while I divest myself of his enormous silk robe that puddles on the tile floor.
Still, even though he doesn’t look directly at me, I know he’s watching. I feel his eyes on me like lasers.
Monster. He’s worse than a vampire, really. What he does to my blood is unholy.
It’s nearly dinner and my body is still pulsing from last night’s orgasm…
and I need another one, which is one more reason that I need to set some firmer boundaries between us.
It’s not a good idea to fall under gargoyle’s spell, not for me, and not for the slayer that I should be.
What would my tutelary say if he knew Alain had his head between my legs and that I loved it?
No, fake girlfriends need to stay fake, benefits not included.
Diving into the cool depths doesn’t help. The water strokes over my skin like Alain’s hands—sensual, and the last thing my failing restraint needs.
After touching bottom, I spring into laps across the Olympic size pool.
Through the glass walls, I spot the amazing views of the New York skyline every time I turn my head to breathe.
With the gloaming settling, lights flicker on throughout apartments and at street level.
The moon morphs into visibility, making the vista truly magical.
I have no idea how I’m going to return to my normal life after playing house with the billionaire… a billionaire gargoyle who knows all the best tricks for making me come.
The laps steal my breath until my body takes over with its own rhythm, pushing and stretching my muscles.
I’ve exercised regularly ever since my parents put my first stake in my hand.
I’ve always known what my duty would be.
I’ve trained for it forever. I’m lucky, actually, that no one insisted that I start slaying until now.
I lose track of time, and the next thing I know, Alain squats down in front of the lane. “I hate to cut short your enjoyment of the pool, but we’ve only got an hour to reservation. I’ll have someone hold the table if we run a tad late, but I don’t want to lose peak photographer time.”
Right. It’s the whole reason I’m enjoying the billionaire lifestyle.
The reminder has me scurrying into the enormous soft towel he holds open for me before folding me inside like a treasured burrito. For a few seconds, I get lost in his embrace, wishing it could somehow be real, before he pulls away.
“We should get moving.”
Of course. Fake date to prep for.
After a quick trip into the shower to rinse off the chlorine, or salt, or whatever the chemicals are in the pool, I submit myself to the hair-nazi.
My reflection afterward says the pain was worth it.
My hair is shiny and bouncy. The makeup artist tinted my lips with a soft red gloss, and widened my eyes with an application of black mascara. Otherwise, the rest of me is just me.
That’s what money pays for. The artist knew enough to avoid a plastic mannequin look.
But it’s the contents of the Coco garment bag that fills me with so many twisted emotions that I can’t make them out.
The suit inside the teal bag is an elegant cream with pale-aqua-colored stripes designed for a muted plaid effect.
The skirt has a single kick-pleat and will likely hovers only a few inches below my underwear.
Beneath the jacket, I find a matching aqua silk shell, and beneath that, a bra and thong designed with whisps of cream lace.
In an attached drawstring bag, the shoes are a darker aqua with a silver stiletto heel.
The purse is an almost-matching wristlet, great for fighting vampires since it won’t weight me down and might even be used as a cudgel.
Not that I’m going to fight vampires tonight. Obviously not. And I’m not going to keep the clothing after our fake relationship ends, either. Of course not. But still…
Ignoring the sinking feeling rushing through me, I pull a velvet bag from the front pocket of the garment bag. Ropes of pearls fall out into my hand. Two pearl earrings follow. I can see from the glow that they’re expensive, as well as tasteful.
And when I slip it all on and look in the mirror, I see an upscale version of me staring back, like I’ve been perfected and smoothed, matured and made confident.
But it all comes together as I descend the grand staircase to find Alain gaping up at me. His eyes glow bright amber. “You’re beautiful, Bumps.”
Twirling once I reach bottom so that he can see the full breadth of what his money buys, I accidentally stumble into him. Alain drags me against his length, clutching my body to his before he swears under his breath and pushes me gently from him.
“You slay me, Bumps,” he whispers softly.
“Can’t. You’re stone,” I remind him, happiness fluttering up inside me.
“Really? Because except for my cock, I feel rather slushy.”
“Slushy?” I can’t help but laugh.
He shrugs before offering his arm. “Come on, Bumps. Let’s go put on the show.”
Once we’re in the car, he sits as far from me as possible, except when Jean-Luc corners onto a side street and I fall into him. And, okay, I want him to take me onto his lap and kiss me senseless, but he simply sits there like stone as I draw my hands along him to regain my balance.
What can I say? I get off on making him hard.
“Are you ready?” he asks quietly, finally acknowledging me when we pull to the curb. “This can be a lot.”
“The paparazzi, you mean?” My nerves begin to jangle. Outside the town car, camera flashes light up the street. I don’t know who they’re photographing right now, but it’s going to be me in a minute.
I’m not the kind of woman who worries about her physical faults.
That’s so yesterday. If I worried over my second toe that bends like a candy cane, a too-short waist, and a freckle that looks like a wart under my eye, I’d never leave the house.
But just now all I can think is how I’m not tall enough, or model-thin enough, to be the object of Alain’s affections.
I’m not up to the standards of a billionaire, and frankly, if I hadn’t tried to stake him, he never would have noticed me.
Alain places his hand on my thigh, just below my skirt that rides so high, it’s probably illegal in forty-eight states.
“I would have noticed you, Bumps. A man would have to be blind not to, and even then…” He leans into me and places a kiss on my cheek before whispering, “Even then, I’m sure his cock would point in your direction like a magnet finds north. Some things just are.”
Guess I stated those worries out loud.
He slides out of the door Jean-Luc holds open and extends his hand for mine amidst a clash of blinding, flashing lights. I reach for him anyway. I feel, somehow, like I’ll always reach for him and find him.
Don’t be stupid, Bunny. Please don’t be stupid. There’s no way to have a real relationship with a monster who’s already told you he’s not interested in one with you.
“Miss Winters, over here.”
“How long have you been dating Mr. D’Ange? How did you meet?”
“Miss Winters, what scene were you acting out on national television?”
“Miss Winters, who are you wearing?”
I shield my eyes as Alain hunches over me, keeping me in a protective shield against his body as he battles through reporters like a football player with a football. Except, he takes his time. He’s intentionally milking this.
Fine. Two can play at this game. I turn my face into him and pretend to be a weak, helpless creature. Since that’s probably not too far from the truth, I go with it.
Until a scream sounds. It’s bit off. Just a yelp really, but I hear the panic in it. The terror.
So does Alain, apparently. His head shoots up and he gazes all around the crowd. I can’t see over all the taller heads.
I slip out of Alain’s embrace and manage to skirt through the throng. I’m just in time to see what looks to be a vampire dragging a woman into an alley down the block.
Without thinking, I begin to sprint until my heel turns.
Taking only a second, I remove my shoes and then race barefoot towards the danger.
My heart pumps. I don’t have my stake. Alain took my weapons, and even though he gave me back my messenger bag, I left it in the room.
All I have in my tiny wristlet is lipstick and a ten-dollar bill.
“Hey, meathead,” I shout, rolling to a stop about five feet into the alley, and about ten feet from where he has the woman pinned against the wall. “Pick on someone blonder.”
The vampire turns and hisses at me.
Great. He’s one of the Nosferatu types, the kind of undead who think they have to sleep in coffins. Most vamps own cushy apartments, stock portfolios, and mega-corporations. Only drama queens like the one hissing at me do the whole cape thing. At least, that’s what Morrie tells me.
So, good. Should be an easy slay… if I just had a stick.
I launch my heels at him instead, one at a time, hoping the stiletto points will poke out his eyes. Unfortunately, they go flying over his head. We both watch them clump against the far wall.
With a snicker, he turns back to his easy meal, a sixty-ish woman with a bad haircut, flats, and suit from two decades ago. Secretary, maybe. She’s so terrified that her screams are silent but for an anorexically-thin whine.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Deathbreath.” I reach down and pick up the tire iron that happens to be lying at my feet. Why are there always tire irons in alleys? It’s one of the world’s biggest mysteries.
It won’t kill him, but it will make him think twice about his life’s choices. Or his death’s, I guess.
With a shove, he flings Bad Haircut aside, sending her flying into the shadows. Both of us ignore the clatter and subsequent whimper. With a growl, he begins to advance upon me. Damn, he’s big, nearly as big as Alain.
If only I had my stake.