a little brown and white dog sleeping beside the girl, and then, in the distance, a fuzzy yellow duck floating on a small blue pond. It wasn’t the Sistine Chapel by any means, but it was something to do to pass the time, and it wasn’t too bad, for an amateur.
A few days later, while sitting at the malt shop trying to lift my spirits by indulging in a hot fudge sundae with double whipped cream, I overheard a couple of the townspeople talking. Normally, I don’t approve of eavesdropping, but in this case it turned out to be highly informative. Apparently, the reason my chosen hideaway wasn’t inhabited by Vampires or Werewolves was because it had been designated as neutral territory, a place where the baddies could get together without fear of attack when they needed to parley with one another. Apparently, Oak Hollow was the Switzerland of the Midwest.
I was getting ready to close the store a few nights later when the cheerful jingling of the bell over the door announced that someone had actually come into the shop. Looking up, I put on my best how-can-I-help-you smile, only to feel it slip away when I got a good look at my first customer in over a week. He was, in a word, magnificent, from the top of his black-thatched head to the polished tips of his expensive black leather boots.
I blinked up at him, all rational thought wiped from my mind as I stared at the Adonis striding toward me. He could have been the poster boy for handsome, with his dusky skin, chiseled features, strong jaw, and full, sensuous lips. Never in all my life had I seen such a drop-dead gorgeous guy.
He glanced around the store, and I could almost see him wondering how I stayed in business, since he was the only customer in the place.
With an effort of will, I managed to stop staring at him long enough to ask if I could be of help.
His gaze moved over me in a way that made me feel as if he had just finished a seven-course gourmet meal and I was dessert.
I had never actually met a Vampire before, but I realized with a sudden jolt that I was looking at one now, although I had no idea how I knew. He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and solid. As might be expected, he wore nothing but black—black silk shirt, black jeans that hugged a pair of long, muscular legs, and a black leather jacket that covered a pair of broad shoulders. All that black went well with his hair and his eyes. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone who had black eyes before, but his were like pools of ebony ink, deep and dark and mesmerizing. I wanted to dive to the bottom and never come up.
Being in the same room with one of the Undead, breathing the same air, made me decidedly uncomfortable. I took several deep breaths, hoping it would calm my nerves. It didn’t.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I asked, pleased that my voice didn’t betray my uneasiness.
“I was hoping you could recommend something.” His voice, as deep and mesmerizing as his eyes, danced over my skin.
It had never occurred to me that Vampires liked to read, or do much of anything except wear black, drink blood, and spend the daylight hours resting in their coffins.
“What do you like?” I asked. “Mysteries, suspense, sci-fi…?”
He shrugged. “Have you read any good books lately?”
“Me?” I was unaccountably pleased that he had asked for my opinion. “Well, yes, I thought the latest Jordan Montgomery mystery was his best one to date.”
He nodded. “I’ll take it.”
Aware of his gaze on my back, I hurried to the mystery section and plucked a copy from the shelf.
“That’ll be twenty-seven fifty,” I said, ringing up the sale.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a crisp fifty-dollar bill. His fingers were cool when they brushed mine, yet I felt a frisson of heat race all the way up my neck to warm my cheeks. I slid the book and the receipt into a sack, also hand painted by me, and handed it to him, along with his change.
“Might I know your name?” he asked.
I hesitated to give it. I’m not really into Supernatural stuff all that much, but I knew that names were powerful mojo.
His gaze locked with mine, and I found myself saying, “Kathy. Kathy McKenna.”
“A lovely name for a very lovely lady,” he murmured, bowing from the waist. “I hope to see you again.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?” I asked. Hey, it only seemed fair that I should know his name now that he knew mine.
“Ah, of course. I am Raphael Cordova.”
I stared at him. Raphael Cordova! Good grief. He was the leader or chief or whatever they called it of the North American Vampires.
He smiled, displaying remarkably even, white teeth. “I will see you again, Kathy McKenna.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise, but before I could ask, or think of a suitable reply, he was gone, as silent as a shadow running from the sun.
The night after Raphael’s visit, thirteen people stopped by the store. They didn’t just come in because they were curious or to browse, either. They came in to buy. Every one of them bought at least two books; one lady bought four, another bought nine.
I’m not sure when I realized that they had all come into the store after the sun had set, or exactly when I realized they were all Vampires, and that Raphael Cordova had probably sent them. I guess I should have been pleased. Instead, it annoyed me to think that he had rounded up a bunch of his Undead pals and ordered them to throw a little business my way. I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, thank you very much. And I certainly didn’t want to be beholden to a Vampire for anything.
I had a feeling he would show up later that night, and he did, just as I was about to close up shop. He was clad in unrelieved black again—a short-sleeved T-shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and muscular arms, another pair of tight jeans, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. Just looking at him made me feel good all over.
He inclined his head in my direction. “Good evening, Kathy McKenna.” His voice was just as I remembered: soft and low; it caressed my skin like warm, dark velvet.
“Come for another book, did you?” I asked ungraciously.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he replied with a faint smile.
“Don’t tell me you finished the other one already.” Montgomery novels tended to be long; his newest book was almost nine hundred pages.
Cordova nodded.
“What are you, a speed reader?”
“Not exactly,” he replied with a wry grin, “but sometimes the nights can be long.”
I was tempted to say, “no kidding,” but I restrained myself. “I guess you enjoyed it.”
“Yes, very much, which is why I’m here. I’d like to buy everything he’s written.”
“You might want to narrow that down a little,” I said drily. “Jordan Montgomery has written something like fifty books in the last twenty years.”
“I’ll take whatever you have on hand,” Raphael said. “And please order me the rest.”
“You don’t have to buy all those books just because you feel sorry for me,” I said waspishly. “And you didn’t have to tell your friends to come in here, either.”
“Ah,” he murmured, a guilty smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “Don’t tell me they all came tonight?”
“I don’t know about that, since I don’t know how many you asked to show up,” I replied, and then, as my exasperation faded, I wondered what was going on that there were so many Vampires in town at one time, which made me wonder if that meant an equal number of Werewolves were also prowling the dark streets. The thought sent a cold chill slithering down my spine.
I glanced out the window, wondering if