Page 3 of Her Vampire, His Ruin

“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand as I choke back another giggle.

“Do you find me amusing?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“Not you, no. This situation? Yes, absolutely.”

He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing really to understand. I appreciate your kind words and your… interest, but I’m not looking to sleep with anyone. Frankly, my favourite fruit is all I need.”

“Your favourite fruit?”

I let out another laugh, lean over the bar and grab the half-empty bottle of champagne. Clearly, he’s never met a woman who prefers her clit stimulator to an actual cock, or at least not a woman who would admit that.

“Never mind. Please charge this to my room. I’m going to go and sit over there,” I say, pointing to the corner of the bar that looks invitingly private, “So I can finish this off…” I pause, my gaze drifting to his lapel where his name badge is pinned, “Dominic.”

“And your name is?” he calls after me as I slip from the stool and wander over to the far corner of the room.

“None of your business,” I reply, smothering another laugh.

Filling up my glass, I place the bottle onto the low table in front of me and settle back into my seat. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol that makes me feel suddenly exhausted, or the emotional drain of signing the Decree Absolute after months of negotiations, but either way, I lean my head back against the velvet banquette seat and close my eyes.

“Excuse me, you left your shoes at the bar,” a deep, male voice says only moments later.

There’s something about the timbre of this man’s voice that makes my body tingle with awareness. Thankfully, common sense reminds me that the sound of Robert’s voice had once made me feel that way too, and look where it got me.

Sighing, I roll my head towards my intruder and reluctantly open my eyes. My gaze immediately falls to my heels gripped in a hand tattooed with thorny vines, offset by a diamond-encrusted cuff-link sparkling against a black shirt.

“I bet those cost a pretty penny,” I mutter, before slowly lifting my gaze up, up, up, because damn, this man is tall. Tall, and likely to be at least ten years younger than me, given his wrinkle-free skin and non-greying hair.

Dressed all in black, this man’s suit screams tailor-made on Savile Row, and another vine tattoo with lethal thorns that curl around his neck screams danger. And don’t get me started on the sharp cut of his jaw, lightly dusted with stubble, or his dark brown hair slicked back with gel like he’s just stepped out of an episode of Peaky Blinders. I can’t quite make out the colour of his eyes, given the extra low lighting in this corner of the bar, but I’ve no doubt they’re as beautiful as the two deep dimples gracing his cheeks.

Whoever this man is, he has the presence of someone who not only knows they’re good-looking, but dangerous, too. I’m not sure if that’s dangerous in a criminal way, or a break-your-heart-after-giving-you-an-earth-shattering-orgasm way.

Nevertheless, despite the disturbing uptick of my heart rate, I’m not interested.

“May I join you?” he asks.

“Don’t tell me you’re my Prince Charming and I’m your Cinderella, because I can assure you, whilst those are my shoes,” I say, pointing at the offending items, “My feet are so swollen from wearing them all day that no amount of shoving them back in will make them fit. I’m not who you need me to be, so you may as well just drop them on the floor and be on your way.”

“The name’s Dorian Crow. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he replies, taking a seat opposite me, a low coffee table between us. He undoes his jacket, revealing a leather harness wrapped around his wide chest. An interesting choice of accessory that admittedly has my interest piqued. Though, of course, I don’t let it show.

“And I’m not interested,” I say, sitting up straighter and eying my shoes perched on the seat beside him.

“Not interested in what, exactly?” he asks, a slow smile tracking up his face.

He has an impressive chest, broad and clearly muscular, given how his shirt clings to his pecs. And his arms? Damn, they’re strong and bulging. They’re the kind of arms a woman could get lost in, a woman who hasn’t sworn off men for the rest of her life, that is.

“In whatever it is you’re trying to achieve here,” I reply curtly, taking a sip of my champagne that’s still clutched in my hand, a little tighter now that I have company.

“I was just trying to give you your shoes back.”

“Oh, please, let's just cut the bullshit,” I snap, and his eyebrows raise a fraction of an inch at that. “You’re coming on to me, but as I said to the barman, I’ve just got divorced. A man is the last thing I want, or need.”

“Because you have your favourite fruit?” he asks, and now his smirk turns into a full wattage smile. A smile, I’m sure, would melt the knickers off any one of the women sitting in this bar staring at him like he’s God’s gift or perhaps the Devil’s henchman.

“Exactly,” I reply, not caring that he’d overheard my conversation with the barman.

I move to stand, but he rises with me, snatching up my shoes and moving his rather bulky frame around the coffee table until he’s standing in front of me.