“He’s a werewolf.”
Jon nodded.
“You, too?”
“No.” Jon’s eyes found mine. “You’ve always called me Dracula—”
“It was a joke.”
“Maybe to you, but it was closer to the truth than you realized.”
I staggered to my feet. Stunned. Too overwhelmed and shocked to think straight. But I knew one thing. I was hurt. Deeply. Jon hadn’t trusted me enough to tell me the truth. About himself. His son. His wife. Not even his neighbors.
“Are you leaving?” he asked as I headed toward the foyer.
“I don’t know yet. I need some time to think.”
“If it makes any difference, I do trust you, Chrissy. That’s why I told you the truth.”
A tear dribbled down my cheek. I sniffled, dragged my hand across my face. “It sure took you a long time, though.”
He rose to his feet and slowly walked toward me. “You’re right. But am I the only one who was afraid to trust, Chrissy? Or were you putting up a few walls, too?”
“What are you talking about?”
He gave me a pointed look.
Shoot, he was right.
I fell right into defense mode. “But if you hadn’t given me a reason to be distrustful—”
“Chrissy, the first day you were talking about safety nets.”
I was. I had. Shit. How could I have been so insensitive?
“Jon, I’m sorry—”
“I love you,” he said, interrupting me. “I want you to be a part of every aspect of my life. The dark and the light.” Closing the distance between us, he clasped my upper arms in his fists and searched my eyes. I don’t know what he saw, but it couldn’t have been what he’d been hoping for. “You have to be willing to trust me. Do you want to? Are you capable of trusting anyone? Or do you need to jump off the high wire now and let your safety net catch you?”
I didn’t know how to answer him.
He released my arms and I breathed easier. And yet I felt worse. Cut off from him. As if I’d lost him already, despite his words. And, oh God, how awful that hurt. Like a red-hot blade plunged into my gut.
This man had grieved the death of a wife and still fiercely protected the child who’d killed her.
This man had gone out of his way to make me feel at home, welcomed.
This man had silently endured my distrust since the day I’d moved in, waiting patiently for me to decide whether or not I could trust him.
What the hell was I doing? How could I even think to leave this man?
Eyes burning, I flung myself at him. He caught me, just like I knew he would, and pulled me into a bone-crushing embrace. “I’m so sorry,” I said to his chest. “You’re right. I was basically sabotaging our relationship from the minute I stepped out of that truck. It’s a wonder you didn’t throw me out then.”
“I couldn’t do that. I need you too much. You’re my safety net.” He stroked my hair, cupped my chin, and lifted it until our gazes met. “Tell me you love me.” His eyes were pleading.
“You’re my safety net, too. I love you, Dracula.”
“Oh yes. Chrissy.” He kissed me and I kissed him back. He would never again doubt how I felt about him. Never. Vampire or just a guy who works some crazy hours, this man was my dream man. Mr. Perfect. I was going to do everything in my power to be his Mrs. Perfect.
On Halloween, I received a very special gift—the ring, and the proposal that I’d been waiting for. Of course, I very happily accepted both. I’d found a home, a future, a family. Here. In Jonathan Stewart’s arms. In his house. In his town.
Not to mention, a very dedicated, well-dressed, wonderfully goofy Pack of friends to dance with in the moonlight.
As the old saying goes, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. That was never more true than on Lancaster Street. Samantha Phillips was jealous of Lindsay Baker’s freedom. Lindsay Baker envied Erica Ross’s lifestyle—the cars, the clothes, the vacations. And Erica Ross begrudged Samantha’s job as full-time mother.
But they all envied Michelle Stewart. Because everyone knew a vampire—who perhaps was a little too undead to be fairy-tale Prince Charming material—was still a better catch than a hotheaded dragon, a runaround fae, or a demon with an attitude.
WHAT’S YOURS IS MINE
JESS HAINES
CHAPTER 1
Fashion fades, only style remains the same.
—Coco Chanel
“That is a darling color! Very flattering with your skin tone.”
Cassandra, who had been busily staring into space while her nails were being painted, blinked and turned her attention to the woman in the chair next to her. A “city bitch,” Vera would have called her. The woman’s hair was chemically blond and straight, her tan spray-on, and her face painted with colors that gleamed and glittered like the jewelry on her wrists and throat.
Cassandra couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you. I like that shirt. Gucci?”
“Close. Dolce,” the woman admitted, flexing her toes in a way that had the lady working on her pedicure scowling. She fluttered her already painted fingernails in greeting. Rhinestones flashed. “I’m Tiffany. Tiffany Winters.”
“Cassandra Sachs. Nice to meet you.”
The intricate dance of Who Has More Money had only just begun. Cassandra surreptitiously eyed the purse at the foot of the woman’s cushy chair; she couldn’t see the brand name, but the Prada sunglasses hanging off a strap were a clue.
Tiffany smiled, revealing blindingly white teeth. “Say, I’m new to town. I just moved into the Still Waters community.” Another hint, this one as subtle as a solid gold brick to the face. Still Waters was one of the most exclusive—and expensive—gated communities in town. “I don’t suppose you know of any places closer than Manhattan that have some real nightlife, do you?”
“Oh, absolutely!” Cassandra ignored Ling’s gasp when she shifted to ensure the huge rock on her finger caught the light, figuring her nail stylist would fix the smeared polish without a fuss. Ling made a small sound in her throat that might have been a curse, but she was paid too much money to scold one of her best customers. “As a matter of fact, we’re neighbors. I live in Still Waters, too. A few of us get together and go to the Smoke & Whiskey downtown for drinks a couple nights a week. You’re welcome to join us.”
The two women chatted for a while, their despairing nail technicians doing their best to ensure no more polish was smeared as the ladies moved just so to ensure their skin, jewelry, and clothing was displayed to best advantage, preferably with brand names visible at all times. Cassandra finally felt she had the upper hand when Tiffany’s blue eyes (contacts, she was sure) widened perceptibly at the sight of the pink diamond on her ring finger. It caught the light as no imitation would, practically crackling with sparkles.
Tiffany did as any woman would when confronted by such an eye-catching stone. She cooed over the diamond, clearly lusting after one of her own.
“My goodness, you must have found yourself quite a catch to get a rock like that!”
Cassandra’s lips curled, practically purring with pleasure. “Oh, he is, no doubt of that. Gabriel’s great-great-grandfather was a partner in the original Kimberley diamond mine excursion. He could have lived on the trust his father set up, but he opened his own architectural firm instead.”
Tiffany’s eyes widened, suitably impressed. Cassandra, for her part, was not about to let an opportunity to pry slip by.
“What about you? What does your husband do?”
“Oh,” Tiffany said, airy tones dripping with indifference, “I’m not married. Not anymore, as far as I’m concerned. My husband dealt in security and built custom firearms. We had our differences and separated last year. The divorce is nearly finalized, and I’m not in any rush to replace him. The alimony and sales of my artwork keep me comfortable.”
Cassandra clicked her tongue, making sympathetic sounds, eyes bright as she studied Tiffany more closely. “That’s a shame things didn’t work out.”
“We didn’t have any kids and we discovered late in the relationship that we both wanted different things out of life. The separation was amiable, and the divorce was relatively painless. Truthfully, it’s better this way for both of us.”
“Well, I’m glad you’ve got such a bright outlook on things. You really should meet the other ladies. I think a girls night out would be just the thing. Meet us at the Smoke & Whiskey tonight at ten. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
Tiffany’s plush lips curved in a wicked smile as she leaned back in her salon chair, closing her eyes.
“I can’t wait.”
“Oh, you’ll like this one,” Cassandra said, stirring her martini with a thin crystal swizzle stick. “New to town, no kids, no husband, and positively desperate to fit in.”
“Desperation should suit our needs quite nicely,” Vera replied before she sipped her lemon drop, crossing her slender legs primly at her ankles. “When’s the last time we took in new blood? If we don’t work to expand our ranks as much as we have our fortunes, we’ll never have the kind of influence over the Were communities that Gabriel keeps going on about. If he wants to be the next Rohrik Donovan, he needs to work for it.”