Dead Over Heels

“Oh.” He chewed, blank-faced, then said, “I’d rather get married right now.”

“You ass! Jesus, I love you.” Then, horrified, she clapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it!”

“Yes, you did.” He looked unbearably smug.

“It just sort of slipped out! Like—like verbal diarrhea.”

“You,” he said, “should write greeting cards. You’ve got such a way with words.”

She threw another muffin at him, which he snatched out of the air and devoured in two bites. “Date!” she practically screamed. “We will date! And in two weeks, maybe we’ll get married.”

There was a polite rap on the door, and he instantly got up.

“No, stay put and eat. I’ll get it. Maybe Geoff’s back for round two.”

“Doubt it.”

She went to the front door, opened it, and saw her Pack leader, Michael Wyndham, standing on the front step.

“Cain! Congratulations!”

“Huh? I mean, good morning, Michael.”

“As soon as I heard the great news I went to work.”

“Huh?”

“Jeez, you’re kind of slow on the uptake, aren’t you? I’ve got the paperwork all arranged.” He handed her a sheet on thick vellum.

A marriage certificate.

And Michael, of course, was licensed to marry them.

“Saul!” she screamed, almost crumpling the license in her fist. “You—manipulative—prick!”

“Wedding day jitters?” Michael asked kindly.

“Aren’t you going to invite him in?” Saul called from the kitchen.

She weighed the pleasure of slamming the door in his face against the consequences of slamming the door in his face, then grudgingly stepped aside so he could enter.

Then she trotted down the hall to the kitchen. “This doesn’t prove anything! I’m not signing that thing today!”

“Well, I am.” He was scraping the rest of his runny eggs into the garbage disposal. “You can sign it whenever you’re ready.”

“Which might be a long damn time, Mr. Planned Everything without Telling Me! Ever think of that?”

“Ticktock, Cain. You’re thirty . . . when?”

“You know when!” she yowled.

“So,” Michael said from behind her, “who’s signing this thing? Say, Cain, remember that bet we made when we were just kids, about how we wouldn’t get mated until we—”

She snatched the thing out of his hand. Saul handed her a pen. She signed it with an angry slash. Thrust it at her (groan) husband. Who also signed it.

“Okay,” Michael said, looking at them doubtfully and taking the certificate back. “As you know, you’re now legally married, but we’d love to have a formal ceremony for you at the Manor. When you’re, um, not so stressed. Maybe in a week or two?”

“I’m not stressed. I’m fucking married.”

“Well, ah, congratulations seem to be in order for the, um, happy couple.”

“You bastard,” she told Saul.

Her husband smiled and handed her a glass of raw eggs.

“You’ll pay,” she warned him. “For the next fifty years, you’ll pay.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he said, and kissed her for a lovely long time, and at one point Michael cleared his throat and left, but they didn’t notice.

And now, a sneak preview of Undead and Unworthy the seventh installment of the Betsy the Vampire Queen series

Chapter 1

Bored, I crossed the carpet in five steps, climbed up on Sinclair’s desk, and kissed him. My left knee dislodged the phone, which hit the floor with a muffled thump and instantly started making that annoying eee-eee-eee sound. My right skidded on a fax Sinclair had gotten from some bank.

Surprised, but always up for a nooner (or whatever vampires called sex at 7:30 at night), my husband kissed me back with knee-weakening enthusiasm. Meanwhile, due to the aforementioned knee-skidding, I slammed into him so hard, his chair hit the wall with enough force to put a crack in the wallpaper. More work for the handyman.

He yanked, and my (cashmere! argh) sweater tore down the middle. He shoved, and my skirt (Ann Taylor) went up. He pulled, and my panties (Target) went who-knew-where. And I was pretty busy tugging and pulling at his suit (try as I might, I could not get the king of the vampires to not wear a suit), so the cloth was flying.

He did that sweep-the-top-of-the-desk thing you see in movies and plopped me on my back. He reached down and I said, “Not the shoes!” so he left them alone (although I noticed the eye roll and made a mental note to bitch about it later).

He tugged, pulled, and entered. It hurt a little, because normally I needed more than sixteen seconds of foreplay, but it was also pretty fucking great (literally!).

I wrapped my legs around his waist so I could admire my sequined leopard-print pumps (don’t even ask me what they cost). Then I grinned up at him, I couldn’t help it, and he smiled back, his dark eyes narrow with lust. It was so awesome to be a newlywed. And I was almost done with my thank-you notes!

I let my head fall back, enjoying the feel of him, the smell of him, his hands on my waist, his dick filling me up, his mouth on my neck, kissing, licking, then biting.

Then my dead stepmother said, “This is all your fault, Betsy, and I’m not going anywhere until you fix it.”

To which I replied (really quite logically), “Aaaaah! Aaaaah! AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH-HHHHHHHH!”

Sinclair jerked like I’d turned into sunshine and spoke for the first time since I swept into his office. “Elizabeth, what’s wrong? Am I hurting you?”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

From my vantage point, my dead stepmother was upside down, which somehow made it all the more terrible because, contrary to popular belief, you can’t turn a frown upside down.

“You can fuss all you want, but you’ve got responsibilities, and don’t think I don’t know it.” She shook her head at me and in death, as in life, her overly coiffed pineapple-blonde hair didn’t move. She was wearing a fuchsia skirt, a low-cut sky blue blouse, black nylons, and fuchsia pumps. Also, too much makeup. It practically hurt to look at her. “So you better get to work.”

“Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”

Sinclair pulled out and started frantically feeling me. “Where are you hurt?”

“The Ant! The Ant!”

“You—what?”

Before I could elaborate (and where to begin?), I heard thundering footsteps and then Marc slammed into the closed office door. I heard him back off and grab for the doorknob, and then he was standing in the doorway. “Betsy, are you—oh my God!” He went red so fast I was afraid he was going to have a stroke. “I’m sorry, jeez, I