And Sheree was determined to find him—or her—no matter where he or she was hiding.
Being rich, single, and bored, Sheree had decided to visit every vampire hangout between California and New York until she found what she was looking for. Hence, her new look.
Taking a deep breath, Sheree picked up the new Ferragamo black leather bag that held her make-up, cell phone, wallet, and a sharp wooden stake.
She plucked a small bottle of holy water from her dresser, then dropped it into her bag. “Don’t leave home without it,” she said with a grin. A last quick glance in the mirror and she hurried out the door.
Drac’s Dive, located in Hollywood, California, was Sheree’s first stop. She paused inside the entrance, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. At first, it looked like the place was empty, but, gradually, she realized it looked that way because the walls were painted black and everyone in the place—waitresses, bartenders, the band and patrons—was attired in black clothing.
The air reeked of alcohol, perspiration, and incense.
As soon as she took a seat at the bar, three men approached her, all wanting to “get to know her better.” The first was tall and thin, with greasy blond hair, close-set brown eyes, and a long, thin nose. The second was short, with brown hair, blue eyes, and regular features. The third had short black hair and dark brown eyes. And fangs that were obviously fake when he smiled at her.
She declined each invitation. After thirty minutes and several more questionable offers, which she also refused, she left the club. So, she hadn’t found a real vampire at Drac’s Dive, but there were other clubs out there that catered to the Goth crowd. And what better place for a vampire to hang out than in the midst of a bunch of undead wannabes?
After pulling a slip of paper from her pocket, she perused the list of names she had found on the Internet: Blood and Wine; The Black Rose; Nosferatu’s Den; Demon’s Delight.
A check of the addresses showed Nosferatu’s Den was only two blocks away. Maybe she would have better luck there.
Derek sat at the bar, his gaze moving over the crowd, considering and rejecting one patron after another. Many were familiar to him. He had dined on a few. It never failed to amuse him the lengths humans would go to make themselves look like vampires, though he had rarely known a real vampire with skin as pale, or lips as red, as those of the wannabe bloodsuckers in attendance. The men were all dressed like Bela Lugosi: black suits; crisp white shirts; long black capes, some lined in red, some in white. A few even mimicked Lugosi’s accent. The women also wore black—mostly long flowing gowns with plunging necklines that displayed their cleavage, real or enhanced.
He had never understood the human fascination with vampires. His kind were, for the most part, merciless hunters of mankind. Some, like the members of his family, resisted the urge to kill their prey. Knowing how tempting it was to drain mortals dry, to drink their blood, their warmth, and their memories, he admired his family’s determination to take only enough to survive.
He was thinking of changing his hunting ground to Hollywood Boulevard when a bewitching scent tickled his nostrils, drawing his gaze toward the entrance and the slender woman who stood framed in the doorway. Like the others, she wore black, from her hooded cloak to her high-heeled boots. When she lowered her hood, he saw her hair was also black. Dyed, he thought, or perhaps a wig. Her eyes were a deep golden brown beneath thick lashes.
His gaze followed her progress into the club. He noted that she had attracted the attention of several other men, as well.
She sat at the other end of the bar, the slit in her skirt parting to reveal a slender calf clad in black silk.
In spite of the music and the low rumble of conversation, he heard her order a Bloody Mary, which she sipped slowly as she glanced at the club’s occupants. Was she looking for someone in particular, he wondered. Or just looking?
During the next half hour, he watched her reject the advances of one man after another, finally agreeing to dance with a tall, dark-skinned man with an Italian accent.
Derek stared at them through narrowed eyes as they swayed to the music. Seeing her in the arms of another man aroused an unexpected stab of jealousy. It was a new emotion for him and he examined it closely, wondering what had provoked it. He didn’t even know the woman.
Almost before he realized what he was doing, he crossed the floor to cut in on the woman and her partner.
Sheree offered a tentative smile to the man who took her partner’s place on the dance floor, felt a jolt, like an electric shock, sizzle through her as he gathered her into his arms.
Startled, she looked into his eyes—deep gray eyes that seemed to pierce her very soul.