Biting The Bride

by Clare Willis

Genres: Paranormal Romance

Synopsis

Some men are worth sticking your neck out for. . . Sunni Marquette has always been a little different. There's the whole mind-reading thing, for a start, which comes in useful for a criminal defense attorney. Except that lately, Sunni keeps encountering people who are immune to her gift. Like Jacob Eddington, the star witness in her latest case. And her best friend Isabel's new fiancé, Richard Lazarus, who's as sinister as Jacob is attractive. Not that Sunni intends to interfere--until she learns that Richard is a vampire who's made a centuries-long career of marrying wealthy women, then killing them for their inheritance. Sunni is convinced Jacob is a vampire, too, and that he's her only chance of saving Isabel. With his help, she'll discover powers she never knew she possessed, an enemy who's closer than she could have ever guessed, and the kind of love that's worth staking everything on--if she can just stay alive long enough to enjoy it. . . Praise for Clare Willis and Once Bitten "This sexy, fast-paced paranormal has it all! You'll want to keep reading more." --Richelle Mead, New York Times bestselling author "Clare Willis offers a clever twist on the world of vampires." --Alexandra Ivy, New York Times bestselling author

Release date: December 1, 2010

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 351

Sample

The wedding would have been the envy of any woman with a romantic heart. The outdoor setting, on a deck overlooking San Francisco Bay, was beautiful and natural but devoid of humidity, extremes of temperature, or insects. The flowers were extravagant but tasteful. The music was poignant but professional. The husband was young (relatively), handsome (ditto), employed, and in possession of all of his natural teeth. But to Sunni Marquette, who was standing at the end of a line of bridesmaids arrayed like the tail of a comet, it was a waste of time, energy, and expense. As was romantic love in general.

But she had learned long ago that her worldview was often at odds with that of the general public, and her comments on marriage were usually as well received as a diagnosis of athlete’s foot. So in the interest of friendship, which she did value, she had donned a polyester satin dress in the hue of orange Jell-O and a pair of cheap pumps that were a size too big and taken her place at the comet’s tail end. The nucleus was Sunni’s college friend Lydia, who looked indeed like a big ball of gas in her fluffy round gown, constructed of thousands of short layers of tulle dotted with bugle beads.

As the priest droned on about the married couple’s duty to bear children, Sunni turned slightly and allowed her eyes to drift over the crowd. She recognized a few faces, mostly people from college with whom Lydia had kept in contact but Sunni hadn’t. Seeing them made Sunni feel that thirty-two was a lot older than she had realized. The men had bald pates, shrunken shoulders, and expanded bellies. The women’s chins had gone soft. Their breasts sagged like socks filled with sand, defying the darts in their expensive dresses. Mothers clung grimly to bored young children, who squiggled like eels in their perfectly natural desire to escape. Were those liver spots on the women’s hands? Not for the first time, Sunni regretted having 20/10 vision.

She squared her shoulders and stood up straight, which still left her a head shorter than the next shortest bridesmaid. She looked young for her age, which had annoyed her to no end when she was in her twenties, but now she welcomed it. Her chin-length bob was as black as ever, with not a strand of gray, and she had yet to find a wrinkle on her pale, heart-shaped face. It was rather weird, actually, considering what was happening to her friends. It made her wonder about what kind of genes she had inherited. Sunni’s DNA was a mystery, coming as it had from a mother who died when Sunni was eight and left no living relatives, and a father who was no more than a blank spot on the birth certificate. So far she hadn’t tried to unravel these mysteries, but maybe someday, when she wasn’t so busy … Busy? Be honest, Sunni thought, at least in your own head: maybe someday, when she wasn’t so chicken.

The priest asked everyone to stand for the wedding prayer. She was about to return her attention to the bride and groom when she noticed, in the back row on the bride’s side, a face that seemed familiar. But not just any face. It was one she’d been seeing and losing for years: a face whose elusiveness only made it more enticing. It always disappeared whenever she got close, like a mirage. A wave of fear mixed with excitement washed through her. Sunni forgot where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. She corkscrewed her body toward the back of the church and turned the full power of her superior eyesight on the man.

It was him, she was sure of it. Her guardian angel.

Sunni’s frustration grew until it felt like she had swallowed a live ferret. The man she’d been wondering about for years was in the same enclosed space with her, and not a public place either, but a private ceremony, where you could only be if you knew the bride or groom. Or if you’d crashed the party. He towered over most of the other wedding guests, which was how he’d become so obvious when everyone stood up. In his tuxedo he cut an arresting figure. Everything about him was striking, from his height to his eyes, whose color she couldn’t quite identify. He had jutting Nordic cheekbones and dark hair that was a bit too long and tousled to suit a professional man, although she sometimes saw him in restaurants or professional buildings wearing a suit and tie, always alone. He was extremely pale, as if he had tuberculosis or worked as an engineer for Google. If he was a spy he was terrible at his job, because his looks made it impossible for him to be incognito.

But now here he was at the same wedding with her and she couldn’t get to him, because propriety demanded that she stay put until the ceremony was over. Their eyes met and locked. As the man stared at her his eyes narrowed to slits. His lips pressed together and he grimaced as if he was angry or in great pain.

What was he thinking?

Sunni gasped as the man slipped out of the crowd and headed for the exit, moving so fast his black-clad body was a blur.

“‘A six-foot tall man in a tuxedo.’ There are five hundred guests here. Can you be a little more specific?” Lydia lifted her champagne glass to her lipstick-smudged mouth. It was halfway through the reception and Lydia was more than halfway drunk, but this was the first moment Sunni had found to ask her the question. Lydia’s new husband, Kyle, had his back to her while he said goodbye to a very elderly couple who were leaving early.

Sunni chewed the inside of her lip. “Um, he’s very handsome.”

Lydia waggled her eyebrows. “Ooh, so that’s why you want to find him. And I thought you wanted to put a restraining order on the guy. “ She linked her free arm with Kyle’s, swaying on her high heels. “They say weddings are the best places to meet eligible men.”

Sunni suppressed her annoyance. “He’s very tall, broad-shouldered but thin, light-colored eyes, prominent cheekbones, messy black hair.”

“How old?” Kyle asked, having rejoined the conversation.

Sunni shrugged. “Hard to tell. Between thirty and forty, maybe. ”

Lydia draped her arms drunkenly across Kyle’s shoulders. “Lucky for you I didn’t meet that guy first,” she said, tickling his ear.

“And he was here alone?” Kyle asked, beginning what would probably be a lifelong practice of ignoring his wife.

Was he alone? Sunni felt an embarrassing stab of jealousy at the idea of her angel/stalker leaving with someone else. “I didn’t see anyone with him,” she muttered.

The bride and groom looked at each other for a long moment, then they turned back to Sunni, both shrugging their shoulders. “Nope,” Lydia said, “doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Sure doesn’t,” Kyle agreed.

Sunni sighed with exasperation. “Okay, thanks.”

She had needed to pee for the past two hours, so she found a restroom. While she was sitting on the toilet she peeled off her stockings and threw them in the garbage. She hated nylons, especially the egregious Band-Aid–colored ones, but Lydia had insisted. The too-big pumps felt more comfortable now that her feet were bare.

When she came out of the stall, there was a man in the bathroom, propping himself up against one of the sinks. For a moment her heart stopped, because he was very tall and had dark hair, but when she saw his face reflected in the mirror she recognized him: a cousin of Kyle’s from somewhere on the East Coast. She’d met him at the rehearsal dinner the night before.

“Hi, um, Peter, that’s your name, right? You’re in the wrong restroom.”

He turned, his big head swinging like it was too heavy for his neck. He was handsome in a forgettable sort of way, with coarse features that were probably at their best in high school.

“Hey, Sunni, nice to see you,” he slurred, smiling. His mouth was wide, with cartoonish red lips. “You’re looking very beautiful tonight. Did I tell you that already?”

“We haven’t spoken tonight, so no, and thank you.”

Peter lurched toward her, looking as if he might fall. Sunni grabbed him, sliding her small but strong body under his arm and supporting his considerable weight.

“We’re in the bathroom together,” he said. “Wanna make out?”

“I’d love to, but I’ve got a cold sore that just won’t quit,” Sunni said lightly.

She tried to leave the bathroom, but Peter had other ideas. He spun around and with surprising agility, given his level of inebriation, pushed her against the wall. Sunni’s back bounced off a towel dispenser. The breath flew out of her body, replaced with fiery pain between her shoulder blades. Peter stretched his arms out to the wall, imprisoning her between them. A sour, squishy tongue invaded her mouth, making her gag. He grabbed one of her breasts and twisted it like he was trying to take it home with him, simultaneously pressing his pelvis against her. His belt buckle ground into her lower ribs.

“Peter, no!” She managed to blurt out before he trapped her mouth again. When he pushed the ugly orange dress up her thighs panic raced through her body like electricity. He groaned as he found bare skin underneath. His left hand fumbled with his belt buckle.

Sunni’s vision narrowed to a pinprick. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out, which would have been the worst thing that could happen, because she knew it would only help Peter. But she didn’t pass out, and in that moment a transformation occurred inside her body. When she opened her eyes, everything was incredibly bright, as if someone had turned on klieg lights. She could see microscopic dust balls on the white tile floor and streaks of window cleaner on the mirrors that had previously been invisible. Although she was moving normally, Peter seemed to be operating at a turtle’s pace as he tugged at his zipper.

Sunni had never taken a self-defense class in her life. She had never thought what she would do if someone tried to rape her. But somehow she knew instinctively how to react. She grabbed his neck with both hands and kneed him in the groin. As he doubled over in pain she punched upward into his Adam’s apple. A single, choked cry squeezed out of his throat before he hit the floor, where he balled up like a pill bug, gasping for air. Sunni took a deep breath and looked for the exit.

That was when she saw him. He had been standing by the door, watching her. She thought she detected a slight smile on his face before he turned away, his hand reaching for the doorknob. She had no idea how she got across the bathroom that fast, but before he turned the knob she had grabbed him and dragged him back into the bathroom.

“Not so fast, mister. You’ve got some explaining to do.” Sunni clutched the lapels of the man’s jacket, at first to keep him in place, but a moment later she was using him for support. The adrenaline washed out of her body, leaving her knees incapable of holding her upright. Her grip loosened and she started to sink to the floor. The man held her, pressing her tight against his chest. He smelled wonderful, like a pine forest after a snowfall. She had just begun to realize that close contact with him was unaccountably pleasurable when he propped her up against a sink and stepped briskly away.

“I see you are well, so I’ll be going …” He headed for the door.

“No!” Sunni shouted. The man paused.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“My name is Jacob Eddington.” He spoke in a formal, clipped tone, with a slight accent that was not quite British, like a Kennedy who’d gone to school at Eton.

“No, I mean who are you? Why have you been following me?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. His eyes, under fluorescent bathroom lights, were slate-colored, almost gray, and his skin was so pale it seemed transparent. “I believe you mistake me for someone else, madam.”

“The hell I do! You saved me from a mugger, two years ago in front of Glide Memorial Church.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so …”

“And what were you doing here?” She pointed an accusatory finger at his chest. “You came to save me, didn’t you?”

“As you see, I didn’t save you at all,” he said stiffly. “So there goes your theory. ”

She moved close again, inches from his face, studying it. He appeared deeply uncomfortable, as if looking at her caused him physical pain.

“I’ve seen you, over and over again, for years. Tell me why and I’ll let you go.”

The semblance of a smile tugged again at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll let me go?”

“That’s what I said.”

The smile disappeared. The man’s eyes began to glow with a cool silvery light. The iris expanded until it covered the orb. Was she hallucinating? Had Peter given her a concussion? She tried to move, but she was frozen, unable to break their gaze.

“You never saw me today. I was never here.” His voice was imperious, and so low in pitch she felt it in her solar plexus.

Suddenly it all seemed humorous, and the spell was broken.

“I see you.” She waved her fingers in his face.

He sighed with exasperation. Whatever he’d been trying had failed.

Sunni felt liquid dripping down her lip. She turned and looked in the mirror. Her lower lip was bleeding where it had collided with Peter’s teeth. She staunched it with her finger and then she turned back to the man.

But he was gone. In an instant he had disappeared completely. There was no sound of the door opening, no tapping of shoes on tile floors. It was as if he was never there. She raced into the hallway, colliding with a woman in a paisley dress dragging a small, weeping boy dressed in a suit.

“I’m not a lady!” the boy wailed. “I can’t go in there.”

Sunni grabbed the woman by the arm. “Did you see a man leave the ladies’ room just now?”

The woman eyed her with suspicion. “No, I didn’t see anyone except you.”

“Damn it,” Sunni said.

Still watching Sunni, the woman opened the door and pushed her son in ahead of her. Sunni heard the boy’s dress shoes clacking across the floor.

“Hey, Mommy,” the little boy called out, “there’s a man in here!”

The scent of blood was driving him mad.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in: a thick, salty, mineral tang filled the airplane, emanating from the hundreds of bodies surrounding him. It smelled like the ocean, heated to 98.6 degrees. It was the substance of life itself, the one thing he couldn’t have. It was the bitterest irony imaginable: He could have all the blood he wanted, but he could never make himself live again. Unless …

The compact laptop computer on his tray table displayed a photo from an article in ARTnews magazine. He turned his attention back to the attractive young woman in the photo, Sunni Marquette, standing in her eponymous San Francisco art gallery. He had enlarged the picture until Sunni’s distinctive emerald eyes and heart-shaped face had pixilated beyond recognition, but not before he assured himself that he was right. He had been looking for her for years. Now he just had to get to her before another vampire did.

He wondered if the Council knew about her, if she was protected. If so, that would make his job more difficult, although not impossible. He had killed vampires before. He smiled and fingered his impeccable tie and the collar of his hand-sewn, Egyptian cotton shirt. Yes, he had killed before, and would again. That was why he needed Sunni Marquette. The Council had numbers and he was alone in the world. Alone, and he was tired of it.

The blood smell insinuated itself into his consciousness again. This time he focused on one particular scent—the mousy, middle-aged woman in the seat next to him. He had already spoken with her, and he could feel her tender body thrumming with anticipation that he might turn to her again. She put down her glass, checked her watch, and then sighed very quietly.

“Does it really matter what time it is?” he murmured.

She winced, as if she’d been caught doing something naughty. He thought she’d probably never done anything naughty in her life, but there was a first time for everything. After all, she’d never met Richard Lazarus before.

“The concept of time is so odd when you’re in an airplane, isn’t it? My watch is on New York time, which is 2:00 A.M., and it’s 11:00 P.M. in San Francisco, but what time is it here?” She nodded as if responding to something he’d said. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. I don’t feel tired at all, you know.” She sipped her drink, and then shook the ice cubes sadly, looking for more liquor. “Are you tired, Richard?”

He shook his head.

She giggled. “I feel like I’ve told you all there is to know about me.”

Yes, he knew everything about Vera Grant: the eighty-hour a week job; the boss to whom she was practically married, except that he already had a wife; singing in the choir at Altamount Methodist; the condo she wished she could sell but owed more on the mortgage than the place was worth; and her two cats, Rusty and Clayton. She was a very talkative lady.

“And I know practically nothing about you! Just that you’re a widower, and you live in London. Oh, I’ve hogged the conversation.” Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she could put back the words that had already been spoken.

“Not at all, I have found our little talk fascinating.” Richard pressed the call button. The flight attendant arrived in less than twenty seconds.

“I love first-class,” Vera said.

“The lady needs another gimlet,” Richard said. He reached across Vera’s lap to pick up the glass.

“Oh, no, Richard, I’m sure I’ve had enough.” She put her hand on his. “I can’t even remember how many I’ve had.”

“The night is still young,” Richard said. “At least where we’re going it is.” In fact he wished she wouldn’t drink, but it would make things go so much more smoothly.

She giggled and nodded. “Okay, maybe a little one.”

“You, sir?” The flight attendant looked at Richard.

He shook his head. “Nothing for me.”

Vera frowned. “You haven’t had a single drink. You’re going to make me look like a lush.”

“I haven’t had a drink in a very long time,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy yourself. “ He allowed a hint of lasciviousness to slip into his smile, and he sensed Vera’s mouth going dry, heard her heart beat a little faster.

“I have enjoyed myself, very much,” she replied.

“And I have enjoyed you also,” Richard lifted a lock of Vera’s hair and coiled it around his finger. “You are such a lovely woman, Vera. You have the most beautiful hair. Black like a raven’s wing, so black it seems to have blue in it. I love this color. ”

He didn’t care for the stench that assaulted his delicate nose, but he had learned to endure it. Many women dyed their hair with petrochemicals these days.

The flight attendant returned with another drink. Vera sipped with evident enjoyment. She had never had a gimlet before. It had been Richard’s suggestion.

“You know, Vera, I can think of a way we could enjoy each other’s company even more.” He gently, tentatively, touched her thigh.

Vera’s hand shook. She placed the drink on her tray table just before it sloshed onto the floor. “Oh, Richard, I don’t know.”

He lifted his hand. “I have offended you. Please accept my apology. ”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Her short fingers inched up his leg like five caterpillars until she found his hand. “It’s just, well, it sounds trite, but I’ve never been that kind of a girl. We just met.”

“You are right, we just met.” His other hand slid along the arm of her silk blouse, stopping at her collar. He reached underneath her pearl necklace and stroked her throat. He could feel her heart, now pounding wildly.

“But there is a connection between us, Vera, I felt it as soon as I sat down. Didn’t you feel it?”

“Yes, I did.” Her gaze flicked away, but quickly returned. The hope in her eyes was almost comical. “I’m going to be in San Francisco for four days. Maybe we could have dinner, or something. ”

“Maybe. But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

He caressed her cheek, feeling how the skin was thinning near her eyes. So delicate, these humans, so temporal. Vera grabbed his hand and pressed it into her lap. He could feel her heartbeat in the veins in her thighs.

“Shall we go somewhere?” she said in a husky voice.

“No need,” he whispered. He turned off the overhead lights, plunging their seats into darkness, and then he spread a blanket over her lap. “Now, take off your stockings.”

Vera giggled again. “I just love your English accent. It’s like a BBC newscaster is talking dirty to me.” She did as he commanded, pulling up her skirt and rolling her stockings down her legs.

“I’m so glad you’re wearing a skirt,” Richard said as his fingers slid through her hair and lightly scratched her scalp. “I hate it when women wear pants. A woman should be a woman, as you are, Vera. ”

Vera reached up with both hands and cupped Richard’s cheeks, her lips puckered for a kiss. But then she drew back.

“Your skin … It’s so cold.”

“I’m sorry, I should have warned you. I have a condition—my blood does not circulate well. It makes me cold in my extremities. Is this a turn-off, as the Americans say?”

“No, not at all.”

He parted her lips and kissed her deeply in the French fashion. It was not his favorite part of the interaction, but he had learned long ago that humans expected it, and he liked to think that he left them happy.

“I’m going to kiss you down there. Would you like that?” Richard asked.

She didn’t say anything, but he could feel her answer in her heartbeat, in the rapid rise of her temperature. He neatly folded himself into the generous foot space that the airline provided for its first-class customers and disappeared under the blanket. He gently spread her legs. Her hips rose up to meet him.

Richard knew when Vera had moved into that other place; he could feel it in the blood coursing through the veins in her silky thighs. He could hear it in her thoughts, or lack thereof. If someone spoke to her now she would not respond, could not respond.

With the exquisite sensation of anticipation that an erection brings, he felt his fangs extend. He licked them with his soft tongue, probed thei. . .