Page 33 of The Biting Bargain

There I got a major makeover in record time. I was scrubbed, exfoliated, gloved and sanded from top to bottom. My hair has never had so much bounce. My complexion looks like I've spent six months clean eating, meditating and drinking levorotatory mountain spring water. And from the nose down, I'm completely bald. I feel smooth and sparkly like a brand new penny.

All that's missing now is the right outfit so that I don't embarrass Monsieur Renard on his grand entrance at the super-important vampire club.

"Come, come. Hurry up, love."

An assistant peels me out of the red dress and I stand on the platform in front of the mirror wearing a set of expensive lace panties — and nothing else — while chaos continues around me.

Flushing wildly and covering myself, I think a little wistfully of the set of lingerie I finished last week, just days before my brilliant plan to become a luxury drone. I designed it myself, a cute pink bra and the most adorable little panties with white polka dots, which on closer inspection are little polar bears. I can tell you it was a pure stroke of luck that I got my hands on the fabric to begin with.

The panties I wear right now are much more classy and probably designed by an Italian fashion god or some such.

A shiver runs down my spine, shaking me out of my thoughts. Behind me in the mirror I catch a hard glance from amber eyes.

Vincent is lounging on a large black sofa that fills the entire back wall of the showroom. He has taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his neatly pressed shirt. He's been sitting there for a while now, legs crossed, looking alternately at his phone — and then at me, as if he’s just pondering the most convenient way to eat me up.

His gaze feels like the tip of a blade between my shoulders. Another shiver runs down my spine, hot and cold at the same time.

Damn, why do I always have to fall for guys that are walking and talking red flags? Why never a nice carpenter with inked forearms and a golden retriever? Why do I always end up with psychos who play their little games with me?

"Turn around, love."

I do as the stylist says, my heart hammering up to my throat as I face the sexy stare of my new boss. The assistant zips the black minidress that wraps around my curves like a film of oil. I feel the cold metal of the zipper all the way down to my butt.

"Get the Vitelli boots," another stylist barks and her assistant rushes off to get the shoes, but at that moment Vincent rises from his seat and the clockwork of busy assistants comes to an immediate halt. My breath catches in my throat as Vincent slowly approaches like a hunter on the prowl.

His gaze slides over me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as he reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair off my bare shoulder.

"Lovely," he says, his deep voice vibrating somewhere inside me, and a hot swirl of desire ripples through my belly. I know the praise is all about the dress. Nothing to do with me at all. I'm just a bumbling nobody who, through a concatenation of coincidences, has ended up as his companion. And I still don’t know how serious this companion business actually is meant to be.

It's probably for the better if this entire operation stays "Bite Only“. PG13. Safe for work.

In day to day life, I might act all cocky and full of self-esteem, lecturing my girlfriends that they shouldn't settle for anything less than the best, that female pleasure is nothing to be ashamed of.

But the sad truth is, I'm a coward.

I’m not half as brave as I would like to be. Even worse, I never know how to tell sex and feelings apart. The main reason for most of my problems. And now the only reason my traitorous body is reacting like this. With that warm shiver. Apparently, one brain-numbing orgasm is enough for me to fall, no matter how horrible and mean the guy in question may be.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I vowed to stay single forever.

Disaster Polly should stay away from feelings. And hot vampires who stare me down as if they would like to eat me out in front of everyone…

"No heels," Vincent growls at the stylist, who flinches as if he's thrown a lightning bolt at her. "She has a busted ankle."

The stylist nods with panic in her eyes, calling over her shoulder, "Antonio, get the Gucci ballerinas!"

I barely dare to breathe as another assistant rushes over with the requested item and, under Vincent's scrutinizing gaze, I slip into the modest but most wonderful and pretty little slippers I have ever seen. They fit perfectly, of course, and are much more comfortable than the prospect of pushing through this night in 4-inch heels. My ankle actually still hurts.

"Leave."

Vincent's command is low, but within seconds all fashion people dash off like it’s a race and we are alone in the deserted showroom. Only a forgotten note flutters to the ground.

"Do you do this kind of hype for all your drones?" I ask, my voice shakier than I'd like it to be. Vincent doesn't so much as twitch an eyebrow.

"We need to talk. Come."

He leads me back to the sofa and I sit down as if remote controlled. Sitting down himself, he pulls a small, black jewel case out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and flips it open.

It contains a dark leather collar.

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