::

C h a p t e r   3

“So, how was your date?”

I raised my head to look at Amy Smith, my best friend of the past four years and personal amateur cupid, and attempted to lift an eyebrow at her, which, I hoped, said: get the hell away from my desk.

I had a headache that would quite possibly kill me in a matter of minutes. But a little death headache was no reason to use up a precious sick day from my job at Saunders-Matheson, “Toronto’s foremost marketing and promotions agency”—at least according to our website. I usually reserved my sick days for when I felt really good.

I was the executive assistant to the “Saunders” part of the company name. Amy was assistant to “Matheson,” and was the reason I had the job in the first place. She’d put in a good word for me when the previous assistant had a nervous breakdown three years before.

“Wow,” Amy said. “You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I guess it was a good date, then? Not much sleep to be had, you little vixen, you?” She giggled.

If I’d been feeling one-hundred-percent myself, I probably would have stood up, wrapped my hands around Amy’s creamy white throat and throttled her within an inch of her dumb blonde life. As it was, I just tried to look like a woman on the edge of sanity. It wasn’t difficult.

“You have to be kidding me. That guy was a total loser.”

“No way.” She shook her head. “He drove a Porsche. A red one.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I think we’ve been wrong all these years about that. Cars do not make the man. He was a loser who got me drunk on double margaritas and then abandoned me in the middle of nowhere.”

Amy frowned, an expression I rarely saw on her hyper-positive face. “He abandoned you? What a jerk. Okay, forget him. I have another guy who’d be perfect for you.”

“Hold on there, matchmaker. Where are you digging these guys up from, anyhow? Besides, you’re single too. I think it says something that you don’t want to keep any of these catches for yourself.”

Amy gave me a look that could only be summed up as duh.

“Because, Sarah, they’re perfect for you. Not for me.”

“Jerks are perfect for me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No. I really don’t.”

Amy was the most positive-about-true-love-girl in all of Toronto and there was nothing I could say to convince her otherwise. She went out with at least ten different guys a month looking for “the one.” She was certain her perfect soulmate existed out there somewhere, and by God, she was going to find him. Me—I used to be the same way, but now I was a little more realistic about romance. Lately, my perfect soulmate was my Visa card. We regularly had lots of fun together at the Eaton Centre.

I hadn’t had a steady boyfriend since before I started working at Saunders-Matheson. Before that I’d been dating a cute out-of-work actor. Which worked out perfectly since I was also a cute out-of-work aspiring actress. The perfect boyfriend—even though he was a bit of a mooch—until he got a part on a soap opera in Los Angeles. I came home one day to receive a quick dumping via answering machine. Throwing the answering machine out of my window on the tenth floor did nothing to change the situation.

“So—” Amy continued, holding out her hand to inspect her new set of pink acrylic nails. “If it was such an early night, then why do you look like that?”

Despite the fact that any sleep I did get was filled with this crazy dream where I was a vampire, I didn’t feel like I looked that bad. Come to think of it, I didn’t remember even glancing in a mirror all morning. I’d woken up so late I barely had a chance to get dressed and out of the door into the ridiculously bright sunshine.

That’s because vampires don’t have reflections.

I frowned deeply at the thought. I wasn’t a vampire. It was a dream, dammit!

“Do you have a compact on you?” I asked.

Amy plunged a hand into the pocket of her pink jacket and produced a Cover Girl pressed powder. “Here.”

I opened it up and tentatively peered at the tiny mirror. For a very long time.

She was right. I did look like crap, with dark circles under my eyes and everything. But, the fact that there was a reflection, however crappy, eased my paranoid mind. It was just a dream after all. Officially.

“Oh no. Bitch from hell just arrived.” Amy snatched the compact away from me and, without another word, scurried back to her desk on the far side of the cubicle-filled room and disappeared behind her computer.

My boss had been at her Friday morning breakfast meeting with whatever client was most important that week. Anne Saunders. But you can call her Ms. Saunders. Not Miss, not Mrs.

Ms.

She eyed me as she exited the elevator and passed my desk, but said nothing, not even a curt good morning. I could tell she was on the “Sarah looks like crap today” train. I wasn’t one to normally let her lack of people skills get to me.

Doing Ms. Saunders’ odd jobs, sending her emails, picking up her dry cleaning...it would have to do until I figured out what I was supposed to be doing with the rest of my life. Or won the lottery. And that was going to happen any day now.

At least I had my fabulous trip to Mexico to look forward to. It would be the first time I’d ever been out of Canada in all my twenty-eight years of life. Unless you counted shopping over the border in Buffalo. My passport photo made me look a bit like my Aunt Mildred, but I couldn’t complain. Pina Coladas and a nice dark tan coming my way ASAP.

Dark tan.

For some reason the phrase Midnight Eclipse popped into my head. Oh right, the tanning salon business card Thierry gave to me in my dream.

Vampires and tanning salons? I shook my head at the thought. Sure, that made loads of sense.

I headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee and realized I hadn’t even had my morning caffeine fix yet. Weird. It was usually the first thing I thought about when I got to work. I must have been more out of it than I thought.

Then I went back to work. Well, back to my current game of Solitaire, anyhow.

A couple minutes later my phone buzzed.

“Sarah, I’d like to see you in my office. Stat.” Ms. Saunders’ words were brisk. Then she hung up.

Stat? What is this—ER?

I quit my game of Solitaire, pushed back from my desk, and made my way through the maze of cubicles which contained everyone from graphic designers to copywriters to administration schmoes like me. I opened the door to my boss’s fancy, glassed-in office and peered inside, squinting as the light from her windows glared angrily in my eyes.

She looked up from her phone call and beckoned me inside with a curl of her finger. I entered the impossibly bright office and stood there feeling uncomfortable and hung over.

After a moment, she slammed the phone down with a: “Get it done or don’t do it at all!” Yup, she was a real charmer.

She looked at me. “Sarah, please have a seat.”

Her voice was immediately calm and controlled. I’d seen her make this transition before. One moment yelling at an employee, the next being sweet-as-pie to a walk-in client. She met my gaze directly, without blinking, a habit of hers that was unnerving to say the least. Those not able to compete in these staring contests rarely lasted long in her company. I was usually a champ, but my headache from hell was making things a little more difficult than normal. I looked away and rubbed my temples.

“Something wrong, dear?” she asked, smiling a perfect—almost too perfect—smile of expensive porcelain veneers.

“No.” I sat down in the chair across from her desk. “Late night.”

“You mustn’t miss out on your beauty sleep. A woman’s looks are one of her greatest assets in the business world, you know.”

My smile held, but I did glance at her desk calendar to make sure we hadn’t just time-traveled back fifty years.

She shuffled through a stack of mail and some papers on her desk. “Sarah, I know I’ve been unforgivably late with your review this year.”

Oh crap. That’s what this was about? I was going to have an impromptu job review with zero time to prepare? Just super.

She noted my look of dismay. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it as pain-free as possible for you. I think you’re doing a stellar job. Normally you also look top notch. I’ll overlook today since it’s the only time I remember seeing you look less than—” she eyed my outfit “—pulled together.”

I’d procrastinated on my laundry a few extra days this week, and because I’d woken up so late I absently reached down to smooth out the navy blue skirt I’d found balled up in the corner of my bedroom. Hey, it smelled clean enough.

“My recommendation is to keep up the good work. I’m changing your title to Senior Executive Assistant, and giving you a three-percent raise effective next payday. Congratulations.”

Wow, three percent. I could move up that early retirement plan to age seventy-five now, instead of eighty. Lucky me.

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s very generous.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Ms. Saunders nodded and grabbed a gold-plated letter opener to begin attacking her stack of mail.

I turned to leave. Didn’t want to outstay my welcome.

“Damn it!” she exclaimed, and I turned back around. She winced and nodded at the letter opener that she’d dropped to her desk top. “Damn thing slipped. I’m probably going to need stitches now. Can you be a dear and fetch the first aid kit for me?”

She held her left index finger and frowned at the steady flow of blood oozing out. A few small drops of red splashed onto the other letters spread out on the desk.

I felt woozy. And suddenly dizzy.

I blinked.

When I opened my eyes I was no longer standing by the door about to leave. I was crouched down next to Ms. Saunders’ imported black leather chair, grasping her wrist tightly...

...and sucking noisily on her fingertip.

I shrieked and let go of her, staggering backwards. I grabbed at her desk to keep from falling, but dropped on my butt anyhow, taking most of the contents of the top of her desk with me.

She held her injured finger far away from her and stared at me, wide-eyed, with a mixture of shock and disgust.

I scrambled to my feet and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

What in the holy hell just happened?

“I...I...uh...I’m so sorry,” I managed. “I don’t know what...I wouldn’t normally do something...I just...”

Ms. Saunders pulled her hand close to her chest, perhaps to protect it from further abuse.

“Get out,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, I’ll get back to work. Again, I’m so, so sorry. Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?”

“No, not to your desk,” she said evenly, but her volume increased with every word. “Get out of here, you freak. I don’t care what you’ve heard, I’m not into women. You’re fired. Now get out of here before I call security.”

“But...my job review—”

“GET OUT!” she yelled.

I took a step towards her, wanting to try to rationalize what just happened, but she rolled backwards in her chair as if she was afraid of me. I held up my hands.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I just want to explain.”

She grabbed her phone without taking her eyes off me and hit a number. “Security, this is the fifth floor...”

That was all I needed to hear. I ran out of her office and back through the maze of cubicles. What just happened? What would possess me to do something so disgusting? And was there really a rumor that Ms. Saunders liked chicks? Because that would explain a lot.

But there wasn’t any time to think about what just happened. I was relying on pure instinct to see me through this. And my instinct was telling me that I’d better get the hell out of there as fast as possible if I didn’t want to be unceremoniously escorted out of the building by two security guards.

Back at my desk, I grabbed my pink-haired troll doll that was suction-cupped to the top of my computer. Then I opened my top drawer to retrieve the little box of Godiva truffles I kept there for my daily three o’clock chocolate fix. Was I forgetting anything else?

Oh my God. I’d just been fired.

No, couldn’t think about that now. Later. Deal with it later. I nodded to myself and grabbed my bag. It was still soggy from last night.

Soggy from my plunge off the top of a bridge with Thierry de Bennicoeur, the suicidal-yet-sexy vampire. Could that have happened for real? No. I must have been so drunk that I’d taken a shower, fully clothed and accessorized. But margaritas could be held responsible for so much?

I heard a “ding” and the elevator doors opened up. Security got out and I saw Ms. Saunders walking towards them, holding her injured hand and gesturing wildly in my direction. I couldn’t hear what she was telling them and I didn’t really want to know. The last thing I needed was all my co-workers finding out I was getting physically booted from the company for sucking on my boss’s finger. The word embarrassing didn’t even begin to cover it.

I made a beeline for the stairs which took me past Amy’s desk. She was typing steadily and looked up at me with surprise as I whizzed by. I held my thumb and pinky finger to my ear, making the universal sign for “call me,” then disappeared through the door leading to the stairwell.

I took the stairs all the way down to the parking garage. Out through a set of doors to my right and I was into downtown Toronto’s PATH system—the huge maze of tunnels under the business district. I’d always loved the PATH because it helped me avoid nasty winter weather while wearing expensive footwear. Slush and heels did not combine for good results.

Actually, calling them tunnels wasn’t all that accurate. They were more like the narrow halls of a shopping mall. Lined with restaurants and stores, joining together the tall, downtown buildings. Tiled floors led in all directions. Signs above and on the walls pointed towards Adelaide or King Street or Bay. The regular users never needed to look up at the signs, just forward, their lips pressed against their foamy cappuccinos, or their noses tucked into the daily Globe and Mail, as they traveled by foot through the commuting crowds. The tourists walked around as if they’d just entered a surreal, underground world. They were the ones who usually got in my way.

I made a quick right, pushed through large glass doors, and then got on the subway. Eyes straight forward, unblinking, my staring contest now only with the grey stations that whipped past the window.

I got off at my regular stop and walked methodically to my apartment building. Rode up in the elevator to the tenth floor. Slid my key into the lock, then went inside and automatically locked the door behind me.

I could still taste the blood from Ms. Saunders’ cut on my tongue. It tasted pretty damn good.

My knees buckled underand I dropped to the floor, just past the front door and next to the fridge. The daze I’d been in slowly lifted, leaving behind it the bizarre truth I’d been trying all day to deny.

It hadn’t been a dream

I was a vampire.

Now what the hell was I supposed to do?

Want to read more?
Click here to order your copy of Bitten & Smitten!

top

Bitten & Smitten
Warner Forever
ISBN: 0446617008