Dead Perfect (2 page)

Shannah woke slowly. Her eyelids felt heavy and it was an effort to open her eyes. For a moment, she stared blankly at her surroundings. The walls were painted taupe with white trim. The ceiling was white. A fire burned in the hearth across from the canopied bed on which she lay. A thick white carpet covered the floor. Heavy draperies the same color as the walls covered the room’s single window. The dresser against the far wall looked like an antique, as did the high-backed oak rocking chair in the corner. Large, expensive-looking paintings hung on the walls—one was of a stately park where people in eighteenth-century clothing strolled along tree-lined lanes; one was of a Paris cathedral; the third depicted a quiet lake beneath a full moon. The fourth painting was of a dark castle set upon a windswept hill.

Where was she?

Where was he?

Her head ached and when she touched her fingertips to her forehead, she made two discoveries—her fever was gone and there was a rather large bandage taped above her left eye. She didn’t remember being injured. Frowning made her head hurt worse.

It wasn’t until she slid her legs over the edge of the bed that she realized she wasn’t wearing anything save for her bra, panties, and a dark blue velvet robe with a black satin collar.

When she stood, the robe’s hem dragged on the floor and the sleeves fell past her hands. She glanced around the room, looking for her clothes, but they were nowhere in sight. She checked the closet and the chest of drawers. Both were empty.

She walked across the floor, her bare feet making no sound on the soft thick carpet. Putting her ear to the door, she listened for a moment before she opened it and stepped out into the hallway.

A glance up and down the narrow corridor showed several doors. None of them were open.

Clutching the collar of the robe in one hand, she tiptoed along the hallway, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her feet.

She paused at the top of the landing, listening, and when she heard nothing, she padded quietly down the staircase.

At the bottom, she paused again.

Was she in
his
house? And if she was, where was he, and why were there no clothes in the closet? She had come here looking for a vampire. Now that her fever was gone and she was thinking more clearly, she knew how foolish that had been. Vampires were creatures of myth and legend.

But what if he was something even worse?

Where had he put her clothing? She could hardly walk back to her apartment in her bare feet, wearing nothing but a too large bathrobe, nice and comfy as it was.

Moving as quietly as she could, she made her way into the kitchen, thinking to fortify herself with a cup of strong black coffee.

No such luck. The cupboards were empty. The stove and the refrigerator looked new and unused. The fridge was empty. There was no table. Odd, that there was no food in the house but then, maybe he never ate at home. Still, it was mighty strange that he didn’t at least have the basics. Or a few dishes.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been truly hungry. She rarely ate a full meal anymore. Doing so made her sick to her stomach and yet, for the first time in months, she was famished.

She was standing in the middle of the floor, her stomach growling, when there was a knock at the back door. She hesitated a moment before opening it.

A cute young man with curly brown hair stood at the door holding a large box of groceries. “Miss Shannah?”

“Yes?”

“Where do you want this?”

She glanced at the cardboard box in his hand. “I’m not sure. I didn’t…”

“It was a phone order from Mr. Dark.”

“Oh.” Was that the stranger’s name? Mr. Dark? She took a step backward. “Just put it on the counter, I guess.”

The young man did as bidden. He handed her a receipt and a pen. “Just sign here.”

She signed the receipt and handed the slip of paper and the pen back to the young man. “I’m afraid I don’t have any cash for a tip.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, grinning. “Mr. Dark took care of it. Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Thank you.”

She closed the door, then went to look through the box. It held a jar of instant coffee, a half-gallon of milk, a box of assorted individual servings of cereal, a small box of sugar, a loaf of bread, lunch meat and cheese, eggs, bacon, a box of pancake mix, syrup, a jar of peanut butter, another of jelly, a six-pack of soda, butter, salt and pepper, a small jar of mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup, as well as paper plates and a package of plastic knives, forks, and spoons, some plastic cups, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. At the bottom of the box she found two frying pans and a toaster.

Her stomach growled loudly as she stared at the bounty before her. With a shake of her head, she put everything away, then set about making French toast and bacon for breakfast.

Mr. Dark, indeed,
she mused. She didn’t know if that was his real name or not, but it fit perfectly.

She carried her breakfast into the living room and sat on the sofa since there was no place to sit in the kitchen.

When she finished eating, she sat back, waiting for her stomach to cramp, for the food to come back up again, as it always did when she ate too much too fast. But nothing happened. Rising, she carried her dishes into the kitchen and put them in the sink. She would wash them later, she decided, for now she wanted to see the rest of the house.

The living room, done in shades of blue and gray, was roomy and comfortable, with a high-backed sofa, an overstuffed chair, a glass-topped coffee table, and a big screen plasma TV with surround sound. Heavy draperies covered the big picture window and the smaller windows located on either side of the front door.

The dining room was bare save for a large oil painting of a tall-masted ship adrift on a storm-tossed sea.

Continuing down the hallway, she looked in every room. There was a bathroom with a large shower, a marble sink, and a sunken tub. A large walk-in linen closet was located across from the bathroom. The bedroom next to the bathroom was decorated in shades of forest green and gold. The furniture was country oak. The walls were beige, all hung with large paintings—a stag in the midst of a sun-drenched meadow; a wolf posed on the edge of a craggy hill; a shepherd cradling a lamb to his chest; a herd of wild horses running across a moonlit prairie. He seemed to have a taste for art, she mused, moving on down the hallway. She was no expert, but all the paintings looked extremely expensive.

It was the last room that drew her inside. The walls on either side of the door were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; heavy wine-red velvet drapes covered a large window in the third wall. An enormous desk stood in front of the fourth wall. It held a computer, a large LCD flat screen monitor, a cordless mouse and keyboard, a combination printer/scanner/copier, and nothing else. She was tempted to turn on the computer but something held her back.

The bookshelves held a wide variety of books, everything from encyclopedias to mysteries to romance novels. One shelf held thirteen paperback books by the same author—Eva Black. Shannah had never read a romance novel in her life but the author’s name sounded vaguely familiar.

Another shelf held mysteries written by Claire Ebon. Still another shelf held several hardback contemporary novels written by Stella Raven.

Shannah frowned. Black, Ebon, Raven. Odd, that they all had last names so similar in meaning. Odder still that her host’s name was Mr. Dark. She puzzled over that for several minutes, then shrugged. It was probably just a coincidence.

Leaving the computer room, she went upstairs to explore the second floor. She wasn’t surprised when she discovered that all the rooms except the one she had awakened in were empty. Bare floors, blank walls, all painted the same shade of off-white. Perhaps he had moved in recently, she thought. Maybe it was his first house. That would explain the lack of furniture, knick knacks, and the other odds and ends that people tended to collect when they had lived in the same house for a long time.

She should go home, she thought, before he came back from wherever he had gone. He hadn’t been happy to see her on his doorstep. She was certain he wouldn’t be happy to know she had been snooping around his house while he was away. She was surprised he had taken her in and let her spend the night.

Yes, she should go home, but not now. Feeling suddenly weary, she made her way back into the taupe bedroom and climbed up on the bed. Pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes. She was tired, so very, very tired. The doctors had warned her that she would feel that way when the end was near, though how they knew that was beyond her. They didn’t even know what was wrong with her. At first, they had thought she had some rare form of leukemia, then they’d thought it might be some sexually transmitted disease similar to AIDS, only she didn’t do drugs and she had never had sexual intercourse. Though the doctors couldn’t decide what was wrong with her, they had all agreed on one thing. She was dying, and she didn’t have much time left, perhaps six months. And now five of them were gone.

But she wouldn’t think of that, not now. She would just close her eyes for a few minutes and then she would call for a cab and go home.

He rose at dusk, his nostrils assailed by the faint, lingering odors of eggs and milk and bacon. And over the stink of food he detected the tantalizing scent of the woman. So, she was still here. He had expected she would be long gone by now.

He moved through the house until he reached the bedroom, his senses quickening when he saw her lying in his bed, her hair spread across the white pillowcase like a splash of black ink. Her face was very nearly as pale as the pillowcase beneath her head. Her eyelashes lay like dark fans upon her cheeks.

She was dying. A rare disease of the blood, something so rare even her doctor wasn’t sure what it was or what had caused it. Perhaps that explained why she had come looking for a vampire.

He had known many people in the course of his existence. Most came and went without making any noticeable impact on his life. Only a few had been memorable. She would be one of them, though he couldn’t say why. He hardly knew her. If he were still capable of human feelings, he might have shed tears for her.

She moaned softly, her fingers worrying the covers. “No! No, I’m afraid. Oh, please, no…”

She began to thrash around under the covers. And then she screamed.

He had heard countless cries of terror throughout his long existence but this one cut through his heart and soul like a knife.

“Shannah.” Murmuring her name, he sat on the edge of the mattress and drew her into his arms. “Wake up, child.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at him, her eyes wide and frightened. And then, with a strangled sob, she collapsed in his arms, her body trembling.

“It’s all right, Shannah,” he whispered. “There’s nothing for you to be afraid of. You’re safe here, with me.”

It was a lie, of course, but she didn’t know that.

When she continued to shiver, he pulled the blanket from the bed and draped it around her, and then he rocked her back and forth as if she were, indeed, a child.

Gradually, her trembling ceased and she lay quiet in his arms.

He brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “How do you feel?”

“I’m dying.”

“Is that why you were looking for a vampire?”

She nodded. “I thought…”

“That I would bring you across?”

“Yes.”

He smiled faintly. “You came well-armed.” He had smelled the garlic she carried when he opened the door and saw her standing on the porch, had noted the cross she wore on a fine gold chain around her neck. When he put her to bed, he had been amused to find a crudely fashioned wooden stake tucked inside the waistband of her jeans, cloves of garlic and a small vial of holy water in the pockets of her jacket. He had disposed of all but the cross and chain. “And do you want to be a vampire?”

“No!” she exclaimed softly, and then, softer still, “but I don’t want to die, either.”

“Perhaps the doctors were wrong.”

“They can’t all be wrong,” she said wearily. Pushing away from him, she sat up, her shoulders slumped, defeat evident in every line of her body. “I should go home.”

“You should rest a little longer. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“No.” She had only a short time left; she didn’t want to waste any of it by sleeping more than was absolutely necessary. She wanted to live every minute while she could. “Anyway,” she said, throwing the covers aside, “I can’t stay here.”

He gazed deep into her eyes. “Of course you can.” He tucked her under the covers once more, then stood beside the bed, looking down at her. “Go to sleep, Shannah. Everything will be better tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she said, yawning behind her hand. “Tomorrow.” Her eyelids fluttered down. A moment later, she was asleep.

He watched her for a moment more, then knelt beside the bed. Brushing a lock of hair away from her neck, he ran his tongue lightly over her skin, felt his fangs lengthen in quick response to the scent of her blood, the pulse beating slow and regular in the hollow of her throat.

He closed his eyes as the hunger rose up within him, demanding to be fed. As gently as possible, he buried his fangs in the soft skin beneath her ear. In spite of the ravening hunger that clawed at him, he drank only a little. In spite of the impurity in her blood, it was sweet, sweeter than anything he had ever tasted.

Drawing away, he made a gash in his wrist with his teeth. Dark red blood bubbled from the ragged incision.

“Hear me, Shannah,” he said, holding the bleeding wound to her lips, “you must open your mouth and drink.”

Obediently, she opened her mouth and swallowed a few drops of his blood.

A flick of his tongue closed the wound in his wrist.

“Sleep now, my sweet Shannah,” he murmured. “Sleep and dream of a long and healthy life.”

Shannah woke feeling better than she had in months. Flinging the covers aside, she practically flew out of bed. She didn’t feel lethargic, as she usually did upon waking. She wasn’t cold. She didn’t have a headache. She was surprised when her stomach growled. She hadn’t been truly hungry in months. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost six o’clock. Good grief, she had been asleep almost twenty-four hours. No wonder she was hungry!

Going to the window, she drew back the curtains and stared out at the lowering clouds. Gathering the robe she still wore closer around her, she padded barefoot down the stairs, wondering where her mysterious host was.

She found him in the den, seated in front of the computer.

He looked up at her when she crossed the threshold. “Good evening, Shannah.”

She smiled faintly, still feeling foolish for thinking he was a vampire. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” he asked, though there was no need. The shadows were gone from her eyes, the hollows from her cheeks. Her eyes glowed as clear and blue as a summer sky. Her skin was radiant.

Her smile widened. “I feel wonderful. I don’t understand it.”

“Perhaps you just needed a good night’s sleep,” he suggested. “Make yourself at home, won’t you? I’m not quite finished here.”

“Thank you. Is it…would it be all right if I fix something to eat?”

“Of course.”

“What would you like for dinner? I’m not a bad cook, if you don’t want anything too fancy.”

“Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve eaten.”

“Already?”

He nodded.

She gestured at the monitor on the desk. “Are you working, or playing?” she asked, and then flushed. It was none of her business what he was doing.

“Working.”

“Oh?” He heard the unspoken question in her voice.

“I’m a writer.”

“Really? What do you write?”

“Books.”

She glanced at the bookcase on the far wall. “Are any of these yours?”

“Yes, the ones written by Eva Black.” He had written the ones by Ebon and Raven, as well, but they had been published before she was born.

“Wow, I’ve never met a real writer before. Could I read one?”

“If you like.”

She moved to the bookcase, her gaze roaming over the shelves. “Why don’t you use your own name?”

“I write mostly romances,” he replied easily. “I thought they would sell better if readers thought they had been written by a woman.”

Even his editor didn’t know he was a man. With his need to sleep during the day, and the differences in time between one coast and the other, it was virtually impossible for them to communicate by phone. Ronan had informed his editor and his agent that he slept days and wrote through the night, and since writers tended to be a little eccentric, they had accepted his excuse. All their correspondence had been by letter or email.

She nodded. “How long have you been writing?”

“I’ve been writing for a number of years,” he said, “but my first book was published seven years ago.” In truth, he had been writing for more than sixty years, but he had been Eva Black for a relatively short time. He often wondered what his editor would think if she knew that her publishing house had been selling his books under various pseudonyms since 1946.

Skimming the titles, Shannah ran her fingertips over the spines of the books. Pulling one from the shelf, she read the back cover blurb.

She looked at him over the top of the book. “This is about a vampire.”

“Yes.”

She stared at him speculatively, her eyes narrowed. He could see all her earlier suspicions roaring back to life.

“I write about pirates and unicorns, as well,” he said, looking amused. “And doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”

She felt a rush of heat flow into her cheeks. “I get the message,” she muttered. Just because he wrote about vampires didn’t make him one. “Could you tell me where my clothes are?”

“I sent them out to be cleaned. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced down at the robe she was still wearing. “Do you have a T-shirt or something that I could wear until then?”

“I think so.” Heat pooled in his groin at the thought of her wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing more.

With a nod, she tucked the book under her arm and left the room.

Ronan leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers steepled. Since Eva’s last six books had made all the bestseller lists, including the prestigious
New York Times
list, his editor had been after him to let them put his photo in the backs of his novels. A couple of the talk shows wanted to interview him on early-morning radio and his agent had been pressuring him to do so. Thus far, he had refused for obvious reasons. But what if Shannah pretended to be Eva Black? He could send Shannah’s photo to his editor. Shannah could do the interviews at the radio stations.

It was an intriguing idea. He could please his agent and his editor and get the publisher off his back all at the same time.

He turned back to the computer screen, his senses acutely aware of the woman in the kitchen. She was making spaghetti sauce. He could smell tomatoes, basil and oregano. But mostly, he could smell the woman. The scent of her blood was tantalizing, more so now that he had tasted her.

His hands curled over the edge of the desk. Why had he let her stay here? Did he really think he could keep his hunger under control when she was so close, so available? His grip on the edge of the desk tightened. The wood creaked under the strain.

Muttering an oath, he rose and began to pace the floor. Over the centuries, he had seen death in all its forms. None of them were pretty. Only a few mortals were lucky enough to expire peacefully in their sleep. She was dying, and she was far too young, and far too fair, to succumb to such a cruel fate. So he had given her a few drops of his blood to buy her a little more time, though he didn’t know how much. A couple of days, a couple of weeks, perhaps a month or so, if she was lucky.

She didn’t want to die.

He could arrange that. He knew how, though he had never bestowed the Dark Trick on anyone before. It was tempting, so tempting, but that would defeat his purpose for letting her stay. Aside from wanting photos and pestering him to do interviews and local book signings, his editor and his agent were both pressuring him to go on tour. It would be good publicity, they said. Readers liked to meet their favorite authors. It would be beneficial to meet the managers of some of the larger romance-friendly bookstores. It would be good for sales.

He had stalled as long as he could but he was running out of valid excuses.

Hence his need for Shannah. He could give her enough of his blood to form a link between them. He would be able to read her thoughts; if he wished it, she would be able to read his. They could go on tour together, with her pretending to be him when necessary. Through the link, he would be able to give her the answers to whatever questions readers or the news media might ask about his writing, at least after sundown. And if her health started to fail again, he had only to give her a little more of his blood.

It seemed an easy solution to the problem, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Now, he had only to convince her. And if she refused…He smiled. She would agree, whether she wished it or not.

Going on tour would solve another problem, as well. He grimaced, annoyed with himself for choosing to quit the field rather than to simply stay and kill the vampire hunter who had come to town. He didn’t know if the hunter was hunting him or if it was merely coincidence that the man had come to this place at this time. Ronan leaned against the edge of his desk, his fingertips drumming on the surface. He didn’t want to kill the man if he didn’t have to, but, should it become necessary, he wouldn’t hesitate to do what had to be done.

Dropping back down into his chair, Ronan picked up the magazine he had bought a few days earlier. It was a national entertainment magazine, published weekly. An article touted on the front cover had caught his eye. The story “Vampires Among Us—Truth or Legend?” had been written by a freelance reporter named Carl Overstreet.

Ronan wondered if it had been the article that had brought the hunter to town. Propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he began to read:

Muttering, “You’d better watch your own neck, you damn fool,” Ronan tossed the magazine into the wastebasket beside his desk.

Shannah glanced over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him enter the room but she knew he was there, standing just inside the doorway like some huge bird of prey ready to swoop down and carry her away. She grinned inwardly. Since her illness, her imagination had gone into overdrive.

“Did you change your mind about dinner?” she asked.

“No.” His gaze focused on the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He could hear the blood flowing through her veins, its music like a Siren’s call to his ears. Though he had fed earlier, the hunger, ever-present, clawed at his vitals. His fangs pricked his tongue.

“Are you all right?” she asked, frowning.

Nodding, he looked away. By sheer force of will, he subdued the craving that burned through him, demanding to be satisfied.

“I’m going out for a while,” he said. “I won’t be gone long.”

“Oh, well, I should probably be going home after I eat. If I don’t see you again, I want to thank you now for your hospitality and everything…”

“I’d rather you stayed. Besides,” he said, “you can’t very well go out dressed like that.”

He was right, of course. She had forgotten that she didn’t have anything to wear, and she couldn’t very well go home wearing nothing but his robe, no matter how nice it was. Maybe, when he returned, she could borrow one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants, though his clothes were certain to be far too large. Still, it was better than what she had on now.

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I guess I can stay until tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I meant. I want you to stay here, with me, indefinitely.”

She didn’t like the sound of that one bit and she stared at him in sudden alarm, wondering if she had made a fatal mistake in coming here.

Sensing her inner turmoil, he said, “Shannah, I mean you no harm.”

She didn’t know why, but she believed him. Still, she couldn’t stay. “I can’t, really…”

“Of course you can.”

“No. I have to go home. My apartment…” That was hardly a convincing argument. Her whole apartment would fit inside his living room. Of course, he didn’t know that. She thought of her small place, and compared it to his house. There was nothing at home that she would miss. And whether it was the man or his mansion, she felt much better here than she had in months. That made no sense, of course, but then, these days, very little made sense. Still, she couldn’t move in with this man. This stranger. She had been raised better than that.

She shook her head. “No,” she said again, “I couldn’t, but thanks again for your hospitality.”

He smiled faintly. “When I get back, I’d like a chance to convince you to stay. I won’t be gone long.”

She watched him turn and walk away, heard the front door open and close as he left the house.

What a strange man he was. Why would he want her to stay here, with him? Perhaps because he
was
a strange man? The thought sent fear flooding through her. Maybe he really was some kind of homicidal maniac. Maybe the reason she suddenly felt so good was because he was a drug dealer and he had slipped her something last night. Maybe he planned to sell her on the white slave market.

Maybe she had better get the hell out of here while she still could!