Noble Romance Publishing, LLC
Reluctance
ISBN 978-1-60592-353-6
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Copyright 2012 Cindy C. Bennett
Cover Art by C.H. Scarlett
Edited by Bonnie Walker
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
Dedication
To all authors before who have brought vampire lore into our collective consciousness.
There are as many incarnations as there are stories, and they are all equally fascinating.
To you all, I raise a cup of blood.
Blurb
Twenty-year-old Dahlia hates the life that she is forced to lead. But the time is quickly coming when she must make a decision that will shape the rest of her life. She's set her sights on Jace. He is someone her family will approve of, someone that will finally gain her acceptance among her people. Then Cam comes into her life, making her question what she assumed was her inevitable destiny, giving her hope that she might be able to lead the normal existence that she longs for. But fate has its own plan for Dahlia. Now she has to find courage she didn’t know she possessed to fight for her own future.
Reluctance
By Cindy C Bennett
Cam Taylor watched, amused, as Dahlia stumbled and nearly launched her lunch tray into a table full of brainiacs. She was new—she had only been working at Grave's Community Center Hospital for a couple weeks. Cam had noticed her right away. She had a headful of curly, brown hair that fell to her waist in the back, pinned up on top with an unfashionable barrette. The barrette was studded with sparkling rhinestones, excepting the large center stone, which was missing. She wore no makeup; her pale face was clear and blemish-free. An unfortunate, brown floral pattern as outdated as a rotary-dial phone covered her lumpy, brocade dress which was at least two sizes too big for her. She was tall, gangly, awkward—the biggest klutz Cam could remember seeing—and he was smitten.
He watched as Dahlia finally slid to safety on a bench, once again nearly dropping her lunch as it clunked to the table. She laughed at herself, but the other women at the table, mostly nursing assistants, met her laughter with sneers. They exchanged meaningful glances, then stood as one, leaving without speaking a single word. Cam felt a moment's anger at the unfeeling women as he saw Dahlia's face fall.
He decided to go sit with her himself, no matter how much crap he might get for it.
As Cam moved toward Dahlia's table, she turned her attention from her tray toward Jace McMahon, who sat across the lunchroom. With a wistful sigh and dreamy eyes, she propped her chin in her hands, a smile curving the corners of her mouth upward. Cam stopped in his tracks.
Jace was an orderly like Cam. He was athletic, muscular, and better looking than most of the stars in Hollywood. The most popular guy at GCC, Jace was arrogant and cruel and loved by all the women anyway. Cam suspected most of the other guys really hated him, as Cam did, but they wanted to be near him anyway, hoping his charm and luck with the women would rub off on them. If nothing else, being Jace's buddy got them girls who would do anything to get closer to Jace, even if it meant dating one of his lesser friends.
Cam and Jace had attended the same high school. At that time, they'd been best friends. Back then, no one could touch the popularity of the two tall, good-looking, enigmatic boys. Then Cam found out exactly what Jace was.
Cam had distanced himself from Jace after that, making him something of an outcast his senior year. He didn't care. Being on his own was better than being part of Jace's world. He'd hoped GCC would be different, even with Jace there, but work turned out to be nothing more than an extension of high school. Jace was still the star.
Cam sometimes wondered why no one thought it strange that Jace, with his athletic prowess, was working at GCC to pay his way through school instead of attending a prestigious college on a fantastic scholarship. But Jace knew. Not only poor grades, but also the thing that created the rift between Cam and Jace had caused colleges to run the other way when it came to Jace McMahon.
Cam glanced over at Jace, jealousy and anger burning within his chest. Tabitha Heron, who now went by the ridiculous nickname of Tabby, had draped herself across Jace. Tabby was absolutely beautiful, the perfect counterpoint to Jace's good looks. Until Cam's falling out with Jace three years earlier, Tabby had been Cam's girlfriend. Then Jace pursued her relentlessly, just to prove he could take her if he wanted. And prove it he did. Jace even talked her out of accepting an admission offer from Harvard to join him at Grave's University. Even now, when Jace treated her with nothing but disdain and kept her dangling at his whim, Tabby refused to admit Cam was right about him.
She hardly needed to work to pay her way, not with her wealthy family, and yet she'd even followed him here, to work a crappy job as a receptionist for crap pay.
They deserved one another.
And, now, the newest object of Cam's attention was drooling over his nemesis.
Dahlia didn't have a shot with him; anyone could see that. Unless Cam managed to hook up with her—then he'd bet Jace would turn his sights on the strange, new girl.
Cam would see Jace burn before he allowed him to hurt the fascinating Dahlia.
* * * * *
Dahlia stood in the freezing wind, watching as Jace McMahon climbed into his fancy, red Mustang. He turned the key, the engine growling fiercely as he peeled out of his parking spot, cutting off an old, rusty beater and nearly running over a group of interns. She knew well enough Jace was not exactly a kind, caring person, but she also knew what he could do for her. He was perfect—beautiful, graceful, popular. In other words, everything she was not.
"Hey."
Dahlia turned to see Cam Taylor standing next to her, smiling at her. She glanced behind her to double check, but as no one else was there, she supposed he must be speaking to her.
"Hey," she said back, wondering why someone like Cam would speak to her on purpose. Cam was every bit as good-looking as Jace. But where Jace was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin—Cam was light. His blond hair was practically white, his eyes translucent blue, his skin nearly as pale as Dahlia's. He, too, was graceful and beautiful, and popular among many of the nurses, aides, and volunteers. But he did not have the power Jace had to transform her.
"Need a ride home?" Cam asked.
"Uh . . ." Dahlia hesitated. She didn't really want anyone to know where she lived. The wind chose that moment to blow its icy fingers across her exposed legs. She shivered at the sensation, and Cam laughed.
"Come on. I can't have you freeze to death on my watch." When she still hesitated, he held his hand out toward her. "It's just a ride, Dahlia."
She looked at his extended hand, wondering vaguely how he knew her name.
This was one of those socially awkward situations she had no idea how to handle.
Should she take his hand?
"Okay," she said, turning toward the parking lot. As she took the first step, she managed to put her foot onto one of the few spots with a disc of ice clinging to the cement, and squealed as she felt her foot slide away. She prepared for the pain that would come with the fall.
But then Cam grabbed her by the elbow, halting her descent.
"Whoa, there," he said, steadying her. "Gotta be careful of these slippery steps."
Humiliated, Dahlia looked up at him. "Thanks," she mumbled.
"Yup," Cam answered. He kept hold of her elbow all the way to t
he car. Once inside the vehicle, she fastened the seat belt—one of the few devices that could guarantee her safety and that she had full control over, so used always—he turned the heat on high, directing all the vents her way. She wondered idly whether Jace would have done the same if she were seated in his Mustang rather than in Cam's Honda.
"So . . . how do you like working at GCC?" Cam asked when the silence began to stretch out uncomfortably.
"It's the same as any other job, I guess," Dahlia said.
Cam couldn't argue that point. "Oh, yeah? Is that a bad thing, or good?"
Dahlia shot him a look as if to say You're kidding, right? and Cam smiled.
"I understand," he said, but somehow Dahlia doubted he truly did understand.
She doubted that Cam, with his golden looks and infectious smile, had ever been shunned, that he had ever sat at a table only to have others leave just to avoid being seen with him, that he had ever been called doggy, beastly, or nerdy. She doubted he'd ever looked around a room and known the only people who would accept him as a friend were those who completely understood all those things.
"Turn here," she said, directing him up Draper Avenue. He lifted his brows a little at the turn, but didn't say anything. When they reached the end of the street, she said, "You can stop here."
He looked out the window. With surprise in his voice, he said, " This is where you live?"
Dahlia knew how it looked. The house was the largest in the neighborhood—
ostentatious, overbearing, shouting wealth at the tops of its lungs. She really wished her family knew how to blend in.
"Yeah."
She waited for the sarcasm, the cutting remarks, but, instead, he simply said,
"Nice place."
"Um, okay . . . thanks for the ride, I guess," she said, pulling on the door handle—
to no avail.
"Oh, here, let me get that. It sticks sometimes." He leaned across her to grab the handle, and Dahlia flattened herself against the seat. She'd never been this close to a boy she wasn't related to . . . and definitely never this close to one who smelled so delicious.
For one crazy second, she had the urge to reach up and—
"There you go," Cam said as the door swung open and a wintery blast of air drew her attention from her fantasy.
Dahlia climbed out, then looked back. "Thanks again."
He gave her a charming smile in answer. "See you tomorrow," he said as she slammed the door. With a wave, he turned his car in a wide U and drove away. Dahlia watched him go, and then, with dread, turned back toward her house—or as she'd come to think of it, the "monstrous mausoleum."
* * * * *
"How was work, darling?" her mother drawled. Dahlia knew her mother didn't care how her day had been. In fact, she thought Dahlia wasted her time at the hospital, doing menial tasks beneath their family status. She only asked because it made her appear to be a good mom. She was anything but.
Rose Hardy, Dahlia's mother, was concerned with one thing and one thing only—appearances. To that end, she wore piles of makeup and dressed as if she were about to step onto a Paris runway. She never had a hair out of place, and she despised the gawky, unattractive daughter she'd been cursed with.
Rose spent her time either at the gym, at lunch with her friends who shared her warped ideals, or doing some kind of charitable work that would get her accolades.
Dahlia's father was cut from the same cloth. They wielded power Jace McMahon could only dream of. They were both the same type of beautiful, lanky, graceful people Jace was, only Jace paled in comparison. Their cold, cutting cruelty ran deeper than anything Jace could imagine. Yet Dahlia knew, given time and exposure to her family, Jace could become as powerful—if not more so—than they were.
"Hey, sis," Aster sneered as she came down the stairs. Aster, two years younger than Dahlia, already outshone Dahlia in every way. At eighteen, she was almost as stunning as their mother. Dahlia didn't doubt she would eventually be even more exquisite than Rose. She had an innate sense of fashion and was a trendsetter amongst her peers. Even in their short time in this new town, she'd already surrounded herself with a gaggle of mindless geese, friends who were happy to do her bidding. Her manipulation went beyond anything Dahlia had seen, and Dahlia had seen a lot.
Her father, Ben, strode in, looking as if he'd just stepped from the pages of GQ.
Her mother insisted on family dinners. How could they keep up the appearance of the perfect family if they didn't do a daily dinner that could shame any Norman Rockwell painting? Table talk surrounded Aster's day, Rose's accomplishments, and Ben's success. Never did a night go by when Dahlia didn't wonder if she'd been switched at birth. Unfortunately, it was impossible that a switch had happened; there was no possibility she did not belong with these people.
After dinner, Dahlia went up to her room to complete her homework. School was the one arena in which she could excel. She was smarter than the rest of them combined.
She couldn't walk without tripping, or speak in an interesting manner, or do makeup that didn't look like she had entered a costume contest. But she could formulate a hypothesis and design a corresponding scientific experiment. She understood every word Shakespeare had written and knew the definition of a hypotenuse. She doubted anyone else in her family could even pronounce "hypotenuse." Her excellent grades were probably the only reason her parents ever acknowledged her. She could have gotten into any university with her GPA, but until . . . after . . . she had to keep a low profile. She felt lucky she'd been allowed to attend any school at all.
She finished her work and lay down on the bed, more out of defiance than a need for rest. The beds were only for appearance. Sleep was the one thing she longed for more than anything—an escape from the world, from constantly living with knowing what a disappointment she was, not just to her family but to her people.
She looked over at the clock. Two a.m. She didn't know why she looked. She knew the time exactly, because that's when the inevitable hunger came—ravenous, insatiable, never-ending.
"Let's go, freak," Aster said, shoving Dahlia's door open without so much as a knock.
Dahlia reluctantly followed her family out the back door, compelled by her despised appetite. She could no more resist the hunger than learn to dance like a world-class ballerina. Dahlia disliked many things about herself, but this was the thing she abhorred above all else.
Her family had discriminating tastes, and, though they left the house together, she did not follow them once they passed the boundaries of their property. Her family had no problem drinking from the innocent, as long as they thought the person worthy of their cultivated tastes. They rarely left a completely depleted body in their wake, though there always seemed to be a flu epidemic wherever they lived. Dahlia was surprised the CDC hadn't caught on to that yet.
Dahlia passed from their wealthy neighborhood to a more middle-class area where the houses were still nice but not as pretentious. From there, she passed through smaller houses, ones that looked cozy and welcoming. She desired to live in a home like these, but knew she never would. It wouldn't be allowed. Further and further she ran, moving so quickly she was almost indiscernible to normal humans. Running was the closest to agile Dahlia ever came, though she had been known to take out a fence or two. A few trees may have been demolished now and then. There might have even been an incident involving a telephone pole.
As Dahlia approached the slums, she slowed. She kept to the shadows, watching, waiting. Many of the homeless here were innocents themselves, so she had to choose carefully. A derelict man caught her attention as he moved among the others who were sleeping, passed out, or just plain ignoring him in the wide alley. As he went, he took from the meager possessions that had been accumulated by the others, anything he could find that seemed to have any value, whether cash or jewelry, all of which was worthless other than to the owner. Canned food, extra blankets, other meager possessions, nothing was forbidden it seemed.
Dahl
ia felt a slow burn in her stomach. How dare he think he had the right to take from these people? They didn't have much, and definitely didn't have anything to spare. He leaned down to take a woman's cup of change. That was bad enough, but, as he gazed at her sleeping form, he did the unthinkable—he slid his hand down the front of her chest in a way that was so beyond his right Dahlia could barely control her fury.
She followed him as he moved away from the fragile flickering firelight into the darker shadows. Perfect. She moved in, vision flawless in the night, as he stooped with a small flashlight to tally his take of money, drugs, and paraphernalia, and other miscellaneous items he could sale or trade. She calculated far more quickly than he and understood, for his night's devious work, he'd gained about thirteen bucks. What he had done was going to cost him far more.
She stepped into the darkness around his feeble light. He stiffened, sensing her presence. His flashlight and head both came up quickly.
"Who's there?" he said, swirling his flashlight around. "Who's there?" he repeated, sensing her presence though not quick enough to find her.
She came up behind him, teeth bared, bending to latch on to his neck. The bitterness of his filth filled her mouth, and she turned her mind away from the taste, allowing the warm blood and the rhythm of his beating pulse to take its place. When she'd had her fill, and just before it was too late, she released him. Self-contempt over what she'd done, what she needed, filled her soul. She grasped the man by his lapels, pulled his face near, holding his eyes with her own.
"Forget," she whispered. She watched his eyes go blank.
Before she dropped him to the ground, she added one more thing, in spite of the vampire illegality of doing so. "Don't ever touch a woman against her will again."
As she turned away, she mumbled, "Get a job," knowing he would not hear and most certainly wouldn't abide since it wasn't an official command.