Lover's Bite. Maggie Shayne

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      And then the shots rang out. Three of them.

      The beautiful actress’s flawless smile froze on her lips even as it fled from her eyes. Topaz could see this part so clearly. She’d memorized the expressions as they had crossed her mother’s face, one behind the other. She wasn’t sure if she was glad someone had been filming or not. Part of her thought she might have been able to visualize every nuance even without the film.

      Trembling, Mirabella looked down to where her hands had flown to her body, then drew her palms away slowly to see the blood that coated them. Shivering, Topaz found her own hands echoing the same motions, her own eyes looking downward, her own mind slightly surprised that there was no blood on her hands.

      Mirabella’s gaze lifted, her eyes calling out for help in stunned silence. Pleading for help from someone, anyone. And then her knees just folded, and she sank to the ground like a flower that had been cut. Her thick black lashes lowered like velvet curtains on the world’s most vibrant stage. Her eyes fell closed, and she took her final bow.

      Topaz stood there, staring down at the flagstone walkway, straining her senses. Was this the very spot, then? It was close. As close as she could make out from the footage that had been taken that night.

      She sank to her knees, pressing her palms to the cool stone, as if by some fluke she would still be able to feel some trace of her mother’s energy. Her life force. Even her blood. Was that it there, discoloring the stones? Or was that nothing but a pattern in the rock?

      The sound of a motor jerked her attention back to the present, and she rose, blinking away hot tears and turning just in time to see the taxi rolling out of sight, kicking up a cloud of dust in its wake. Her suitcases were stacked, none-too-neatly, on the curb.

      She’d handed the guy two twenties for a twenty-five-dollar fare. She guessed he thought the rest was his tip. And it would have been deserved, if he’d carried the cases to the door for her. Bastard.

      Anger was good. She could be furious over fifteen bucks and no service, and distract herself from the real feelings trying to overwhelm her. Feelings of grief and sadness, a sense of loss, for the mother she’d never known and never really mourned. Was it long-overdue pain? Or was she indulging in self-pity? Or maybe just diving headlong into anything, no matter how painful, that would remove her attention from Jack Heart?

      Didn’t matter. She was here; she was doing this.

      Squaring her shoulders, Topaz marched up the walkway to the front door and reached out to ring the bell. But in the wire flower basket beside the door, an envelope caught her eye—probably because it had her name on it—stopping her hand in midair.

      She tugged the envelope out of the basket and opened it, and a key spilled out into her palm. There was a note besides, scrawled on Avalon Mansion stationery, with the address and phone number at the top.

      Topaz,

      The place is all yours. Since you’ve paid for every room, there will be no other guests, and as you requested, my husband and I have moved into the garage apartment and will give you all the privacy you require. Unless you call to request it, we’ll stay out of your way for the duration of your seven-day stay.

      Feel free to call if you need anything.

      Enjoy your vacation.

      Kimber Argent, Owner

      Santa Luna

      Topaz sighed. “Great. I thought they’d at least be here to say hi and schlep the freaking bags up to my room.”

      “Could be you were a bit too convincing when you told them you wanted to be left alone, hmm?”

      She whirled, stunned. No one crept up on a vampire. Well, not usually. She’d been distracted. And now she was…gaping like an air-starved goldfish. She clapped her jaw shut.

      “You did tell them you wanted to be left alone, didn’t you, Topaz?” Jack asked from the sidewalk.

      She tried to answer, then settled for nodding instead, as she fought to suck in some air, clear her throat, control the stupid, stupid, stupid impulse to run back down that walkway to him and throw her arms around his neck.

      “Surprised to see me?”

      “Surprised. Dismayed. Irritated.” Good, good. She was speaking. Real words. And not welcoming ones, even. Great.

      “And a little bit glad?” He was standing right beside the massive pile of luggage. Before she could answer, he scooped up half of it and strode up the walkway. “If nothing more, at least be glad there’s someone to carry your bags.”

      She didn’t move. Just stood there, with the key in one hand, the note and envelope in the other. There was a car behind him on the curb, one she’d been too absorbed in her own thoughts to hear pulling up. A Porsche Carrera, naturally. Only the best for Jack. She wondered a little bitterly who he’d scammed it from. Another rich female, too in love with him to listen to her own common sense? “Why are you here?”

      “Because I, apparently, know you better than your hosts do. Enough to know that your ‘I want to be left alone’ bullshit was just that. Bullshit.” He grunted and shifted the bags a little. “Unlock the door, will you? These are heavy, even for a vampire. What did you pack, anyway? A metric ton of your native soil?”

      “So amusing.” Frowning, she inserted the key, turned it and swung the door open. Jack stepped inside, setting the bags on the floor.

      She walked in behind him and looked around the place. Had it been this way when her mother was here? Or had the decor changed? She imagined it had. Now it was nice, but modern. Prints by Mexican artists lined the walls, colorful and vibrant scenes of the ocean, of palm trees and sunsets. Brightly striped throw rugs and runners with tassels at the ends covered the hardwood floors. Horsehair vases with Navajo patterns, and Kokopelli dancing and playing the pipes, stood everywhere she looked. Jewel-toned walls surrounded her; bright green, burgundy, yellow.

      Jack cleared his throat, probably because she wasn’t paying him a lick of attention.

      She glanced at him, then at the bags. “They’re going to have to go upstairs sooner or later,” she said.

      “I realize that. I just assumed you hadn’t picked out a room yet. Have you?”

      “No.”

      “Well, once you do, I’ll take the bags the rest of the way.” He turned to head outside for the ones he’d left at the curb.

      “You won’t be here that long,” she muttered.

      He didn’t give any indication as to whether he heard her. He just marched on, grabbed the remaining bags and brought them inside. Then he stacked them by the door, closed it and stood there staring at her. “Well?”

      “You’re not staying here.”

      He shrugged. “I have a place.”

      The way he said it, with a “you’re not the boss of me” tone, convinced her that he had absolutely nowhere else to go, even though his words claimed otherwise.

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