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  Cool. She had to stay as calm as he looked, despite his admission he was freaked out. “Look, Detective. I have nothing to explain. Vampires are for people who watch too much television. I’d highly recommend you spend less time channel surfing and more time putting your detective skills to good use elsewhere.” Asshole, she thought then she groaned. Damn it.

  Larkin was no longer smiling smugly. His eyes grew dark and stormy and his nostrils did that flaring thing again. She’d lay bets he had a fantastic sense of smell.

  “As a matter of fact I do, and I’m not an asshole, but rest assured, I can be…” He let his words trail off in a warning as he reached behind her and opened her office door.

  For a brief moment, when his wide chest brushed hers, her nipples tightened. She said a small prayer he couldn’t read body language, too.

  What a random reaction to a complete stranger—even if he was a gorgeous complete stranger.

  Taking her by the elbow Larkin led her into her office and pointed to a chair. “Sit. Please.”

  His tone oozed authority, and given that there really wasn’t much choice, she decided to sit. Spencer flopped down in the leather chair behind her big desk and sucked in her cheeks, fighting to keep her mind blank. She’d “think” later about how crazy this was.

  Sitting in the chair facing her desk, Larkin leaned forward, placing his elbows on the smooth mahogany, those blue-gray eyes of his intense and probing. “So?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him in an arrogant question. “So what?”

  “So what is this vampire business about?”

  “Look, who are you, Baretta?”

  “Who?”

  Okay, so he didn’t watch TV. “The cop on TV, remember? He had a bird?” Spencer watched as his face went blank. “Forget it. You’re looking for shadows that don’t exist. There are no vampires here. You didn’t hear the word vampire because I didn’t say anything—which, for the record, is the only way one can hear something. Now, I’m very busy tonight as you can see by the crowd just outside that door, and you’re keeping me from doing my job.”

  “I know what I heard, Ms. Polanski,” he said firmly, those lovely lips of his thinning with discontent. “You won’t admit it, but I heard you think the word vampire.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’re just like one, Detective. Because as of right now, you’re sucking the life out of me.”

  She had to give it to him. Most people would think they’d gone crazy if they were hearing voices in their head. But not this man. This man was hunting her down like she was the one responsible for gifting him with his new ability.

  He shook his head again, the lights in her office accentuating the deep chocolate highlights of his hair. Then he gripped the arms of the chair with broad hands. “Nope, that’s not it. You distinctly asked yourself if I was another vampire. What would make you draw that conclusion?”

  Spencer tried to remain calm, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly and shooting him a bored look. “Just idle ramblings, I suppose.”

  The corner of Larkin’s mouth turned upward in a delectable tilt of sexy. “So you admit that I did read your thoughts?”

  Spencer shook her head stubbornly because what choice did she really have? Deny, deny, deny. That was the only choice she had. “No. I’m just playing nice with you because you’re a whack-job and my life could be in danger. How do I even know you’re a detective? Maybe you’re some deranged lunatic? Because don’t all deranged lunatics think they can read minds? Hear voices?”

  His wide hand dug in the pocket on the inside of his jacket. “I’m not a deranged lunatic. I’m a detective. Want me to show you my shiny badge to prove it?”

  Want me to show you my shiny fangs? Oh! Fuck, fuck, fuck. She pretended to rearrange her sticky notes on her desk to hide her goof. “Deranged lunatics carry shiny badges? Who knew?”

  Larkin pulled out his very shiny badge and held it up for her eyes. “No, Ms. Polanski, but very sane, very clearly reading your thoughts detectives do.”

  Spencer remained silent, biting the inside of her lip as they stared at one another.

  A knock on her door startled them both. Her cousin Cathy popped her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Spencer, but Mrs. Perkins is inconsolable right now. Your dad can’t seem to get her to leave the casket and from the looks of it, she really needs some rest. This is your specialty.”

  If she could sigh in relief, she would. End interrogation. “Tell Dad I’ll be right there. Would you grab a cool cloth and some water for Mrs. Perkins on your way back, please?”

  Cathy smiled as she cast a quick, questioning glance at Larkin McBride. “You got it,” she said before closing the door quietly.

  A moment of thick silence passed while Larkin McBride stared her down, his eyes intense and hot and full of questions he was determined to find answers for.

  Spencer looked away first, pushing her chair from the desk and rounding the corner of it to make a hasty getaway. “As you can see, I’m needed, Detective.” So game over. Take your crazy and leave the playground.

  But Larkin McBride was hot on her heels once more when she reached the door. “I’m not crazy, Ms. Polanski, and I’m not leaving the playground until you explain yourself.”

  Spencer popped the door open and made a break for it, ignoring the beat of his footsteps directly behind her. The click of her shoes on the marble tile seemed excruciatingly loud as she rushed to find Mrs. Perkins in the viewing room, sobbing in front of Alan’s casket.

  Spencer’s father stood off to the side of Alan’s casket with mournful eyes. He wasn’t very good at this. He hated to see anyone cry, especially a woman. His eyes reached out to hers over Mrs. Perkins’ head, sharing his discomfort and gratitude in them as he helplessly glanced at his daughter.

  She smiled back at her father reassuringly before turning her attention to Alan’s mother. Her gray-streaked head was bent low, the glistening tears of her grief on her weathered cheeks silhouetted by the dim lighting in the viewing area.

  Spencer rested a soothing hand on Mrs. Perkins’ shaking shoulder. Her hands clung to the edge of Alan’s casket, frightfully white knuckled. “Mrs. Perkins?” she whispered low. “I’m so sorry. I won’t tell you how I understand your pain, because I don’t, but I do know Alan would want you to come and sit with me for a while, and share a cup of tea. Maybe we could talk about Alan? I’d love to hear all about him.”

  It was Spencer’s experience that when a family member grieved, especially a mother, sometimes part of the process of letting go and moving forward was sharing happier times with a sympathetic listener who had no prior knowledge of the deceased.

  It was about having someone to listen to whatever you needed to share without judgment, without someone to correct your memory if you were making the dead out to be something they really weren’t. She was a blind ear. She’d done it a million times, and she’d do it a million more if it eased their suffering even just a little.

  Mrs. Perkins gripped Spencer’s hand and rose from her kneeling position on unsteady legs. Spencer held her elbow and tucked it under her own arm, looking down at Alan’s mother with a warm smile. “Tea then?”

  “Tea would be nice, thank you,” Mrs. Perkins said weak and soft as her frail body moved alongside Spencer and away from Alan’s casket.

  As they made their way out of the viewing area Mrs. Perkins stopped dead in her slow tracks. “Larkin?” she squeaked, her voice nasally and scratchy from crying.

  Larkin McBride nodded, his gruffly handsome face lined with obvious worry.

  He held his hand out to Mrs. Perkins and Adelaide fell into him as the detective embraced her, his face solemn and his eyes full of concern.

  He knew Alan Perkins? Which meant he really was grieving, too, and she’d blithely razzed him about it.

  Good job, Spence.

  Mrs. Perkins’ muffled voice cracked against Larkin’s wide chest as her tears began to flow again. “Larkin, oh God, it’s so good to see you.
They say Alan killed himself, but I don’t believe it. Not for a second. You knew Alan. He was your best friend. He would never take his life. I can’t bear it. I just can’t,” she sobbed.

  Larkin stroked her slender back and whispered to her soothingly. Mrs. Perkins was obviously in good hands. Maybe she didn’t need that tea after all, leading Spencer to make a hasty escape.

  She was just about to clear the double doors when she heard Larkin whisper softly, because even if her nose didn’t have vampire sensitivity, her ears did. “This isn’t over, Spencer Polanski…”

  Chapter 2

  Spencer stripped off her suit and kicked off her shoes with angry thrusts as she stomped through her apartment in her bra and panties.

  Now that she’d had time to really think about the ramifications of her run in with the smexy detective, she was working on a good freak out.

  Damned if Larkin McBride wasn’t well and truly reading her mind. He’d heard every word she’d thought, and he’d heard it correctly.

  Spencer’s legs shook for the umpteenth time that night. How could this be happening? Sure, maybe there really were people who could read minds, maybe even humans who could legitimately do it, but read a vampire’s mind? Unheard of. How was that even possible if he wasn’t a vampire? It was impossible, wasn’t it?

  Or did she have yet another defect she could be mocked to eternity and back over? The ability to read minds for vamps of her ilk came with some scary territory.

  Life mate territory. Typically, you could only read the mind of your mate. And while she couldn’t smell a damn thing, she knew for sure Larkin McBride was no vampire.

  Sexy? Yes. Oh, yes. Undead? No. No, no, no.

  And who the hell could she talk this over with? If her mother even had a hint that a human might think they were vampires, she’d lose her cookies and most probably her mind shortly thereafter. Her mother would turn into a paranoid mess if there were one more upheaval in her life. There’d been plenty of them, and the last one had scarred them all.

  Humans could be real assholes. Spencer was all too aware of what they thought of vampires.

  The Polanskis had opened up shop in many towns, throughout many different centuries, including a town or two they might have been run out on a rail if not for some quick thinking on her father’s part.

  Society might be liberal about many things in this day and age, but it sure as hell didn’t include vampires in its semi-enlightened state, despite the fact that her family wouldn’t hurt a fly. Her family was a peaceful lot; but there was no convincing a human that just because they were vampires, it didn’t mean they all wanted to steal your soul or bite you to make you one of them.

  Indeed, there were plenty of those types of undead running around loose in the world, but not in her clan. The night dwellers who opted for that lifestyle were considered rogue—often shunned by the more civilized like the Polanskis who chose to blend with the human population rather than kill it one soul draining at a time.

  A good majority of humans participated in all sorts of alternative lifestyles of all shapes and sizes.

  So what was the big deal about a little blood drinking amongst friends? It wasn’t like they forced their lifestyle on anyone, for Christ’s sake. They didn’t invite the neighbors to do blood shots with them at block parties while they worshipped the devil and sacrificed a virgin.

  Which was a good thing, too, because she’d be first on the list of sacrificial items.

  But just let a human get wind of the fact that you were a vampire and all of a sudden you were being chased through the night with a loaf of garlic bread and some holy water in a cup by a bunch of Dracula mongers.

  Thanks, but no thanks.

  Spencer loved working in Easton. It was one of her favorite towns in the many they’d been in. She loved living in Cedar Glen with its band of misfit paranormals. She didn’t want to leave either place and she wasn’t going to let some nosy detective with a sideshow affliction for mind reading mess with her happiness.

  Wearily, she hoped maybe Detective Larkin McBride and his gorgeous body would just go away. Adelaide Perkins had mentioned something about how impossible she thought it was that Alan had killed himself. Maybe the lip-smacking detective would go Sherlock Holmes Alan’s demise to death and forget all about the Polanskis.

  That thought eased her mind just a little as she picked up her clothes and shoes and went to close the curtains to prepare for bed.

  But a foreboding chill crept up her spine when Spencer glanced out her window into the black ink of night.

  And then again, maybe the delicious detective wouldn’t forget all about her. Maybe he was a real multitasking wonder, because look who just came to dinner.

  Larkin McBride.

  Shit.

  Spencer closed her curtains, blocking out the persistent detective in his very obvious white car.

  He’s a real super sleuth. Moron

  What kind of detective sat in plain view of their suspect?

  Spencer’s cell phone rang, making her push the curtains closed and rush to grab it, hoping it might be her brother or even Andrew. She needed to talk to someone about this. “Hello?”

  “The kind of detective who wants to know what the hell is going on. Now.”

  “What?” she asked innocently, smothering a groan.

  “You wanted to know what kind of detective sat in plain sight of their suspect. A super sleuth is what you thought me, I believe.” His gravelly voice over the line made her shiver, and it wasn’t only because of her fear he’d found her out.

  It was time to break out the big guns. Heavy threats with maybe a little crazy mixed in might work. But either way, he had to go. “Detective, it’s late and I’m tired. If you don’t go away I’m going to report you to your superior.”

  “Don’t vampires stay up all night long?”

  “Not if they just worked a double shift.” He chuckled into the phone at her response and an odd electricity shifted Spencer’s non-existent insides. Which was, of course, impossible. She had no insides.

  “The fact remains that we have some things to discuss, Ms. Polanski.”

  “Your vampire fixation and the voices in your head, perhaps?” Tucking her hair behind her ear, she dug around in her purse for something to tie her hair up with.

  “Yeah, my vampire fixation,” he groused dryly. “Answer the door, Spencer, or we will play cops and vampires because I’ll slap some cuffs on you and haul you to the station if I have to in order to get some answers.”

  Spencer didn’t have the time to protest before the line went dead and she heard her doorbell.

  She raced to grab a robe from the hook in her bathroom and throw it on, rolling her shoulders in preparation for battle. He wasn’t going away. He’d made that clear.

  So she’d just have to empty her mind of everything and keep her cool by convincing him he was out of his gourd. If she didn’t play this right her family could be in danger and she refused to let that happen.

  “Open the door, Spencer,” Larkin demanded from behind the shiny oak of her apartment door.

  She cracked her neck and flipped the locks, flinging the door open to find a more casually dressed Larkin McBride staring down at her with those intense eyes that singed her soul.

  Yet, there was consolation. If she had to have a crazy person stalking her and reading her mind, at least the view was lovely.

  Then she cringed. Empty your mind, idiot. Do you want him to know you think he’s attractive?

  If Larkin heard that thought, he ignored it and pushed his way past her to stand in the middle of her living room, all big and intimidating against the backdrop of her beige and white furniture.

  A crisp pair of low-slung blue jeans molded to his muscled thighs, and his black T-shirt hugged his wide chest. Folding his thick forearms sprinkled with a light dusting of fine, dark hair over his stomach, he waited.

  Her mouth went dry and her legs were weak again when she said, “So, here we are. You
with the crazy voices in your head, me still contemplating whether I should call the psych ward. What is it you want from me exactly, Detective, and how am I responsible for the nutty things going on in your head?”

  “Cut the bullshit and tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Spencer brushed past him, making a beeline for her kitchen. She flipped on the light in the small kitchenette and went to the cabinet to find some coffee. She couldn’t really taste coffee per se. She kept it because her human friends seemed to like it, and right now it seemed like a very human thing to do. “Shouldn’t you be out hunting down the nearest twenty-four hour donut shop?”

  Larkin remained silent as he followed her into the kitchen and went to the cabinet where she kept her coffee cups, presumptuously taking out one for him, too.

  Spencer fought a smile. Pushy bastard.

  “I’m a cop. We’re all pushy—especially where coffee’s concerned.”

  Yep. Now this was bordering spooky, but still, she fought for calm. “Well, Mr. Pushy Cop, what do you hope to accomplish by forcing your way in here and drinking coffee you weren’t invited to drink?”

  “An answer to my question.”

  “Could you remind me again what the question was? Oh, wait, now I remember. You want to know if I’m a vampire, right?” Spencer snorted, hoping to put him on the defensive—or at the very least make him think she thought he was one egg shy of a dozen.

  He leaned into her, the heat of his body searing hers without ever touching her. “I want to know why I can read your every thought and yeah, I want to know if you’re a vampire.”

  “I don’t know and no, but I play one on TV.” Spencer turned her back to him to fill the coffee pot, then went to sit at her small table, purposely moving with an unhurried pace. She settled in, regretting grabbing the shortest bathrobe she owned as she tugged at the length of it.

  Larkin leaned back on the countertop, pronouncing the lines of his abs and gave her a “methinks the lady protests too much” look. He continued to stare her down with that unnerving, unblinking gaze.