“So who is this guy again?” I asked grumpily as Darla worked on my hair. It was hopeless as usual, of course. My crazy corkscrew curls kept escaping her attempted up-do, no matter how much gel she used.

“You tell me,” she said with a shrug. “All the invitation said was that the gala was being held in your honor and that the proceeds would support your favorite charity.”

“Which is the only reason I’m agreeing to any of this,” I huffed, yanking down at the sleeves of my gown, feeling itchy and uncomfortable in my dress. Whoever this anonymous benefactor was, he certainly didn’t know me well if he expected me to delight in the spotlight of this kind of thing.

In fact, it was pretty much the anti-me. Dressing up, hobnobbing with rich people who likely saw my books as nothing more than poorly written mommy porn. I mean, to each his own—I didn’t begrudge them their opinions. But that didn’t mean I had to spend quality time with them, defending my books.

But in the end, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse. Not when the invitation promised a minimum of thirty-thousand dollars going to RAINN, my favorite charity group. And so I sucked it up and donned a dress and tried to mentally prepare myself for the required mingling and small talk.

In other words I was pre-drinking like a boss.

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” Darla asked, giving the dress in question a critical once-over. “It’s like ninety degrees out today. It may be boiling in the ballroom.”

“I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “You haven’t been…you know…have you?”

“No!” I cried making my voice as indignant as I could. “You know I don’t do that anymore.”

“Okay, okay!” She held up her hands. “I was just checking.”

“I just don’t want people to see the old scars,” I lied. “That’s all.”

But, of course, that wasn’t all. In fact, I’d been pulling out my Carpathian puzzle box every night this week. I didn’t know why, exactly. Just that ever since that night at the bookstore my nerves had been fraying at the ends. To the point where it was actually starting to interfere with my daily writing word count. And I so didn’t have time for anything to interfere with my writing. Not when my book was due in three weeks and I wasn’t even half done with it.

Which also meant I didn’t have time for shit like this. An evening at a gala meant an evening not writing. And when I did finally meet my so-called benefactor tonight, I would have a thing or two to say to him, charity or no.

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” Darla asked, giving me a worried look.

For a split second I contemplated saying yes. That I needed her there—that I couldn’t do this without her. But in the end, I shook my head. I knew she had scored tickets to the Imagine Dragons concert tonight and had been eagerly anticipating the show for months. She didn’t deserve to miss out on something so epic just to babysit little old me. I was a big girl. I needed to do this myself.

“I’m sure,” I said. “You go to the concert. Have fun.”

She pursed her lips. “And you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine. I mean, it’s just a party, right? What could possibly go wrong?”

The gala was being held in a beautiful old mansion on the far side of town. The type you’d expect to see in some Great Gatsby movie remake with expansive lawns and overly manicured shrubbery. It was already packed by the time I arrived and the valet was working overtime, moving cars that probably cost more than the GNP of several small countries. Whoever this guy was, he clearly knew all the right people.

I was definitely not one of these people.

My driver walked around the car, opening my door and putting out his hand to help me step out. I took it, trying not to wobble on my ridiculously high heels. Darla had not only forced me to wear heels, she had dragged me to Nordstrom’s earlier that afternoon to buy a decent pair. Something I didn’t appreciate at the time, but now realized, judging from the other guests, was the right move. If I didn’t sprain an ankle, that was.

Once on my feet, I thanked the driver. He told me to text him when I was ready to go home. I agreed, then turned to the house, sucking in a breath, trying to still my fast-beating heart.

You can do this, I told myself. It’s for a good cause. The best cause.

I started up the front steps, feeling heat prickle under my arms in the warm night. My dress, which had already felt hot in my air-conditioned home was now scorching my skin and sweat was already dripping between my breasts.

But there was no turning back now. And so I pushed onward, walking past the line of people posing for photos in front of the mansion. Praying the place would have proper AC.

I needn’t have worried. The inside of the mansion was even more opulent than the outside and thankfully properly chilled. In addition, every corner seemed to be carved in marble and trimmed in gold. Fancy chandeliers dripped diamonds of light from the beautiful fresco ceiling, the intricately painted cherubs frolicking with rapturous mortals.

What was I doing here? This was so not my world. Sure, I made a lot of money selling books, but that was probably spare change in the couch cushions to the other people here. I looked around, desperate to locate a familiar face—would I know anyone here? Someone from the charity foundation we were raising money for perhaps? Another author? Maybe a caterer I had gone to college with? But no, I didn’t I recognize a soul in this sea of well-dressed strangers.

This was going to be a very long night.

Finally, I made my way over to the bar. Always a safe haven in a storm. I slipped onto a stool and ordered a glass of champagne. When in Rome, right? A few moments later the bartender returned, placing the glass in front of me. I picked it up, pulling it to my lips, almost choking on the bubbles as I attempted to drink too quickly. Desperate to soothe my frazzled nerves.

“May I have this dance?”

I whirled around, startled by the sudden voice. My eyes widened in surprise as they fell upon broad shoulders, dark hair, pale skin and oddly piercing blue eyes.

Vampire, my brain niggled before I could help myself.

I know this sounds crazy, but for a split second, I truly thought it was Jonathan, my vampire hero, sprung off the page of one of my books and standing before me in real life, asking me, of all people, to dance with him.

But, of course, it wasn’t. And a moment later I realized exactly who it actually was, standing before me.

Logan Valcourt. The stranger from my book signing.

I hadn’t realized how much I’d been still thinking about that whole thing until my eyes raked over him now. But suddenly I realized he hadn’t left my brain since that night at the bookstore. Not entirely anyway. The encounter had been lurking in the shadows of my memories all this time, waiting patiently to reemerge.

Just as he, himself, evidently.

Because now he was here. Inexplicably standing in front of me. A shiver ran down my spine—and not one entirely made up of fear.

“You!” I cried, almost falling off my barstool and spilling my drink. “What are you doing here?” Seriously in all the galas in all the world. He had to walk into mine?

A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Hannah Miller.”

I nodded dumbly, not sure how to respond. The way his mouth moved was weirdly mesmerizing and I was a bit concerned I might actually be drooling as I stared at him, dumbfounded. And who could blame me, really? I mean, my God, he was good looking. His dark hair slicked back tonight, offering up a better look at his intense blue eyes which were framed by black lashes so thick you could imagine he was wearing guyliner. His nose was strong, as was his jaw. And his lips were full and generous. And as for his body? Even hidden under his tuxedo, you could tell it was magnificent. Like one of those Greek statues I’d seen in the ballroom. I had to fight the urge not to run my hands down his chest to see if it was actually made of marble.

Thankfully I managed to restrain myself from that ridiculous notion and I realized he was waiting for me to say something. You know, like in a normal conversation between two people where they both talked and one didn’t stare at the other like a slobbering mess. I cleared my throat.

“Well, thank you for coming,” I managed to squeak. “It’s a very worthy cause.”

“Indeed,” he said, letting the word hang there for a moment, as if it were a gourmet dessert to be savored before swallowed. Then he added, “But you haven’t answered my question.”

For a moment I stared at him dumbly, trying to rack my brain. Had he asked me a question? Then suddenly his opening line came raging back to me and I felt my cheeks flush.

“I don’t dance,” I said.

He gave me a skeptical look. “You don’t like to dance?” he asked. “Or you don’t know how to dance?”

“Um…” My brain raced, trying to decide which option would best dissuade further follow-up. Or, you know, an actual dance. “I really don’t know how.”

His smile widened and I realized I should have picked door number one. “There’s nothing to it,” he assured me. “Just let me lead.” He put out a hand, giving me an expectant look.

I stared down at his hand. I didn’t want to take it. At the same time, I wanted to take it so badly it hurt. What was wrong with me? Finally, I gave in, slipping my hand into his own, which was so large it practically swallowed mine up entirely. Electricity sparked instantly, as if we really were in a romance novel and I almost knocked over my champagne for the second time. (For the record, I would have made a very lousy romance heroine.) Instead, I tipped it back, taking a large slug and draining it dry. (Classy, right?) Then I allowed myself to be led to my doom…or, you know, the dance floor. Same thing, really.

He pulled me into his arms with a determination that startled me, his hand secured at the small of my back, the other sliding into my own. I let him do it, barely able to breathe as I dared to look up into his eyes again. He looked dark, dangerous. Sexy as hell, too, if we were being honest here. And yet there was a slight amusement dancing across his face as well.

I frowned at this. He clearly thought I was out of my league. And while he wasn’t wrong, of course, I wasn’t about to let him take pleasure in my discomfort. And so I drew in a breath and tried to recall all those ballroom dance lessons my mom had forced on me as a kid. Maybe they hadn’t been good for nothing after all.

The steps came back quicker than I had hoped and soon I was keeping up with him, gliding across the dance floor with a grace that surprised even me. I met his eyes, my expression bordering on defiance. As if to say, who’s laughing now?

“And here I thought you couldn’t dance,” he remarked in a low voice. “Turns out you’re a regular Ginger Rogers.”

I shrugged, hoping I wasn’t noticeably blushing under the dance floor lights. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s been a while. But I guess it’s like riding a bike.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never ridden a bike.”

The music swelled then and he spun me around, then pulled me back into his arms. His hand burned at my lower back, causing my stomach to flip flop like a fish out of water. It’d been so long since I’d been in a man’s arms, I’d forgotten what it felt like. And while I knew in my heart I should pull away, put distance between us, it was as if my body had transformed into nothing but iron shavings while he had become an industrial strength magnet, drawing me back to him every time I managed to squeeze an inch apart.

I cleared my throat. I had to break this spell somehow. This wasn’t me. I didn’t do dances with strangers. Even if they did have an uncanny resemblance to my vampire hero.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I found myself blurting out.

His lip curled. “Hosting a benefit to your favorite charity, of course.”

I stopped in my tracks. Stared at him in disbelief. “What?” I squeaked. “This is your benefit?”

He shrugged. “Did I not tell you?”

“No. You did not tell me. Of course you didn’t tell me!”

“Then why did you come?”

A blush rose to my cheeks. “It was for charity.”

“I see,” he said, nodding. “But this is not your scene.” It wasn’t a question.

I snorted. “This is about as far from my scene as you can possibly get and still be a scene at all. I don’t like public places. I don’t like people.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What about adoring fans?”

“That’s different,” I insisted, angry that I’d let him put me on the defensive. “That’s for work. Not for fun.”

“And what do you do for fun?”

Now my face was on fire. I knew if I told him the truth, he would laugh at me. Think me pathetic and small—well, more than he probably already did.

“Hang gliding,” I said, blurting out the first thing that came to my head. Which was actually pretty odd, since I’d never in my life gone hang gliding.

He laughed, a low rich laugh that danced like music across my ears, despite my best efforts. “You hang glide?” he repeated. “Now that is unexpected.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t have me all figured out after all.”

Anger burned in me now. Anger at him for laughing at me. At myself for falling for any of this. It was all a set-up, I realized suddenly. The whole event, orchestrated by this rich asshole to get me here. Would my charity even receive the money it was promised? Or was that just another ruse?

“I know all I need to know,” he replied smoothly. “After all, I read your book.”

Wait what?

“You actually read it?” I demanded, despite myself. So much for playing it cool.

“Yes.”

“Did you…like it?”

“Not particularly.”

I groaned. Of course.

“Then why are you doing all this? Why would you hold a big crazy charity event for an author you don’t even like?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like the author.”

I pulled myself out of his grasp. “Sorry buddy. It doesn’t work like that. You can’t insult my book without insulting me.”

This wasn’t remotely true, of course. In fact, I had pretty much made it my life mission not to read reviews or deal with haters. I knew full well once I put my art out into the world I was giving up control over how people consumed it. Those who trashed me online might be having just as much fun hating on my books as those who loved and adored them. And who was I to dictate how my work should be consumed by strangers?

Or as Darla put it: don’t feed the trolls.

But that was online. A web browser I could click closed at a moment’s notice. A computer I could turn off and walk away from. Even at book signings if we had a heckler show up we could have security whisk him away. But now, here I was at this fancy ball, supposedly thrown in my honor to support my favorite charity, by a man who hated my work and wasn’t afraid to tell me so to my face.

“Excuse me,” I managed to say. “I’ve actually got to…Yeah.”

I broke free of his grasp, which was surprisingly strong, bolting across the room in search of an exit, my heart pounding in my chest as the walls seemed to close in around me. It was suddenly all too much, too weird, and I needed to get some air. Maybe it was stupid not to bring Darla with me—or have some other chaperone. I thought I could handle myself alone. But now…

My arm itched. As I ran, pushing past people, I found myself reaching down to yank up my sleeve. Just a tiny bit—so as not to be noticed, my thumbnail scratching against the inside of my wrist. Trying desperately to calm myself down the one way I knew I could. If I could just get somewhere alone I could dig out the blade I had buried in my purse. Give myself some real relief.

Finally, I managed to locate an exit and I burst out the door into the warm night air, sucking in a much needed breath. Thankfully it was quiet out here, most people were now inside. I looked around at the beautiful manicured gardens, trying to steady my pulse. I had to admit, the place was beautiful. Expertly lit so you could still see the stars above proudly showing off a celestial portrait spread across the night sky.

I reached into my purse, digging deep. Looking for—

“Hannah!”

I looked up with a groan. Of course. I should have known there was no way Mr. Tall, Dark and Asshole would have just let me make an easy escape. I took my hand out of my purse, my heart stuttering in my chest. Now, standing alone, away from the crowd, I felt stupid for my earlier reaction. All he did was say he didn’t like my book. And I, like a child, had literally run away from this perceived rejection.

Pathetic, Hannah. Truly pathetic.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as he approached, looking, to his credit, legitimately concerned. “I just…needed some air.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you. I just wanted to be honest.”

“Well, mission accomplished. Now leave me alone.”

“Don’t you want to know why I didn’t like the book?”

“Actually I couldn’t care less.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been so angry in there.”

“Uh, maybe I just don’t appreciate being told my book sucks?”

“I didn’t say it sucked. I said I didn’t care for it.”

I closed my eyes frustration washing over me. “Fine. You didn’t care for it. Couldn’t you have just left a GoodReads review like everyone else? Or sent my publisher a scathing letter? Why the whole crazy party ruse?”

“Because I wanted to get to know you better,” he said simply.

My eyes flew open, realizing he was now standing in front of me. Standing too close, invading my space. I tried to stumble backward, but I hit the trunk of a tree. He smiled at this, looking smug, the cat that ate the canary. Then he stepped closer still, his thigh brushing up against my own, sending crazy chills all the way to my extremities.

“Don’t come any closer,” I managed to scrape out. “I’ll scream.”

He complied immediately, stepping back, bowing his head respectfully. Which should have made me feel relieved. Instead, I felt a weird shimmer of disappointment fluttering inside me. As if his unexpected advance had fired something up in me, only to be snuffed out again. Which sounded insane, but was par for the course tonight.

He reached out and my breath caught in my throat as he swept an errant curl from my face. His eyes had softened now and the smug smile had vanished. In fact, if I didn’t know better I’d say he almost looked…sad.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget myself. Please. Allow me to escort you back to the party.”

“No,” I said, hating how flushed my face felt. “I think I’ll stay out here.”

His mouth dipped to a frown. “Do you not like the party?”

“It’s a great party,” I admitted. “Just…I don’t really do parties. Even great ones.”

He laughed. “Perhaps next time I should arrange for us to go hang gliding instead.”

I groaned. “There’s really no need. Seriously, next time you get the urge to hate on my books, just go online like everyone else. Or hold a book burning—that could be fun.” I snorted. “Or better yet, don’t read any more of them. They’re clearly not to your taste.”

His eyes settled on me, dark and piercing. As if he were reaching out, stroking me with deft fingers, even though in reality he remained a respectful distance away.

“What?” I demanded.

“I have a question.”

I sighed. “What?”

“How do you…research your books?”

“They’re about vampires, dude. I make shit up.”

He looked incredulous. “Off the top of your head?”

“And the bottom of my dark, dark twisted soul. Yes.”

“No wonder you get them wrong,” he muttered.

“God, are we back on this? Look, dude, you may be pretty, but you’re clearly deluded. Let me set you straight. The books I write? They ain’t memoirs. They’re fantasy. Those vampires I talk about? They’re not real. Because vampires don’t exist.”

My voice rose to slightly screechy levels as I said the last part and my arm itched in frustration. I wanted to get away, to find a dark corner, to calm my nerves. But this guy couldn’t take a hint.

Sure enough, he shook his head. “That is where you’re wrong, Miss. Miller.”

“Excuse me?”

“Vampires do exist.”

“No, dude. They don’t. Trust me. Jonathan and Maisie? I made them up.”

“Yes. That is obvious. But there are vampires out there.”

I sighed. “There are people who play at being vampires, yes. And yes, some of them drink blood. But they are not mythical creatures of the night. They’re just people—really bored people.”

He regarded me for a moment. As if considering what I was saying. Then he spoke. “I would like to propose a little wager,” he said.

“Wager?”

“On whether vampires are real.”

I laughed out loud. “Ri-ght. Sure. And what do I win if I take this bet?”

“I will donate one million dollars to RAINN. No strings attached, no questions asked.”

I stared at him. “That’s a lot of scratch. You sure you want to lose that much?”

“I’m not going to lose.”

“Right. Okay, so let’s pretend that’s possible. What do you get out of the deal if you somehow manage to magically convince me there are bloodsuckers amongst us in real life?”

“One weekend.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes locked on me. “You will give me one weekend. You will come to my house. You will stay with me. And I will teach you about vampires—real vampires. And,” his lips curled. “Real men.”

“No way dude.”

He gave me a patient look. “Don’t look so shocked. You’d sleep in the spare bedroom. And I would never touch you…unless you asked me to.” He chuckled. “Besides, you are positive there are no vampires, right? You’re not going to lose this bet?”

He looked at me expectantly and my heart pounded in my chest. Of course he was right. There were no vampires—I was sure about that. So what did I have to lose? And to get my charity one million dollars—if he was serious! How could I pass that up?

“What kind of proof are you going to give me?” I asked. “You can’t just show me someone sucking someone’s blood. I mean, anyone can do that if they wanted to.”

“Fine. I will not only show you. But I will convince you that vampires exist. If you are not utterly convinced by the end of tonight, I will respectfully lose the bet. I will drop you home and I will write you a check and you will never see me again.”

It was ridiculous. A completely indecent proposal. And certainly nothing that someone like me would ever agree to. I mean, I was practically a recluse. I barely went to the library. I’d already been dragged out tonight against my will. And now he expected me to just take off with him—a practical stranger? So he could show me that the creatures I wrote about every day actually exist?

I opened my mouth to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him I was going back inside. But for some reason, my mouth refused to form the words, my voice stuck in my throat. His dark blue eyes drove into me, like laser beams. And I stood there, completely mute, with no idea why.

“You will come with me,” he said in a deep, throaty voice, so low it made me vibrate a little inside. “Hannah.”

“I’ll come,” I found myself saying. The opposite of what I was trying to say. Yet somehow there suddenly didn’t seem another choice. I didn’t know how, but I knew I would go with him. Like it was a fact, etched in stone that I was merely repeating.

His gaze softened. A small smile ghosted his lips. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand away from the party.

“My limo awaits,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You want to go now?” I guess I expected we’d wait until the party was over.

He didn’t reply, probably because the answer would be obvious. Instead, he slipped a strong hand against the small of my back, possessively leading me down the stairs toward the parking lot.