Thank you for all the comments so far, ladies! I sure do appreciate it!

3

McKenzie

Love at first sight exists…

In fairy tales.

I remind myself of this as Narcissa exits the terminal at the Savannah Hilton Head International Airport. She’s a California dream in a white Gucci gown. Her long black hair falls in loose curls down her back. Her skin, pale as death, nearly glitters in the natural sunlight from the skylights above. Her makeup is pristine, her nails are painted red, and the clasp on her designer purse screams money and influence. Her heels alone would probably take Heather a month’s wages to pay for.

Heather.

I have no idea why I just thought of her. True, I saw her this morning. She thanked me for the tip I left yesterday, pink with that charming blush of hers. I noticed that she tried to hide her hands from me. I still have no idea why, but I was left with the impression she was being self-conscious, as though I might find something unsavory about her hands.

I look to Narcissa’s hands, to the large diamond sparkling on her ring finger.

It was my grandmother’s.

Vampire rule number 3:

Vampires only marry other vampires.

We’re not immortal, like some people think, but we’ve been around a long time. Long enough to have an air of superiority when it comes to humans. I guess having an incurable disease of the blood makes us special. Enough so that it’s important for us to continue our race and not pollute it with human genetics.

Narcissa is a perfect vampire specimen. She’s gorgeous, wealthy, and can knock a man over just by glancing in his direction.

I’ve also loved her as a sister for nearly thirty years, and the idea of marrying her sends a shiver down my spine. And not the good kind.

“McKenzie. Always a pleasure,” she says, her voice decadent as she places a hand on my arm. “You’re looking well. I have always envied your ability to hold color.” She kisses my left cheek, then my right, and smiles. “How you can sit out in the sun without slipping into a dehydrated coma is beyond me.”

Our blood disease is something no human doctor has ever been able to figure out.

We’ve named it vampirism, given that it gives us an unquenchable thirst for blood, literally and figuratively. Humans need water to stay hydrated. We need blood. Our blood evaporates at an alarming speed, lifting from our bodies just as surely as water lifts from asphalt on a hot day. It makes us pale and, if we’re not careful, weak. Most of us replenish our blood with blood bags or IVs. I hook myself up every night and give myself transfusions. The IV method is fast, and with all thanks to Narcissa’s great-grandfather, legal. We have a network that provides us with the blood we need.

On occasion, when I’m desperately thirsty, I drink it.

It isn’t pretty.

When I get to that point, I’m a ravenous beast, nearly incapable of thought and rational action.

When I say drink, I don’t mean from people.

I find one of my emergency blood bags and tear it apart with my fangs.

It’s gross. It’s frightening.

And damn, but it’s erotic.

“How do you maintain your tan?” Narcissa asks, drawing me away from my thoughts and the sudden phantom taste of blood on my tongue.

“I keep a cooler of blood on the beach and drink when I need it.”

I hate being the stereotypical vampire pale. It makes me look sick, and the cameras don’t love me when I’m that white. I look almost transparent when the cameras flash. That’s probably where humans got the idea that vampires can’t see their reflections in mirrors. We’re pale as death when we’re dehydrated and don’t have any sunlight.

“Ah.” Narcissa smiles and takes my offered hand. “Well, you look good.”

“I pale in comparison to your beauty,” I tease, kissing her temple. “I’m surprised your father let you come alone.”

She sighs and tosses her head, black curls billowing.

“He knows there’s nothing between us.” She waves her hand between our bodies. She grins as I lead her to the baggage claim. “You have no interest in stealing my innocence and sullying my name before we’re married. Goodness, McKenzie.” She laughs. “We’ve never even kissed!” She shudders, and I chuckle.

“Is that such an awful thought, Cissa?”

“Yes!” she exclaims, her brown eyes wide with horror. “Can you just imagine it? Me, kissing you?” She stops walking, then speaks quickly. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you.” Her voice takes on a playful lilt. “I mean, you aren’t exactly gorgeous, with that blonde hair.” She stands on tiptoes and ruffles my hair. “And your stubble doesn’t make your jaw look like it’s cut from glass. You aren’t supremely muscular or anything. And you most definitely can’t make a woman melt with one glance from those obviously unattractive green eyes.”

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.”

Her teasing softens, and her smile melts into the same expression I’ve seen men lose their minds over.

“I’m not sorry,” she says gently. “We’ll do what we have to do to continue the Bristol line. We may even have a little fun doing it. I just wish we could actually be in love. I mean, I do love you, but not the way you should be loved.”

“Kudos.”

“So tell me,” she says as we stop at the baggage claim and wait for her suitcases. “What do you have planned for our week together? And I’m sorry in advance that we’re going to have to do some wedding planning while I’m here.” She sighs and adjusts her purse strap over her shoulder. “I put it off as long as I could. I really did. But now that I’m thirty, Dad and Mom have been on my case. We were going to have to get this over with eventually.”

“I thought we’d go to Tybee Island for a day. I know you like the beach, as much as the sun bothers us both.” I watch as suitcases begin to drop onto the moving belt. “Les Misérables is playing at the theatre. Atlanta isn’t too far if you wanted to do some shopping.”

“You’re sweet.” She squeezes my hand. “And I love you for it, but what do you want to do? You’re not into musicals, and you hate shopping.”

I hesitate for half a second, then talk before giving my words much thought.

“What do you know about The Pirates’ House?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” she says with a shrug. She lunges forward, nearly giving away her remarkable speed as she grabs the handle of a designer suitcase and pulls it off the belt without so much as a grunt.

“It’s one of Savannah’s oldest buildings. It was built in the 1700s, I think.”

“I know you’re into real estate, obviously, but I hadn’t realized you have a thing for architecture. And history?” She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Don’t you think museums smell like dust and decay? This sounds like a museum.”

“It’s a restaurant inside of a museum,” I say, grabbing her second bag before she can.

Someone’s whispering about me. I can hear them from several yards away, and I know it’s only a matter of seconds before I’m recognized and end up having to talk with admiring strangers. I’d prefer not to do that with Narcissa. I put my free hand to her elbow and gently steer her towards the airport exit.

“McKenzie…” She sings my name in that teasing lilt of hers. “Did you find someone?”

“I met a young barista at a coffee shop a few blocks away from my house. She loves history, and she recommended The Pirates’ House. It sounded like it could be fun.”

“Fun?”

I can hear the smirk in her voice, and I shoot her an irritated glare as we walk through the parking lot.

“We’re going because it sounds ‘fun?’ McKenzie.” She reaches up and taps my nose with her index finger. “You never have time for fun. You’re always knee-deep in paperwork and business calls. You’re hardly ever home because you travel the world doing rich man stuff. Your idea of fun is drinking a glass of blood-spiked bourbon with your shirt unbuttoned and your feet on top of your desk while you go through paperwork. And…” She gasps sharply, startling me.

“What?” I demand, looking in all directions, worried there’s a threat somewhere.

“McKenzie Bristol!” She exclaims. “You went into a coffee shop?”

The woman could be an actress. She stands in front of me, hands on her cheeks, mouth and eyes open wide, her purse and suitcase dropped at her sides.

“What has the world come to?” She gasps. “Museums and now a coffee shop? Oh my God!”

“Give me back that engagement ring,” I grumble, reaching for her left hand. She snatches it back, laughing at the look of chagrin on my face. The diamond glints in the sunlight, hitting me in the eyes, and I wince. “When I proposed, I didn’t realize I’d be marrying such a drama queen. I went into the coffee shop in the first place for you. I know you love lattes.” I pick up her fallen bags. “I was looking for the best café nearby. I even suffered through capers to find it.”

“And that’s where you found her,” Narcissa teases, leading the way to my Spyder as the headlights flash.

“Narcissa Kline,” I scold, watching the passenger door rise. She slips into the car gracefully, like a cat. “I never said anything about any girl aside from a barista mentioning The Pirates’ House.”

“Uh huh. Is she cute?” Narcissa asks as I put her bags in the trunk and slam it shut a little harder than necessary.

“She’s human.”

“So.”

I shut her door, then move to the driver’s side and sit down in the seat with a plop.

“Listen.” I take her hand and hold it up, watching the sunlight dance off every facet of the ten-carat rock. “I proposed to you. There isn’t anyone else I’m thinking about. I’ve spent the last three days thinking about things we can do, things that you would enjoy. You like shopping and shows, and I’m willing to go with you to those things if that’s what you want.”

“I want to see the girl that has you all flustered.”

“Narcissa!”

She laughs, her eyes sparkling.

“Does she work at The Pirates’ House, or did she just recommend going there?” she asks.

“She volunteers there on Saturdays.”

“Well, wouldn’t you know?” Narcissa buckles her seat belt and reaches for the sunglasses hooked into the sun visor.

She likes to steal my things. Prep for married life, I suppose.

“It’s Saturday!” She pretends to be surprised. “And I’m hungry.”

“I’ve got a fully stocked fridge.”

“Oh, come now, darling.” She pouts, her lower lip poking out. “I think I’m in the mood for something nautical and from the 1700s.”

“You’re a damn nuisance,” I mutter as I drive us away from the airport.

“At least I’m a pretty one.”