Haunted Honeymoon (3 page)

A few seconds later, my skin had healed and was smooth again.

I took the knife and pressed the tip against his chest, forcing the cut to stay open long enough for a crimson rivulet of blood to run down through the dark hair toward his firm belly, and then I was licking and sucking, intoxicated by the incredible taste, pleasure thrumming through me, every nerve alive to the slightest touch of his fingers, lips, body.

He painted a line on my skin with blood, his tongue and lips following it until pleasure grabbed me like a riptide, dragging me so deep that I thought I wouldn’t surface again, and when I finally did, I had bitten deep into the flesh on Ian’s leg.

And then things got fiercer. A chair was broken and sheets were flecked with scarlet. Feathers from a torn pillow floated in the air and stuck to our bodies.

We fell back on the floor, our sweaty limbs intertwined, and let our wounds heal and our heartbeats slow to normal.

Ian said, “We should be able to rid ourselves of all the furniture this way.” He turned on his side toward me and leaned over to lick a last drop of blood from the hollow of my neck.

“You could just donate everything to the Goodwill.”

“I wouldn’t wish such ugliness on anyone.”

I ran my hand over his thigh before I slipped my arm around his waist, pulling closer to him. I had a smooth pink scar on my inner arm from the time I’d been slashed and he’d transfused his blood into the wound to save me, and now it throbbed warm in response to his skin. I said,

“‘Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.’”

Ian kissed my temple and said, “You were the one being coy, mistress.”

Pleased that he’d recognized the Andrew Marvell verse, I said, “Have you used that poem to seduce virgins?”

“Generally a limerick will suffice.” He grinned and stood, then offered me a hand up. “I’m happy to be with you again, Young Lady.”

Young Lady was my nickname with his family and my ex-fiancé’s family. Hearing it made me feel nostalgic for the Grants and for Oswald’s wine-country ranch, which had been my home for almost two years. “I’m happy to be with you, too. What time is Cricket coming? Do you think she was named after the sport or the insect?”

“The latter, I should think. She has something of a voracious crop-devouring quality. She’s bringing her husband.”

“He’ll probably drone endlessly about cars or technology or the stock market. Promise to prop me upright if I begin to list.”

“Perhaps he’ll be a handsome gigolo and you’ll exchange erotic innuendos.”

“Oh, Ian, why must you get my hopes up?”

“We’ve just time for a shower.”

“That shower is the only good thing about this house. And the disco ball. And the view. And Rosemary likes the pool.”

After we showered, I massaged multispectrum sunblock all over Ian’s body, and was getting distracted again when he asked about my newsletter.

“The latest brouhaha is between the pit bull people and the Chihuahua people. They’re waging a bitter nature-versus-nurture battle and submitting dozens of frothing-at-the-mouth letters and columns. Circulation has tripled.”

“I’m very proud of you, but I hope you’ll have time for your own writing.”

“All I get are rejections from agents,” I said with a sigh. “I can’t tell myself anymore that the literary world isn’t ready for my stories. It’s me they don’t want. They want a crafty little bastard like
Don
Pedro.”

I’d ghostwritten a bestselling book, a fantastical memoir of a man who claimed to be a shape-shifter. I’d been paid a pittance and
Don
Pedro was internationally lauded as a spiritual leader.

“Is it the money or the fame you desire?”

“I want to be taken seriously for my craft.”

Ian tweaked my nipple and said, “I take you seriously. Now, if you don’t want Cricket to think you’re predictable, you may want to wear clothes.”

“Cricket. It’s onomatopoeic, isn’t it? Cricket, cricket, cricket.”

“I’m looking forward to your veiled insults already, darling.”

“I will be the epitome of charmishness,” I said as I went to the walk-in closet where I kept a few of my things. I dressed in a tiered lavender silk flapper dress and silver metallic flats, brushed out my hair, and stroked on shadow, mascara, and lip gloss before going to the kitchen.

I sloshed together a pitcher of martinis and put out Fra’ Mani salametto, Humboldt Fog cheese, pears, almonds, and a baguette. I hoped the sausage wouldn’t give Cricket ideas.

I heard the doorbell ring, and a minute later Ian escorted his neighbor and a younger man into the not-so-great room.

Cricket had changed into a black-and-white polka-dot skirt and a little white lace-trimmed cotton blouse that rode up to show the diamond that glinted on a hoop through her navel. Very sexy soccer mom.

Her husband was young and gawky, his manner at odds with his well-shaded auburn hair and professional tan. His nose looked as if it had been broken at least once, and his hands and feet were too large for his skinny frame.

“Milagro, this is Ford Poindexter,” Ian said. “Ford, my friend Milagro de Los Santos.”

Ford reached out to shake my hand. His grip was firm and slightly damp, and I got a nice warm zizz from the contact. He grinned. “Milagro de Los Santos? Does that mean anything?”

“Miracle of the Saints,” I said. “Ridiculous, I know.”

He laughed a nice laugh. “People ask if I’m named after the car, or related to Henry.”

“Or Ford Maddox Ford,”

“Close, well, not really,” he said. “Ford Prefect.”

“From
Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy
! Seriously?”

“Seriously. My father’s a sci-fi freak.”

Ian poured the martinis and handed one to Cricket, who said, “Really, Ford, you make him sound like a geek. He’s a genius, a visionary.”

“Does he write science fiction?” I asked.

“Good God, no,” Cricket said with a laugh. “He works on research projects, whatever inspires him.”

Ford said, “He’s got multiple degrees in bioscience, physics,
chemistry, and engineering, and the corporation that employs him lets him do whatever he wants.”

“I’m impressed. I tried to go to grad school for a teaching credential, but got detoured to the landscaping department.”

Cricket turned back to Ian. “Where is your family home, Lord Ian?”

“I’m a citizen of the world, Cricket,” he said, which was his usual cagey vampire response.

I ignored the flirty way she was smiling at him, and I asked Ford, “Does your father work on any fun projects?”

“I’m not sure. He’s very secretive about his work and my mom kicked him out of the house because he ‘accidentally’ ran over her cat. She’s the only person he listens to, and she says he can’t come back until he clones it and brings her a robot maid, too.”

“Color me fascinated.
Could
your father clone a cat?”

“He said cloning is for schoolchildren,” Ford said. “He took Señor Pickles’s body and went to his lab eight months ago. We haven’t seen him since.”

“You haven’t seen your father or the dead cat?”

“Either of them. It’s not unusual. He works for this military contractor and it’s all top secret,” he said. “I can tell by your expression that you don’t approve.”

“I’ve had a few unpleasant experiences with groups more interested in profit and power than ethics,” I said. “But if your dad’s a sci-fi fan, I’m sure he’s pro-humanity. Sci-fi is all about the individual’s ability to overcome adversity, particularly fascistic forces.”

Cricket rolled her eyes to indicate that she was officially over me at this point. Which was fine, since I was over her the moment we met.

She looked around the room. “This house looks exactly the way I imagined it. You know about the previous owner? He was a cocaine kingpin.”

“He was a real estate developer,” Ford said.

“He was supplying three counties,” Cricket continued. “At the time, everyone thought it was cool to be friends with a drug distributor, and he was so generous with his merchandise that they let him build this eyesore.”

“Cricket, some people may like this house,” Ford said politely. “It’s all subjective.”

“We think it’s gruesome, too,” I said, sure that Cricket would attribute any tackiness to me. As I nodded my head, I felt the plastic mirror-ball earrings bobbing against my cheek. I tossed my hair just to feel them swing again.

“Will you be doing a remodel?” Cricket asked Ian. “I can recommend a wonderful design team.”

“Milagro likes the disco room, so I think I’ll keep it as is for now.”

Cricket looked at him sympathetically. I wanted to smack the both of them, but Ford said, “It’s an awesome party house.”

His wife sighed. “That’s why I make all the aesthetic decisions in the relationship.” She spoke as if she was teasing, but I got the feeling that it was true.

Rosemary, always on the lookout for food, came into the kitchen, tail wagging. Ford bent over to scratch his back, setting off paroxysms of butt wiggling. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“His name is Rosemary.”

“That’s a girl’s name,” Cricket said slowly, as if I was an idiot.

“Rosemary is for remembrance,” I answered. Ford gave me a quizzical look and I said, “I had a wonderful dog who died.” Ian was watching me, so I didn’t mention that the name also represented everything else I’d lost: my fiancé, my home at his ranch, my almost normalness.

We stood around the massive kitchen island and finished off
the martinis. Cricket focused her attention on Ian and brought up all her travels and her recent vacation in Lviv. “We stayed at a ski chalet near the Carpathians,” she said. “I do hope Lviv won’t be discovered. The chalet next to us had just been rented by a stunning model, Ilena, who had us over for drinks.”

I glanced at Ian, but he didn’t change his expression at the mention of his ex-lover, who was also an expert in international economics, and made me feel insecure on a number of levels.

I turned back to Ford, who told me, “Come over some night and we’ll have a film festival in the screening room. I’ve got original Hammer and Castle films and old projectors that go
tick-tick-tick.
I mean, if you like horror.”

“I write horror stories,” I said casually, hoping he wouldn’t think I was too weird.

“Really? I’ve tried to write. I got two hundred pages of a time-travel story done, and then I got stuck. Do you write about monsters?”

“Mine are political allegories, more like the original
Frankenstein
, so, yes, I write about monsters.”

“My father used to read
Frankenstein
to me at bedtime.”

Cricket shook her head and said, “You really are making him sound like a kook.”

She returned to her conversation with Ian. I went on to discuss scientific developments that science fiction had successfully predicted, and it seemed natural for the Poindexters to stay for dinner.

Ian pulled bottles of a spicy, smoky cabernet franc from the cellar, and we grilled vegetables and juicy filet mignons that were in the fridge. I put away the steaks I’d bought.

Ian and I shared a resistance to the effects of alcohol and other drugs, which was unusual even among vampires, and I felt a little envious of Ford, who got more and more sozzled and
expansive as we finished our meal with glasses of cognac outside in the dark.

Cricket just got flirtier, but she was careful to touch and smile at her husband, too, keeping him off guard. It was close to midnight when she teasingly unbuttoned her blouse and said, “Since we’re all friends here and I already saw Milagro …”

Ford watched goggle-eyed and adoring as Cricket did a strip-tease on the lawn, and Ian smiled at her bump-and-grind. She had a svelte body, and my ex-fiancé, whose career was perfecting breasts, would have admired the craftsmanship that had gone into her full, perky set.

Cricket dived into the pool and Ford quickly stripped to his boxers and jumped in. His wife floated on the surface and laughed. “Come in! The water’s fine.”

Ian said, “Another time,” but I took it as a dare.

“Why not? We’re all friends,” I said, and pulled off my dress. Although Ford was besotted by his bride, he wasn’t unimpressed when I undid the hook on my ivory lace bra. I let him get a good look before jumping in the water.

Ford did cannonballs, Cricket displayed a smooth side stroke, and I tried to see how long I could swim underwater.

After the night got chilly, we got out, wrapped ourselves in towels, and said shivery good nights. Cricket promised to have us over soon, gazing at Ian the whole time.

When they had gone, I said, “I’m surprised you didn’t jump in the water. Cricket was totally sexing you up with her eyes.”

“It would have made Ford nervous, and I liked him quite a bit. He’s a charming young fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s fabulous.”

“He enjoyed your many charms, my dear.”

I gave Ian a stern look. “I like him and he likes me. It’s clear that he loves his wife.”

“You, my dear girl, always interpret everything as sexual. I meant as a friend.”

“Oh. It’s so hard to tell with you and your too sophisticated Euro vampire values.”

“You know that you’re the only one for me,
querida
,” he said as he stroked my cheek.

We never used the word “love” with each other. Our very avoidance of the word gave it power and substance.

I looked into Ian’s dark eyes, searching for goodness, but all I saw was desire, and I wasn’t sure who had inspired it. “I have to finish my newsletter.”

two
Good Help Is Fine to Bite

I took Rosemary with me to the schlocky master suite. When I turned on the light, I saw a package on the bed, wrapped in plain white paper with a red satin ribbon. A small card said, “To My Own Girl.”

When I opened the package and unfolded the tissue inside, I saw three books bound in olive leather and blue and olive marbled board with gold lettering on the spines. They were first-edition volumes of
Jane Eyre
, and I couldn’t believe I was holding them. Running my fingers over the old typeface, I felt connected to the past, to Charlotte Brontë, and even more to Jane Eyre.