The Real Werewives of Vampire County

“A pleasure,” Lucien said, kissing her delicate hand.

I waited for her reaction. Was she sleeping with dear departed Sunny’s husband? Or would she be open to Lucien’s attentions? I couldn’t wait to get her alone to ask.

Only she’d stopped eyeing him and had turned her sharp gaze on me.

A warm flush began in my stomach and heated me all the way up to my cheeks. Yes, I was being scrutinized. I’d prepared for that. But I didn’t like standing here being submissive.

I wanted to jump, holler, scream. Anything.

Instead I said, “That’s a pretty necklace.”

“It’s Bvlgari.”

“What?” I asked.

She pursed her lips together. “Exactly.”

I had the distinct impression I’d done something wrong, but I had no clue what. I mean, who names a necklace?

Lucien leaned close enough to whisper loving encouragement into my ear. “Keep your mouth shut.”

Too late.

I fought the urge to snarl.

The werevulture tilted her head. “Where are you from?”

I tried to think of somewhere both exotic and cosmopolitan. “East of here,” I said, mimicking Francine’s head tilt. “Las Vegas,” my mouth supplied before my brain could say what?

I wanted to wince, sink into the ground, walk away, and make these people forget they’d ever met me. The entire crowd had stopped talking. For the first time, I noticed everyone surrounding us, staring at me.

I struggled to think of something both vapid and agreeable that would satisfy these trophy wives and their husbands. “I moved to Las Vegas to better myself. You know, to meet guys.”

Lucien groaned under his breath.

Oh, the poor vampire was suffering? Well, he could help me out here.

I’d been judged quite enough for one evening.

The air felt heavy as the wall of shifters closed us in. I wanted to bolt. I didn’t like crowds, or attention, not to mention being hemmed in on all sides. But I stood my ground. I was a wolf on a mission, even if that meant I was alone in a crowd, teetering on shoes no woman should be forced to wear, holding a purse that could fit a gumdrop.

He’d asked for inane. What else did he expect from a werewolf who’d just had half of her eyebrows yanked out of her head?

He gripped me. Tight. “Now Mitzy, that’s not exactly how we met.”

“Yeah?” I asked, heart speeding up. “Why don’t you tell the story?” Or why didn’t he just let me out of here?

This was going bad in a hurry. Every second I spent around these people was making it worse.

It didn’t even make sense to talk to the Predators tonight. I needed to question these werewives individually, not in the middle of a game of This Is Your (Undead) Life.

I was about two seconds away from telling this vulture where she could go.

Deep breaths.

She twirled her necklace on one finger, daring me.

That was it. “Why don’t you take your Blvgari—”

Lucien hoisted me by one arm. “We’re leaving.”

“And shove it up your ass.” The vampire oofed as my stiletto met his knee. “And you—” I spun toward Lucien the grabby. “Do you want me to tackle you?”

Boy, he looked pissed. “We’re leaving,” he hissed.

“Why? I can take her.” The vulture would never screw with me again.

“Now.” He grabbed me around the waist.

“Let me down, you cretin!” I seethed, as he carried me like a sack of rice away from the welcoming committee.

CHAPTER 3

Lucien opened the four paneled door with a snarl. “After you, dear,” he said, dumping me into our new home.

“Bite me, bloodsucker.”

A wave of cold air slapped me upside the head. The foyer was the size of my entire apartment back home. And I could barely believe it, but there was actual furniture inside the door—a couch and a chair, a statue of a woman with half her clothes falling off, and a large potted palm.

He slammed the door behind us. “What the hell was that?”

As if he didn’t know. I scrambled to my feet. “I thought I was being vapid,” I said sweetly.

“Try again.”

“Pretty?”

His eyes raked over me from head to bare toes. “You are something.”

“The vulture provoked me.” He’d seen it.

Lucien towered over me, glowering. His dress shirt was disheveled, a vein pulsed at his neck, and a lock of blond hair had fallen straight over his left eye. “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter. You can’t let her get you riled up.”

“Oh, believe me, you haven’t even seen riled.” I stood up to him. Eye to chest. “When I can approach her on my terms,” on an even playing field, “her ass is mine. I’ll learn the truth.” He’d seen me in an interrogation room. “Trust me.”

“No.”

“I don’t see that you have a choice.”

“Touché,” he said dryly.

“Stop it. I don’t speak French.”

I kicked off my shoes. This was going to be a long three days. Still, I had to keep my wits about me. I didn’t want to let my pack down.

Next came the knives. I stacked them on the hall table. I didn’t choose to be different. I stripped off my panty hose and tossed them over the potted palm.

The whole situation felt so suffocatingly wrong.

I shucked off my yellow baby doll dress and hooked my thumbs under the top of my bra and girdle combination. The cool air hit my overheated skin as I peeled the garment away. I whimpered in relief as it dropped to my feet. Heaven.

I used my toe to flick it away.

In a few seconds I’d be blissfully free. I stopped when I caught sight of my partner.

“What?” I demanded. He had a funny look on his face. Like he’d swallowed a bug. “Lay it on me. What else did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he choked.

So much for honesty. How long had that lasted—five minutes?

He cleared his throat, his gaze positively feral.

Holy heck. Was he going to sink his fangs into me?

My pulse quickened and I took a careful step toward the door. “There’d better be some law against biting your partner.”

“I will not bite you,” he said, his voice rough.

“Then why are you looking at me like I’m the main course?”

“A thousand pardons,” he said, breathy. He’d even taken on a slight Spanish accent. “Your decision to disrobe was most unexpected.”