His Captive Mortal A Vampire Romance - Renee Rose Page 0,20

he acted like a jackass? Because as infuriating as I find him, some part of me doesn’t want him to ever stop.

But that’s messed up.

I need to steel myself against his charm because I’m in way over my head. I don’t even know if he plans to kill or turn me when he’s done with me. I don’t know if he’d take any compunction in forcing me to do whatever he wants—lick his boots, serve as his sex slave...damn. Why did that turn me on?

I flip on the tv, waiting, I suppose, although I have no clue if he’ll even return.

An hour later, a car pulls up and parks outside my duplex. Not able to look out the window, I open the door a crack and peek outside.

No. Way.

Charlie walks up the sidewalk carrying at least four bags of groceries, maybe more. I throw the door wide and run out in bare feet to meet him. “Let me take some of those.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He cranes his neck around the pile of bags to look at me with amusement. Sexy vampire.

“Oh so now you’re chivalrous?” When he doesn’t answer, I ask, “Are there more?”

“Yes, but I will get them. You may put things away.”

Bossy pants.

I guess I should be used to it by now. I peer into the first bag he sets down and get excited.

It’s silly—I wasn’t starving. But I was living on a shoestring ever since I moved to Tucson to attend the University of Arizona to get my teaching degree. By the time I graduated, budget cuts had reduced teaching staff across all the districts, and I couldn’t find work, so I’d taken the job at the center. It didn’t pay much more than minimum wage, but at least I’m using my degree, and eventually it should help me find a teaching position.

But I don’t have money to splurge on all the things he bought: steak, shrimp, scallops. The most expensive brand of ice cream. Organic produce and imported crackers. Fine wine. European cheeses. I felt almost giddy about it.

He bought food from the deli, too, containers with shepherd’s pie, Greek salad and sweet potato french fries. Despite the imperious act, he pitches in with efficient ease, taking over the arranging of food in my refrigerator, opening the deli containers and setting plates out on the table.

“Thank you.” Now I’m slightly ashamed about my earlier demand that he contribute. I hope we aren’t taking turns with groceries because I can’t afford half of what he bought. I grab two forks and sit across from him, stealing peeks at his beautiful face, the way his canines extend just a little farther than a mortal’s, even when retracted. Why do I find that so appealing—especially when they should scare the bejeezus out of me? Or is it because they scare me?

I wolf the food down, and he raises an eyebrow when I clean my plate within just a few minutes.

“Do you want more? By all means.” He gestures with his fork toward the deli containers.

“No, thank you.”

“Go on, you ate like you were half-starved. I wouldn’t mind seeing a little more meat on your bones, too.”

“I’m not eating to suit your predilections about my body,” I say primly, standing up and carrying my plate to the sink. But then I spot the Belgian chocolate shortbread cookies on the counter. Softening my tone, I ask, “May I try one of those cookies?”

“Help yourself,” he says. “The food is for you.” As I rip open the package, he asks, “Do you start day shift tomorrow?”

“No, I get a day off.”

“What is your new schedule?”

“I work eight to five, like a normal person.”

He made a sound of disapproval. “Of course now you’ll want to sleep at night. I might have to make you quit that job.”

I half choke. “No,” I say in the hardest tone I can manage.

He raises a dark brow. “Do you love it?”

I cock my head and chew a cookie slowly before swallowing. “I love parts of it. I hate parts of it. But those kids need me. I couldn’t quit. I would drive a stake through your heart before I left that job.”

He turns back to his plate. “That’s a pretty cavalier way to talk about ending my life,” he observes. “Would you kill anyone who interfered with your career?”

“Well no, but—”

He turns back. “But what?”

I swallow.

“But I’m a vampire, so my life doesn’t count?”

I fiddle with the cookie packaging, not looking up.

“I see,” he said drily.

I break