The Faustin Bros., Book 1
Alexander Faustin is ready to settle down. He travels from NYC to sunny Colorado to find his destined bride. His delicate mission: to explain to her that vamps exist, that he happens to be one himself, and that he’d like her to be one, too. But the moment he lays eyes on Helena MacAllister, talk is the last thing on his mind.
It’s not like Helena to make out with a stranger on her front porch, much less invite him into her bed.
Somehow Alex makes her feel safe, even while he’s dismantling her defenses. But in the wake of an accident, her faith in him is shattered. She learns her dream lover is a monster.
When a vampire betrays and terrifies his beloved, what can he offer her to make it up? Pancakes, of course. It’s a start, at least. And Alex has to think of the next step quick, because if Helena won’t take him back, he’ll never love again.
Warning: Contains graphic sex scenes, blood play, and one scene of voyeurism. There’s also a scary part in the middle. The author and her lawyers remind you that this is a work of fiction. In real life, a one-night stand with a stalker is a bad idea, unless the stalker is a vampire, in which case it’s an amazingly bad idea. (Note: No actual elk were harmed in the writing of this novella.) Enjoy the following excerpt for Called by Blood:
She hadn’t been able to concentrate all day. At an important lunch meeting she’d embarrassed herself by spacing out mid-sentence. More than once. After that she’d gone straight to the high school track. That seemed a safe enough place to run. But even running failed to do the trick.
Alexander Faustin just wouldn’t leave her thoughts. It was like she was in heat or something, and as her temperature rose, her intellect dropped by equal degrees. She didn’t want to tangle with him again, but another moonlight talk was tempting. Because as horny as she was, she was also curious. The journalist in her wanted to know more. Why would a man like that stalk her? She had good instincts—not for relationships, admittedly, but for strangers—and he honestly didn’t seem dangerous. If he didn’t mean to harm her, why did he lie to her? Was it a habit of his? Did he get a buzz from the risk? Maybe another talk would help her see the outlines of his subtle insanity. Then she’d feel better about turning him over to the police.
That morning she’d Googled his name, trying different spellings and came up with nothing. A Lexis-Nexis search revealed nothing about Alex or Alexander but did yield some hits on a Gregor Faustin who was some kind of nightclub impresario in New York. A small picture of a man in his thirties or early forties
scowling at a flashbulb accompanied one of the articles. All she could say was that their coloring was the same. A relative?
Hell, she didn’t even know if Alexander Faustin was his real name.
As soon as Lacey left, Helena stepped out onto her balcony and surveyed the back yard.
“Looking for me?”
She yelped. He was on the balcony with her, standing in the shadows.
Helena backed away. “How’d you get up here?”
He advanced, stepping into a pool of light. He wore the long woolen overcoat, the one that had rubbed against her naked body. It was open. Beneath, he wore a black turtleneck sweater, the chunky fisherman kind, jeans and expensive work boots. GQ Italy. He shrugged. “Ladder?”
What ladder?
Helena darted back into the house, slammed the sliding glass door shut and clicked the tiny locking arm into place, thinking that maybe this home-alone thing was not such a good idea after all. She picked up the phone, but didn’t call anyone. Instead, she returned to the door.
He stood just on the other side of the glass, smiling a crooked smile. What beautiful lips he had. Oh God, he was hot. Why did he have to be so hot? He drew his finger along the glass as if he could touch her face through it.
“Helena…” He spoke as if they knew each other, as if he’d been missing her for years. “You shouldn’t be afraid.”
“I don’t know you.” Helena’s voice wavered. She tried to strengthen it. “This is too strange. It’s just not right.”
Yet she wanted to touch him more than anything in the world. Instead she splayed her palm against the glass and he matched it with his own hand, so much bigger than hers. She had thought of those hands all day, how they held her breasts and circled her waist. She’d thought of his mouth on her throat, open and wet.
“It’s an unusual way to meet, I’ll give you that, but that doesn’t make it wrong. What do you want to know about me? I’ll tell you anything.”
The glass muffled his voice a little, made it sound like it was coming from a distance. She didn’t know what else to do, so she thought of a question.
“Well, where are you from?”
“New York. I live in the city.”
Ah ha.
“What are you doing in Colorado?”
His dark eyes bored into hers, sincere, yet so forceful she lowered her lashes. “I came to meet you.”
“Why?”