A Body to Die For. Kimberly Raye
WAS PERFECT.
Garret watched the redhead make her way across the sawdust floor. His nostrils flared. The faint scent of strawberry shampoo drifted through the fog of beer and cigarette smoke. Her breaths came quick, her lips parting ever so slightly. Her small breasts bounced with each draw of oxygen.
It had been an hour since Viv had left the bar.
An hour spent thinking and wondering and fantasizing.
He drop-kicked the last thought as soon as it waltzed into his head and focused on the hunger gnawing at his gut. His stomach clenched, and his muscles bunched. Heat clawed low and deep. His throat tightened.
His gaze narrowed, and he fixated on the woman again. He noticed everything about her—from the way her eyes glittered with excitement and fear to the slight sway of her walk, as if she hadn’t pulled out the high heels in a really long time.
And then he noticed that no one else seemed to notice her.
The other men didn’t stare or drool or eat her up with their eyes the way they’d done Viv.
Because there was nothing supernatural about this woman.
She was real.
Ordinary.
And so the men kept drinking and shooting the shit while the woman slid onto a bar stool and crossed her legs.
As if she felt his attention, she turned. Her green gaze collided with his, and the truth echoed in his head.
This was the last place she wanted to be, but she was sick and tired of sitting home alone, mourning over a recent break-up with her long-term boyfriend. She needed to ease her sexual frustration, get over him once and for all and get on with her life.
She needed rebound sex.
And Garret needed the energy bubbling inside of her, especially now that Viv was back in his life. If he meant to keep his head on straight and his dick in his pants, he needed every ounce of strength when he faced her tomorrow night.
He needed to suppress the hunger.
Satisfy it.
He pushed to his feet despite the promise he’d made to himself to give up the endless string of one-night stands that came with being a vampire. The constant need for blood and sex. The blood he couldn’t deny himself. He’d been bagging it, courtesy of a contact he’d made at the Austin Blood Bank. But the sex…He wasn’t going to sleep his way through Skull Creek the way he’d done every other town. He was tired of moving from place to place. Running. Existing. He wanted to live again.
He wanted his humanity back.
He could have it, too. It was just a matter of finding and destroying the vampire who’d turned him.
A nearly impossible task or so he’d thought. Until Dillon Cash—the computer genius behind Skull Creek Choppers—had come through with a solid lead.
It had started with a cheesy blog Dillon had started a few months ago to locate Garret’s sire. Surprisingly enough, the blog had gained popularity. People had started to comment.
While the majority of visitors were vampire wannabes, there were a few legitimate posts. Enough for Dillon to come up with a lead on the vampire who fit the description in Garret’s memory.
He didn’t remember much. Just a dark, looming shadow, a sweet, succulent scent, and a gold medallion.
He’d sketched the medallion, and Dillon had blogged about it and now they had a name.
One that might lead him absolutely nowhere.
At the same time, there was a chance—however slim—that Garret might find himself that much closer to the Ancient One.
He’d hired a private investigator to track down the name. Dalton MacGregor, the decorated Green Beret and ex-cop who’d taken the case, had promised to have an address by the end of this week. Reason enough for Garret to ignore the hunger churning inside of him and head for the door instead of the woman.
Five steps, and he reached her. Desire sparked in her gaze, and she licked her lips. A wave of self-consciousness swept through her, and she stiffened. She damned herself for not wearing the pink tank top instead of the white. White always made her look so flat-chested.
He dropped his gaze and let it linger on her cottonclad breasts for a brief moment.
Nice. He sent the silent message and shifted his attention to her face in time to see her smile.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Corona.” She licked her lips again, and her heartbeat kicked up a notch.
The fast rhythm of it echoed in his head, and his gut tightened. He could see the faint pulse of blue at the base of her neck, and a knife twisted inside of him. He signaled the bartender to bring her a beer and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels for himself.
A few seconds later, the bartender deposited a frosty beer mug in front of the redhead and a shot glass in front of Garret. The man poured two fingers of fiery liquid before setting the whiskey bottle aside and rushing toward the opposite end of the bar to fill another request.
“Thanks,” she said as she took a tentative sip from her mug. “So, um, do you come here often?”
“Every now and then.”
“That’s nice.” She nodded and took another sip. “I’ve never been here myself, but I’ve always wanted to give it a try.” She glanced around. “It’s a little noisier than I expected. Not really ideal for getting to know someone.” She shifted her gaze back to his, suddenly eager to cut right to the chase now that she’d worked up her courage. “Maybe we could, um, go someplace quiet. That is, if you want.” She took another sip.
Her red lipstick left an imprint on the frosted mug. The sight stirred a rush of memories, and just like that he was back in the Texas Star saloon with his regiment.
A drink.
That’s all he’d wanted at first, but then he’d seen Viv Darland standing near the bar, and suddenly alcohol hadn’t been enough.
He’d wanted her warm skin beneath his hands, her legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth soft and open beneath his own. He’d followed her upstairs, and he hadn’t come down for days. He’d ended up staying so long he’d almost been declared AWOL by his commanding officer.
Not that he’d cared.
Everything else—his family, his passion, his duty—had ceased to exist when he’d stared into Viv’s blue eyes. He’d been hooked. Infatuated. Mesmerized.
Because she was a vampire.
He hadn’t known then.
Sure, he’d seen the signs.
Her usually blue eyes had seemed purple at times, green at other times. She’d been stronger than most women, uncorking her own whiskey bottles and dealing with drunken brawlers all by herself. And, of course, her aversion to sunlight. But she’d been a saloon whore, plying her trade all night and sleeping all day, and so he hadn’t thought much about it.
He’d fallen hard and fast, and he hadn’t been able to pick himself back up. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to.
She’d been the first thing he’d thought of when he’d opened his eyes every morning and the last thing when he’d closed them at night.
He’d even imagined her there at the end, leaning over him as he’d sprawled facedown on the ground, his blood seeping out into the dirt. Her scent had filled his head. Her soft, silky hair had brushed his temple. And just like that, he’d been distracted from the pain and suffering of the knife wounds.
A hallucination, of course.
He’d been miles away from the saloon when he’d been attacked by a group of Mexican bandits, robbed and left for dead.
An