“Wife,” Thierry corrected. “Sarah and I were married a month ago in Las Vegas.”
The look of utter shock that slid behind her eyes at this announcement almost made me laugh.
Almost.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t despise Veronique at all. We’d met before, back when Thierry was still married to her, if estranged. She was not only his ex-wife, but had also been the one to turn him into a vampire in the first place. They’d met during the Black Death plague in Europe six and a half centuries ago and been together on and off ever since.
Well, until he met me.
I still didn’t think Veronique had gotten over her shock that her ex-husband’s little “fling” had turned into something way more than either of us could have anticipated. Not that she cared either way. If there had been any real love in their marriage, it had died around the same time as Shakespeare. Or, you know, somebody really old.
“Well,” she said, clearly flustered by this announcement. “Congratulations to both of you. How wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Thierry said. He slid his arm around my waist. “We’re very happy.”
“Happy?” She raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. “I had no idea you were capable of that particular emotion, Thierry.”
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t.”
“Veronique,” I interjected before the tension got any thicker. “Wow, it’s great to see you again. And it hasn’t been that long. Only a few months.”
“Long enough for major life-altering events to occur. Goodness, my dear. Married! To my husband—”
“Ex-husband,” I reminded her. “No sister wives need apply.”
“Quite.” Her red-glossed lips curved. “You’re still as amusing as always.”
“I do my best.”
“Jacob, please join us,” she called to a man in an expensive dark blue suit. “I’d like you to meet a couple dear friends of mine.”
The man approached, grinning broadly. “Veronique, my sweet, any friends of yours are certainly friends of mine.”
“This is Sarah Dearly and my former husband, Thierry de Bennicoeur. Sarah and Thierry, this is Jacob Johansson, my beau.”
Her beau? How cute.
“Charmed, charmed.” Jacob clasped both of our hands in turn. “Are you looking forward to the auction?”
“I am,” Thierry said. “Although I’m not sure who invited me.”
“The invitation came to Veronique.”
“And I have no idea who it might be, either,” she said. “Not that it really matters. We’re here and it is set to be a lovely evening.”
Debatable. Definitely debatable.
“Show them the book,” Jacob suggested gleefully.
“Oh, darling, I don’t want to brag.”
“You have every reason to brag, my sweet. It’s incredible. You’re incredible and everyone should know it.”
I exchanged a wry look with Thierry. He looked desperately uncomfortable in the midst of this cocktail party from hell, especially faced with this woman.
While I couldn’t help but envy Veronique’s seemingly effortless perfection, I had no real worries about Thierry’s ever returning to her. He might have a lot of secrets he’d prefer I didn’t know, but a lingering desire for his ex-wife was not one of them.
“What book?” I asked.
“Veronique’s novel,” Jacob said. “It came out yesterday, and with the preorders and Internet buzz, I have every confidence that it will make a very strong showing on the Times list next week.”
“You wrote a novel?” Thierry sounded deeply surprised. “I didn’t even know you read novels.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me, Thierry. Perhaps this is only one of them.” Veronique elegantly shrugged a bare shoulder. “What can I say? I was inspired to tell a fictional story. It came out of me in a rush of creative magic, if you will. And before I knew it I had a book. All I needed then was a publisher.”
“And that’s where I came in,” Jacob said proudly. “Little did I know when I met her three months ago that this beautiful woman had penned a page-turner that I had to get on the shelves in record time. And we succeeded, didn’t we, my sweet?”
“We certainly did.” Veronique fished into her purse and drew out a slim hardcover novel, which she handed to me.
I stared at the title. “The Erotic Memoirs of a Vampire Vixen?”
“Yes.”
“Catchy, isn’t it?” Jacob grinned. “I was going to rename it Fifty Shades of Slay, but why chase the market? This stands fully on its own. Brilliant from cover to cover. And hot like you’ve never read before. My fingers are still singed from it! Whew!”
“And this is a novel, you said?” Thierry took the book from me to glance warily at the back cover.
Jacob laughed. “Well, it’s not a real memoir. After all, there are no such things as vampires.”
Veronique hooked her arm through his. “Of course there aren’t.”
He was adorably clueless, wasn’t he?
I reached for the book again, only to find that Thierry was not letting it go without a small fight. Finally I yanked it out of his grip and glanced at the back cover description. This “novel” was about a seven-centuries-old vampiress and her sexual adventures, including those with her equally ancient husband, a dour but passionate and sexy man.
“Does this actually say ‘tall, dark and fangsome’?” I asked. “Like, seriously?”
“You can have that copy,” Veronique said. “With my compliments, my dear. I’ll sign it for you later. Happy reading.”
“Thanks,” I managed, then desperately scanned the room for the maid. “I need some ice for my drink. Very, very badly. If you’ll excuse me.”
Thierry didn’t try to stop me as I slipped away from them, tucked the book under my arm, and pursued the tray-carrying maid as if my life depended on it.
I needed to cool down. Literally. That woman . . . She drove me seriously batty.
The Erotic Memoirs of a Vampire Vixen. Ugh.
“Excuse me!” I called after the maid, but she slipped through another door. Following her, I found myself in a huge, stainless-steel sea of a kitchen.
At least I was away from the party. I pressed my back against the wall and stared at the cover of the book again.
“Let it go, Sarah,” I whispered. “This does not bother you one bit.”
I knew one thing for sure. I was never going to read this book. Like, ever.
Since I’d come in to get ice, I might as well follow through with that plan. I moved toward a large refrigerator and opened up the freezer portion.
It took me a moment to realize exactly what I was looking at.
Instead of ice cubes, the severed head of a man looked out at me.
My empty champagne glass shattered against the ceramic tiles and I clamped my hand against my mouth to keep from screaming.
A severed head. In the freezer.
And that wasn’t even the freakiest thing about it.
A second later his eyes popped open.
“You!” he blurted out. “You need to help me! I’ve been murdered!”
Table of Contents
Cover
Contents
Title Page
Praise
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Also by Michelle Rowen
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Excerpt from From Fear to Ete
rnity
Michelle Rowen, Bled & Breakfast
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