Minda Webber - The Reluctant Miss Van Helsing

Staring into the earl's eyes, Jane wanted to fall into those icy blue orbs. Desire swept through her, catching her by surprise with its fearsome strength. She wanted to run into the night with him, to let him show her the heights of the underworld.

Mopping her brow again, Jane fought her attraction. Where had those thoughts come from? Must be his vampiric powers, she decided foggily. But being the Van Helsing that she was, she wouldn't let it show.

"I'd like to introduce myself," he said.

"I know who you are. The Earl of Wolverton." Jane hiccuped delicately, pondering her strange feelings for this fickle fiend of forever. Perhaps she had sipped a bit too much brandy.

The earl bowed elegantly, a gesture that was second nature. "Neil Asher, but you may call me Asher. And who are you?"

"That's for me to know and you to never find out," she responded, wondering why there suddenly seemed to be two earls standing in front of her. "Er, you don't have a twin, do you?" she asked.

"Pardon?" Asher said, looking surprised.

"It's nothing," she managed, waving her hand in the air. "I am not going to tell you my name. You could burn me with fire, cast me into a lake, hang me from ceiling rafters—"

Asher interrupted. "I get the picture." And he did, Ceiling rafters, what fun! She would be naked, of course, and he would kiss every inch of her delectable body before he had his midnight snack.

The woman continued, "You could drag me behind runaway horses, or carry me into the bushes—"

Asher grinned wickedly. "I could?"

Jane nodded solemnly, standing unsteadily, hoping the room would quit spinning. What vampire magic was this? Still, the crafty, devious undead earl must not find out her real name. That would be a total disaster.

Grabbing her arm, he hurried her out and down the terrace stairway, into the night where the soft glow of the moon had turned the formal gardens into a beautiful fairyland.

As she stumbled down the stone steps after him, Jane realized that her father's plan might yet be a smashing success—if only the earl would slow down. And the sooner the better. Her stomach was reacting strangely, and she felt very sleepy.

For once, fortune seemed to be smiling on her; she and the earl were alone. All she had to do now was throw the holy water in his face. Well, maybe not his face. After all, he had those remarkable blue eyes. They reminded her of the ice caps, so pure a blue as to be almost white, with a darker hue encircling the pupils. And his smile… Well, that smile could easily speed up a heartbeat—like it was doing now.

She debated whether throwing the holy water on his chest would still dispatch him. Face or chest, face or chest? she asked silently. The decision had to be made.

And soon, from the way things were advancing. The earl had stopped and was pulling her toward him. If only she knew which image before her was the true Lord Asher.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she opened them again to find one of the faces a bit vaguer than the other. The second must be the true earl. "If only the world would stop spinning," she commented dizzily.

Taken aback, Asher stared at the woman in his arms. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, my queen." Perhaps the night was not going to end as he'd anticipated, with him pumping hard into this sweet Cleopatra's hot, lush valley of the Nile. It seemed he'd ended up with a sphinx.

Anxiety and guilt ridden, and quite inebriated, Jane jerked the first thing out of her pocket that she could find. Unstoppering it, she closed her eyes and prepared herself to do her father's task. She flung the contents at the earl. It splashed onto his chest, saturating his superfine jacket.

"Hi-ho!" she exclaimed. Then, opening her eyes and glancing down at the flask in her hand, she gasped in horror when she saw that the container was silver. Her wits befuddled, Jane still knew something was wrong. The holy water was in a brown bottle, not a silver flask. The thing in the silver flask was brandy. Mortified, Jane gaped at the earl as alcohol fumes hit the air. Dark liquid trailed down her foe's chest.

Astonished, Asher stared down at his ruined coat. Renfield, his valet, would be quite up in arms. His mysterious Queen of the Nile was potty in the head. Just his luck. Dryly, he remarked, "By deuce, if you didn't like my costume, you could have just told me!"

Taking one long look at her brandy-drenched earl, Jane shook her fist in the air, tears in her eyes. "Curses! Foiled again! I'll never live down the embarrassment."

Not if any of her kin heard of the night's fiasco, not to mention that the handsome earl was now thinking her the Queen of Fools. Some vampire slayer she was.

And yet, she could not but be a bit relieved he was alive. He and his beautiful blue eyes. Without further ado or fanfare, Jane turned, her dignity in tatters, and teetered off into the dark, cold night.

Lord Asher cocked his head, raised an aristocratic brow and studied the small figure hurrying unsteadily away. His mind sought out the lone stranger. "Bloody hell! Who was that masked woman, anyway?"

Morning came, a gray, rainy, dismal day as Jane walked into her father's study. She found the major standing by the ornately crafted fireplace, on the moss green Persian carpet that once again she was being called onto.

"Not the old failure-is-not-an-option speech again," she mumbled under breath, praying to escape it.

Major Van Helsing was dressed with his usual military precision in a green hunting jacket, forest green waistcoat and doeskin breeches. Jane wanted to cringe at his foreboding expression as she stood and faced his steely-eyed glare.

The major made Jane feel ten again, back when she had traded her silver cross for a beautiful blue hair ribbon. The major had lectured her quite severely, throwing the brightly colored ribbon into the fireplace. Jane's other punishment had been to have her hair shorn just below the ears. It had taken years to grow out, and the incident had been traumatic for her, who at ten had only just started noticing her looks. Even then, she had known that her freckles weren't very attractive and her lips were a bit too full. So her straight hair, which hung to her knees, was her crowning glory. The shade a dark blond, her locks were her mother's pride and joy as well as her own. Her mother hadn't spoken to her father for four months after the incident, and neither had Jane.

"Your conduct is unbecoming, Jane! You are a disgrace to the Van Helsing name. This is a grave new disappointment in a long line of disappointments, I might add," the major pronounced harshly, his round face rigid with disdain.

"Chin up," Jane whispered. Dejectedly she stared at her overweight, overwrought father, wondering if he cared that his grave disappointment could have resulted in his daughter being gravely disposed—in a real grave, that was, if Dracul had retaliated.

"Jane, what am I to do with you?" he asked. "Don't you know that you don't make holy water out of wine? And whiskey? You could have been badly bitten. You must take more care. Our work is the work of angels. Last night you came home reeking of brandy, your dress a mess, babbling about ruined jackets and handsome devils. And to make matters worse, the Earl of Wolverton is alive and well." The major shook his head and grumbled, "Well, as alive as the undead can be. He wasn't a spot. I was to see the spot, Jane. To see the spot. Don't you see, Jane?"

Jane remained stoic as her father berated her. Once again, she had besmirched the Van Helsing name. She was a twenty-three-year-old family member who had never executed a bloodsucker. She was a complete washout. And there was nothing to be done about it.