Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

While explaining the various holiday pitfalls, Gabriel said he usually spent Halloween watching old movies, an incurable Hitchcock fan. And then he invited himself over to my house.

This may sound juvenile, but I was nervous. Then again, our first date involved me being interrogated, so I didn’t feel this was unwarranted. We were going to have the place to ourselves. Aunt Jettie had a date to go out with Grandpa Fred, walking the earth when the veil between the spirit world and reality was at its thinnest and all that.

It had taken some work, but I’d finally exorcised the offensive eau de Marlboro Man scent that clung to my skin for days after I left Greenfield Studios. I bathed in tomato juice, used four different types of clarifying shampoo, and invested in the economy pack of Listerine. I also took more care with my appearance than usual that night. I wore a gauzy green blouse and my “good” jeans. I’d actually bothered with earrings, a rare thing for me. And I was wearing makeup. Yes, I did own makeup, blush and powder and Chapstick. But not eyeliner. There was an incident in college. I had to wear an eye patch for two weeks.

I wanted my sire to see that when I wasn’t drunk or freaking out, I wasn’t a total gorgon. And I even wore cute black underwear, because you never knew.

The only real problem was entertainment. I didn’t think building an evening around “Come over and make out with me” was a good way to start a relationship. Then again, “Come over and play canasta” is just lame. My DVD collection did not include the old-fashioned thrillers Gabriel liked but rather an alarming number of romantic comedies that I didn’t want Gabriel to know I had seen, much less owned. And I never realized what a minefield Halloween television could be. Imagine my horror to find the channels crowded with the Blade trilogy and The Lost Boys. In terms of entertainment value, Lost Boys is a great movie. But it involves the unholy trinity that is Corey Feldman, Corey Haim, and Joel Schumacher, and therefore I cannot claim it as a suitable model for my lifestyle.

We finally settled on Francis Ford Coppola’s version of Dracula, which, unfortunately, Gabriel seemed to think was a comedy. I think it was the combination of Keanu Reeves’s British accent and Gary Oldman’s elderly Count Dracula hairstyle.

They’re just misleading.

“Why would he arrange his hair into buttocks on top of his head?” Gabriel laughed.

“You’re not the first person to ask that,” I told him.

He was just so darn cute when he laughed. The skin around his eyes crinkled. His face relaxed. It made him seem so alive, so normal, which in itself seemed weird.

“I never realized how funny Dracula could be,” he said. “Most vampires resent Stoker for the public-relations nightmare he visited on us all, but we secretly enjoy the story. It was the first time vampires were portrayed as sensual creatures, as opposed to mindless, reeking ghouls.”

“Mmmm, you know what book talk does to me,” I growled, stopping when I noticed how prim he looked, sitting in the exact center of my sofa with his back ramrod straight. He was sitting almost a foot away from me, with his hands at his sides. “Why are you sitting like that?”

“I know you have a problem with this on occasion, but I was talking just then.”

“Seriously, why are you sitting like that?” I asked, ignoring his grimace at being interrupted again.

“Because the furniture designers didn’t intend for us to sit on the back of the sofa?”

he suggested.

“You are blatantly violating the rules of the couch date,” I said.

“Couch date?”

“When you spend an entire evening on the couch with an attractive person of the opposite sex, it’s called a couch date,” I said.

“I’ve never been on a couch date,” he admitted.

“Well, let me introduce you to the protocol.” I nudged him into the corner and laid his arm across the back of the sofa. “You sit here. I sit here. As the movie progresses, I will lean closer and closer. Eventually, I will be in this position.” I curled against his side with my head leaned against his shoulder. “You can use this to your advantage.”

“How?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

“You’ll figure it out,” I said, bringing his arm around me.

Did you know there at least nineteen different types of kissing? Open-mouthed and soft kisses that make your toes curl. Tiny, dry kisses peppering your jaw. Tongue. No tongue. And Gabriel knew all of them. Sometimes it paid to date a really old guy. He had a lot of experience. And the best part was that I didn’t have a thought in my head the entire time. OK, yeah, I did, but most of them were along the lines of “Mmmmm.”

“Ohhhh.” And “Thank God I wore the black panties.”

“Is this a violation of couch-date protocol?” he asked when I opened my eyes, halfdazed.

“No, this is, in fact, exactly in keeping with couch-date protocol,” I murmured.

“I’m so glad,” he said, toying with the hem of my blouse before dragging it over my head and tossing it into a pile on the other side of the couch.

I enjoyed the skim of his hands against my bare arms, my stomach against his chest, as I slid onto his lap. He bent his head to run his lips along the contours of my ribs, flexing his fingers around my hips when it made me jump. His hands slid up my back, dragging me down to meet his mouth.

He glided his fingers across my belly, brushing them over my aforementioned panties and the little strawberry-shaped damp spot I’d left on them. I jumped again, forcing his hand harder against me in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I made a breathy little noise that had Gabriel grinning. His clever hand rubbed slow circles over the fabric. I felt his mouth close over my nipple, through the lace of my bra, as he pushed the fabric aside.

And then the doorbell rang.

“Seriously?” I gasped as Gabriel bit gently at the place where my neck and shoulder joined.

“Ignore it,” Gabriel whispered. He undid my bra completely and tossed it across the room. “Please.”

I nodded in mute agreement as my mouth closed over his again. I was fully prepared to ignore anything less than an alien invasion on the front lawn, when the bell gave three more quick peals. Apparently, whoever it was refused to go away, which would have been the reasonable response of any reasonable person harassing a girl who hadn’t had sex in three years.

“Whoever it is, I’m going to kill them,” I vowed as the doorbell chimed again.

“What if it’s trick-or-treaters?” he asked as I disentangled myself and straightened my clothes.

“Anyone over five feet tall is fair game,” I conceded as I struggled into my blouse.

“Where is my bra?” Gabriel looked around the room and shrugged. “Well, whoever it is will have to deal with free-swinging Jane,” I said. “And let that be a lesson to them.”

I opened the door to find Jack and Rose from Titanic standing on my porch. Or, at least, Zeb and Jolene dressed as Jack and Rose in their “jump scene” clothes. Because I needed Gabriel to meet Jolene while she was wearing a gorgeous Edwardian rental gown.

I wouldn’t pale by comparison or anything.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked, my tone not exactly welcoming.

“Well, we just finished up at a costume party, and we thought you might not have plans tonight,” he said.

“Zeb, honey, I think she has somebody here,” Jolene said, pulling him back as she took in the tousled hair, the general state of me. I would have blushed if I still had circulation. Even I could smell the coppery scent of arousal in the room, and with Jolene’s senses…At that moment, Jolene motioned down to my shirt, which was inside out. I groaned. With my vampire senses and agility, you’d think putting on a blouse wouldn’t be that difficult.