Fangs for Nothing

“What?”

“And no, that’s not a fetish game show. We’re at the bride’s house, in her special soundproof room.”

Bride. That’s right. Lizette had gone to the wedding of Johnny’s friend to confront Johnny for missing their appointment and removing his drums from the apartment before the investigation had been concluded. Or had even really started, frankly. She remembered arguing with him, feeling a bit faint, drinking a horrible-tasting punch. Then mostly nothing.

“Did I dance with you?” she asked him in horror.

Johnny gave her a rueful look. “I think we danced together and then some.”

Oh dear. Did he mean . . .

Lizette’s head was throbbing. Her eyes were gritty. Her shoulders and legs were stiff.

But those were not the only parts of her that were sore. As she sat on the carpeted floor of Zelda’s dominatrix dungeon, she stared at the handcuffs attaching her wrist to Johnny Malone’s, and had the horrible suspicion that he was the party responsible for the unmistakable well-loved sensation between her legs.

She wouldn’t have slept with him. She couldn’t have. Except there was no denying a few particular facts.

She was handcuffed to him.

A quick shift confirmed she was no longer wearing panties.

And despite the way her head ached, whenever she glanced over at him, there was a sizzling awareness between them, like their bodies remembered what had happened even if neither of their brains did.

“I don’t know what to say. I am mortified,” she told him honestly. “I have never blacked out from drinking. Ever. I would have declined the toxic punch if I had known it would result in . . . this. Whatever this is.” Overcome with the sudden desperate need to get out of the room and distance herself from Johnny and the knowledge that she had behaved like a complete wanton, she tried to stand up.

Only to wind up falling down on her backside when the weight of Johnny’s attached limb pulled her straight back down. “Stand up!” she snapped.

“Fine. Jesus. How was I supposed to know you were going to stand up? I’m not psychic,” he mumbled. “On the count of three, we’ll stand, okay?”

She nodded, realizing he was right.

“Un. Deux. Trois.”

He spoke French. Amazed, Lizette pushed off the floor with him as they stood together. He didn’t look like the type of man who would know a second language, whatever that might look like. She realized that this could work to her advantage, because she remembered a key piece of information. “Saxon’s new wife is mortal, yes?” she asked quietly.

He nodded.

“Is that her?” she asked, gesturing with her head to the screaming blouse-wearer.

“No. I have no idea who that is.” He edged forward in the dark a little. “I think that’s Zelda on the floor, passed out, but holy crap, why is she almost naked? And where is Saxon?”

Lizette found that she could not care where Saxon was, as she had suddenly become aware by their forward shuffling that there was a man wearing leather pants that had no back to them so that his entire posterior was exposed. He turned around to face them. Nor was there a front.

Oh my.

She swallowed and averted her gaze, suddenly wishing she had resisted the urge to tell Johnny Malone exactly what she thought of his defiance and had waited until after the wedding to speak with him. She had heard tales of wild partying in New Orleans, and clearly here was her evidence. There were far too many people in this room in various states of undress, and a glance over to the right revealed an entire wall of sex toys and props. She couldn’t look at them.

But she couldn’t look at the naked man either.

Or the woman sprawled out on her back in nothing but a bra and sheer panties.

Which left her nowhere to look but at her feet, which were bare. Those were expensive pumps she’d been wearing, and she glanced back to where they had been sitting, suddenly frantic at the realization that her purse wasn’t on her shoulder. She went nowhere without her handbag. It was a third arm, and she would be profoundly unnerved if it was missing, given its contents. Her passport was in there. She gave a sigh of relief when she saw it was lying on the floor. That was a start. And at least Johnny was fully dressed. She had checked. It was slightly reassuring, but honestly she’d feel much better with her panties on and her hair back up in a bun. Why would she have taken her hair down?

That was probably a stupid question. During dancing or whatever had come after that.

“Drake! Dude, how many times do I have to tell you to put some clothes on? Damn.” Johnny looked pained himself as he shielded his eyes from the view. “And where the hell is Saxon?”

“I have no idea, man. You know about as much as I do, which is nothing. Your foot on my ass woke me up, then Cupcake got me down out of the sex swing. Saxon is gone. Zelda is passed out. You’re handcuffed to a chick I’ve never seen before in my life, and none of us remember what happened last night.” He looked at Lizette hopefully. “Unless you do?”

“No, sorry.” She wasn’t sure if that was a curse or a blessing. She suspected it might be better to be lacking in details of the events of the night. “I’m Lizette Chastain, by the way. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck out her free hand, realizing it was a bit ridiculous under the circumstances, but feeling that manners should never be abandoned, especially in times of crisis.

He gave her a grin and shook her hand enthusiastically. “Drake Hanover, at your service.”

He gave her a leg, eighteenth-century style, which would have been significantly more charming if he weren’t fully naked from hip to hip. His wrist wasn’t the only thing that gave a flourish.

“I take it you’re French? I spent time on the Continent in my youth,” he told her. “My father was British, my mother Spanish, but I spent time in Paris.”

“Oh, indeed?” Under normal circumstances, she would have loved to discuss his youth, which she suspected was of a similar time to her own, but the girl in the blouse was clearly mortal. Lizette could hear her heartbeat and smell the blood pumping through her veins. She turned to her. “I’m Lizette, it’s a pleasure. And you are?”

The girl didn’t look particularly scared. She looked angry. Very, very angry. “I’m Josie Lynn.”

“Enchante,” Lizette added, because there just wasn’t an English equivalent that sounded as pleasing to her French ear.

“I’m Cajun but I don’t speak French,” Josie Lynn said. “And I want to know who the hell drugged me last night!”

That startled Lizette. “We were drugged?” she asked Johnny.

“It certainly seems like a reasonable explanation,” he said. “Which means we should probably be a little concerned about Zelda. She is out cold, and I would cover her up with my shirt but I can’t get my shirt off with this handcuff on. Is there a blanket or something around here? Maybe we should call for backup from Stella and Katie.”

Lizette knew Stella was of course Johnny’s sister and that Katie was married to Berto Cortez. She realized that Johnny was concerned about Zelda, and it did touch her just a tiny bit. Not wanting to reveal anything vampiric to Josie Lynn, she spoke French to Johnny. “So you think Zelda may be in danger, given that she is a mortal? If a drug could affect us as vampires that dramatically, what could it do to her, yes?”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding.

The truth was, Johnny had no clue what the hell Lizette was saying. He didn’t speak French. He barely spoke English with any sort of rhyme or reason, and certainly without any regard for proper grammar. But for some reason, Lizette thought he was worldly enough to speak her language, and he wasn’t about to disabuse her of that notion right now. It must have been his counting to three in French, but that was all he knew how to speak in about six languages. Along with the obvious yes and no. But he just didn’t want to admit that. Maybe it was because they might have had sex with each other, but Johnny felt compelled to impress Lizette. He knew she thought he was a jackass, and normally, that wouldn’t bother him. He also thought she was perhaps the most irritating woman he’d ever met, with her clipboard and her lists and her rules. But she had danced like a French hooker the night before, and with her hair down now . . . looking luscious and carefree, well, he didn’t find her quite as annoying.