TURKISH DELIGHT by Rosemary Laurey

TURKISH DELIGHT by Rosemary Laurey

Special Investigations Agency

For Special Investigations Agency Operatives Destiny Tremayne, Jenna MacDonald and Nur Aydan, Christmas isn’t all about celebrating.

Nur Aydan, a moroii—a living vampire—accepts a commission in the UK, investigating investment of terrorist funds. The supposedly routine job has Nur involved in a local protest over rights-of-way, rescuing demonstrators from attackers, using her moroii abilities to thwart terrorists…And falling in love.

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~Excerpt~

She'd sworn she'd never do this again. So much for oaths and promises. Not only had she come to meet Paul, but she was seriously considering accepting another assignment. Or was she? Nur Aydan looked down at the narrow street below. A party of tourists, like a pack of sheep, with digital cameras instead of bells around their necks, paused as their guide indicated the building opposite: a former Ottoman merchant's house. The tourists hung on every word of the patter, soaking up a mass of historical inaccuracies about life in the harem, while a few meters overhead, stood a true relic of the past - a moroii- a living vampire, blood-linked to the gypsies who roamed the reaches of the empire in the days of the sultans. A moroii employed, to her mother's constant worry, as an secret agent by The Special Investigations Agency.

Heaven help her! She was thinking like Aunt Zenip, who endlessly lamented lost glories of the Empire and times long gone. Meanwhile...Nur turned back to Paul Morel, seated on the divan in the corner. "I'm not ready for another job, Paul. Give me some time."

"This isn't a real job, Nur. All it will take is a weekend. You'll be back by Monday. It's what out English friends would call a 'doodle'."

"I think you mean a 'doddle'."

"Ah! You agree."

"How can I agree, when I have no idea what you're talking about?"

"How about an all-expenses paid holiday?"

The man was a comedian as well as a spy master. "I've earned it after that last job. How about a week or two in Antakya?"

"A weekend in England."

"At this time of year? Forget it. I'll take Iskenderun if Antakya is all booked up, but..."

"Nur! Will you listen?"

She should have expected that. Walking back to the cheap divan against the wall, she sat down. This place got shabbier each time they met, but neither of them came for the decor. She folded her arms on her chest, leaned back against the pillows, and eyeballed Paul Morel. "I'm listening."

"Brussels got a communique from our Washington Bureau. About investment of suspected terrorist funds." Ha! Paul knew that would get her attention. Nur acknowledged with a nod and he went on. "They want someone to check on things.."

"There's no one in the UK?" There was a catch. She knew it.

"No one with your strength. It's you or a bulldozer."

"You know how to pay compliments! A bulldozer!"

"Nur, I saw you stop a forklift."

A tactical mistake on her part. "Alright, so I can stop moving machinery with my bare hands. What have these terrorists been buying up? Old factories?"

"A prehistoric stone circle."

Damn good thing she was sitting down. Anyone but Paul, she'd have thought was joking, but Paul didn't have a humorous bone in his body. "You can't just buy them! They're historical monuments, national treasures." Would be like buying up the Dolmabaçe Palace or the Topkapi. "Aren't they owned by the government?"

"Most of them."

"But one just happened to be up for sale, and was bought by a suspect group?"

He nodded. "Should I send out for tea?"

"Coffee, Paul and very sweet." She didn't miss the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as he turned to the telephone. He'd hooked her and they both knew it.

"In the name of the Special Investigations Agency, thank you," Paul said as he put down the phone.

"Just a weekend job, eh? Good! I have a dinner engagement on Monday."

He gave a flicker of a smile. "Hollrigg is a megalithic stone circle on the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors. Until a year ago it belonged to a local family. One of only two privately owned megaliths in the UK. Recently the aging owner-she was well over eighty I believe-put it up for sale, hoping a local preservation group would raise the money. A business consortium bought it, preempting the proposed arrangement, and paying about five times the asking price."

"A lot of money for a bunch of old stones."

"Very old stones."

"So they need a tax write-off. They are amateur archeologists wanting to preserve the site for posterity. They need a novel site for employee training. Doesn't mean they are terrorists."

"The company who bought it, Rudicorp, is based in Yemen, and has definite ties to terrorist funding. They do, admittedly, have some legitimate business operations, and maybe, just maybe they bought it in the interests of preserving western culture," Paul paused, "but unlikely. and in the present climate, we investigate everything."

"What am I supposed to do? Pick up the stones up one by one and check for bombs underneath?"

"If you deem it necessary."

"Very funny, Paul. What am I really supposed to do?"

"Find out what the hell is going on. Lurk around the site, and use your superior hearing and sight to ascertain whatever you can."

"Why me? You've got other agents with special abilities."

"They are all occupied. We've been particularly busy the past year or so."

"So, you're scraping the bottom of the barrel and calling on me."

"Don't talk rot! You're one of our best. I know you need a break after the last job, but this is more investigation than action. You're going to look around, that's all." She bet!

At a knock on the door, Paul crossed the room. The teenager from the cafe downstairs entered, placed two small cups were on the table in front of Nur, and left with a generous tip. Paul handed her a cup. She caught the rich, heady aroma, sniffing appreciatively before tasting. Wonderful! Sweet, hot and thick, she might as well enjoy, she'd not get coffee like this in England.

Paul placed an envelope on the table. "Tickets, driving license, car rental reservation, credit cards, a little traveling money, and the passport you'll use."

He'd been that sure she'd agree, had he? Nur scowled and took another sip before setting her cup down and reaching for the envelope. "Yildiz Geçtan? School teacher? Give me a break, Paul!"

"It's a good cover. People expect teachers to poke around, ask questions and look at everything."

"And why am I wandering around the UK in December when I have a students to teach back here in Turkey?"

"You have a three month sabbatical, to travel in the UK and improve your English." She had to smile at that. Her English was better than Paul's. "You teach at the Dursan Academy in Istanbul. They will back up your story if needed."

How Paul did these things, she didn't want to know. She flicked open the ticket. Okay, teachers went tourist class, but... "Tomorrow morning!"

"An early flight. Stay tonight at the airport Radisson, in your traveling name. Your flight leaves at seven."

"What about minor details, like a tooth brush?"

He nodded towards the end of the divan. "There's a toothbrush in the bag, Nur, and your essentials. You'll have the usual supplies waiting for you at the hotel. If you need anything else, use the credit card in the envelope, and be sure to save all the receipts for accounting."

"I leave in the morning? Drat! I had an appointment for a manicure tomorrow morning."

"Reschedule for when you get back."

Paul really did have no sense of humor.

It started off, like the nice easy break Paul promised: a room service dinner at the Airport Radisson while Nur looked over Paul's notes before burning them in the bathroom wash basin and flushing the ashes. Not that they told her much. Paul seemed to think leaving her to find out for herself was the way to go. Which probably meant there was nothing going on and she was off on a routine mission-not that she'd ever had one of those, and half-doubted she'd recognize one if she tripped over it in broad daylight. But she gave up worrying, enjoyed the grilled shrimp and fish she'd ordered, and indulged her favorite desert: rosewater ice cream. She should go out and hunt, but lacked the energy. Tomorrow she'd find some willing Brit and feast.

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BE MINE FOREVER by Rosemary Laurey

BE MINE FOREVER by Rosemary Laurey

The third book in Rosemary Laurey's Forever Vampire series, this tells the story of the two ghouls, and Angela and Tom's romance.

Tom Kyd has smouldering eyes, a sculpted body, and supernatural staying power - even for a vampire. He also thinks he knows best about everything - including how to figure out who Angela Ryan was before he and his clan rescued her from a mysterious attack that stole her memory. But whoever she is, Tom wants her...

Six months ago Angela never would have imagined her life would turn into an episode of Dark Shadows - or that she'd be saved by the kind of man she's always fantasized about. Tom may be a vampire, and a know-it-all, but when he kisses are so sinful, so intoxicating, and so damn good, Angela is tempted to say yes to whatever he wants.

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Excerpt:

"Are you sure about this?" Stella Corvus, neé Schwartz, looked up from dropping teaspoons of cookie batter on a baking sheet.

Angela smiled. Stella had to be the only vampire in the country, maybe on the planet, who baked cookies on a regular basis. Come to that, she was probably the only one with a kid. "No, I'm not sure, but I've got to do something. Tom won't share anything he's discovered - if there is anything to share. I feel I'm at the same point as when Vlad found us in the park."

"You're a good bit beyond that."

"I know. I'll be eternally grateful to you and the rest of the colony. You given me a home, clothes, sanity, a job when I needed one. But I can't stand this anonymity much longer. I want to be more than a name I picked out of the phone book. I look in the mirror and have no idea who I really am."

"At least you can look in the mirror! Ghouls have that over vampires. I live in dread, I'm going around with my hair on end and smudged lipstick."

Angela chuckled. Stella seldom wore lipstick and her new, cropped hairstyle always looked sleek. "Please understand, Stella. I need to know who I am. I think I'm falling in love with Tom. What if I'm married? Have a lover somewhere looking for me?" She sighed. "I used to worry I'd abandoned children or babies, but Justin reassured me there."

"Yup. It's handy having a doctor in the house."

"You've to a good man there. Or should I say good vampire? I keep thinking, perhaps Tom and I..." She sighed.

"That's why you left him?"

"I left him because I got sick of Tom Kyd telling me he'd take care of everything. He followed up leads. He decided if they were red herrings. He studied the old lore books in the library. He declared what was fact and what was fable. He drove me bonkers!"

"I can see why." Stella pulled up a stool beside Angela. "They have a way of taking over. I'm not sure if it's testosterone, the 'me vampire' act or both."

"At least you can 'me vampire' back!"

"You could try 'me ghoul'."

"Doesn't quite carry the same weight. Not yet."

Stella raised her eyebrows. "Not yet?"

"If I can look Tom in the eye and tell him who I am, he'll have to do something about his 'poor, little ghoul' attitude."

"Any idea how you're going about it?"

"Back tracking. Tom's looking for the answer in old tomes. I'm gong to search the here and now."

"He's used the computer too, just as Kit has."

"Yes, and every so-called lead is a dead end. I have one tangible, certain clue: my leather coat. I want to go down to Totnes and search for the shop—Mariposa—according to the label. Maybe they keep records of customers." She sighed. "I doubt it's that easy. But it's a chance and I'm grabbing it. If it's dead end, at least I've done something."

"Maybe it isn't a dead end, but you could be in for a shock or two. You don't know what you will discover."

"I really doubt I'm a long-lost heiress. More like something very ordinary like a teacher or secretary." Angela grinned. But at least I'd know, It might be fun to look him in the eye and say. "I'm Tallulah Bloggs and I'm a cocktail waitress."

"If that ends up as the name your mother gave you, you'd better stick with the one you picked out of the phone book."

Angela's smile faded. "That's what's so hard. Hell, I don't even know it I had a mother!"

"You must have once upon a time." They were both silent a few minutes, until the buzz of the timer distracted Stella for a few seconds. She pulled out one cookie tray and slid in the next batch. "Don't forget the reason behind everyone's caution. Somewhere out there still lurks the vampire who made you."

Not a thing she was likely to forget in a hurry. "The odds are he's the other side of the Atlantic."

"He could get on a plane as easily was we did."

Angela nodded. "Trust me, Stella. I'll never forget the horror and terror we fled from. If that monster were anywhere near, and I mean within miles, I'd know." Just thinking about it made her shudder.

"I'll take your word for it." Stella started easing the cooling cookies off the sheet. "Might be wise to leave before Justin gets back. He's bound to give you every bit as much flack as Tom."

Good point. Stella picked up the mixing bowl but, as she turned on the water to rinse it, Angela grabbed it. "No point in letting good cookie dough go to waste." She'd scraped it half-clean when she realized Stella was eying her. "Miss it do you? I'm so wrapped up in myself, I forgot that you, too..."

"Had a life-altering change?" Stella smiled. "I soon got over the shock. Given the alternative to being vampire, it didn't take long to accept the inconveniences. But I do miss cookie dough. And ice cream. And chocolate." She sighed. "No point in going there." She snapped the lid on the flour canister and put it away.

Angela held out a spoon. "Sure you won't have a taste?"

Stella shook her head "No way, thanks. It tried, once. It tasted of nothing, and for days afterwards, I had the awful sensation of a lump stuck in my throat."

Angela reached for a still-warm cookie. Life as a ghoul did have its compensations, and Stella made great cookies.


"Bye, Sam," Stella watched him as he crossed the crowded playground and joined a group of other nine-and-ten-year-olds. Satisfied he was safe inside the school gates, she turned to Angela. "Here we go." She turned down the street, and headed for the moors, and York, "How long are you planning on staying?"

"Maybe a couple of days, I'll either find out something or I won't. I don't plan on hanging around." With a bit of luck she might be back before Justin. He was liable to be as unreasonable as Tom. Male vampires seemed to think they ran the planet. "Look, I don't want you catching flack over this. Do you think Justin will cut up rough?"

Stella shrugged. "If he does, it won't be the first time, or the last. Quit worrying! And for Abel's sake, take care of yourself. I don't want you ending up in the same condition as when Vlad found you."

"I'll be careful," Angela promised, half-smiling to herself at hearing her friend invoke Abel's name. Stella fitted so easily into a vampire existence. She couldn't help but envy her. Vampires had the colony for support and company, being a ghoul was an empty pain in the patootie. Not much point in complaining. Better up stakes and do something. Good thing she hadn't said the last bit aloud. Vampires could get touchy over some things.

"Sure you'll be okay?" Stella asked as the train drew into the platform.

"I'll be fine, honest. I have the mobile Tom gave me, and the credit card." The last Angela felt guilty about, but she needed money to travel, and Tom had told her to use it if necessary. She'd keep track and pay him back. "You know where I'm staying?"

Stella nodded. "Yes, The Royal Oak. Call me. Promise?"

"I'll let you know everything I find out." They hugged. Angela doing her darndest to conceal her anxiety, as Stella worried enough for both of them. "Drive carefully, and let's hope the rain keeps up." One of Angela's worries was that Stella would get stranded, in broad sunlight—not that there was a lot of chance of that in February, but...

"The car protects me, and if the worst happens and it breaks down, which it won't as it's brand new, I'll call for rescue."

"You should have just dropped me and driven home, I'll be fine."

Stella shook her head. "I don't think so. I want to be able to assure Tom, if he asks, that I saw you safely on the train." But he'd still throw a hissy fit, Another reason to get back quickly.

A signal failure outside Birmingham added another hour to the six-hour journey. But by early afternoon, Angela noticed changes in the countryside as they traveled south. Trees showed traces of new leaves and patches of pale yellow flowers appeared in the hedgerows. Flowers Angela knew were primroses— another of the memory flashes that had alternately blessed and plagued her the past few months. But recognizing wildflowers wasn't likely to reveal her former identity.

By the time Angela stepped down onto the platform at Totnes, she was ravenously hungry. Train food wasn't the sort to sustain a ghoul. She had to find meat, probably should look for her hotel, and wanted above all else, scour the leather shops. The town looked small. How hard would to be to find one shop?

© 2004 Rosemary Laurey - all rights reserved

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LOVE ME FOREVER by Rosemary Laurey

LOVE ME FOREVER by Rosemary Laurey

The second book in Rosemary Laurey's Forever Vampire Series is set in German Village in Columbus Ohio and is the story of physician/vampire Justin Corvus and a blue-collar single mother named Stella. Neither Justin nor Stella expected the attraction between them, nor could they anticipate the act of violence that puts Justin afoul of the vampire code he helped establish.

All single mother Stella Schwartz meant to do was let her son, Sam, browse through books at Dixie's Vampire Emporium. She hadn't counted on the shop assistant, Justin Corvis, being a dark-eyed super-hunk with the kind of charismatic English accent that would make her heart skip a beat. And she couldn't know how close to the truth that was. When Justin smiles at her, it's as if he's known her forever. And when he asks for her phone number - Stella can't help wanting the thrill to last for eternity. For there's something dangerously different about Justin Corvus...different and irresistible.

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Excerpt:

Justin unlocked Dixie’s car, and realized he’d opened the wrong door. Would he ever get used to this? He placed the box on the passenger seat and walked round the bonnet and unlocked the driver’s side. By the time he finished readjusting the seat and fiddling with the rear view mirror, he could have walked there! But Dixie’s caution worried him. She was most definitely not a woman to get overly nervous and if she thought an area risky.

He’d soon find out.

Her directions were easy to follow and precise and her warnings about the area were spot on. As he turned left on to Lubeck, he couldn’t miss the boarded up, dilapidated house on the corner. Now that really did look like a place for Hollywood vampires or ghouls to lurk! The house next to it wasn’t much better but it was inhabited. Two shaven-headed young men lurked on the sagging porch.

Justin checked house numbers. At least Stella’s was a distance down the road. Two blocks down. Heck, he was thinking in the lingo. He pulled the car into the kerb and looked around. Her house was a shabby but tidy-looking house. She had no sagging sofas in the front garden, nor did she have a rusty, disused water heater decorating her front porch like one of her neighbors. Stella’s front steps were flanked with a pair of pumpkins and a cardboard cut out of a green-faced witch hung on the front door. Obviously a witch didn’t mean the same to her that it did to Kit and Dixie. Stella was fortunate.

He took the steps two at a time and rang the bell. And waited. And waited. He sensed a heartbeat behind the locked door. “Who’s there?” Stella asked.

“Justin Corvus, Mrs. Schwartz.” As if she’d remember! “From the Vampire Emporium.” Only Dixie could come up with that name for a shop the size of a shoe box. “Dixie sent something she thought Sam might use.”

He heard a bolt slide back and a lock turn. The door opened a few inches and Stella peered out before releasing the chain lock. “Come in,” she said opening the door wide.

At her invitation, he stepped over the threshold right into a tidy but shabby sitting-room. He held out the box. “Dixie hopes this fits Sam.”

Stella looked doubtful but took the box. “Thanks.”

"Have a look. See what you think.”

She slipped the lid off and reached into tissue, putting the box on a chair as she shook out the cape. Her lips parted as she stared at the velvet hanging in rich folds. She should be wearing velvet like this. Velvet and the finest satin and lace not blue jeans and a worn sweatshirt. “It’s beautiful,” she said, “but...”

Her skin would surely taste like new cream on honey cake. He smiled. “You don’t think Sam will like it?”

She laughed. “He’d love it but I really think...”

He could feel the tug between her longing and her anxiety. “Look, Stella.” She hadn’t balked at his use of her given name, so he went on. “See if it fits him. If so why not keep it?”

She looked up at. “Because it’s more than I can afford!” Her face flushed red with mortification at her admission. He could hear the rush of blood to her face. Abel, help him! He had to will his fangs to stay retracted. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to feed.

“We haven’t even talked price.”

She fixed him with an exasperated look. “I know what things cost and this was custom made.”

Yes, for Sam! She started folding the cape. She really was going to refuse It would be so easy to will her to agree, she was half-way there, all it would take was a little nudge of her mind and she’d agree to what her heart wanted to accept. He resisted the temptation. Somehow it seemed important that she accept freely. “It was a special order.” By him. “But there’s limited market for children’s outfits.” That much was true. “Yesterday evening it was siting up there in Dixie’s workroom, no use to anybody.” Because it was still on the bolt. “If it fits Sam, at least someone is getting use out of it and it won’t go to waste.”

That last line was a touch of genius. He bet thrifty was her middle name. She nodded. “Thanks,” she paused. “I didn’t mean to sound ungracious.”

“You didn’t. Just careful. No one wants to run up obligations they can’t meet. Dixie said to pay her whatever you’d have spent on another costume.”

He should have stopped when he was winning. Stella looked at him. “That would hardly meet the cost of the fabric.”

"No.” She frowned. “But it’s more than she’ll get with it sitting in a box in her storeroom and this way someone gets to use it other than the moths.” Now he was tempted to push her will just a little. “And it you promise to bring Sam by the shop, it will be a great advertisement for us.”

He sensed her acceptance a second before she spoke. “Thanks.” She had a smile that could fell a strong man. How any mortal man had ever resisted her, he’d never know. It made this vampire want to... “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

He wanted her blood, rich and warm and flowing over his tongue. He needed her skin against his lips. “Coffee would be brilliant.”

She brought the box with her as she led the way into the kitchen, a bright room with a tall bay window. Justin sat in the chair she offered, glanced out of the window at a sand pit and swing and a dilapidated garage at the end of the garden and then gave his full attention to the object of his lust. A lust he’d better damn well keep in rein.

Stella filled a kettle and put it to boil. She reached for two mugs from a row on hooks under the cabinets. “Instant okay?” she asked as she measured out spoonfuls from a large jar

“By all means.” Fluids would slow his metabolism down. And about time too. Of course walking out of here would work even better.

She busied herself, bending down to get milk from the fridge, reaching for sugar from a cabinet and finally taking the boiling kettle from the stove. “Here.” She placed the steaming mug in front of him. The aroma rose strong and fresh but masked by the scent of warm-blooded woman. He took a long swig from the mug.

Miscalculation that. She was staring at him. “You must have a throat made of asbestos.”

"Hot drinks don’t bother me.” Anymore than heat or cold or bullets. Fire could be fatal but... “It’s good coffee.” He remembered to drink the rest of it at a more mortal pace. “There’s also a pair of trousers in the box,” he went on when she’d relaxed a little. “Dixie thought they might do.” Stella was giving him her don’t-patronise-me look again. “They’re an odd size she wasn’t able to sell.” Because they’d never been for sale. “They’re bound to be too big but Dixie can take them in if you like.”

“I’ll fix them.” Stella replied. “Or I’ll end up owing for alterations as well as the costume.”

That was her acceptance as well as her bid for independence and Justin acknowledged it with a smile. “Think they’ll fit him?” Dixie had assured him they were far too big, but wearable under the cape and the mismatched sizes would reinforce their fable of stray garments just hanging around the place.

Stella fetched the box. Putting the cape over the back of a spare chair, she pulled out the trousers. “Yes, they are a bit big,” she said holding them up, “but that’s soon taken care off. The waist’s elastic and I can turn them up.” She folded them away and then picked up the cape, her hands stoking the velvet as she folded it carefully. “They really are beautiful,” she said. “Sam will be thrilled. Thanks.” She smiled.

It was the sort of smile to shatter a man’s mind or exalt his soul or send a vampire’s thoughts down forbidden avenues. She was prospective sustenance not solace. “You’ll come by the shop on Beggars’ Night?”

“You bet!” She glanced at his now-empty mug. “Want another coffee?”

"No thank you. I...” A great crash from outside stopped him.

“What’s that?” It sounded like a small explosion but surely not...

Stella had jumped up and now frowned out of the window.“It’s those no-good, Day boys!”

Children were doing this? “What did they do?”

"Throwing bottles and trash at my garage.” She shook her head. “Do it all the time. They...” She was interrupted by a great shout from behind her house and another smash.

“Not any more they won’t!” Justin said, racing out the back door and down the garden. Without pausing to think, he vaulted the sagging chain fence. He landed just feet from one youth and inches from another.

The shorter scowled at Justin, the taller, presumably older one, drew his arm back, a glass jar clutched in his fist. A mass of broken glass and stones decorated the ground. “Stop that!” Justin said.

The younger one laughed and bent to pick up a bottle from the bag at his feet. “You gonna stop me, white man?”

"Yes.” It was ludicrously easy. Their minds had the substance of sawdust. The older one lowered his arm to let the bottle dangle. The younger stood up and blinked. They were children. Wrecking havoc. He relaxed his hold on their minds, just a little. “Why aren’t you at school?”

The older one shrugged. “Sid got suspended. I ain’t gonna go if he in’t there to look out for me.”

Familial solidarity was admirable enough but vandalism didn’t seem quite the way to nurture it. “I see.” It was a lie, he didn’t. Any more than he’d ever understood the innumerable acts of vandalism he’d witnessed over the centuries. He’d never had an answer before and didn’t expect one now. He held both boys in his thrall. “You've a free day. Good. You’ll spend it picking up every shard of glass here, and when you’re finished clear the rest of the rubbish from the alley.”

The both nodded mutely and at his signal, repeated his directions. “When you pick up, Justin went one,” Put everything in that bin over there.” He directed their attention to a weelie bin leaning crookedly against the fence. “And you will never bother this house again. Is that understood?”

They nodded “Yes.” The younger one surprised Justin by adding, “Sir.”

“Good.” He left them bending and retrieving what looked like several months worth of smashed bottles and rusted tin cans and turned back towards the house. Stella was standing halfway down the patch of yellowed grass, staring open-mouthed. He was stuck simultaneously by her beauty and his own stupidity. What was wrong with his reasoning? He’d raced out her house and leapt the fence without thinking. He never flaunted his strength before mortals. Well, he had now! “Mrs. Schwartz,” he called. “Don’t worry! They won’t annoy you any more.”

She looked as if she wanted to believe but hesitated. “Those boys are nothing but trouble!”

“Not any more. Do you have any bin liners? They’ve a lot to pick up.”

That distracted her .. a little. “Bin liners?” Her brows creased. “You mean trash bags?” She went back to the house and returned with a couple of heavy green plastic bags. “Think this will do?”

They did beautifully and with Justin giving their sullen brains a nudge the two miscreants accepted then with thanks and offered abject apologies and assurances they’d never offend again. The youngest even added a hesitant “M’am”. Perhaps there was hope for him after all.

Back in the house that Stella turned to Justin. “Who are you? Superman or an Olympic athlete, the way you jumped over that fence?”

Better make her forget. “Stella,” he whispered and pulled her will to his. This was one strong-minded woman! It took power to enter her thoughts. He glimpsed more anxieties and worries more than a woman should bear. He needed to do something about them. Later. He skimmed off the memory of his race down the garden and leap over the gate. “Not to worry,” he said as he released her mind and she blinked up at him. The unexpected vulnerability in her eyes undid him. That and the heady scent of her lifeblood racing thorough her veins. Lust rose like a wild force and without thinking, he threw a full power glamor over her.

She was soft, warm and alive and he pulled her compliant body into his arms. He resisted the urge to caress her breasts and the lush warmth of her woman’s curves. Not now! Not ever! He’d taste her blood and thus slake his need and the raging desire he barely kept in reign. Taste her! No more. He brushed her honey-colored hair off her face and lifted her shoulders so her head hung back, offering her soft white throat. He pulled down the neck of her sweat shirt and gently her lapped her skin, savoring her living taste. When she was utterly relaxed and let out a little whimper of pleasure, he nipped.

Never in all his born or dead days had he tasted such richness. Her sweet thick blood flowed through his lips, warming his mouth and a heart long hurt. He sucked, knowing he should stop soon but needing the solace and comfort of her warmth and life.

He forced his lips off her and slowly licked the wound to seal it. The mark was hidden by her sweatshirt and in a few hours would fade completely. He smoothed her hair forward and sat her in a chair. Only then did he remove the glamor.

“Whee!” Stella shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. She looked around, frowning as it registered she was sitting down. “What...?” she began.

“You got a bit woozy,” Justin lied, despising himself but knowing the truth was impossible. And she probably was woozy after all he’d taken. “The last few minutes were a bit stressful.”

© 2004 Rosemary Laurey - all rights reserved

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KISS ME FOREVER by Rosemary Laurey

KISS ME FOREVER - The first book in Rosemary Laurey's Forever Vampire series.

If there is one thing Dixie LePage does not need in her life, it's complications. And the man sitting across the table from her in a crowded English pub is a major complication. For starters, there's the broad shoulders. The slightly amused smirk. That smoldering look that makes it impossible to concentrate. No doubt about it, the guy is hot and sexy. Of course, there is one wee little problem: He claims to be a vampire named Christopher Marlowe, as in The Christopher Marlowe, famous playwright, contemporary of Will Shakespeare. Amend that to hot, sexy, and totally insane.

So why can't Dixie seem to resist the warmth of Christopher's charm, the protective feel of his strong hands, or the tempting pull of his full mouth when the sun goes down...?

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The lights from the Barley Mow and the moon shimmering on the pond gave Dixie a clear view. It would be an easy walk to cross the Green and circle back to Miss Reade’s. The dry, well-trodden path skirted around the water’s edge and joined the lane near three tile-hung cottages with neat hedges and lighted front doors. Turning right, Dixie followed the curve of the lane.

Five, modern brightly lit houses, caught her attention with glimpses of flickering TV screens and a woman filling a kettle at a sink. The path ended and the road narrowed past a clump of trees that cast ragged shadows over the lane. Something fast and warm scuttled inches from Dixie’s feet. Tempted to abandon what now seemed like a crazy moonlight hike, Dixie glanced back across the Green and realized the Barley Mow was a good hundred yards away. She had to be near Orchard House. She’d tramped this far. She wasn’t going back. If she walked in the middle of the lane, she’d avoid four-footed nocturnals and tree roots.

Then she heard the owls. Two of them, calling back and forth like a pair of feathered Harpies. Nothing like it to add a bit atmosphere. She was alone, in the dark, on a deserted country lane, in a foreign country, looking for a house she’d never seen.

Dixie willed courage, marched round the next curve, and stopped. This was her house. She knew it.

She peered through high wrought-iron gates. A gravel path led past shadows of overgrown shrubs to a square, brick house where moonlight flickered on long sash windows. Paint and rust flaked in her hands as she shook the gate. The chain clanked like Marley’s ghost, rattled and fell to the ground. Budging the gate took more effort. Either the gate had sunk or the drive risen in the past months. The hinges complained but a few hard shoves opened the gate enough to slip in sideways. Dixie stood on the gravel driveway and surveyed her property. Even in the dark, she could see she owned an elegant house. Eight, double hung windows were set in a beautifully proportioned facade and four dormers rose from the roof. A dark shadow of a front door stood at the end of the uneven path ahead and the gravel drive circled behind the house. It could have been the set for Sense and Sensibility. And it was hers. Complete with moonlight.

In an upstairs window, on the far right a light flickered. It wasn’t moonlight.

A burglar. In her house.

Fired by righteous indignation, Dixie raced up the steps to the front door and tugged the iron loop of the bell pull. Loud chimes echoed through the silent house. Standing on the step, Dixie watched the light disappear and then...nothing. What did she expect? Someone to answer the door bell?

Even the owls had gone quiet. Nothing moved in the night. Dixie half-convinced herself she’d imagined the light when a door banged. Twice. A loud cuss word echoed through the night quiet.

Cautious now, keeping to the overgrown grass, Dixie crept round the side of the house. It was a whole lot bigger than it looked from the front. Odd corners and shapes jutted out behind. A cluster of out-buildings huddled over by a high brick wall. Deep shadows hid everything except rough outlines and shapes and patches of moonlight made an eerie checkerboard of the backyard. Dixie waited by the corner, watched and listened. A dark shape slunk across the yard.

The intruder continued his path between a clump of overgrown bushes. Fury burned away all her caution. “What are you doing in my house?” she called. The intruder didn’t stop to answer. One look behind and he fled across the grass and out through a side gate.

Dixie chased, racing through the gate, out into the lane and caromed into a dark figure.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, too angry to consider fear.

“Dixie?” She knew that voice.

“Christopher? Christopher Marlowe? What you doing here?” This was a bit much, first intruding on her dinner, then her property.

“Walking home. Are you alright? You’re shaking.” Strong hands gripped her shoulders. That last bit was true. She shook from her knees to the shoulders he held. Dixie stepped back from his hands and looked sideways. They stood in a narrow, unpaved lane. Behind her loomed the high brick wall and ahead, distant lights from the new houses glimmered through the trees. He stepped closer. “Something scared you. What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Looking at my house.” Had he been the intruder? He’d been suspiciously close but he wasn’t breathing heavily. After that sprint across the garden, a marathoner would be wheezing. “You really live out this way? You said you lived by the station.”

“It’s a short cut.” One hand went back to her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be wandering around her after dark. It’s not safe for a woman.”

She’d ignore that. “Someone was there. In the house. I saw a light. They ran out this way.”

“And you thought it was me?”

How did she answer that one? She still did ...halfway. “There’s no one else.”

“I promise it wasn’t me. I don’t wander round empty houses by torchlight.”

“You think I imagined it?” Let him dare answer ‘yes’.

“No. It’s probably some teenager braving out a dare. The house is supposed to be haunted. You interrupted some likely lad’s attempt at macho. This time I am walking you home. You’re scared and it’s not wise to wander around after dark.”

She let him walk her back to Emily’s. Familiar with the path, he warned about roots and hazards hidden by the shadows. Crossing the edge of the Green, he took her elbow, “There’s a dip here, watch out,” he said. She stopped and explore with her foot. There was a hollow, deep enough to trip on but hidden by the grass. “How did you know?” she asked, looking up at his pale face in the moonlight.

“I walk here all the time.”

Ten minutes later they stood by Emily Reade’s front gate. He waited. Surely he didn’t expect her to invite him in? He was going to be disappointed. “Thanks for the escort. I think I can find the way next time.” She held out her hand.

A strong, cold hand grasped hers. “Take care, Dixie. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He waited at the gate as she walked up the path. Dixie turned and waved as she reached into her jeans pocket for the key. It felt warm after his fingers.

Without turning on her light, Dixie watched from her bedroom window as Christopher retraced his steps across the Green. Had he spoken the truth? Was that path by her house a short cut to his? A few questions or a check on a map could answer that. She watched him halfway across the Green until his silhouette faded in the dark.

Christopher Marlowe paused in front of Orchard House and willed himself to think about the library inside. He wouldn’t think about its new guardian, her copper curls, her skin smooth as clotted cream, or the warm green eyes that glittered with intelligence. Most of all he’d ignore the warm rich blood that coursed though her veins. Temptations like that could ruin everything. With her ancestry she was more likely adversary than ally. He'd learned that much in four hundred years.

© 2004 Rosemary Laurey - all rights reserved

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BLOODY RIGHT by Georgia Evans

Excerpt From Georgia Evans' BLOODY RIGHT
BLOODY RIGHT by Georgia Evans
Brytewood, England November 1940
Publication date: August 2009
ISBN: 0-7582-3483-X

It will take all of Brytewood's Others to save their village from destruction in the climax of a Georgia Evans' supernatural trilogy.

Gryffyth Pendragon has done his bit for the war effort when he comes back to sleepy Brytewood from the battlefront at Trondheim. It cost him a leg, and his chance to use his dragon's strength against the Nazis - or so he thinks. Until he finds out that his little village is facing a plague of vampire spies set on delivering it to the Third Reich. They've come up with a plan that, if they can pull it off, might break all of Britain's will to fight...

But there are more allies for Gryffyth in Brytewood than he'd ever imagined, and while a doctor, a nurse, a schoolteacher, and a couple of sexagenarians doesn't sound like much of a battle force to him, there's more to his cohorts than meets the eye. Against ancient and impossibly powerful agents of evil, they will need every man, woman, and dragon-shifter they can get...

EXCERPT


Mary let out a gasp. She must have stumbled, tripped or missed her footing. Her partner caught her and a moment later he had her right hand and she was back in the rhythm of the dance. Or at least her feet were keeping time with the music as she and whatever his name was made their way down the dance to the end. Now she had her back to the dark-eyed man. She wanted so much to turn and look at him again. But she wasn't that rude, was she? Her partner was a nice lad, pleasant polite and about as exciting as peeling a sack of potatoes.

While behind her was... God! She felt his gaze like a fire up and down her spine as she moved up the dance as another couple took of down the line. Utter nonsense. Was it? She swallowed hard. She wanted so much to turn her head. To prove to herself she was imagining things. That Gryffyth Pendragon (she knew it was him form the triumphal entrance engineered by the village worthies) was not watching her every step and breath and the heat in his glance as she met his eyes was figment of her imagination. But without turning her back on her partner and the dance, there was no way she could be sure. Besides that would be rude. She caught the hand of the next man coming down the dance. She had to concentrate, pay attention, smile at her partner.

While behind her, his eyes boring a hole between her shoulder blades, was the guest of honor who had umpteen old friends here and knew everyone and... .

Mary stepped up as another couple reached the bottom.

Two more couples and the dance would be over. She must be out of condition. That was it. She needed to get herself up to the hammer pond and immerse herself in the water to restore her equilibrium. Why else was her heart racing like this?

The last couple reached the end. The music stopped with a flourish. She honored her partner with a bob of a curtsey, thanked him and avoided Tom Longhurst's glance, as he came towards her.

She didn't remember crossing the length of the village hall, no doubt she'd walked on toes, tripped up children and pushed aside old ladies. She just made a beeline to where Gryffyth Pendragon sat, watching her approach.

He smiled as she reached him.

Her mouth went dry.

What the hell was she doing? Approaching a virtual stranger, and the guest of honor into the bargain, when she'd promised to go back and help with the tea urn.

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Mary LaPrioux."

"I know," he replied, moving a coat off the chair next to him. "Have a seat. Want a beer?"

She loathed beer. "Thank you." He filled a glass from the almost empty jug in front of him. She took a sip. Yes. She loathed beer but it wouldn't kill her. "How did you know my name?"

Easy enough, really. Most of the village knew who she was by now.

"I asked Tom Longhurst."

Spluttering beer down her nose would have ruined the moment. It was a near thing. "Tom?"

"Yes." She noticed his eyes weren't dark. His long lashes were but his eyes were the blue of a Guernsey sea in June and crinkled at the corners as he gave a slow, almost twisted, smile. "He told me you were taken."

"What?" Yes, she had no trouble believing it. "Not by him, I'm not!" That was it. He wasn't even getting the promised dance now.

"Good." Gryffyth replied, taking a deep drink of his beer.

They sat in silence. Not an awkward one but it did go on too long. "I know your father's glad you're back safely."

He nodded. "He keeps saying that."

"You doubt him?"

He drained his glass. "No." The empty glass made a soft dull thud as he put it down on the table.

Odd wasn't the word. He was abrupt, almost off-putting, but she didn't want to leave him. Something about him kept her here sitting so close their knees almost touched while she sipped on the beer that tasted worse with each mouthful.

"You don't think much of the beer, do you?"

Why lie. "I don't usually drink it. But I've never tasted Surrey beer and thought it was time I did."

"Or," he said with an edge in his voice, "you didn't want to ask a cripple to hobble across the room for a glass of orange squash."

"Of course not." That earned her a scowl. "I loathe orange squash."

His laugh was gloriously deep and earthy and sent warm shivers down her back. It took all she had not to rest her hands on his chest and feel the ripples coursing in his muscles.

She meshed her fingers together and clasped her hands tight.

"What do you like, Mary LaPrioux?"

"Moonlit nights, warm breezes, running across the countryside." And bathing naked in the hammerpond but the latter she'd best keep to herself.

"Bit late in the year for all that, isn't it?"

And no doubt tactless of her to mention running.

"It'll be spring before you know it." Unless they had a winter like last year's to get through.

"Are you always this cheerful?"

"Not really. It's a front I put on. I get pretty dismal when I let myself go."

He chuckled. Not quite are sexy as his laugh but very nice all the same. "That makes two of us. Maybe we should get dismal together."

Not quite knowing why, she reached over and took his hand. "Best not," she said.

He closed his fingers over hers. "What do you want, Mary LaPrioux?"

She had absolutely no idea. Other than to sit beside him and try to make him laugh again. "I wouldn't mind a cigarette." He reached into his jacket pocket, flipped the pack open and offered her one. Then produced a silver lighter. "Thank you."

"I'll swap you for the beer."

"Go ahead, but I drank out of it."

"Not got anything contagious have you?"

"We've had problems with headlice in the school."

Dear God! He was wonderful when he laughed. Wonderful but so melancholy. "Nothing worse than that?"

"Terminal homesickness." Now why had she said that? She was saying nutty things. Stupid things.

He nodded. "I know what that's like."

Another odd, but not uncomfortable silence. Then he squeezed her hand, his fingers strong and warm around hers. She met his eyes and his odd twisted smile. Very sexy, odd twisted smile.

"Looks like Tom Longhurst is heading this way. I bet he wants to ask you to dance."

She bet he was too, dammit. "You'd better ask me first."

His smile faded as if snapped out. "Take your jokes somewhere else."

Hurt wasn't the word, but darn it, he'd walked into the hall and... "I'm not joking, funning or teasing. It's a waltz, nice and slow." She stood, only half aware what she was saying and doing. But she kept hold of his hand. "Come on."

The woman was loony. Expecting him to dance when he could barely walk.

"It's a really slow one," she repeated.

Gryffyth glanced up. Longhurst was definitely heading his way. Damn. "If I fall and measure my length, you're going to swing for it."

"You won't."

He stood. Had to be as insane as she was. Except she walked slowly, keeping pace with his hobble, and the look on Longhurst's face was almost worth the risk of humiliating himself in public. Side by side they walked to the middle of the dance floor. He couldn't help notice everyone stepped back, scared he'd land on them when he toppled, no doubt. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell this woman she was mad as a hatter and go back to his beer. But she rested her hand on his shoulder, his arm curled around her waist and she smiled up at him. "Want me to lead?"

Hell, no! He took a firmer hold of her waist, clasped her right hand in his left one and on the beat, stepped forward.

With his tin leg.

He didn't fall, didn't topple in a heap but it wasn't exactly graceful as they bobbed and stepped. She was surprising strong for her slender build. When he wobbled, she steadied him. When he lurched, she added balance and held him strong. Forget fancy twirls and reverse turns. This was simple, straightforward tread on your partner's toes waltzing. He managed to miss her shins most of the time but her toes had to be black and blue.

Not that her toes were really foremost in his mind.





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