Dead Perfect (3 page)

She turned off the stove and ran out of the kitchen. She wasn’t going to hang around to find out what kind of man he was, or just what plans he had in store for her. She was leaving this place right now, clothes or no clothes.

Ronan stalked the ever-changing shadows of the night, a predator in search of prey, a hunter on the prowl. He loved the night, the taste of the wind on his tongue, the anticipation of the hunt. There had been times, in the beginning, when he had despised what he was, loathed what he had to do to survive, but those feelings hadn’t lasted long. He had once been human, prey to what he had become. Now he was the predator; preying on mortals was natural to his kind. The memory of mortality and its inherent weaknesses were dim, overshadowed by the passing of time. The revulsion he had expected to feel the first time he satisfied his unnatural thirst had never materialized. One taste of the rich red elixir of life had driven all thought of repugnance from his mind. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. Nothing had ever satisfied him more.

Now, he moved through the darkness with ease, his preternatural senses testing the evening breeze. Sounds and smells assailed him on every side as he sought for the one who would satisfy his hunger.

He bypassed a young couple holding hands, so caught up in each other he doubted either of them would have noticed had he chosen one or both of them.

He moved past an old man sitting on the sidewalk in front of a seedy tavern, as well as several boisterous young men who reeked of booze and drugs.

Moving on, he passed a rookie cop walking a lonely beat.

And then he saw her, a middle-aged woman about to enter a single-story house at the end of a quiet street. Falling into step beside her, he mesmerized her with a glance and pulled her into the shadows beside the building. Taking her into his embrace, he took that which he needed to sustain his existence, and left her standing there, bewildered but unhurt, his memory erased from her mind.

With his thirst sated for the moment, he turned toward home, his thoughts on the woman who waited for him there. What would she think of his proposition? Dare he tell her the truth of what he was? In five hundred years, no one who had discovered the truth of his existence had lived to tell the tale. He remembered all too well the way his kind had been hunted in centuries past, hordes of frightened people storming through cemeteries, digging up the graves of suspected vampires, mutilating the corpses.

These days, people were generally too civilized to believe in the supernatural, although vampire hunters still plied their trade. He knew it would be a mistake to tell Shannah the truth. Why, then, did he feel compelled to do so? And why, of all the people he had known through the centuries, was he tempted to work the Dark Trick upon her? It was nothing to him whether she lived or died, yet the thought of her death filled him with an aching sadness he had not felt in hundreds of years.

Perhaps it was just that he had been alone for too long. How often had he seen young lovers entwined and yearned for the closeness and the intimacy they shared? How often had he hungered, not for blood, but for the love of a woman? For one kiss, freely given?

Eager to see Shannah again, he quickened his pace, relishing the touch of the night air on his face.

Lights burned in the downstairs windows of the house. He grunted softly, thinking how odd it looked. Before Shannah, the house had always been dark when he returned. With his preternatural vision, he had no need for artificial lighting.

No one had ever left a light burning for him before. A smile curved his lips as he hurried up the long narrow drive. It faded as he opened the front door. He didn’t have to enter the house to know that it was empty. To know that she had gone.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he went out into the night once more, his senses reaching out, his head lifting to sniff an errant breeze for her scent. He found it quickly, followed it easily, much like a hungry wolf on the trail of fresh blood.

It led him to a four-story red brick apartment building on the far side of town.

Sitting on the sofa clad in a pair of comfy old sweats and a pair of heavy socks, Shannah reached for the book she had stolen from Mr. Dark, if that was indeed his real name. Somehow, she doubted it. Not that it mattered, she thought as she opened the book.

She had fled his house as though pursued by demons. Keeping to the shadows, his robe clutched tightly around her, she had made her way home, praying that she would remain unobserved, especially by the police. It would have been difficult indeed to explain what she was doing running through the streets clad in nothing but a robe and her underwear. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen anyone, and no one had seen her. She wondered now if she had overreacted. He had been nothing but kind to her since she showed up at his front door.

With a shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the book. There was a poem on the first page.

In the darkness, I dream of light

Under Sol, I beg for night

Each dawn I die, at dusk reborn

Eternal shadow

Alone

Forlorn

Though short, the aching loneliness inherent in the words touched a chord deep within her. Had he written the poem as well as the book? He didn’t seem like the poetic type, she thought as she turned the page.

In minutes, she forgot everything but the story unfolding in front of her. Never before had she read anything that captured her attention so quickly. His writing was compelling, riveting, so visual she could see every scene unfolding in her mind as though she was there in the midst of the story, living each adventure with the vampire and his lady love.

She was so captivated that she was hardly aware of time passing. She was completely caught up in the plot. She was the heroine, in love with a man who was not a man at all, and her life was in danger…

She practically jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the door. Frowning, she wondered who it could be. She wasn’t expecting company; no one except her parents knew where she lived.

The knock came again, louder and more insistent. Rising, the book clutched in one hand, she went to the door. “Who is it?”

She knew the answer even before she heard the deep timbre of his voice.

“Ronan.”

“What do you want?” She glanced at the book in her hand. Was he here because she had taken it without permission?

“I want to see you, of course. Why else would I be here?”

Heart pounding, she stared at the door. Would he go away if she refused to let him in? Or would he break down the door? She could scream for help, but she knew no one would come.

“Shannah, open the damn door and let me in.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to, but her hand seemed to move of its own volition and she found herself staring up into his face. Hearing the barely suppressed anger in his voice, she had expected him to barge in and…well, she wasn’t sure just what she expected him to do. The one thing she hadn’t expected was for him to ask her permission, but that was exactly what he did.

“May I come in?” he asked. He was dressed all in black again—shirt, pants, boots, duster.

She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. Retreating into the room, she sat down on the sofa again, the book clutched to her breast. If only she had a hero who would fly in and rescue her, like the one in the story!

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. His presence seemed to shrink her small apartment. She imagined she could feel it closing in around her. His gaze swept over her, the force of it almost tangible.

“Are you enjoying the book?” His voice was low, almost hypnotic. It moved over her, a feather-light touch underscored with steel.

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “V-very much.” She held it out to him. “I was going to return it, and your robe, when I was through.”

“Keep it. Why did you run away?”

She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, all the while glancing around the room, searching for a weapon. The fireplace poker? The heavy glass vase on the coffee table? Could she reach either of them before he reached for her?

“I didn’t run away,” she lied. “I just came home.”

“I asked you to stay. You said you would.”

Her hands tightened on the book in her lap. “I’m a woman. I changed my mind.”

“You’re afraid of me,” he mused, and she heard the puzzlement in his voice.

“Why…why would I be afraid of you?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I just wanted to come home.”

“You’re lying.” He hunkered down on his heels until he was at eye level with her. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“All right,” she admitted defiantly. “I got scared and I left.”

“I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why would you want me to stay there with you? You don’t even know me.”

“Had you stayed, I would have told you my reasons.”

Curious in spite of her better judgment, she said, “So, tell me now.”

Rising, he sat down on the sofa beside her, though he was careful not to touch her for fear she might run screaming from the room.

She shivered at his nearness, uncertain if it was because he was so close or because of the sudden heat that flowed between them. He was a remarkably handsome man with his mesmerizing black eyes and dark good looks. Sometimes, when he looked at her, she felt as though he could see through her heart and straight into her soul, that he knew things about her that no one else knew. But that was impossible. Heart pounding with trepidation, she watched him reach for her hand, felt little frissons of awareness race up her arm as his fingers closed around hers. The book fell from her hand and slid off her lap onto the floor.

“What do you want from me?” She had intended it to sound like a demand; it came out as a breathless gasp.

“Nothing sinister, I assure you. I have an aversion to having my picture taken, to appearing in public and being subjected to interviews. My readers think I’m female and I should like to keep it that way. My agent and my publisher have been after me to go on tour for quite some time…”

She shook her head. “What does all that have to do with me?”

“I want you to pretend to be me.”

She stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Of all the things he might have said, his answer caught her completely off guard. “But…how could I…?”

“No one knows what I look like.”

“I don’t think I can…”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“But how could I possibly…people will ask me about your books…” She retrieved his book from the floor and held it up. “This is the only one I’ve read, and I haven’t even finished it.”

“When you’ve finished that one, I want you to read the ones I’ve published in the last year or so. I’ll give you a complete list of all my books, along with a brief synopsis of each one for you to memorize. As for questions you might be asked, I’ll help you with what to say.”

“I just don’t see how it could work.”

“Trust me. We’ll rehearse for a month or two, more if need be, until you feel comfortable. As I said, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’re forgetting one thing. I don’t have a couple of months.”

“Let’s not worry about that now.”

“I was never very good at memorizing things.”

“You’ll be surprised at how easy it will come to you.”

“And why will it be so easy now when it never was before?”

His smile warned her not to ask any more questions. “You’ll also need to make an appointment to have your picture taken.”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

“You haven’t said no.”

“If I agree, will you tell me something?”

“Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”

“Is Ronan your first name or your last?”

He smiled then. “It’s both and neither,” he said evasively.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s the only name I use.”

“Really? How do you get away with that?”

He shrugged. “It works for Cher and Madonna, why not me?”

She made a face at him. “Don’t forget Bono. And the artist formerly known as Prince.”

She was quick, he thought, pleased. “And so,” he said, his thumb drawing circles on the back of her hand. “What do you say?”

“Yes.” She whispered the word, feeling as if it had been drawn out of her by his will and not her own. Once said, she realized it was what she wanted. Pretending to be an author might be fun, and it would give her something to think about besides her own imminent demise. “I’ll do it,” she said quietly. “For as long as I’m able. But I’m not giving up my apartment.”

“It’s foolish for you to pay rent here when you’ll be living with me.”

“I don’t care. I need a place of my own. A place to come back to when…when I want to come home.”

“All right. But I’ll pay your rent as long as you’re working for me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that!”

“You didn’t ask me. Consider it part of your pay.”

“You’re going to pay me?”

“Of course.” Rising, he tugged gently on her hand. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of work to do, and only a short amount of time to do it.”

She gathered her things together, then followed him outside where she glanced up and down the street. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“You walked all the way here?”

He shrugged. “It’s not so far.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t know about you, but I’m driving back. You can come with me, or you can hoof it.”

He agreed to ride with her. As soon as they were both in the car, with the doors closed, she wished she had chosen to walk. She drove a restored 1962 VW Bug. It was a small car, made smaller now by his presence.

Shannah started the engine, looked behind her, and pulled away from the curb. She was all too aware of the man sitting beside her. His shoulder was only inches from her own; once her hand brushed against his thigh as she reached for the gear shift. She could feel his gaze on her face. His scent tickled her nostrils. She tried to place it, but couldn’t. It wasn’t aftershave lotion, it wasn’t cologne. Maybe it was just the man himself.

“What kind of car do you drive?” she asked, desperate to break the taut silence between them. “I mean, you do drive, don’t you?”