Dead Sexy

She jumped when she heard the door close behind her. She was alone in a vampire's apartment, and no one knew she was there.

She turned to face Santiago, her heart pounding so hard and so fast she was surprised it didn't burst out of her chest.

"Afraid of me?" His voice was deep and rich and faintly mocking.

Hands clenched at her sides, she lifted her chin. "Yes."

His easy laughter filled the room. "Please." He gestured at a high-backed brown sofa. "Consider my home yours."

She sat down because she wasn't sure her legs would support her much longer. What was she doing here? What made her think being in here, with a vampire, particularly this vampire, was any safer than being outside, with a werewolf? They were both predators. And in the dark of the night, she was prey—for both of them.

Santiago loomed over her, tall, dark, and deadly. The words moved through the back of Regan's mind like a death knell. His mere presence made her feel small, insignificant, and defenseless. She knew all about vampires. She had studied them for years. She knew they grew stronger with age and that most of the things people believed about them were based on myth, legend, and the Transylvanian count made famous by Bram Stoker, and had little basis in fact.

Some things were true. They could change shape. They could travel faster than the human eye could follow. They drank blood to survive. Fire, sunlight, and beheading could destroy them. Silver and holy water burned their skin like acid.

She had yet to meet a vampire who was repelled by a cross, or one who cast no reflection. To the contrary, they seemed to love mirrors and never missed an opportunity to stop and admire themselves.

Of course, she hadn't met all that many of the Undead on a social basis, and certainly none quite like the one who was towering over her.

"It is late," he said. "You should get some sleep."

"Not here." She glanced around the room, wondering where his coffin was. She couldn't stay here, couldn't sleep here. No way!

"You will be perfectly safe, Regan Delaney," he said quietly. "Much safer than you would be at home."

"Now why don't I believe that?"

"You have nothing to fear from me. I have already dined. The bedroom is in there."

"Isn't that where you sleep?"

"No." Removing his coat, he tossed it over the back of a chair. "I would not leave here in the morning if I were you."

She frowned. "Why not?"

"He is a werewolf."

She stared at him a moment, then murmured, "Oh, right," as comprehension dawned. Vasile was a werewolf. Unlike vampires, he had nothing to fear from the sun's light. "What's to keep him from coming here?"

"My apartment has infinitely better protection than the flimsy barrier that surrounds the park," he replied smoothly. "And I am here."

Some help he would be, she thought, while trapped in the deathlike sleep of his kind. "Why is Vasile after you?"

"Because I have sworn to kill him."

"You have? Why?"

"Maybe one day I will tell you."

"But not now?"

"No."

She was too tired and too upset by the evening's events to argue. In any case, she didn't think arguing with Santiago would do her a bit of good. With a nod, she murmured, "Good night, then."

Going into the bedroom, she switched on the light, then closed the door. The first thing she noticed was the bed. It was an old-fashioned four-poster covered with a thick black quilt. Several plump red velvet pillows were scattered near the mahogany headboard. Since she was reasonably sure he didn't sleep in the bed, she wondered what he used it for… then quickly put an end to that train of thought before it reached its logical conclusion. The man was a vampire, but still a man, and the bed and its trappings clearly had seduction written all over them.

She didn't like the idea of sleeping in her clothes, but she liked the idea of undressing in a vampire's residence even less. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her shoes, tossed the fancy red pillows on the floor, and crawled between the sheets. Cool, black satin sheets, she noted with a faint grin. Just as he had said.

Reaching into her handbag, she withdrew her gun and slipped it under her pillow. Always better to be safe than sorry.

With a sigh, she turned onto her side and closed her eyes, only to bolt upright a moment later. If he didn't sleep here, where did he sleep?

She glanced around the room, but there was no sign of a coffin, no pile of dirt from the place of his birth. Maybe he had lied to her. Maybe this really was his bed! Maybe he was only waiting for her to fall asleep before he crawled in beside her.

That troublesome thought kept her awake for hours.

Santiago paced the floor in front of the hearth, keenly aware of the woman in his bedroom. In his bed.

Damn. After Marishka, he had sworn he would never again let a woman get close to him, never allow one to become important to him. He had seduced them and bedded them, but never, ever, let himself care for them. But this one, this Regan Delaney, had somehow managed to find her way past his defenses. And while his fondness for her might cause him a few restless nights, it could very well cost her a great deal more.

He swore softly. Loving him had cost Marishka her life, and while he had vowed that he would protect Regan Delaney from Vasile, he wasn't all that sure that he would prevail. Vasile was not trapped inside when the sun rode the sky. It was Vasile's very freedom of movement during the daylight hours that had given the werewolf the power to destroy Marishka while she took her rest. Had Santiago been new in the life, he had no doubt that he, too, would have died that day so long ago. But he had been an old vampire, even then. His age and his instinct for self-preservation had served him well that day.

He paused in midstride, listening as Regan kicked off her shoes, drew back the covers on his bed, and slid beneath the sheets. With his preternatural senses, he could hear each breath she took, each beat of her heart, hear the whisper of blood flowing through her veins…

His fangs teased his tongue. She was here, in his house, in his bed. His for the taking.

He resumed pacing, his hands clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to sweep her into his arms and succumb to the hunger burning through him. Every breath he took carried the scent of her hair, her skin, her life's blood. She would be sweet, so sweet. He could almost feel her in his arms, taste her on his tongue.

One taste. She need never know. She would never miss it.

A thought carried him to the bedroom door. He looked down to find his hand on the knob, unable to remember how he had gotten there.