Biting the Bride by Clare Willis Read Free Book Online Page A

but attractive, her brown eyes large and round, her naturally curly hair escaping its tightly coiled arrangement. Under the spaghetti straps of the dress her shoulders glowed, as pink and soft as a newborn piglet.
    He put the drink to his lips and let a little liquid rest on his tongue. He tasted the oil and salt and Italian sunshine in the olive, and then the sharp rustic tang of the vodka. The Italians take an inedible, bitter fruit and make the delicious versatile olive, while the Russians pour chilled lighter fluid down their throats without benefit of mixer. So many different cultures, so many different approaches to life.
    He turned his attention back to the woman in the short dress and rehearsed the impending scenario in his mind. When he approached her she would be surprised, pleased that someone so attractive would choose her, but wary of his intentions. Maybe he would buy her a drink, maybe dance with her to a slow song. He would spread his palms on her back, sense the undulation of her hips. Through his fingertips he would feel every vulnerability that a delicate woman contains, each knob of her spine held in place by tiny sinews, so easily broken, the rivers of blood flowing north and south from the heart, entering all the little tributaries where her hopes reside—the hands, the eyes, the nose, the mouth. He would lean down, speak soothingly into her ear, his lips just touching her hair. His words would form gossamer chains, holding her in place with the force of her own dreams. She would surrender up all that she was and ever would be on the strength of a whisper. She would trust him, although she had no reason to do so. It was the nature of women.
    Except for Sunni Marquette.
    Even though he continued to watch the one in the red dress, Sunni filled his mind. He had known when he first saw her, all those years ago, that she was different. It was in the tilt of her chin, how she held her shoulders at right angles to her neck, the way she could meet anyone’s eyes without flinching. It wasn’t that she could never be won over, that she was unassailable. But she would have to choose him, not the other way around. Perhaps she could be had, but she could not be taken. There was a spark in her that was unquenchable, even if she was too naïve to realize it.
    It was that spark that had drawn Richard to her, as a moth to a candle, and like the heedless fire that could either preserve or destroy life, Sunni could save him, by warming his chilled heart. Or she could draw him into the flame of daylight, where he, a creature of shadows, could not survive.
    It was not like him to entertain such negative thoughts, and he literally pinched himself to stop them, taking the soft pad of flesh between his thumb and forefinger and piercing it with a fingernail. Yes, Sunni Marquette might be dangerous, but to other, less experienced vampires, not to Richard Lazarus. He looked back at the lady in red. He could see her heart beating, causing the soft flesh of her chest to quiver. The woman gave him a tentative smile. His fangs descended, snapping into place like switchblades as he moved in for the kill.
    He left the lady in red in one of the bathroom stalls while her friend searched for her on the dance floor. After retrieving his coat and gloves and handsomely tipping the coat check girl, he strolled back toward the hotel. He had almost reached the lobby door when a black limousine appeared in his peripheral vision. He remembered seeing it parked across the street when he left the hotel. He cursed himself that he hadn’t thought to check inside it. Very sloppy, that was. The car screeched to a halt in front of him. The door opened and two vampires in dark suits jumped out.
    Richard nodded to one of them, a handsome Italian of about thirty years, with curly black hair and a sartorial flair, evidenced tonight in a hot pink dress shirt and emerald tie, with a gold cross lying on top of it.
    “Hello, Enzo.” He turned to the other