Vampire Bound Series Bundle (EBOOK)

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ONE

THERE WAS AN ART to blotting away tears before they could spill over and ruin your mascara. I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I’d mastered that particular art years ago. Honestly, at this point I practically held a doctorate in the subject.

My reflection stared back at me from the long mirror in the ladies’ room. Not for the first time, I wondered whether the companies that manufactured fluorescent lightbulbs for public restroom vanities designed them specifically to make you look as awful as possible. Surely, with everything science had achieved, it should be easy enough to make lighting that didn’t wash you out and accentuate the dark circles under your eyes. But… if that were the case, why continue to sell bulbs that made people look like corpses?

Fresh tears welled, and I cursed myself as I soaked them up from the corners of my eyes with the twisted corner of a square of toilet paper. The mascara might survive, but at this rate I was going to look like I’d caught a red-eye flight from San Francisco, or maybe spent the last few hours smoking pot. And that… wouldn’t do.

“Get a grip, Vonnie,” I muttered, looking determinedly toward the ceiling until my eyeballs ached. It was an old trick—something to do with eye movements tricking the brain into shutting off negative emotions, or so I’d read in a surprisingly on-point clickbait article once upon a time. Useful stuff for women in stressful business situations, where tears could be detrimental to one’s career prospects.

Mind you, the authors of that article almost certainly hadn’t had my current situation in mind when they wrote it.

The restroom ceiling was… nice. From what I’d seen so far, everything in the club was nice. Classy. Like maybe the owner cared about more than how much money he could wring out of the place by charging fifteen bucks for an appletini on top of a ten-dollar cover. I tried to see that as an encouraging sign.

When my eyes no longer felt like overfilled water balloons, I returned my gaze to the mirror. Yep… they were bloodshot. Though it probably wouldn’t be too noticeable to someone who wasn’t looking for it.

I hoped.

Otherwise, I looked okay—fluorescent lightbulb zombie effect aside. Red hair still caught up in an elegant twist, a few strands escaping artfully to frame my face. Freckles successfully hidden by foundation and concealer. Stylish cocktail dress way above my pay grade, courtesy of my new boss, Guillermo.

My cell phone trilled in my handbag, and I winced. A quick glance confirmed that, yes, the scary guys my deadbeat ex owed money to had finally managed to track down my new number. Terrific. I couldn’t turn off the phone completely, in case my kid needed to get hold of me while I was… working… tonight. But I did put it on vibrate.

With a deep breath, I met my own gaze in the mirror and tried to pretend I didn’t look nervous. This wasn’t forever. Just for… a couple of months, maybe, until I could get enough cash together to climb out of the hole that Richard had dug by borrowing money from the wrong kind of people. The hole he’d dug for both of us, really.

Anyway… the owner of the Vixen’s Den obviously looked after his club well. Maybe that meant he’d also play nicely with the professional escort he’d hired for the night—especially if that escort didn’t let on that this was her first ever gig… and that she was scared out of her freakin’ mind.

* * *

The Den popped onto the St. Louis nightclub scene about six months ago, according to the gossip I’d managed to garner from the handful of people I knew who had the time, money, and inclination to frequent trendy clubs.

The place was all about jazz, blues, and expensive top-shelf liquor, apparently. It was popular with successful black businesspeople, though honestly, the clientele seemed pretty diverse as I made my way toward the elevators in the back. There, a very tall, very wide man wearing a very nice suit stood between the two sets of double doors. His posture screamed security. He watched me approach, his face expressionless.

“I’m expected in the penthouse suite,” I said, not allowing any hint of nerves to creep into my best ‘seductive’ voice. It was a voice I’d perfected after eight months working as a phone sex operator. And to think… I’d felt nervous during my first few shifts talking to lonely, desperate men separated by miles of distance and a veil of complete anonymity.

I hadn’t known when I was well off.

“Name?” asked the bouncer. His deep voice matched his massive size, but his tone was perfectly polite.

“Morgan LeFleur,” I said, the fake name tripping off my tongue almost as easily as my real one these days.
“I.D.?” the guy prompted.

I froze, caught out. I had my driver’s license in the little clutch purse I was carrying, but that was in my real name—
Something of my dilemma must have shown on my face, because the man had pity on me. “A business card from the agency will do, ma’am,” he said.

“Oh. Right,” I said, rummaging for one. “Here you go.” With a wince, I realized I’d let the seductress persona slip, and was speaking in my normal voice.

The bouncer made no comment, just glanced at the card and nodded. “I’ll let him know you’re coming up.” He entered a code on the pad next to the right-hand elevator doors, and they slid open.

“Thank you,” I told him, grateful for his professionalism. I wasn’t sure I could have handled a leer, or even a knowing look, as I entered the elevator and waited for the doors to close behind me.

Aside from ‘G’ for ground level and ‘P’ for parking garage, there was only one button, for the eighth floor. I pressed it. Like everything else, the elevator was classy—the kind of thing you’d find in an old restored theater building or opera house from the last century.

I fidgeted as it rose, my fingers going to the small pendant hanging at my neck. The jewelry glowed with a sort of inner warmth that I normally found comforting. Tonight, though, it only made me squirm. Hope you’re not watching this from wherever you are now, Auntie, I thought.

In reality, I doubted anyone in my family would be significantly more disapproving of the fact that I’d become a full-blown, getting-paid-for-doing-the-dirty-deed prostitute than they would be of the fact that I’d been getting paid to act out other people’s sexual fantasies over the phone. There was a certain point where you reached ‘maximum disapproval’ from your relatives, and once you hit those dizzying heights of familial reproach, the details no longer mattered.

Not that my Great Aunt Mabel had been one of the disapproving ones when she was alive. Maybe that was why she was the person I was worrying about now, even though she’d been gone for years. The elevator doors dinged open, and I gave her pendant a final rub for good luck before straightening my spine and stepping into the elegant lobby.

There was only one door, and it was open.

“Come on in,” a pleasant male voice called, from somewhere within the suite. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I tentatively stepped inside, leaving the door open behind me. If I’d had any question that there was some serious money floating around this operation, the club owner’s penthouse apartment would have dispelled it. It was a single man’s residence, free of any hint of the clutter and dirt that came with having a family. The furniture was modern and minimalist, but the sharp lines were softened by the occasional potted plant, abstract sculpture, and painting.

Movement made me glance up as a figure appeared in the hallway.

“Sorry about that,” said my client for the night, as he emerged adjusting the cufflinks on a lavender dress shirt. “I don’t like to keep people waiting.”

Leonides, the mysterious owner of the Vixen’s Den, was a well-built, dark-skinned man residing somewhere in that nebulous age range between late thirties and mid-forties. He was dressed in tailored slacks and a matching vest in dark violet wool, with no suit jacket or tie. His hair was done in short dreads, his beard was elegantly trimmed, and his black shoes were polished to a high shine.

Handsome, but in a serious, sober way.

He raised his eyebrows, and I realized I’d let the silence stretch for too long. I took a deep breath, and reached for the character I was supposed to be playing.

“Oh, don’t even mention it! I’m probably a few minutes early, anyway. And… you have a lovely home. So, what’s on the agenda tonight?” I almost cringed, hearing myself. That had been way too much, probably.

My client didn’t seem to notice, or if so, it didn’t bother him. If anything, he seemed a bit uninterested, his attention elsewhere.

“Nothing too involved, just an evening making the rounds in the club. You know how it is—the whole ‘nightclub owner’ schtick calls for a certain amount of personal branding.” A hint of wryness touched his features. “For several very good reasons, I find it much simpler to hire stunningly beautiful women to hang on my arm in a professional capacity, rather than actually dating them.”

The offhand compliment probably hadn’t been directed at me with intent. I wasn’t bad looking, but ‘stunningly beautiful’ was a serious stretch.

“Arm candy, huh?” I said, trying to relax into the situation now that it was obvious that I at least wasn’t expected to go straight to my knees and get to work. “Hey, for a hundred bucks an hour, I will be the Ferrero Rocher of arm candy. I’m Morgan, by the way.”

The stupid quip earned me a hint of a half-smile, though it was short-lived. There was a sort of melancholy aura surrounding the guy, I couldn’t help noticing—a hint of old sadness hanging over him.

“I’d offer you a first name in return,” he said, “but plain old Leonides seems to be the one that’s sticking these days. I suppose it plays into the ‘rich and mysterious’ mystique that the people downstairs seem to enjoy.”

More of my tension bled away. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Fair enough,” I told him “Though, if I bat my eyelashes and call you Leo, will I have to worry about you docking my pay?”

That drew a small huff of amusement, though I could tell that even now, only part of his attention was on the conversation.

“No promises,” was all he said. “Now, would you care for a drink first, or shall we head down?”