Vampire in Paradise

  On her lips was crimson lip paint, which should have appeared garish but was not.

  More like licksome. I wonder if it tastes like cherries, or strawberries. Or, God forbid, sweet apples.

  In essence, she looked like sin on a silver platter.

  And he was a sinner.

  Alas and alack, the voice in his head said, She is not on your menu, Viking.

  Chapter 9

  Hobnobbing with the in crowd . . .

  Despite the circumstances, Marisa was having a good time.

  The boat was luxurious.

  Okay, revision here. Remember, do not call a yacht a boat. I’ve been corrected on that point enough already. Like it matters! Men and their . . . boats!

  The champagne fizzed cool and delicious on the tongue.

  It’s wasted on me, though. I would be just as happy with an icy diet soda.

  Waiters carrying gold-plated trays offered appetizers, everything from mini black truffle bruschettas to beluga caviar on toast points.

  Can anyone say “doggie bag”?

  The music played by a small jazz combo provided a soft backdrop.

  Salsa, people! Haven’t you ever heard of salsa?

  She hadn’t expected such a sophisticated gathering of roughly seventy-five guests. The movers and shakers of the porn industry. Even Harry, whom she’d been talking to as he networked among the crowd, was looking nice in what had to be a hand-tailored tux.

  Nice, but still old. For me, she thought. Well, age doesn’t matter . . . shouldn’t matter . . . if it gains me my daughter Izzie’s life-saving operation.

  I am not really considering this . . . thing.

  Oh yes, I am.

  She had to give Harry credit. He was acting super polite toward her. Host-like. Not at all pushy as he’d been earlier. Maybe I misinterpreted his actions. Maybe he’s not even interested in me that way.

  “Nice party,” she told him.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Shall I introduce you to some of my guests?”

  “No, I’d rather just mingle on my own.” She glanced around at the teak walls and crystal chandelier. “I love your b—yacht.”

  His eyes lit up, then drifted half closed in a slow, deliberate perusal of her body. He probably thought he looked sexy doing so. “Would you like a tour?”

  Tour, schmore! He’s interested, all right. The devious old pervert is up to something. Although I suppose old man/young woman isn’t really a perversion. It’s been going on forever. Even in the Bible, for heaven’s sake. Though, for the sake of accuracy, the Good Book doesn’t condone illicit, out-of-wedlock activities. Jeesh! My brain is splintering apart with all these speculations. “Maybe some other time. I can’t stay much longer. Got to get up early for work tomorrow.” They’d been at the party for more than an hour already. Boats were available to take anyone back to the hotel at any time.

  “Do you have to? Work, I mean?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I could help . . .” His words trailed off as he seemed to realize it was too soon for what he might have been going to propose. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I work at the Phoenix Restaurant during the dinner hour.”

  He barely controlled a twitch of frustration. “A late dinner? Here on my yacht?”

  “Not tomorrow.”

  The expression on his face was almost hostile before he masked it over with a shrug of acceptance.

  “Perhaps another night?” she suggested. By then, she might have made up her mind to do . . . whatever.

  “Definitely,” he said, leaning up to kiss her on the cheek before moving on to talk to a man she recognized as a famous Hollywood movie director. Clinton Farentino. Maybe he was considering a move to “art” films.

  The hot topic of conversation throughout was how the porn industry was moving its physical operations, lock, stock, and beds, from California to Las Vegas because of a new Los Angeles voter-approved regulation requiring male actors to wear condoms. Supposedly the number of permits to make porn films in Los Angeles County had declined by more than ninety-five percent since the law was passed.

  Someone, she couldn’t recall who, had told her tonight that there were four thousand to eleven thousand porn films made in the U.S. every year. Yikes! And despite the decline in the sale of home videos, almost fifty million people watched porn on the Internet on a regular basis. Double yikes! Obviously, if she hadn’t known it before, she did now: Porn was big business. No wonder people like Harry with legitimate business success were turning to smut.

  She scanned the room and noticed Dr. Sig chatting with Becky Bliss and some outrageously good-looking guy wearing a tuxedo with a Blue Devils baseball cap. Was the brown-haired stud yet another adult film actor? If he wasn’t, he could be. In fact, he would be a hit in regular films, as well, based on his appearance alone. Both men could. Brad Pitt and Alexander Skarsgård had nothing on them.

  She’d seen the two men arrive with Becky earlier. She wasn’t sure if Sigurd or Blue Devil was her date. Maybe they all came together. A threesome? In this crowd, she shouldn’t be surprised, but she was.

  Becky was talking a mile a minute, and both men were just listening, bored expressions on their faces. How bored could any man be with the queen, rather princess of erotica as his date? Especially wearing that white silk gown that showed her lack of underwear every time she moved. Well, it was none of Marisa’s business.

  Inga was in a group with Tiffany and Lance. They’d practically had to use a shoehorn to help Tiffany get into the pink rhinestone, deep-cleavaged sheath. In fact, Tiffany had lain down on the bed, face first, while Doris straddled her hips and held the sides together so that Marisa and Inga could tug up the zipper. If Tiffany was planning on getting lucky with Lance, he’d have to cut the dress off.

  Though luck was in the eyes of the beholder, Marisa mused, finding the male porn star’s sexuality too blatant. The torpedo he sported between his legs, even in a tux, was alarming, especially if it was in a relaxed state. I cannot believe I am thinking about the guy’s anatomy. On the other hand, someone else’s anatomy, that I could understand. And I don’t mean Harry Goldman. Vikings and longboats came to mind.

  Shaking her head to rid it of such unwelcome thoughts, Marisa watched Inga, who was holding her own in a knockoff Valentino beaded peacock chiffon dress and color-coordinated Jimmy Choo stilettos. Truth to tell, Inga was in her element. The quintessential party girl.

  Marisa, not looking too shabby herself in a simple red Alexander McQueen sheath, made deliberate eye contact with her friend. She and Inga had long had an agreement that when they went to parties together, they always stayed within eye contract. It was a nasty fact of life that drinks could be spiked, even in the safest groups.

  Indicating with a hand motion that she was stepping outside for a moment, Marisa set her champagne glass down on a table and walked out onto the open deck where the evening air was balmy and sweet. The sound of the combo, which had moved on to old classics of the Frank Sinatra era, became fainter. Off in the distance, she heard a splash. Probably some fish jumping for a quick meal of bugs or smaller fish. Or maybe it was a shark. Nah. The only sharks in these waters were the ones inside the yacht.

  Leaning against the rail, she was startled when Sigurd came up to stand beside her. “You” was all she said.

  “Me.”

  “Did you crash or were you invited?”

  “What do you think?”

  What she thought was this man was too good-looking for her well-being. He wore black slacks, a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a black sport coat. His blond hair hung loose to his shoulders, except for two thin braids that framed either side of his face . . . braids that were interwoven with blue crystal beads the exact color of his pale eyes. And he smelled wonderful . . . that scent she’d noticed before, evergreen with oranges. He couldn’t convince her that it wasn’t his cologne.

  “I think you came riding on Becky Bliss’s coatt
ails.”

  “Coat?” He shook his head. “Tail, yes. Though I wouldn’t quite say ‘riding.’”

  “That was crude.”

  “Yes, it was. Sinners have that effect on me.”

  “Sinners? Aren’t you being a bit judgmental?”

  He shrugged and idly ran a fingertip along her shoulder. Well, not so idle. He put that fingertip between his lips and sucked.

  Holy hormones! She would have smacked his hand, but his action had been so unexpected and quickly over, and her lady parts were jumpstarting into gear. Va-room, va-room.

  He made a face of distaste, and licked his lips to rid them of the remaining sparkles, then rubbed a forefinger over his bottom lip to see if it was all gone. They weren’t.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “’Twould seem so.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Lick my Sparkle Sprinkles.”

  “You . . . they . . . looked edible. Call it curiosity!”

  “Call it disgusting. What if these Sparkle Sprinkles are poisonous?”

  “Why would you wear something poisonous?” He was looking at his sparkled forefinger as if it might explode.

  “What would you do if I . . .” She’d been going to ask what he’d do if she licked his finger . . . or his lips where there were indeed still a few sparkles. Slow down, girl. We are not off to the races today. She stopped herself from completing the sentence just in time.

  Somehow, he knew, though.

  “I would probably swoon with delight,” he said. Then added that odd expression that she’d noticed him use before, “For my sins. I wonder if Satan invented Sparking Sprinkles to tempt sinners, such as me?”

  “Sparkle Sprinkles,” she corrected.

  “Whatever.” He sniffed the air, then leaned closer and sniffed some more.

  As if she smelled! Is it my perfume? No, I forgot to bring perfume.

  With a grunt of disgust, he took her by the hand and dragged over to a dark corner of the deck, under an overhang.

  “Let me go!” she protested, but he had her backed up against a wall and not with any lascivious intent, either. The expression on his face was stone-cold serious.

  “I need to bite you, Marisa,” he said.

  That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. She was shocked.

  “No, no, do not struggle. ’Tis for your own good.”

  “For my own good,” she sputtered. “You are crazy. Let go of me, at once, or I’m going to scream my head off.”

  She opened her mouth to do just that, but he laid his lips over hers to halt her protests. And any inclination she had to struggle died a quick death of molten, wet heat, emanating from their joined lips and ricocheting to all her extremities and some interesting places in between.

  A groan of raw hunger, low in his throat, caused a mirroring groan from deep inside her, and she wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders. Needing no further invitation, he tugged her even closer, one hand behind her neck, the other under her butt, moving himself into the cradle of her hips, giving her a message, loud and clear, or was that hard and insistent, of just how much he wanted her. And, oh my goodness, did she want him, too!

  Never, in all her life, had she been so aroused by a man. Not so quickly. Not so strongly.

  The kiss seemed to go on forever as he slanted his open mouth over hers, this way and that, seeking the perfect fit. And when he found it, his tongue teased hers with slow, sensuous, in-and-out forays of taste.

  At one point, he whispered into her ear, “You have done something bad, Marisa.”

  “No,” she whimpered, too mindless to be annoyed at his suggestion.

  “Then you are contemplating something bad.” He wet the side of her neck with a wide swath of his tongue and placed his teeth against the moist skin.

  She could swear she felt the imprint of his fangy incisors. “Just contemplating,” she admitted. “Not decided yet.”

  “Let me take a little of your blood,” he murmured seductively, even as his left palm massaged her buttocks . . . Thank heavens, I’m wearing a thong . . . and the right hand caressed the skin of one arm, from one ear, over shoulder, to elbow and back again, causing all the fine hairs on her exposed flesh to stand on end. Wanting more. Much more.

  Then he gave it to her.

  The right hand homed in on her breasts. Just a brush of his knuckles. Thank heavens, I’m not wearing a bra. Any blood left in her head shot down to her chest, and she felt her knees buckle.

  He caught her, promising in a sexy whisper against her ear, accompanied by a nip of the lobe, “I can remove the temptation.”

  “I bet you could,” she murmured, arching her body even closer to his, “but I like the temptation.”

  He chuckled, and pinched her behind. “Not that temptation.”

  “Aren’t you tempted?” She tipped her head back, still in his tight embrace, to see his expression.

  He made a deliberate attempt to close his lips—lips that were bruised from her kisses, she noted with inordinate pleasure—over his teeth where those two fangy incisors were prominent once again. How was it that they came and went? “If you only knew, sweetling! If you only knew!” he said on a moan.

  He leaned in then and proved just how much he was tempted. With a growl, he kissed her deeply, so deeply she could barely breathe, and didn’t want to. He seemed to be taking in enough oxygen for them both.

  Is he actually breathing into my mouth even as he deep kisses me? Talk about multitasking!

  Did I just suck on his tongue?

  Through her lust-infused brain blur, she heard a male voice call out, “Hey, buddy!”

  Sigurd went immediately stiff. No, not that kind of stiff, which he’d already been. Stiff all over.

  “Where you hiding, Sig my friend? Do not think you can schluff that blonde lackbrain off on me.”

  “Schluff?” Sigurd groaned against her ear.

  “Schluff, as in ‘take her off your hands.’ She actually asked me the size of my . . .” The man in the tux and Blue Devils baseball cap walked closer, then halted when he saw Marisa. “Whoa!”

  Sigurd didn’t turn around, but pressed himself tighter against her, as if in protection.

  From what? First, he wants to keep me away from Dirty Harry, and now from a tuxedo-clad guy in a baseball cap.

  “Get lost, Zeb,” Sigurd gritted out.

  “Not a chance! I did not know vangels were allowed to do that. All the more incentive for me to join the good team!” Instead of leaving, the man propped himself against a nearby rail, arms folded, ankles crossed, and smiled. He, too, had little pointy incisors.

  Is it a club they all belong to where everyone has to file down their teeth? Hey, men do dumber things than that all the time. Think tattoos and bolts in unlikely places. And women are just as dumb. Can anyone say “Brazil wax”? Has to be a man who thought up that one, but women were brain dead enough to agree.

  Just then, there was a female scream from inside the party room, followed by a male voice, probably Harry Goldman, yes, it was Harry, shouting, “Doctor! Where the hell’s that doctor?” Everyone seemed to be talking or yelling at the same time.

  Sigurd immediately rushed away from her, heading toward the commotion, but he stopped at the door and pointed a finger at Blue Devil. “Do not dare lay a finger on her.”

  Blue Devil—Zeb, Sigurd had called him—tipped his hat at Sigurd, then held out a hand for Marisa so that they could go inside and see what was happening. She ignored the hand but did follow after him. There was something about him that made her uncomfortable. And not in the same way that lots of men at this conference made her feel. He was kind of woo-woo scary.

  A man was lying on the floor, either dead or unconscious. It was Clinton Farentino, the Hollywood producer. She heard someone say, “A heart attack.”

  Dropping to his knees, Sigurd checked the man’s pulse and put his ear to the unconscious man’s chest. “Does anyone
have a friggin’ aspirin?” he hollered, probably figuring someone should have thought of that before. One of the women dug in her silver purse and took out a tiny pill box, handing him one tablet.

  He immediately pried Farentino’s mouth open and stuck the aspirin under his tongue.

  Nothing happened.

  “Goldman! Get me the ship’s medical kit,” Sigurd yelled once again.

  Normally, Goldman would have scoffed at taking orders from anyone, especially with that tone, Marisa could tell, but he promptly gave a message to a gaping waiter, “In the supply room.”

  “Uh, what does a medical kit look like?”

  “It has a red cross on it, idiot,” snapped Goldman, who was clearly losing his patience with this calamity.

  Sigurd, still not looking up, yelled again, “Clear this damn room! Everybody! Out!” He spoke softly to Farentino then, with no response, before he called to her, “Marisa, get a phone, and connect us to the nearest medevac hospital.” At least he hadn’t yelled at her.

  People began to amble out, pushed by Goldman, who was telling them, “The party’s not over yet, folks. We can go to the theater room. Mr. Farentino is in good hands now.” Eventually, everyone was gone except her, Blue Dev—, uh, Zeb, and Sigurd. Inga had offered to stay, but Marisa told her to go on, she would be okay.

  She had no idea why Sigurd had singled her out, but she knew how to act in an emergency, having had numerous ones with Izzie. Taking the cell phone that Zeb offered, she called 911 and was eventually connected to Holy Trinity Hospital in Key West. She clicked on the speakerphone and held it out so that Sigurd could communicate directly with a triage nurse.

  Meanwhile, the waiter returned with the medical kit, and Zeb opened it, taking out a small vial, showing it to Sigurd, who nodded.

  “Dr. Sigurd Sigurdsson here,” he said into the phone.

  “A medical doctor?”

  “Yes. Most recently, Johns Hopkins oncology. I have a patient here on a yacht anchored off Grand Keys Island. The man has suffered an apparent heart attack. His pulse is faint, and he did not respond to aspirin. I am about to administer nitro.” He did. “Again, no response.”