Love Bites (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Did I want to jump her bones? I didn’t even know if Ovsanna had bones. I knew she had blood because some of it was mine. I’d let her feed on me to save her life, right after I’d discovered she’s a vampyre.

I’d found that out when I’d followed her and her assistant to a mansion in Palm Springs, thinking they were leading me to a serial killer the media had dubbed the Cinema Slayer. The killer who’d practically shut down the town and sent every A-list star running for the hills.

The Cinema Slayer was there, all right, but he wasn’t your average everyday serial killer. I stumbled into a coven of monsters and weirdos the likes of which I never believed existed, lorded over by a Bette Davis look-alike in a
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?
outfit. Baby Jane’s name was Lilith.
The
Lilith, Ovsanna said, who claimed to be Adam’s first wife, before Eve. Ovsanna called her the Night Hag and said they were related by blood. That’s when I realized Ovsanna was more than just a movie star.

So I asked her out. Which surprised me as much as it surprised her. Having a vampyre spend Christmas Eve with my parents had never been on my short list.

This all happened two weeks ago. We’d been standing in the rubble, staring at the fireplace, which was the only structure that had survived the explosion, when out of nowhere I thought about my mother’s house on Christmas Eve, and how much fun we always have, and how last year was the first time since I’d divorced Jenny that I’d been there alone, and how that
hadn’t
been as much fun. The next thing I knew, I was asking Ovsanna to come for dinner.

It was only after the words came out of my mouth that I considered the ramifications. And the implications.

The ramifications I could deal with. As far as I was concerned, the case that had brought us together was closed, so I wasn’t breaking any departmental regs. Of course, the Captain might not see it that way—he didn’t know yet that the killer was dead—but my conscience was clear. That was one. And two, I was sure Ovsanna didn’t want her true self exposed any more than I wanted to expose her. No one would believe me anyway. There’s no such thing as vampyres, right? Three, I’d known her only two days by then, but when you’ve been a cop as long as I have, you learn to trust your instincts, and my instincts said she wasn’t a threat. So what was the worst thing that could happen—she wouldn’t eat my mother’s food? Ma’s served food to actors for twenty years; she knows they’re all nuts when it comes to worrying about how they look. She wouldn’t take it personally.

The
implications,
on the other hand, I should have taken seriously. Since when did I bring a semistranger into my parents’ home for a visit, let alone on a major holiday? What did this mean? I’d dated Jenny for nine months before we ran the family gauntlet, and even then I’d only started with my mother.

Ovsanna was having a major effect on me, fangs and all.

I wondered if she could control my mind. Didn’t Dracula do that in one of those movies? Maybe she’d put a spell on me right from the beginning. From the first time I’d interviewed her. Maybe she’s got bad breath and body odor and I can’t tell because she’s messed with my senses. Do vampyres have magic powers? I mean, apart from the transformation and teeth thing?

I’m a detective. I’ll do a little detecting and find out.

CHAPTER THREE

I called Peter to tell him I needed a little more time to get ready. I didn’t tell him why. I didn’t want him to think I was battling monsters on a weekly basis. And I definitely didn’t want him thinking I needed him to save my life again. I should be able to take care of myself.

But until I knew who this werebeast was and why he was after me, I didn’t want to involve a man I was hoping would stick around. I knew from past experience that creature attacks and romance don’t mix. I lost Lord Byron that way. As fascinated as he was with my Armenian heritage—he even learned to read our language so he could write about us—once he saw me take on a werebeast, he turned tail and disappeared. It didn’t matter that I’d sliced and diced the were to bits and made sure no leftovers remained.

Peter didn’t seem to be afraid. In fact, from the way he’d asked me out, I suspected my genus was an attraction.

We’d been standing in front of the charred remains of Lilith’s house in Palm Springs. The gelatinous ooze drying on my boots was none other than one of my former lovers, a famous film star and one of my clan—the Vampyres of Hollywood. All the life-threatening wounds I’d sustained at the hands of the Night Hag had healed almost instantly, but I was covered with ash and mud, my leather pants were shredded, and my hair looked like a used Brillo pad. Not the kind of thing to inspire a dinner invitation. Or take home to mother.

“Do vamp— Do . . . do you . . . celebrate Christmas?” he had asked. Why he’d thought of Christmas, or me and Christmas together, at that moment is beyond me—maybe because the fireplace chimney was the only thing left standing?

“Are you asking about vampyres in general? Are we Christian—is that what you want to know?” I couldn’t keep from smiling; I swear he was actually squirming.

“No, no. I mean, well, sure, I’d like to know that, too, sometime. There’s plenty I want to know, but not right now. This definitely isn’t the place. No, I mean, you . . . do you have plans for Christmas Eve?”

“Nothing specific. I’ll probably go to the office for a few hours.” I unstuck a blob of drying
dhampir
from my jeans—it looked like part of an ear—and threw it into the ash.

“Come have dinner with us.” He had such a nice smile.

“Us?”

“My family. My mother and dad. And a couple of sisters and brothers. Do something normal after the horror you’ve just been through. We start in the late afternoon and go all night. It’ll be very casual and a lot of fun. No paparazzi, I promise—not even an Instamatic.”

I laughed. I didn’t know what to say. Was he asking me out on a date?

“My mother’s a great cook. Do you like to eat Italian?”

I looked down at my former lover’s crust on my boots.
He’d
been Italian. Rudolph Valentino. I should never have turned him; his blood had been as disgusting as his personality became. “Uh, Peter . . . I’m not much on eating. Or drinking, for that matter. I can explain it all to you another time, but I don’t think—”

“Look, you don’t have to eat. You’re an actress—no one expects you to eat. No one expects you to do anything normal. You can do whatever you do when you’re at any kind of party. You must have something you do to keep your secret. It’s not a sit-down dinner anyway, we all just fill our plates and hang out. No one will notice. Just come. You and Maral, if you want.”

That was nice of him. Maral is my personal assistant. She’s worked for me for nearly ten years, and we’re rarely apart. She makes sure of that. Just days before, Peter had been investigating her, wondering if an incident she’d been involved in when she was younger had anything to do with the case he was working on. He’d cleared her of suspicion, but she’d been pretty snotty to him since. She was going to be even nastier when she found out he’d asked me to his parents’ house and she couldn’t go. Her mother was having trouble with her younger brother, and she’d begged Maral to spend Christmas with them back home in Louisiana. Maral doesn’t think of it as home anymore—as far as she’s concerned, her home is with me—but she couldn’t disappoint her momma. She was flying to the bayou early on Christmas Eve.

I accepted his invitation. From the moment the day before when I’d accidentally cut him and had had to tend to his bleeding hand, I’d been seduced by the sight and smell of his blood. Watching him deal with everything we’d been through since had only heightened my estimation of him. He seemed like a good man. Honest. Capable. And he didn’t take himself too seriously.

He had offered me his wrist when I needed it. Now, once again, I could feel the Thirst coming on me. This time it had nothing to do with need and everything to do with attraction.

I put the suede pants back on the hanger. Time to show a little leg.

CHAPTER FOUR

I carried all the presents out to the car, went back and grabbed my jacket, and locked the house. It was a beautiful night, crisp and clear, with a quarter-moon showing. The wintersweet had its first spicy-scented blooms. I stood for a moment just to take it in. I had plenty of time. Ovsanna had called to say she’d been delayed. She didn’t say what had happened, but I got the impression she’d had to chew someone out.

I left SuzieQ’s gifts on her doorstep. Her shades were drawn, which meant she was still asleep. She works nights. She’d said she might stop by my mom’s later in the evening, but I wasn’t counting on it; she’s flaky when it comes to social engagements. She’s been my tenant for the past five years, renting the guesthouse in the back of my three-bedroom Beverly Hills bungalow. Over the years, she’s become a good friend. My closest friend, probably, now that Jenny was gone.

SuzieQ is an exotic dancer. She dances with snakes—that kind of exotic dancer—and she’s really good at it. She keeps them in cages in her big front closet, which sort of freaked me out at first, but I guess I’ve gotten used to it. She barely bothers to close the door anymore when I go over there.

I hoped she’d like the gift I’d bought her. It was a signed first edition of some coffee table book she’d been talking about.
Dancing Women.
It set me back $135. Plus, I’d gotten her a turquoise cashmere sweater. I knew she’d like that.

There was no traffic on Sunset, so the drive to Ovsanna’s took ten minutes. She lives high up on Stone Canyon Road in Bel Air, in a pretty magnificent Spanish estate. The gates alone must have cost half my yearly salary. They look like the Moors designed them a couple of centuries ago.

I had the code to the gate (thanks to a paparazzo named Steady Eddie who’d been hanging around Ovsanna’s during the Cinema Slayer case), but it’s against my cop nature to let on everything I know. Plus, I didn’t want to start the afternoon with Ovsanna thinking I’d been spying on her. So I pressed the button on the intercom and waited for the massive iron barriers to swing open.

She was standing outside the front door when I pulled up. She had her back to me and was staring into the darkness. What a great ass. It was just about perfect. Then she turned around and smiled, and my heart started pounding. I mean really. I could feel it. She looked fantastic. All that black curly hair and pale skin and those dark eyes. She was wearing a clingy, cream-colored dress made out of some sweater material that stopped just above her knees. And legs. Great legs. This was the first time I’d seen them; she’d had on jeans the day I’d interviewed her and leather pants the day of the . . . well, whatever we were calling what happened in Palm Springs.

“Hey,” I said, scintillating conversationalist that I am. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” she answered. “Merry Christmas.”

“That’s right. You’re right. It’s almost Christmas. Merry Christmas to you, too.” Boy, we were off to a brilliant start. “Are you ready?”

She had a tall gift bag in one hand. “I wasn’t sure what your parents might like, so I took a chance. . . . Do they drink wine?”

“They’re Italian, Ovsanna. At least my mom’s side is. They drink wine like you drink—”

Oh shit, I thought. This could be a long night.