A Vampire's Promise

Book 1: Vampire's Promise

by Carla Susan Smith

Genres: Vampires; Visionary & Metaphysical

Synopsis

First in the series that continues with A Vampire’s Soul and A Vampire’s Honor. “Wicked fun not to be missed!”— Rebecca Zanetti, New York Times bestselling author

Trust Your Instincts

Rowan Harper is nothing but a smart-mouthed bookstore clerk with a crappy love life on the night she walks into Rosie’s Bar. Most of the drama in her life is borrowed from her best friend’s adventures. But when she meets Gabriel—tall and movie star gorgeous—everything changes. Never mind that she turns down the drink he offers, or that he brims with secrets she can’t begin to guess at. He ignites a desire in her she never suspected—and shows a fascination with her she can’t explain. 

There is nothing about Gabriel that is ordinary. An aura of mystery cloaks him, even as Rowan grasps for facts, even as she fears an answer that could destroy her happiness. Gabriel can guide her through a wonderland of new sensations. But only if Rowan trusts him enough to follow . . .

Winner of the OKRWA “Finally a Bride” Contest
 
“A whopper of a romance. A tale full of zest, sensuality, and the seductive power of two souls truly coming together. A story to captivate you both body and soul!!” —Addicted to Romance
 
“Rowan’s wry commentary about her predicament is priceless, and this romance sizzles . . . This series is highly recommended.” —Library Journal
 
“An intriguing story with an excellent blend of fantasy and reality as well as relatable human characters.” —Night Owl Romance

Release date: June 1, 2014

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 400

Sample

I was folding laundry and watching an old CSI rerun on TV when Laycee called.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I told her.

“And where are you tonight—New York, Miami, or Vegas?”

There was only one place where the plucky female investigator would consider going dumpster diving wearing heels and white pants. “Miami,” I told Laycee.

“You do realize this makes you certifiably pathetic, right?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the laundry or my viewing choice that warranted the certifiable part. Tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder, I continued folding.

“I prefer to think of it as a useful way to amuse myself while I wait for Brad Pitt to call,” I told her.

Laycee sighed—an exasperated, you’re-beyond-all-help sound that I caught before it was swallowed up by background noise. From the hum of voices and clinking glassware I guessed she was in a bar. Confirmation came with the sound of a female voice crooning sorrowfully about men and bad choices. The tone was more jukebox quality than live band, and I felt my eyebrows pull together, wondering if the song was Laycee’s choice or just bad luck. Either way, it seemed kind of prophetic. Why else would my best friend be calling me on a Friday night when she was supposed to be out on a date?

“Where are you?” I asked her.

“Out at Rosie’s.”

The song began to fade. I’d never heard of the place. “Where?”

Being involved with a man who is separated from his wife but not yet divorced means contending with a few “difficulties.” Difficulties that become a lot more complicated when he’s also the town sheriff. The need to meet in places where no one recognizes either of you is just the tip of the iceberg. And why my best friend wanted to put herself through all this drama was something I was still trying to figure out.

“Rowan, I need a ride. Can you come get me?”

There was a catch in her voice, one I was certain she didn’t know was there, but I heard it as clear as a bell. Perhaps I was expecting to.

“Where’s Jake?” I asked cautiously.

“Had to leave.”

Her tone changed, becoming more pissed-off than poor-me, which was a relief in a way. Having witnessed both, I much preferred dealing with an angry Laycee than a tearful one.

My best friend isn’t generally stupid, but like any woman, she is guilty of making foolish decisions at times. It’s still too early to tell if her involvement with Jake will fall into this category. Tonight it would seem so. Having your so-called boyfriend go AWOL in the middle of a date is not only rude, it’s embarrassing. But he must be doing something right because Laycee lights up like the proverbial Christmas tree whenever he’s around. I guess you don’t always get a say in what your heart wants, and following it doesn’t always guarantee a happy ever after.

“So, you gonna come rescue me?”

Like she had to ask. “You realize this means I’m going to have to stand Brad up, right?”

She laughed, another good sign. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you can find a way to make it up to him.” I grinned as she began arguing her case. “C’mon, Rowan, it’s Friday night. Stop watching damn reruns and get your ass out here! Seriously—what else have you got to do?”

Absolutely nothing, and no one knew that better than Laycee. “Okay, okay,” I told her. “Stop twisting my arm!” It was pathetic how much of a fight I didn’t put up.

She gave me directions and broke the connection before I could say good-bye. Or change my mind.

Rosie’s was an almost thirty-minute drive across the county line, and I nearly missed the turnoff. Laycee had mentioned something about a neon sign, only I guess she forgot to mention most of the bulbs had burned out. I was just grateful no one was behind me when I slammed on the brakes.

Miraculously there was an open space beneath the lone working light in the gravel-strewn parking lot. I made sure all the doors were locked before making my way toward the brick building I’d passed on the way in. Checking the other parked vehicles gave me a pretty good indication of Rosie’s clientele. I could count on one hand the number of vehicles that weren’t either a truck or some sort of SUV. And that was including my car.

Climbing the three steps leading up to the porch, I pulled open one half of the double doors and was immediately greeted by a fair number of good ol’ boys, all wearing the standard uniform of jeans, boots, and shirts with no sleeves. What is it about country boys and the need to expose armpit hair? I have no idea, but I think there’s a certain security in having a visual reminder of passing puberty. Stepping to one side, I tried to be unobtrusive as I searched for Laycee while getting my bearings.

There was an aged, shabby look to the bar. It had probably first opened a couple of decades before I was born, and whatever profit it made wasn’t being wasted on updating the décor. I suspected the obligatory deer-head trophy on the wall had witnessed the first beer ever served, and anything electrical could probably use a serious upgrade. A fresh coat of paint would do wonders, along with a good airing. There was a definite odor that lingered—a faint mix of old beer, stale cigarettes, and pine floor cleaner. On the plus side, the bar looked well-stocked and the glasses all seemed clean. Lord knows, I’d been in a lot worse places.

It didn’t take much reconnoitering before I found my girl. All I had to do was look for the nearest group of guys standing about with their tongues hanging out, metaphorically speaking. In this case the group was draped over their pool cues, appreciating Laycee’s rear end. I came up on the opposite side of the table and waited until she took her shot. A chorus of good-natured groans rippled around the periphery as she sank her ball. Men, I have observed, will always accept being beaten by a girl if she’s pretty enough. And Laycee fit that bill.

With her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and wearing a hot pink T-shirt, jeans, and red heels that made my arches ache just looking at them, she positively screamed trailer trash. Nevertheless, I adored her for knowing exactly who she was, and not giving a shit what anyone else thought.

We were complete opposites, at least as far as looks went. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, Laycee was a doll, providing that doll was Trailer Park Barbie. I was more a reflection of Cabbage Patch Colleen with chestnut hair, green eyes, and freckles confirming my Irish heritage. Also Laycee managed to keep around a hundred pounds on her five foot five inch frame with very little effort, while I weighed . . . more. But being four inches taller has to count for something. If she wasn’t my best friend and I didn’t love her so much, it would be easy to hate her.

“Popular place,” I commented as a waitress stopped by the booth we’d chosen to take our order. She returned almost immediately with a pitcher and two frosty glasses, and I put a mental check mark in the plus column.

For the next half hour or so Laycee and I made small talk, covering all the important things. Sex and men, sex and clothes, sex and makeup. I didn’t inquire about Jake’s absence and Laycee didn’t offer to tell me, which was okay. I figured I’d get the scoop on the ride home.

Returning from the restroom, I noticed my BFF checking out the bar area. Not that unusual, all things considered, but the look on her face was definitely out of place. My first thought was Laycee had seen someone she recognized, so I also looked. Growing up in a town as small as ours, we knew the same people. Not seeing a familiar face, I couldn’t imagine what was keeping her attention so fixed.

“What is it?” I asked. “See someone you know?”

She snapped back into focus and reached for my glass, refilling it from the pitcher and making sure it had the perfect head of foam. “You have an admirer.”

“Oh yeah?”

Guys rarely look at me when I’m with Laycee. I mean they look at me, but not like they look at her. And not in the way she was implying.

“Yeah, you do.” My skepticism caused her to raise a penciled eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure at first, but I am now.”

I remained doubtful. “What makes you think he’s looking at me?”

It wasn’t an unreasonable question. Laycee turns a lot of men’s heads. Women’s, too, but that’s for an entirely different reason.

A sly smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Because he just tracked you going to the restroom,” she declared triumphantly.

This, as any woman knows, is the only universally accepted way to measure a guy’s interest. If he watches you cross the room and doesn’t get distracted or lose focus, then he definitely wants to get to know you better. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as enthusiastic about the prospect as my best friend was.

Laycee and I had very different ideas about the opposite sex and the role we expected them to play in our lives. I also wasn’t sure that, good intentions aside, she was the best person to give me romantic advice. Laycee always seemed to attract guys who came with complications of one sort or another. Like a wife. Still, I’m the last person to pass judgment on any relationship. Best friends are hard to come by, and I wasn’t going to make Laycee feel bad about her choices or her morals. Besides, my limited romantic experience had shown me that while you may think you have a situation sized up, most of us don’t have a clue what’s really going on between two people.

“Okay, so where’s the father of my unborn children?” I suspected it was one of the guys Laycee had been shooting pool with earlier, and wondered if I was being looked at as a consolation prize. If so, it was a bad idea, and one I intended to squash right away.

“The blond at the end of the bar,” Laycee said pointing a surreptitious finger in the right direction. “I think he might be the bouncer. He’s certainly built for it.”

The idea that a bar like this would require a bouncer in the first place might seem absurd, but I’ve seen good ol’ boys fight. When they’re drunk, a difference of opinion can turn ugly real fast. And while a physical altercation every now and then is perfectly acceptable, expected even, on a regular basis it’s bad for business.

Twisting around in my seat and looking over my shoulder would be a little too obvious, so I got up and parked myself next to Laycee. Casually I let my gaze wander over the bar area. He wasn’t hard to miss.

Tall, blond, and very well put together—I could absolutely see how Laycee would think he was a bouncer, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. I couldn’t say what he was, but I knew he didn’t belong in a place like this. And it wasn’t just because his T-shirt had sleeves. Still, the bar was pretty crowded and the lighting not that great, two elements that could easily contribute to a mistake in judgment. And Laycee, God love her, sometimes saw things a little skewy where I was concerned.

If the guy had been looking at me before, and I’m not saying he hadn’t, he certainly wasn’t now. Distracted by the bartender, he seemed fascinated at how the words on her T-shirt were being stretched across her chest. Juicy Girl indeed!

My immediate assessment said the bartender had no idea the kind of man she was flirting with, or how to do it with any degree of success. Unable to discern the difference between real interest and being polite, Miss Juicy couldn’t tell he wasn’t the type to be impressed by the obvious, no matter how it came wrapped. If she expected him to respond to her, then she was going to need a more subtle approach. A wayward curl escaping from an elegant up-do, the slip of a spaghetti strap down a bare shoulder, a hint of shimmer dusted over cleavage . . .

I started, taken aback by whatever tangent my brain was trying to pursue. Why on earth would I think such things—and why assume they were applicable to him? I had no idea, but deep down I knew they were true. Kind of like the way I just knew the black jeans and T-shirt he wore hadn’t come off the rack at Men’s Wearhouse.

This was the type of man who was noticed the moment he stepped into a room. I could only imagine the ripple he’d caused coming into Rosie’s and was sorry to have missed it. Even as far apart as we were—and there had to be at least twenty-five feet between our table and the bar—I could see the confidence he exuded. Used to having people look at him, he simply accepted it, even if it was made up of both female adoration and male jealousy. Miss Juicy leaned over the bar in his direction. I watched him pull back, subtly maintaining the distance between them. Stupid girl! Either she didn’t notice, or else she just didn’t get it. Or him.

My gaze flickered over the people around him, curious to see their reaction to his presence. From the way heads were turned and chins tucked, it seemed all the guys were doing their best to avoid any type of eye contact with him, which struck me as typical pack behavior. A show of deference in the presence of a more dominant male.

But the women had no qualms about making contact, with their eyes or other body parts. And the bartender wasn’t the only one who was clueless. Every female in the place, present company excluded, seemed to be hitting the restroom with an alarming frequency. Only they were taking the scenic route to get there. I know my own single trip to the bathroom hadn’t required me to make any detours.

Also aware of the apparent estrogen explosion, Laycee poked me in the side with her finger, and we both watched a Jessica Simpson look-alike make her way across the floor toward his end of the bar. Unfortunately, she was so busy trying to catch his eye that she failed to check for obstacles in her path and hit the squared-off corner of a table with her leg. Wincing, I pictured the bruise that was going to color her thigh in the morning. But from the look on Jessica’s face, it was all worth it.

Stumbling had redirected his attention away from the bartender, and Jessica greedily caught hold of the steadying hand he offered. Saving herself from complete humiliation by not going base over apex, the blonde gushed at him. The invitation she offered was more than blatant. It glowed like a neon sign. And it was one he declined.

“Ooooh—her tip jar’s gonna be short,” Laycee observed, glancing at the bartender. Annoyed by the interruption, Miss Juicy glared at her competition.

“He’s got to be waiting for someone,” I murmured. It was the only plausible explanation for his being in Rosie’s to begin with, as well as his lukewarm response to the women around him. Either that or he was gay, which I couldn’t count out, but doubted. If he was looking to get lucky with another guy, why send out vibes that had them all backing off? No, whoever he was waiting for, I’d bet my next paycheck they were of the female persuasion. Probably more than one someone. Now how depressing was that?

I was about to share this insight with Laycee when he chose that exact moment to turn his head and look right at me. His gaze lit me up, held me fast, and dared me to be the first to look away.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

The world as I knew it came to a screeching halt and tumbled off its axis. And I knew, no matter whatever else happened to me in the rest of my life, something had just changed. It was one of those pivotal moments that happen once in a lifetime. One that said nothing was ever going to be the same.

He hadn’t moved, except to carefully peel Jessica’s fingers from his hand before resuming his place at the bar. But it felt as if he knew that I’d been looking at him, and now he was saying Okay . . . my turn.

He was staring at me, and I could see the color of his eyes as clearly as if he were right in front of me. Dark blue, a brilliant mesmerizing shade of cobalt framed by thick lashes. They held on to me, making my stomach clench and roll like I was on a fairground tilt-a-whirl ride. And then he moved his mouth, lifting the corners in a lazy, sensual smile that almost had me stroking out. My chest became a vise, slowly expelling all the air from my lungs and forcing my heart to beat faster. I saw the brilliant gleam of his teeth as his lips parted, and as if asphyxia wasn’t going to be enough to deal with, I was suddenly flooded with the oddest sense of déjà vu.

Intuitively I knew that if he widened his smile by just a few millimeters, it would reveal a dimple hidden in his left cheek. Right on cue, as if wanting to prove me right, he did just that, and . . . there it was. What could so easily be considered a flaw I thought was the sexiest come-on I’d ever seen. It was crazy, I know, but his expression seemed familiar. As if I’d seen him smile at me like that before. Which was completely impossible, of course. And then the final, totally insane thing happened.

You know who I am.

The words jolted inside my head, whispered in a silken voice I didn’t recognize—and they were completely untrue! If I’d seen this guy before, trust me, I would have locked him away in the old memory bank. He had a face no woman would ever forget. Lightly touching my hand, Laycee jerked me back to reality. I sucked in a greedy lungful of air as my heart found its rhythm.

“Rowan, are you okay?” She looked at me, concern marring her carefully made-up face.

“Yeah, of course. Why d’you ask?” For some reason my voice sounded perfectly normal, which was strange, considering I hadn’t been able to catch my breath a moment before.

“No reason, except your mouth’s hanging open and you look sort of. . . hungry.” A wicked smile replaced the concerned look. “Don’t worry, it suits you.”

Self-conscious, I closed my mouth, pretending I had no idea what she was talking about as she turned her head and looked back toward the bar.

“Smile,” she hissed suddenly. “He’s looking at you!”

Tell me something I don’t know.

I was in the process of trying to get my head unscrambled when the look of dismay on Laycee’s face told me it was no longer necessary. He wasn’t looking at me anymore. But I knew that too. The clenching in my stomach ceased and my ribs no longer felt as if they were on fire.

Turning my head, I saw my now not-so-ardent admirer had picked up where he’d left off. He’d returned his attention to Miss Juicy, who, utterly enthralled, kept flicking her dark hair over her shoulder so nothing would interfere with his view of her assets. The gesture irritated the crap out of me, and woke up my inner bitch.

How about we just go slap the shit out of her?

I declined the offer, even though an inexplicable jealousy was swirling through me. After having the humdrum predictability of my world so thoroughly shaken, I was more than a little annoyed at being passed over without so much as a second glance.

Miss Juicy laughed. Her cackle ricocheted across the bar with enough of a screech factor to set my teeth on edge. I thought it sounded forced, which just went to show how much that odd little episode had unnerved me. Why was I mad at her? As much as I hated to admit it, it wasn’t her fault I didn’t have the goods to hold his interest.

I drowned my unreasonable attitude in a long swallow of beer. The interaction at the bar had not escaped Laycee’s notice. How could it with that laugh that sounded like a jackass braying?

You sure you don’t want to go slap her? My inner bitch snorted.

Shaking my head, I put down my glass. Laycee stared at me. “Don’t worry,” I assured her with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “Nothing would have come of it anyway. He’s really not my type.”

“You’re such a liar.” The words were said affectionately, but the look in her eyes had me thinking she knew exactly how his gaze had affected me. “What would you do if he was to come over here right now and ask you out?”

I honestly didn’t know. I told myself the reason for my tilt-a-whirl experience was because it had been a while since a guy had looked at me with any real interest. I was out of practice and had gotten flustered. That was all. No big deal. Except it really was a big deal. No man had ever looked at me before and made me feel excited and terrified all at the same time. I wasn’t sure if I liked it, and I certainly didn’t know how to handle it.

It’s not that I don’t want a boyfriend; I’ve plunged headfirst into the dating pool several times. It’s just that, on an intellectual level, I’ve waded back out again seriously disillusioned. Is it too much to want a guy whose choice of reading material goes beyond Popular Mechanics, Field and Stream, or something that comes in a plain brown wrapper?

Actually I might not have a problem with pornography if it meant I had a sex life, but the guys I’ve been dating must only be looking at the pictures because I’m still technically a virgin. Efforts to change my status so far have resulted in two broken zippers, a bad case of muscle cramps, and a real empathy for the embarrassment that comes with premature ejaculation. Same guy, three times. But it hasn’t been a complete waste of time. On the plus side I have learned a lot about foreplay.

Tapping the surface of the table with a long, red fingernail, Laycee tilted her head. “I think you’re all wrong about him waiting for someone,” she murmured in a low voice. “I think he’s just found what he’s been looking for.”

I looked up, astonished to see Miss Juicy herself heading toward us with a tray balanced on the upturned palm of one hand. I knew the exaggerated sway of her hips was definitely not for my benefit. Stopping at our table, she popped out her hip before placing her free hand on it. My inner bitch was straining at the leash.

“From the guy at the end of the bar,” she said, taking the lone glass off her tray and placing it in front of me.

My first instinct was to tell her she’d made a mistake, only the look on her face said she already thought that. How I had managed to hook such a catch was beyond her comprehension. It took all I had to keep the shit-eating grin off my face. Guess I’d rated that second look after all.

Next to me, Laycee was almost quivering with excitement. This was something straight out of one of her trashy romance novels. The only thing that could have made it even better was if I’d gotten champagne. Somehow I doubted there was a bottle of Dom Perignon hidden behind the bar.

I’m not a complete idiot. Men have bought me drinks before, but usually I’m on a date with them. This was the first time I’d been singled out in such a way, and while I was pleased it got Miss Juicy’s panties all wadded up, on another level I wasn’t comfortable with the attention. I felt out of my depth, mainly because I didn’t know what kind of expectations came with the drink, and there would be some, there always were. But I was certain of one thing. He was a man who was very sure of himself and, I suspected, used to getting what he wanted.

The decision made, I picked up the tumbler, catching the familiar whiff of bourbon, and placed the glass back on the tray. “Tell him thanks . . . but no thanks.”

Laycee spluttered and almost sprayed beer over the table, while Miss Juicy opened her eyes wide. Confusion was replaced by stunned surprise. Perhaps I didn’t realize who had sent the drink? I could almost see the conflict inside her as she tried to decide whether to do a brisk about-face before I changed my mind or give me the chance to rectify my mistake. She earned my grudging admiration for the choice she made.

“Are you sure?” she asked, “It’s the big blond guy.” Nodding her head in the direction of the bar, she added, “The one all in black.”

“Yeah, I know who you mean,” I said slowly. “The guy who looks like a Viking.”

Any admiration I felt vanished when I saw her face light up with barely contained glee at my apparent stupidity. After landing something so mouth-wateringly delicious, I was throwing it back? How dumb was I? Still, my turning down all that testosterone meant she could have another crack at him. I almost told her to go for it, but I’m not that nice.

“Whatever,” she said, blowing out an exaggerated breath that matched the lift of her shoulders. I watched her walk away, wondering how she would rephrase my refusal.

“Are you like, seriously, out of your fucking mind?” Laycee hissed.

“Laycee, I’m not about to accept a drink from some guy who’s just passing through.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Aw, come on!” I rolled my eyes. “Take a good look at him.”

“I have been,” she snapped irritably. “Problem is, he hasn’t been looking back!”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. This was a big admission on her part. The only guy I ever knew not to look at Laycee had had the world’s only justifiable reason. He was blind. But as his seeing-eye dog did try to sniff her crotch, it still counted as looking in my book. To hear her say that my Viking—when had I become possessive?—hadn’t as much as glanced her way was astonishing.

“Not once?” I queried slowly.

“Not. One. Single. Time.” The end of her ponytail swooshed across her shoulder as if helping to emphasize her . . .