Dead Sexy (3 page)

Joaquin Santiago prowled the dark, deserted streets of the city. He was supposed to be concentrating on finding the creature that had killed yet another mortal in his territory, but his thoughts kept straying toward the woman. Miss Regan Delaney. Even now, her scent lingered in his nostrils, the warm sweet scent of woman, the flowery fragrance of her cologne, the deeper, more compelling scent of her life's blood. Rarely had he met a woman who stirred more than his hunger, but Miss Delaney, with her sea-green eyes and honey-gold hair, ah, she aroused both his hunger and his desire. It was a dangerous and potent combination. The fact that she had worked with the police department added a hint of danger to the mix.

But he had no time for a woman, not even the very delectable Miss Delaney, not when there was a killer on the prowl, a killer who had dared violate the city that Santiago called home. The humans suspected a vampire of the murder in the park, but Santiago knew better. There were perhaps a handful of the Undead who had the power to mask their scent and their presence from him, but only one, other than himself, could breech the barrier that surrounded the Park. It was that fact that troubled him most of all, that aberration that convinced him he wasn't looking for a vampire at all, but for a creature he had hunted for hundreds of years. Was it mere coincidence that had brought Vasile here, to this place, at this time?

Santiago was about to turn back toward the Park when Miss Delaney's delightful scent surrounded him, a fragrance that was more than the mere blending of soap and toothpaste and cologne. It was the unique scent of her skin and hair, the female essence of the woman herself.

Pausing in the shadows, he glanced up at the apartment building to his left. He opened his senses, sifting through the myriad smells, old and new, that assailed his nostrils, until he found the one he wanted. Yes, she was there, on the fourth floor. The soft, steady sound of her breathing told him she was asleep.

A thought took him to her bedside. She had worn her hair pulled back in a tail earlier that night. Now it was spread across her pillow like a splash of pale gold paint. Her eyelashes made dark crescents on her suntanned cheeks. A faint sigh whispered past her lips, and then she smiled. Curious to know what she was dreaming about, he crept into her mind—and felt a smile of pure masculine pleasure spread over his own face. She was dreaming of him…

Hand in hand, they walked barefoot along a stretch of shimmering, sun-warmed sand, talking and laughing like ordinary mortals, pausing a moment to watch a couple of kids building a castle in the sand. It amused him that she imagined the two of them together in the daytime. In reality, the sun would have destroyed him in an instant, but this was only a dream, and he watched through her eyes as they ran into the frothy surf. When the water was knee-deep, she stopped to splash him and he splashed her back, reveling in the near-forgotten touch of the sun on his face, the sound of her laughter.

And then he took control of the dream. The other people disappeared, leaving only the two of them on the beach. Her hand was soft and warm in his as they walked along. He inhaled the scent of sand and seaweed, heard the breakers wash upon the shore, the screech of gulls overhead. He gazed out at the ocean. A pair of dolphins rose out of the water, somersaulting before they disappeared beneath the sunlit waves. He felt the heat of the summer sun on his face, a warmth he had not felt in centuries. He drew the woman into his arms and she murmured his name, her voice laced with uncertainty and desire. He rained kisses along the length of her neck. Her scent enveloped him, her nearness aroused him. He held her tighter as the predator sleeping within him stirred to life. She shivered as his fangs brushed the tender skin of her throat…

Regan woke with a cry, ending the dream and driving him from her mind.

Santiago vanished from sight as Regan jackknifed into a sitting position. She reached for the light on the bedside table, her wide-eyed gaze darting around the room while her fingers made a thorough investigation of the skin along both sides of her neck. He sensed her relief when she detected no bites, no telltale marks.

Blowing out a sigh of relief, she fell back on the pillows.

His mind brushed against hers as she convinced herself it had only been a dream.

And then she sat up again, her eyes narrowing as she looked around the room a second time.

Veiled from her sight, Santiago stood at the foot of her bed. Though she couldn't see him, he knew she was aware of his presence. Never before had any human, man or woman, detected his presence against his will. Who was this woman, he wondered, that she had the power to do what others did not?

Lost in thought, he drifted out of her room to the sidewalk below. It had proved to be a most interesting night A killer he had stalked for centuries was here, in the city, and he had met a beautiful and most unusual woman. Yes, he mused, a most interesting night, indeed.

Leaving the more affluent part of the city behind, he strolled through an area known as the Byways. It was here, in the dark underbelly of the city, where he felt the most at home; indeed, it was here that he hunted, here that he maintained his primary lair. It was true that he kept an apartment in the park complex, but he hadn't survived as long as he had by letting others know where he slept. Only fools permitted others, especially humans, to know their resting place, and Santiago had never been a fool.

He ghosted along the dark streets, his senses alert, the hunger that burned within him rousing at the tantalizing scent of prey. Anticipation hummed through him as his fangs lengthened.

He took the woman unawares. She was young to be working the streets. Her body was thin beneath the short skirt and low-cut spandex top. Her breath smelled of drugs and alcohol.

Lowering his head to her neck, he wondered briefly what had compelled her to embrace such a wretched existence, but all thought of her past was washed away as the warm red tide of her blood flowed over his tongue.

For a moment, he considered taking it all. Seeing the dead man in the Park had aroused old instincts, but he thrust the urge aside. Mortals lived such a short life span, it didn't seem right to rob them of the few years they had, though he thought this woman might welcome death. She had no family, no one who cared for her and no one for whom she cared. She hated her existence. She hated her life, but she lacked the energy and courage needed to break away from her old life and build a new one.

It was sad, he thought, but it was not his problem.

He closed the wounds in her throat, erased his memory from her mind, and sent her on her way.

The little streetwalker had been sweet, he mused, continuing on toward his resting place, sweet and satisfying, yet he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to taste Miss Regan Delaney and he knew, in that moment, that the hunger she had stirred within him would never be satisfied until he had tasted her.

It was near dawn when he reached his destination. His dwelling place was in the basement of an old, abandoned chemical plant. He had bought the building for a pittance years ago. The first three floors remained as they had been when the previous occupant moved out. Dirt, debris, empty boxes, and crates littered the floors and shelves, along with a number of old beer cans, newspapers, and desiccated insects.

Derelicts and drunks occasionally crawled inside the building to spend the night or sleep off a hangover, thereby relieving Santiago of the need to hunt.

A wave of his hand opened a heavy iron door in the lower basement. Closing it behind him, he flicked a switch on the wall, filling the room with soft light.

Soon after he bought the property, he had hired a contractor to transform the basement into a comfortable home. Once the remodeling had been completed, he had destroyed all the paperwork and then erased all memory of himself and the job from the minds of anyone who had been involved, from the boss of the company to the woman who answered the phone.

He glanced around the living area, pleased as always by his surroundings. A large painting above the mantel depicted the sun rising behind a snow-covered mountain. A pair of smaller paintings, one of a sunrise, the other of a sunset, adorned another wall. Beyond that, his tastes were expensive but simple. The rugs and walls were a pale gray, the fireplace was of faded red brick, the tables were carved of ebony, the sofa and chair were of butter-soft black leather. A small glass-topped coffee table contained the few things he cared enough about to keep—a fine gold chain that had belonged to Marishka, a small silver-backed mirror that had belonged to his mother, a black leather riding crop that had belonged to his father, a gold pocket watch to remind him that he now had all the time in the world. A Satellite Screen took up one entire wall.

The bedroom where he kept his clothing was a light blue-gray and contained a king-sized bed with a wrought-iron headboard, a black leather chair, an ebony dresser, and a pair of matching nightstands. A small bathroom was adjacent to the bedroom. Santiago had never courted the Dark Sleep in the bed, though he rested there on occasion.

His lair, located behind a hidden panel in the bedroom closet, was done in the same shade of gray as the living room and contained little aside from a sleek black casket lined in black silk and a tall, freestanding, wrought-iron candelabra.

A prickling across his skin told him the sun was rising. Once, the sun had ruled his life. At its rising, he had been trapped in the death-like sleep of his kind, weak and helpless until the setting of the sun. But no more.

Bemused by the quirk of fate that had altered his destiny, he readied himself to take his rest, his mind turning once again to the Delaney woman. She had looked as innocent as a child, lying in her bed with her hair spread around her shoulders. Even now, his hand twitched with the urge to run his fingers through the thick golden strands.

Regan. He was still thinking of her when he sank into oblivion.

The ringing of the phone beside her bed roused Regan from a deep, dreamless sleep. Picking it up, she muttered a groggy, "Hello?"

It was Michael Flynn. "Reggie," he said tersely, "we've got another one."

Instantly wide awake, Regan sat up and glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after nine in the morning. "Where?"

"About three meters from where we found the last one. How soon can you get here?"

"Give me twenty minutes."

Rising, she went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and brushed her teeth. After pulling her nightshirt over her head, she dressed quickly in a pair of old blue jeans that she had washed so often they were almost white, a long-sleeved sweatshirt with the words
Who Wants to Live Forever
? emblazoned across the front in bright pink letters, and a pair of old sneakers. She grabbed her gun from under her pillow and dropped it into her handbag, then went into the kitchen. She quickly downed a small glass of grapefruit juice, grabbed her handbag from the counter, and left her apartment.

Looking at dead bodies was a heck of a way to start the day.

Outside, the sky was thick with lowering gray clouds and the promise of rain before the day was out.