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I peered up at the huge windows, inconveniently hung with white sheer curtains, so I couldn’t see inside. A man who lived in the middle of nowhere … who didn’t want anyone looking in his windows. That wasn’t a red flag or anything.
“You can do this, Miranda,” I murmured. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. This is just another adventure, uncharted territory … the kind with abandoned country roads … and a creepy guy who needs curtains to hide his activities from his nonexistent neighbors. And that’s definitely new.”
Angry alt rock blared through the pitter-pattering against my windshield. My eyes flicked toward my cell phone and spotted an unwelcome number on the caller ID. I sighed and pressed “ignore,” then silenced the ringer. It wouldn’t do for Mr. Sutherland to know that my on-again, off-again fiancé’s ringtone was Henry Rollins singing, “I’m a liar!”
I had my reasons.
I took a deep breath before hopping out of the car and dashing to the front door. The rain picked up the moment I was out, the wind sweeping in from both sides, pelting my back with sheets of water. In just a few steps, I was soaked, my feet squishing and squeaking inside my low-heeled black boots.
Of course.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. Blue eyes. Ice-blue, with only the tiniest hint of darker sapphire around the pupils. And those peepers were not happy. Yelping, I jumped back and would have fallen on my ass in the mud had not a pale hand shot out to grasp my wrist and yank me inside.
The moment I was through the door, he dropped my wrist as if the contact burned. I pulled my hand back, cradling it to my body and shrinking against the door.
Vampires were generally more attractive than the human population. Whatever they were in life, they ended up just a little bit sexier, with a dash of that “dangerous to know” appeal. Well, Mr. Sutherland had obviously started off with a pretty high bar. His ridiculously shiny coffee-colored hair was tousled in that intentionally messy-sexy way that begged for fingers to comb through it. The dark hair accentuated pale skin and aristocratic features, a high forehead, a straight nose, cheekbones so high that they left sharp hollows on either side of his face, and a generous mouth posed in a permanent sneer.
Given our surroundings, I’d foreseen a vampire Grizzly Adams opening the door. But my new client had been turned sometime in his late thirties. He wore a dapper, almost Victorian, gray three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt, no tie. Frankly, I expected him to whip out a Phantom of the Opera cape any moment.
“Mr. Sutherland?” I squeaked. “Are you Collin Sutherland?”
“Late,” he growled.
Mr. Sutherland loomed over me, the scent of amber and bitter orange making my mouth water. The oceanic eyes narrowed as he scanned me from head to toe. His grimace twisted in an expression of disdain. I glanced down and wondered what was wrong. I was wearing what my boss, Iris, assured me was perfectly acceptable driving attire, dark jeans and a white button-up blouse … which was currently transparent, thanks to the rain.
He yanked me out of contemplations of long fingers and dusky, sneering lips by growling again. “Feet.”
I cleared my throat, because the mouselike voice emitting from my mouth was plain embarrassing. “Beg pardon?”
“Feet!” he hissed.
Would we be communicating in one-word sentences for the next four nights?
I looked down to see small puddles forming around my boots, right on his beautifully polished floor. I sidestepped onto an area rug, but Mr. Sutherland couldn’t have glared more fiercely if I’d piddled on his exquisite hardwood.
We were not off to a good start.
Iris had warned me that Mr. Sutherland was a “delicate case,” but she hadn’t elaborated on what that meant beyond his apparently crippling phobia of airplanes and the fact that he hadn’t left his house in “a long, long time.” Could a chronic case of male PMS be considered “delicate”?
“I am really sorry for the day’s delay, Mr. Sutherland,” I said, my voice uncomfortably tinny. “It couldn’t be avoided. There was this chicken. I think he knew his end was at hand, and I guess he didn’t want to be chicken nuggets—”
Mr. Sutherland pivoted on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. My lips clamped shut, and I frowned.
I was used to far more pleasant interactions with vampires. I’d worked as a waitress at a vampire bar called Bite for six months. The nonbreathing clients were a lot friendlier than those with pulses, and they left better tips. And in the days after I’d accepted the assignment, Iris, an old high-school classmate, had had me do a series of test runs, ferrying local vampires across town like an undead taxi. I used the first two-hour leg of this journey cross-country to drive her friend Jane from Half-Moon Hollow to Nashville for a booksellers convention. Jane had been downright sweet, keeping me entertained on the brief drive through Tennessee with her absurd life story. None of these experiences had prepared me for Mr. Sutherland’s hostile, monosyllabic reception.
In his absence, I saw that the house was comfortable and quaint. The open floor plan gave visual access to nearly everything, including the spectacular view afforded by the back windows. Rough-hewn polished pine stairs led to a bedroom loft. Comfy-looking leather chairs the color of melting caramel flanked a river-stone fireplace. Bookshelves stocked with leather-bound editions stretched floor to ceiling on the opposite wall. There was no stuffy furniture, no useless dust catchers beyond a red and gold military insignia framed and displayed on the mantel. A lion devouring a snake.
A thump from above snapped me out of my decor ogling. I focused on the little pile of luggage near the foot of the stairs, and I slung a dark leather designer overnight bag onto my shoulder. When I bent to pick up a sleek silver suitcase, there was a blur of motion, the force of which swept my wet hair over my eyes. I lurched to my feet, pulling the damp strands out of my face, just in time to find Mr. Sutherland snatching the case out of my hands.
“You do not touch this case,” he said sternly, shoving a pristine white towel into my hands. He swept across the room to blot my puddle from the floor with a clean cloth. “I am responsible for transporting this case to Ophelia Lambert at midnight four nights from now—a deadline that your tardiness has put in jeopardy, I might add. Therefore, only I touch the case.”
“But—”
“Only I touch the case,” he said.
I was starting to suspect that he had unnatural feelings for that case.
I raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to be handcuffing it to your arm?”
