Page 14 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

He’s sitting in a room painted a deep Merlot that matches the glass of wine resting on his walnut desk. Muted lighting highlights the sharp cut of his jaw and the slant of his cheekbones, making him appear not only beautiful, but deadly too.

“Hello, Edie,” he says.

My eyes snap back to Dorian, to his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more vine tattoos that are so realistic they look as though the thorns have punctured his skin. The screen flickers a little, and I find myself dragging in a shaky breath.

“Is this pre-recorded?” I whisper.

“No, this is an elaborate sext message,” Henrietta hisses, utterly delighted as her eyes widen and she claps her hands again like an overexcited six-year-old.

“Sexting would imply a sexual conversation via text messages. I like a more personal approach. I’m Dorian, by the way, and you are?”

We both gasp. This is absolutely not a recording.

Oh, hell no. This is not happening.

I shift myself out of the line of sight of the camera, and shake my head at Henrietta. “Turn it off,” I mouth.

“No,” Henrietta mouths back, poking me in the thigh under the table.

“Henrietta,” I whisper-hiss, but she completely ignores me, focusing on Dorian instead.

“Hello Dorian, my name’s Henrietta, but you can call me Hettie. I’m Edie’s best friend,” she says, a little too breathlessly for my liking.

Hettie? I glare at her and she throws me a helpless look, then leans further to her right, so she’s briefly out of shot of the camera and can safely mouth, “He’s delicious.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Dorian says, his gaze slipping to hers. He leans forward in his seat, giving her his full attention before saying, “I was hoping to speak with Edie alone. Would you give us a moment?”

“Of course, absolutely,” Henrietta replies, pushing to her feet like she can’t get away quickly enough.

“Absolutely not,” I snap, suddenly aware that I am sitting in my very messy kitchen that still has boxes of my things stacked against the wall because I haven’t put them away yet, even though I moved into my new house over six months ago. Not to mention the fact that my hair is dragged up onto the top of my head in a messy bun, and I’m wearing a Take That band tee that’s covered in pepperoni pizza stains.

“Edie, I just want five minutes of your time,” Dorian says in a way that has my heart thumping recklessly, and Henrietta backing out of the kitchen with a look on her face that’s caught between absolute delight and complete horror as she realises the same thing as me in that moment. I am not dressed appropriately for this.

“Talk to him,” she encourages, before stepping into the sitting room and sliding the partitioning door shut.

“This is not happening,” I mumble under my breath as I reach for the laptop, my fingers curling around the lid, ready to slam it shut.

Dorian shifts forward in his seat. “Wait!”

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t end this conversation right now,” I say.

After Henrietta entered the code, I’d expected to see something about his nightclub, maybe even an invitation to an event. I had not expected a direct line to Dorian himself. I’ve been caught off guard, and I don’t like it. Plus, I’m tired and cranky, and really just want to go to bed.

“Because I’ve not stopped thinking about you. Please, don’t go,” Dorian says, the commanding cadence of his voice making way for, dare I say it, an edge of desperation.

“What?” I reply, my hand dropping as I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I’m not used to this kind of attention, and I’m not sure I trust it either. In fact, I don’t. Not at all. Doesn’t stop me from waiting for his response, though. I guess sleep can wait.

“You heard what I said, Edie. I’m not going to repeat myself,” he replies, clearing his throat as though he is as surprised by his admission as I am.

“If you wanted to talk to me, you could have just given me your number, and not this,” I say, picking up the small card and waving it in the air. “Whatever this is.”

“Which is exactly why I left you my calling card.”

“Calling card? That’s a very old-fashioned phrase,” I say.

“I’m an old-fashioned kind of man,” he replies, taking a sip of his wine that seems to darken his lips a deep mulberry before he licks them clean.

For a moment, I’m mesmerised by the slow, sensual sweep of his tongue across his lips, and I can feel heat rising up my chest at the memory of that same tongue plundering my mouth a week ago. I really don’t need to be reminded of how his kiss unlocked something within me. Something vital, something passionate and all-consuming. Something I haven’t felt in a very, very long time.