Must Love Vampires by Heidi Betts Page B

he heard the slight inhalation of her surprised breath when she noticed him standing there . . . because his arms fell to his sides and he turned in her direction.
    The oxygen she’d sucked into her lungs just a moment before got stuck there at the sharp lines of his features and the intensity in his silver-gray eyes. She honestly couldn’t tell if he was angry, or if the stony expression was normal for him, but she was pretty sure she would never want to cross him, just in case.
    His lashes fluttered slightly as he closed his eyes for the briefest second before opening them again and fixing her with a steady, determined gaze.
    “What makes you think I’m a vampire?” he asked in a low, graveled voice. Without warning, without preamble.
    Chuck gasped, more shocked than if he’d thrown a bucket of ice water over her head. How did he know she thought that? How had he found out?
    Was that why she was here, in his apartment? Had he somehow discovered she was following him and dragged her up here to torture her for information, to find out how much she knew, and then either drain her dry before killing her outright or turn her into one of the walking undead?
    In her best imitation of a crab, she scurried backwards on the mattress until she hit pillows and the immovable bulk of the bed’s headboard. As though moving ten inches farther away and curling herself into a ball was going to keep Nosferatu from eating her for dinner.
    “I . . .” The single short word came out as little more than a squeak. She paused to clear her throat, then tried again. “I . . .” Breathy this time, with only a hint of squeakiness at the end. “Don’t . . . know . . .” Her mouth went dry and she could barely force out the rest. “Wh-what you’re . . . talking about.”
    He raised a brow—an evil, menacing brow?—and she shivered.
    “Yes, you do.” He stated it matter-of-factly, but remained exactly where he was. No going all Bela Lugosi on her or swooping in like a vampire ( snork ) bat, fangs bared. “You talk in your sleep.”
    Okay, she totally didn’t think that was true. Of course, since she’d been sleeping alone much longer than she cared to admit, she couldn’t exactly call any witnesses to the contrary.
    But while they were on the subject, how the heck had she gotten to sleep in the first place? She didn’t remember lying down, feeling drowsy, deciding to take a nice, restoring nap in a complete stranger’s—not to mention her unsuspecting (or maybe very suspecting, given the circumstances she currently found herself in) quarry’s—penthouse.
    Much like when she’d first woken up in the living room earlier—and how much earlier, she had no clue—her memory was horribly sketchy. Unless it was some strange dream, she thought she remembered standing in the doorway of his closet, then having him come up behind her, scaring her half to death. There had been some screaming, and his hand over her mouth . . . and then a small confrontation in the kitchen over all of the opened, half-drunk bottles of wine she’d left there.
    Maybe. And nothing after that.
    It was completely bizarre for her to suddenly be having these horrible gaps in her memory. Now she knew how Swiss cheese felt.
    A sudden thought popped into her head, making her gasp in alarm. And not because she was about to be nibbled on by some demon of lore, either.
    Oh, God! This was how brain tumors were diagnosed. Loss of memory. Gaps of missing time. Blackouts followed by awakenings in odd places without viable explanation. She didn’t smell toast, but that symptom could be next.
    “If you were a vampire,” she suddenly blurted, “and someone was dying of an incurable disease, could you change them?”
    It was his turn to be caught off guard, she guessed, judging by the lift of one dark brow.
    Folding his arms across his broad chest, he rolled back on his heels, studying her. “Why do you ask?”
    She struggled not to choke on her own emotions, not to let