Drop Dead Gorgeous
Kimberly Raye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Copyright

KIMBERLY RAYE has always been an incurable romantic. While she enjoys reading all types of fiction, her favourites, the books that touch her soul, are romance novels. From sexy to thrilling, sweet to humorous, she likes them all. But what she really loves is writing romance—the hotter the better! She started her first novel back in high school and has been writing ever since. Kim lives deep in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with her very own cowboy, Curt, and their young children. She’s an avid reader (she reads all the Blaze® books) who loves Diet Dr Pepper, chocolate, Toby Keith, chocolate, alpha males—especially vampires—and chocolate. Kim also loves to hear from readers. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com or at www.myspace.com/kimberlyrayebooks.

For my caring, supportive, ultra-fabulous editor

Brenda Chin, for NOT moving to England.

1

IT WAS THE BEST SEX she’d had in months.

The only sex.

Which wouldn’t have been such a bad thing except that the elusive O came courtesy of a red fluorescent vibrator called the Big Tamale rather than some hot, buff cowboy with a slow hand and an intoxicating smile.

Margaret Evelyn Sweeney, aka Meg, hit the three different Off buttons—vibrate, swivel and aye carumba—and stashed Big in its matching red case. She drew a deep breath, swung her legs over the side of her bed and got to her feet.

Five minutes later, she stood in her kitchen and leaned over a hot-pink three-ring binder—her own personal Pleasure Manual—to document tonight’s results. She flipped to page fiftyeight, which included a quick summation of last Tuesday’s class entitled Masturbation Mania and a worksheet for homework. She scribbled in the date and tackled the questions.

Intense sensation? Check.

Spontaneous groaning (the good kind)? Check.

Uncontrollable moaning? Check.

A full-blown scream? Check.

Overall level of satisfaction?

She eyed the scale that ranged from one to ten, zip to zowee, and finally circled seven before moving on to the last question.

Did this sexual experience include a partner? She ignored the crazy urge to jot down a big fat yes. This wasn’t about soothing her fragile ego and saving face with the other women in the painfully small town of Skull Creek, Texas.

The whole purpose of attending carnal classes with a certified carnal coach was to invest in her future. Sadly enough, she was thirty years old and she could count on one hand the number of romantic entanglements she’d had in her lifetime.

Actually, she could count them on two fingers. Three if she included her encounters with her good buddy and childhood friend, Dillon Cash. While Meg had been a mega tomboy, Dillon had been a major geek. Either way, they’d both never really fit in with the opposite sex—not romantically—and so they’d turned to each other back in the ninth grade when they’d realized that they were the only ones—with the exception of Connie Louise Davenport, Reverend Davenport’s daughter—in the entire freshman class who hadn’t known how to French kiss.

Okay, so they hadn’t known how to kiss, period. No quick pecks. No slow, lingering smooches. No open mouths and plunging tongues. They’d been fifteen and very green, and so it had seemed like a good idea to work out the awkwardness with each other.

Several hours, a bootleg copy of a Nine 1/2 Weeks video, and a dozen clumsy attempts later, they hadn’t been any more skilled than when they’d started.

In fact, the entire experience had solidified what she’d known from the get-go—Dillon was and would always be just a good friend. She hadn’t liked him like that.

No heart stutters. No tummy tingles. No rip-off-your-pantiesand-go-bonkers lust.

Which was why, despite the experimental kissing, she felt inclined to leave him out of the tally when it came to her sexual past.

That left Oren and Walter. She’d lost her virginity to Oren, aka the Orenator, at the ripe old age of eighteen. He’d been the best defensive end the Skull Creek Panthers had ever seen, and he’d taken them to the state championship during his senior year. And he’d actually liked her, enough to ask her out for Homecoming. They’d gone to the school dance, and then they’d gone parking down by the river.

Ten minutes in the backseat of his daddy’s Chevy listening to recaps of the Cowboys vs. Redskins game, and she’d had enough. She’d thrown her arms around him, pressed her body up against his and offered herself shamelessly. Other than a few initial moments of shock and a frantic “What are you doing?”, he’d finally given in to her persistent lips. She’d lost her innocence along with one of her new hoop earrings and her undies.

Yes!

Not that the experience itself had been all that great. While he’d given in, he hadn’t taken the initiative and swept her off her feet. Rather, she’d taken the lead, pushing and urging and giving a whole new meaning to her nickname Manhandler Meg.

Still, it had been the principle of the thing. It had been the beginning of a new chapter in her life. A chance to start over. To completely forget the tomboy she’d once been and embrace all that was feminine.

Change.

That’s what it had all been about. Meg had grown up being a carbon copy of her father. He’d been a single parent—her mother, a diabetic, had died of renal failure shortly afterMeg’s birth—and an athletics coach at the local high school. Growing up, Meg had been determined to follow in his footsteps. She’d watched him, learned from him, idolized him, and then one day he’d been gone.

She’d been barely seventeen and it had been the start of the summer after her junior year. She’d gone home early to pack (they were going camping to celebrate the end of classes) and he’d stayed late to finish cleaning out his desk. He’d been in a hurry to get home, not wanting to lose their camping spot at a local state park. He’d failed to stop at a nearby intersection and had been hit by an approaching car. That had been the end of him.

And the end of Meg.

The old Meg.

She’d gone to live with her grandparents and, much to their surprise, had packed away her soccer ball and kneepads. She’d ditched her favorite baseball bat and glove, her autographed Troy Aikman football and her lucky San Antonio Spurs basketball jersey. Even more, she’d packed away her all-time favorite sweats and the lucky Dallas Cowboy T-shirt her dad had bought her. She’d taken out a subscription to Cosmo and had learned all the latest fashion trends. She’d even forfeited helping her granddad on his tractor so that her grandmother could teach her how to sew.

In one summer, she’d traded in her love of sports for an infatuation with shoes and clothes and all things feminine, and had started her senior year as a different Meg. A woman determined to forget her past, to bury it right along with her father.

When Oren had chronicled their night on the wall of the boys’ locker room, her undies hanging from one of the locker pegs as proof, she’d been thrilled. The male population of Skull Creek High would finally see her as more than just a competitive edge during game time. She’d been so good at sports that she’d become the best buddy of every male athlete in school. They’d asked her advice on everything from touchdowns to golf putts.

They’d never, however, asked her out.

She’d been convinced that that one wild night with Oren would be enough to change her image.

She’d been wrong.

This was Skull Creek. The classic small town where people left their doors unlocked and the sidewalks rolled up at six o’clock every evening. Forget crime. The most exciting news centered around the occasional boob job or cheating spouse. Strangers were scarce and everyone knew everyone.

And that meant that once she was Manhandler Meg, she’d always be Manhandler Meg.

While she’d managed to change who she actually was, she’d never been able to change everyone’s perception of her.

Not way back when Oren had written about her and the entire football team had assumed it was a really great practical joke—she’d gotten so many high fives that her hand had been raw—and not now that she wore high heels and sexy clothes and ran her own dress boutique, It’s All About You, a small, exclusive shop located on Main Street, smack dab between Dillon’s computer repair shop and the town’s one and only full-service spa, Pam’s Pamper Park.

People still saw her as a chip-off-the-old-Sweeney-block. The women rarely felt threatened and the men…Well, they actually respected her.

While she knew that most females would kill to be valued for their minds rather than their bodies, once, just once, she would like to have a man actually see her as a sex object.

So make a real change, pack your bags and get out of Dodge.

She’d thought about it. But the notion of leaving her grandparents—even though they now lived an hour away in a retirement community outside of Austin, and she only saw them a few times a month—was even less appealing than being known as Manhandler Meg for the rest of her life. They’d helped her through her father’s death, loved her, raised her, and she intended to return the favor. They’d been there for her when she’d needed them the most, and she intended to be there for them when the time came and they eventually needed her. She couldn’t do that if she was God knows where.

Which meant she was here and she was staying.

Walter had been her second romantic entanglement. One that had continued over the years, on during football season and off after the Super Bowl, which kicked off the start of tax season—he was an accountant. While she knew Walter found her attractive, he also liked to pick her brain for betting advice (he spear-headed the weekly football pool at his office). When he won, he got very happy and the sex was pretty good—if she initiated (Walter wasn’t one for making the first move). When he wasn’t making money betting on his favorite sport, he was so boring he made a wedge of cheese look exciting.

He was neck-deep in IRS forms and for the past three months, she’d been flying solo.

A good thing, she reminded herself. Walter wasn’t the man for her and so she’d broken things off for good after the last Super Bowl. She didn’t want a man who only wanted her some of the time. Even more, she didn’t want a man who didn’t want her enough to make the first move. She was through initiating sex.

Hence the classes.

They’d originally been given by Dillon’s sister, Cheryl Anne, who’d been desperate to break out of her shell and do something wild and crazy with her own life. She’d succeeded for a few weeks before she’d realized that actually having sex was much more preferable than talking about it with a bunch of clueless women eager to spice up their relationships. She’d handed over her classes to Winona, the owner of the only motel in town, and had married her long-time boyfriend. Cheryl Anne was now living the American dream.

Not that Meg’s goal was to get married. Maybe. Someday. If the right man came along. Right now, however, she simply wanted to have sex with a man who really and truly wanted to have sex with her. A man who couldn’t keep his hands off her.

A man who wanted her badly enough to make the first move.

The classes would teach her how to increase her sex appeal to the point that she was irresistible. Hopefully.

Meg finished documenting her results, closed her Pleasure Manual and headed back upstairs to her bedroom closet. After careful consideration, she settled for a hot-pink shell, a frayed blue jean miniskirt with rhinestone trim and a pair of high-heeled sandals she’d picked up on her latest shopping trip to Austin. The outfit met all of her must-haves—feminine and sexy and ubertrendy—which was why it had made it into her closet in the first place. As owner of the one and only upscale boutique in town, she wanted her own personal wardrobe to reflect her business image. While she might be striking out when it came to changing everyone’s perception of her personally, professionally she was batting one thousand.

Her shop had become the go-to place for every special occasion—from proms to anniversary parties to the occasional hot date.Women sought her advice on clothes, shoes and accessories, and her shop had even been named Business of theYear three consecutive times in a rowby the Skull Creek Chamber of Commerce.

But while her shop was making the news, Meg wasn’t.

Meaning she’d yet to garner even a mention in Tilly Townsend’s infamous Hot Chicks list. The list was published every six months and featured the ten hottest bachelorettes in town. Likewise, Tilly also did a Randiest Rooster list that named the ten hottest bachelors. The list was the ultimate when it came to popularity—a who’s who of the most sought-after singles in town. The women were smart, successful, vivacious and irresistible to men. The newest version came out in exactly two weeks and Meg wanted to be on it.

Meg ignored an inkling of hopelessness and headed for the shower.

She spent the next half hour upstairs getting ready and the last fifteen minutes downstairs sucking down a Diet Coke and rereading her notes on last week’s lesson. She was seated at her table, about to get to the Understanding Your Vibrator section, when a tongue lapped at her bare thigh.

She glanced down at the black-and-gray Blue Heeler who’d pushed through the doggy door and now stood next to her. Tail wagging, tongue lolling, the animal stared up at her, a pleading look in her big brown eyes.

“Don’t even think it.” She wagged a finger at her. “You know what the vet said. Sugar isn’t good for a dog your age.” Babe, named for the infamous Babe Ruth, obviously disagreed. She wagged her way over to the pantry and stared hopefully at the closed door.

“You can’t have any,” Meg told the dog, pushing to her feet. She bypassed the pantry to retrieve a small box from a nearby cabinet. “Doc said you could have a veggie biscuit instead.” She held out the foul-smelling treat. Babe approached, took one sniff andwagged herway back over to the pantry. She nuzzled the door.

“No,” Meg said, but the dog kept pleading.

Five minutes and some serious whimpering later, Meg pulled out a box of golden cakes and fed one to the anxious dog. Babe was getting old. Sixteen to be exact, which meant she no longer had the energy to chase Frisbees or bark at Mrs. Calico’s Chihuahua next door. She’d given up chasing balls, too, and carting in the newspaper. Other than watching re-runs of Sex and the City and eating the occasional Twinkie, she had zero pleasure in her old age.

Meg fed her a second and smiled as she wolfed it down.

The dog whimpered for a third, but Meg shook her head. “Discipline, girl. It’s all about discipline.” She stuffed the box back into the pantry and closed the door.

Babe licked at Meg’s fingers for a few seconds before heading back to the den and her doggy bed, obviously satisfied for the moment.

If only Meg felt the same.

Despite the orgasm, shewas still restless.Anxious. Unfulfilled.

Because she was still every bit as invisible as she’d been way back when. That’s why she was taking carnal classes. She wanted men to notice her, to lust after her, to find her completely irresistible.

The way the women were now lusting after Dillon Cash.

She stared at the lifestyle section of the Skull Creek Gazette spread out on her kitchen table and her gaze snagged on Tilly’s weekly column—What’s Hot and What’s Not.

A picture of Dillon taken at Joe Bob’s Bar & Grill blazed back at her. He was boot scootin’ his way across the sawdust floor with Amelia Louise Lauderfield. The infamous Amelia Louise Lauderfield. Number six on Tilly’s Hot Chicks list.

Dillon and a bona fide Hot Chick.

Meg still couldn’t believe it.

One minute he’d been spending his Saturday nights holed up in his computer repair shop, and the next—a few months ago to be exact—he’d shown up in a nearby town at a local honky tonk, of all places. He’d ditched his glasses and swapped his buttondown shirt and slacks for well-worn jeans and a T-shirt. Even more, he’d traded his car, complete with seat belts and air bags, for a custom-made motorcycle and no helmet.

It hadn’t been the news of his physical transformation that had startled her so much as everyone’s response to it—every female in the Cherry Blossom Saloon had fallen all over themselves for a chance to go home with him.

Then again, word had it he’d shown up after happy hour, which meant that the liquor had been flowing. More than likely, the members of his instant fan club had been extremely drunk. On top of that, the place was out of town. The women who’d gone gaga over his new look couldn’t have been privy to his reputation.

At least that’s the conclusion she’d come to after one of her customers, Cornelia Wallace, had relayed the rumors circulating around town. She could still hear the old woman’s words.

“He’s having one of them middle-aged life crisis things. I saw a special about it on the Discovery Health Channel. Said the threat of aging makes a man do crazy things.”

“Don’t you have to be middle-aged to have a midlife crisis?” Meg had asked the old woman. “Dillon’s only thirty.”

“Maybe it’s one of them there near-death experiences. They did a 20/20 special about them last week. Said folks do all sorts of bizarre things when they almost meet their maker. Or maybe he’s having a coming-out-of-the-closet moment and he’s fighting it by trying to prove his manhood. Saw just such a thing on one of them cable channels last month. It was all about how this fella actually slept with three dozen women and fathered twenty-two young ‘uns just so’s he could prove to himself that he wasn’t buttering his bread on the wrong side. What do you think?”

“I think you spend too much time watching television. Maybe it wasn’t even Dillon over at the saloon. Maybe it was just someone who looked like him.”

“It was him, all right. Heard it straight from Evangeline Dupree, who heard it from her granddaughter, who heard it from her boyfriend who was there having his bachelor party. He swore it was Dillon.”

But Meg wasn’t so sure. Dillon at a saloon? Getting comfy with a bunch of women?

Not the Dillon she knew.

While they didn’t spend a lot of time together now—he was busy at his shop and she was busy with her customers, so they only managed the occasional lunch—she still saw enough of him to know that he was every bit as awkward around the opposite sex as he’d been back in high school.

Up until two months ago, that is.

That’s when things had changed.

When he’d changed.

Not that she’d seen the transformation firsthand. No, he’d been avoiding her, canceling their lunches, dodging her phone calls. She’d stopped by his shop to see him and put an end to all the nonsense that was flying around—there had to be a logical explanation, right?—but the place had been locked up tight. Ditto for his house. She’d even called his parents, but they’d been as confused as she was, and even more determined to hunt him down and find out the truth.

They’d been camping out in his yard for the past two weeks, trying to corner him and save him from himself.

Meg wasn’t one-hundred-percent convinced that the sex object running around town was really him and so she’d taken a less radical approach—she’d left tons of messages on his cell. But he hadn’t called her back.

Because he really was busy with his new social life?

Or because he’d left town for yet another computer seminar?

Everyone had a twin somewhere. More than likely Dillon’s had moved to the next town and his midlife crisis/near-death-experience/ coming-out-of-the-closet was simply a case of mistaken identity. One which he couldn’t disprove because he was off learning how to tweak motherboards or dissect USB switches or something.

And the picture staring back at her?

Dillon’s twin.

Maybe. Probably.

Sure, it would be great if he really had managed such a change. Then he could give her some pointers on how to nail irresistible and make it onto Tilly’s Hot Chicks list. But Meg wasn’t getting her hopes up. She knew the hazards of living in a small town. Last year Diana Trucker had been spotted buying a pregnancy test at the local pharmacy. By the time Meg had heard the news from Corny, the woman had been six months pregnant with quintuplets.

People had a way of exaggerating everything.

Which meant, until she saw actual proof of Dillon’s newfound sex appeal, she wasn’t buying one word of Corny’s gossip.

She had her own sex appeal—or lack of—to worry over.

She’d just finished an online How to Sex Up Your Image seminar in addition to several self-help classes at the local junior college—Dressing for Sexcess and How to Lick Your Lips Like You Mean It. If that wasn’t enough, she was now taking carnal Classes being offered in the lobby of the Skull Creek Inn.

At least that’s what she told herself as she showered and dressed. She didn’t want to be late for tonight’s class.

SHE HAD TO BE SEEING things.

Meg sat in the motel parking lot near the corner of the building and stared across the dimly lit walkway that ran the length of the first floor. She stared through the windshield of her Mustang and her gaze zeroed in on the profile of the man who stood in front of the doorway to room four.

He wore snug, faded jeans, a fitted black T-shirt and a pair of black cowboy boots. A black Resistol tipped low on his forehead and cast a shadow across the top half of his face. Dark blond hair curled from beneath the hat brim and brushed the collar of his shirt. He was tall and muscular and…Dillon.

She blinked, but he didn’t disappear. And neither did the beautiful woman pressed up against his back, her arms locked around his waist as she waited for him to slide the key into the lock and open the door.

A heartbeat later, the door opened and he pried the woman loose long enough to step aside and motion her into the room. She slid by him, her hands brushing his crotch before she disappeared inside.

He quickly followed and Meg was left to wonder if Corny had been right and she’d just witnessed the transformation of a lifetime. That couldn’t have been Dillon Cash.

Yes. No. Hell, no.

The next few minutes were spent debating between the three as she gathered up her purse and Pleasure Manual, climbed from the front seat and headed for the hotel lobby.

She didn’t mean to slow down, but she couldn’t help herself. She paused briefly at the door to room four, but the only sound she heard was the frantic beating of her own heart.

2

“LET’S DO IT RIGHT NOW,” the soft, breathless voice slid into his ears and sent a burst of yeah, right straight to his brain. “Please.”

Dillon Cash stared at the woman who’d preceded him into the motel room, her eyes gleaming with a mix of passion and desperation. He barely resisted the urge to pinch himself.

No way was this happening.

This was Susie Wilcox, a former Homecoming Queen and now the hottest divorcée in Skull Creek, according to the local paper and Tilly Townsend who’d given the sexy blonde the number one spot on last year’s Hot Chicks list.

Rumor had it Susie was a shoe-in for this year’s list, as well.

She had long, silky hair. Legs up to here. Breasts out to there. Her tiny waist begged for his hands and her heart-shaped ass made his mouth go dry. She’d been the star of his wettest dreams back in high school, and a few dozen erotic fantasies in the twelve-plus years since.

She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman and she was here.

Now.

With him.

And she was getting naked.

She kicked off her high heels, grabbed the edge of her tank top and pulled the cotton up and over her head. Popping the buttons on her jeans, she shimmied the ultra-tight denim down her long legs and stepped free. Her fingers went to her bra clasp and just like that, her impressive DD’s popped free. She stood before him then wearing a pink mesh thong that left little to the imagination and a rosy red flush that said she was as hot and bothered as a woman could get.

Surprise snaked through him, but he tamped it back down and focused on the hunger stirring deep inside of him.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” she said. Her gaze, intense and unwavering, glittered with passion. “About us.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why, but the first moment I saw you tonight, I knewwewould end up here.” She smiled. “I feel like I can’t keep my hands off of you.” The smile faded into a look of raw, inexplicable need. “I feel like I’m going to explode right nowif I don’t get close to you.” She moved toward him, eating up the distance between them with determined steps. “Very close.”

Maybe she wasn’t privy as to why she wanted him so badly. And Dillon wasn’t about to tell her.

It had started two months ago when a stranger had ridden into town. Jake McCann had turned out to be more than the average drifter. He’d been a vampire determined to lay his past to rest, to slay his demons. Literally. And Dillon had gotten caught in the middle of the struggle.

One minute Dillon had been trying to protect an old friend and the next, he’d had a pair of bloodthirsty fangs—courtesy of Jake’s nemesis—gnawing at his neck. He’d come this close to dying, his life spilling away on the pavement of the town’s main square, but then Jake had stepped forward, shared his own blood, and changed Dillon forever.

Thankfully.

Sure, it wasn’t the most practical lifestyle—no more lounging on the beach or scarfing chicken fried steak. But being bitten and turned into a vampire who thrived on blood and sex—especially sex—wasn’t such a bad thing.

Not to a man whose parents had been a pair of obsessive-compulsives who’d worried about everything, particularly the health and well-being of their only two children. Dillon and his younger sister, Cheryl Anne, had been smothered and coddled to the point that they’d been isolated from their peers. Harold and Dora Cash had never taken their children on a trip to the beach—and risk the possibility of sun damage? Nor had they allowed them to eat chicken fried steak or anything with an overabundance of trans fat.

Dillon had grown up playing solitaire and chess while other kids went camping and joined Boy Scouts. He’d also been a computer whiz who’d spent his summers reading and taking online courses instead of catching fireflies and going on picnics or swimming down at Skull Creek river.

At thirty-one, he’d become his own boss—he owned the only computer store within a fifty mile radius that handled both new sales and repairs. He was independent, financially solvent, and still a major geek.

Up until two months ago, that is.

“Once a geek, always a geek.”

Susie’s words echoed in his head. That’s what she’d told him back in high school when he’d worked up the nerve to ask her out. He’d gotten a new haircut and ordered a cool pair of jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt online. He’d even invested the money he’d made typing English papers on a pair of contact lenses. But it hadn’t been enough. By then, the damage had already been done, his reputation established. His new look had failed. Even more, one of his contacts had popped out and Susie had ground it into the concrete as she’d spun on her heel, told him to get lost and walked away.

Her rejection had set the stage for many more to come. He’d gone on to have a measly three sexual encounters in his lifetime (not counting the experimental petting he’d done with his buddy Meg back in the ninth grade), and not one woman had ever come back for seconds.

In fact, he’d had a pretty hard time talking them into firsts.

All that had changed the night he’d been turned.

He’d changed.

A gleam of yellow pushed through the part in the drapes and sliced across the carpet at his feet, but it did little to illuminate the rest of the room. He blinked, his gaze piercing the darkness, drinking in every detail of the small hotel room—from the faint scars on the worn dresser to the tiny thread that unraveled at the corner of the bedspread, to the shimmering spiderweb that dangled in the far corner. His vision had improved and sharpened to the point that he had no need of the black coke-bottle glasses he’d worn since the age of five.

His dark blond hair was shinier and thicker, too, his body more muscular and defined. His acne had completely cleared up and his tongue no longer tied itself into knots when a pretty female looked his way.

Now he knew exactly how to talk to a woman.

How to look at her. To touch. To seduce.

He was now a vampire who craved sexual energy as much as he craved the sustenance of blood. More, in fact. And after thirtyone years of near celibacy, Dillon Cash had no qualms feeding the hunger that now lived and breathed inside of him.

His nostrils flared and the scent of warm, ripe woman filled his head. His body responded instantly. His hands itched to reach out. His muscles tightened in anticipation. The blood pounded through his veins. His dick stirred, growing hard, hot, ready.

Still. As great as he knew the sex would be, this encounter would just make him that much more anxious for the next.

Another woman.

Another rush of succulent, sweet, drenching energy.

He needed it. He thrived on it. He fed off of it.

Gladly.

Unlike the vampire who’d turned him, Dillon wasn’t the least bit anxious to escape the hunger. Not when it came with so many perks. He knew he would inevitably miss his humanity. He would then get as serious as Jake about finding and destroying theAncient One, and putting an end to the vampire curse once and for all.

After he’d broken Bobby McGuire’s record for having slept with the most women in town.

Bobby was a legend in Skull Creek. He’d held the number one spot on the town’s Randiest Rooster list for a record twenty-eight years, right up until he’d turned forty-eight and had had his first heart attack. The doc had put him on a strict No Excitement diet, and he’d been booted off the list. Before however, he’d been a major gigolo rumored to have done the deed with over three hundred women, a count he’d recorded by carving notches into his pine headboard. That proof had sold for over two thousand dollars last year at a local charity auction when Bobby, now an old man, had donated a houseful of furniture and moved to a retirement community in Port Aransas.

Over the years, some had called Bobby a sex maniac. Others had called him a liar. A few had even said he was delusional.

But no one—not a single soul—had ever called him a geek.

Not that Dillon cared what other people thought. Nor did he have any desire to land himself on the notorious list.

This wasn’t about proving something to the folks of Skull Creek. It was about proving something to himself. After so many years of having zero luck with the opposite sex, he’d started to think that maybe, just maybe, Susie had been right about him.

He’d never really thought so. He’d always walked the straight and narrow because of his parents. He didn’t want to cause them any more grief. He’d caused enough as a child when he’d nearly gotten himself killed.

It had been his seventh birthday and he’d been determined to camp out down by the creek. His parents had said no, but he’d snuck out anyway. He’d been walking around without shoes near the water and had stepped on something sharp. In a matter of days, a small puncture wound had morphed into a full-blown staph infection.

A near fatal infection that had turned his parents from normal and easygoing people to smothering and obsessive caretakers in less than six months.

Cheryl Anne was too young to remember—she’d been four at the time—and too young to blame him for the stifled life she’d been forced to lead. But he remembered how things had been before the incident. His parents had been fun-loving and adventurous back then. And Dillon? He’d been outgoing. A risk taker with a zest for life.

He’d buckled under the guilt, suppressed that lust and obeyed his folks from then on. To everyone else, he’d seemed like a quiet, shy, timid kid, but deep inside he’d been just the opposite.

An act. That’s all it had been, or so he’d always thought up until he’d graduated high school without even making it to second base with a girl. The doubts had set in then—the notion that maybe he wasn’t really pretending. Maybe he really had morphed into a bona fide geek.

Even now that he was a vampire there were still moments—quick bursts of thought whenever he found himself in the most unreal situations—when he knew, he just knew, he had to be dreaming and it was just a matter of time before reality intruded and he morphed back to his old, boring self.

But he was going to change all of that and silence the doubts for good. He’d fantasized about breaking Bobby’s record—what hormone-driven teenage boy hadn’t?—but he’d never had the opportunity.

Until now.

Two months, an uncontrollable hunger and a nearly impossible number of women—he was now only two shy of his goal.

Training his gaze on the tall, voluptuous blonde, he sent a rush of mental images, leaving no doubt in her mind what he wanted to do to her.

She didn’twalk away this time. She couldn’t. Shewanted him with a greedy desperation that she’d never felt for any other man.

He read that truth in her eyes—another vampire perk—along with the fact that, despite her beauty and the prestige of being number one on Tilly’s Hottest Chicks list, she was the loneliest and most miserable of all her friends. Contrary to rumor, she hadn’t left her second husband because he’d filed bankruptcy after some bad business investments. He’d been cheating on her with a giggling twenty-one-year-old barmaid and had spent their entire savings on hair plugs, liposuction and a penis enlargement.

“Touch me,” she begged. “Please.”

And because Dillon needed her as much as she needed him, he did.

“CAN ANYONE TELL ME THE key ingredient to a successful relationship?”

Meg wiggled in her seat, craned her neck and peered between two gigantic teased and sprayed hairdos. Her gaze went to the woman who stood center stage in the small lobby of the Skull Creek Inn.

Winona Atkins was well into her seventies. She wore a flowerprint smock, white orthopedic shoes and a penis-shaped name tag that read Carnal Coach. Rolls of snow white curls covered her head and a pair of gold-rimmed cat’s eye glasses hung from a chain around her neck.

The old woman arched a white eyebrow as she eyed her roomful of eager students. “Well, come on now.” She waved a bony hand. “I ain’t got all night. Somebody bite the bullet and take a stab at it.”

“Honesty?” someone called out.

“Mutual respect?” asked another.

“Separate bank accounts?”

Winona smiled, her face breaking into a mass of wrinkles. “Those are some fine answers, ladies. Mighty fine.” She shook her head. “But I’m afraid they ain’t even close. See—” she retrieved the hat rack standing in the far corner and hauled it front and center “—every man, no matter how upstanding or uptight he might be, likes a little hooch ever once in a while.”

“Hooch?” one woman asked. “Is that like a floozy?”

“Exactly. It’s a woman who can cut loose and shed her inhibitions.

A woman who’s got confidence and isn’t afraid to show it. A woman who’ll strip buck naked and wrap herself around the nearest pole.” Winona gripped the hat rack and did a little shake and shimmy. “I call this move “Circling the wagons”, ladies.” She went around the cedar rack once, twice. “I know it looks complicated now, but after tonight’s lesson, you’ll all be able to do it with your eyes closed. Which is a plus if you’re like Sally, there, who’s got cataracts.” She indicated a seventy-something woman straining to see with her bifocals. “Not that you’re s’posed to close your eyes. Eye contact is a powerful thing between a woman and a man.”

Winona’s words stirred a sudden vision of Dillon standing in the hotel doorway, his gaze hooked on Susie Wilcox, his eyes bright. Gleaming. Powerful.

A pang of envy shot through her. A crazy reaction because no way—repeat, no way—was she even remotely attracted to Dillon Cash.

Sure, she’d felt a few tummy tingles when they’d tried the kissing thing way back when, but what red-blooded, curious, hormonal teen girl wouldn’t after watching Mickey Rourke seduce Kim Bassinger? It hadn’t been Dillon. It had been the heat of the moment.

Luckily, the temperature had quickly fizzled after the first disappointing attempt at a kiss. She hadn’t felt even an inkling of attraction to him since.

Not then and certainly not now.

Forget jealous. She was envious. He had a hot woman falling all over him, and she wanted the same. Not a hot woman, mind you, but a hot man.

Yep, she was envious. If it was really and truly him, that is.

She latched onto the doubts and turned her attention back to the front of the room.

“…start with Mary.” Winona pointed to a woman seated on the front row. “I want you to get up and try circling the wagons. We’ll keep going seat by seat until everyone gets a turn. While everyone’s trying out the technique, I’ll have a look at the homework assignment from the last class.”

Pages fluttered as everyone pulled out their notebooks.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Mary said as she pushed to her feet. “I’m not used to working with an audience.”

“That’s what these are for, dear.” Winona retrieved a platter of petit fours from a nearby table. “I call ‘em pleasure bites. These little buggers will have you stripping off your clothes and shedding your inhibitions quicker than Arlen Wilson can chow through an apple with those new titanium dentures of his.”

“Are those made with that wacky tobacky Mildred Pierce always puts in her brownies?” Mary asked.

Winona frowned. “I run a reputable business here, ladies. This here’s made with Everclear,” Winona said. “Colorless, tasteless and completely legal.”

“Well, then.” Mary grabbed one and popped it into her mouth before helping herself to a second and then a third. She drew a deep breath and eyed the hat rack.

Meanwhile, Winona handed the platter to the next woman in line and the goodies started to circulate.

“Billy and I had such a good time last night,” Mabel Avery told Winona as the old woman stepped toward her and confiscated her journal. “He loved watching me with that pink vibrator I ordered off the Internet.”

“My Hank liked watching me, too,” another woman said, waving her spiral notebook. “But mine’s purple instead of pink.”

“My Melvin said it was his fantasy come true,” said another.

As the comments continued, Meg made a show of searching around her seat before throwing up her hands. “What do you know? I think I left my notebook in the car,” she said to the woman next to her. She pushed to her feet. “I’ll just pop out and get it.”

Five seconds later, she closed the lobby door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.

Coward, a voice whispered. The entire town knows you’re unattached.

But knowing it and hearing it, complete with written documentation to back it up, was a totally different thing. It was bad enough she’d had to try out the vibrator alone. She wasn’t going to admit it to a roomful of nosy women.

No, she’d take her time going to the car, then slip back inside once Winona went back to her pole dancing techniques.

She was halfway down the walkway when her gaze snagged on the door to room four.

It was shut solid. The curtains were drawn on the window just to the left. No light spilled past the two-inch gap in the drapes.

Make that a three inch gap.

Not that she was looking.

She was not going to look.

That’s what she told herself as she started to walk past.

For one thing, it was rude and intrusive. Two, she could care less what was going on inside. Sex or scrabble. Neither were her business.

At the same time, if Dillon really was having sex with Susie Wilcox, it meant that not only had he changed, but the town had let him. Somehow, someway, he’d killed a lifetime of perception in a matter of months.

And she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d done it.

If he’d done it.

Curiosity burned through her and her footsteps slowed. She’d take one quick little peek and no one would be the wiser. Cupping her hands over her brow, she leaned toward the window.

She blinked and the dimly lit room started to focus.A pair of jeans lay in a heap on the hardwood floor. A lacey bra dangled over the back of a nearby leather chair. One red high heel peeked out from under the corner of the bed. The covers bunched at the bottom of the mattress, the bedspread a tangled heap on the floor.

A very naked Susie Wilcox lay on her stomach, her cheek nuzzling a pillow, one arm slung over her head, the other resting on the empty spot next to her—

Wait a second. Empty?

Just as the thought struck, she heard the deep, familiar voice. “Nice view.”

The words slid into her ears and her heart stalled. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Awareness zipped up and down her spine, along with a rush of embarrassment.

She was so busted.

3

SHE KNEW IT WAS DILLON even before she turned around.

Before her gaze swept from the long bare feet peeking from beneath the frayed hem of aworn pair of jeans, up denim-clad legs, past a trimwaist and an enticing funnel of whiskey-colored hair that bisectedwashboard abs, over a muscular chest, thick biceps encircled by slave-band tattoos, a corded neck, to the familiar face—

Wait a minute.

Tattoos?

Her attention swiveled to one sinewy arm. Sure enough, an intricate black design snaked around the bulging muscle, making it seem larger and more powerful. Her gaze swiveled to the other arm. Ditto.

“Nice view,” he repeated.

The deep timbre of his voice drew her full attention and made her tummy quiver. Her thighs trembled and her nipples pebbled and—

Girlfriend, puleeeeease. We’re talking Dillon. The guy who’d given her dry-cleaning coupons for her last birthday. Other than those few ridiculous moments in anticipation (thanks to Kim and Mickey) of their first kiss, she’d never felt anything for him other than friendship.

Certainly not the overwhelming need to get hot and sweaty and naked.

Then again, she’d never seen him wearing nothing but worn, faded jeans, the top button undone, a pair of dark and dangerous tattoos and a relaxed, confident, sexy-as-hell smile.

“Yeah,” she blurted, eager to distract herself from the sudden trembling of her body. “She’s, um, really pretty.” Her throat tightened around the words as if it actually bothered her to admit as much.

As if.

“I wasn’t talking about the view inside.” His gaze slid from her eyes to her mouth and lingered for several seconds.

If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she felt a distinct pressure on her bottom lip. Like an invisible finger tracing the plump fullness, testing it…Crazy.

She licked her lips, killing the strange sensation, and his gaze collided with hers.

“I’m talking about the view out here,” he added. Something hot and sensual shimmered in the green depths of his eyes and her pulse jumped.

“I’ve left over a dozen messages,” she blurted, eager to ignore the sudden butterflies that fluttered away in her stomach. She gathered her indignation and nailed him with a stare. “Did you forget how to use a phone, or have you been avoiding me on purpose?”

The corner of his mouth crooked into the faintest hint of a smile. “I’ve been a little busy.”

She glanced at the window. “Too busy to call your folks?” She eyed him. “I saw your mom at the hardware store last week. She’s worried about you.”

He shrugged, his biceps flexing. The tattoos encircling his arms seemed to widen. “I haven’t been able to call.”

“You haven’t been able to, or you haven’t wanted to?”

“Things are different for me now. I’m different. I doubt they’d understand.”

Meg doubted it, too. They’d freaked out when he’d stepped in an ant bed back in the fifth grade and had pulled Doc Wilmer away from a championship golf game just to apply Benadryl. Meg could only imagine what they would do if they knew Dillon was stepping into motel rooms, and every place else it seemed, with every available woman in town.

Correction—almost every available woman. He’d been avoiding her like the plague.

“What’s going on with you? You never miss pepperoni day.” She didn’t mean to sound so accusing. So what if he’d blown off their monthly lunch at Uncle Buck’s Pizza not once, but twice now? She would have skipped their infamous double-decker pepperoni in a heartbeat in favor of a date with a really hot guy. “You could have at least called.”

“I meant to.” The sexy confidence faded for a split second and she glimpsed a twinkle of true regret. “Don’t be mad.”

“Because you’re going through some major life crisis and didn’t have the decency to tell me? You really think I’d be mad at a little thing like that?”

“You’re not mad, then.”

“I meant that sarcastically.” He grinned and she felt her indignation melt. “Okay, spill it. What’s up?”

He gave another shrug. “What can I say? I’m finally coming out of my shell.”

“At thirty-one?”

“Maybe I’m a late bloomer.”

“Andmaybe I’m wearing polyester to the nextVFWdance.” She shook her head. “It’s more than that. Something happened to you.”

“You’ve found me out.” He leaned one hand on the window near her head and leaned down, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “I’m not really Dillon. I just look like him.”

The scent of him, so raw and masculine, slid into her nostrils and filled her head. For a split second, she had the urge to lean closer, to press her lips to the side of his neck, to taste him with her tongue, to—

She fought the urge and leaned back.

“I suppose you’re really a pod person and we’re about to be invaded by little green men.”

“They’re purple, but you get the idea.”

“You’re so full of it.” She leveled a stare at him. “I was really worried.”

A strange gleam lit his eyes, but then it faded into a vivid green that sparkled and glittered so bright she found herself staring for the next few heartbeats until reality zapped some common sense into her and she managed to shift her attention to his mouth.

Hehad really great lips. Full, but not too full. Just right for aman.

She’d always thought so. At least for those few moments before he’d given her some of the worst kisses of her life.

He stiffened. “I’m sorry you were worried, but I can take care of myself.” His sudden frown faded into an easygoing grin. “And most anyone else who comes along.” The words were ripe with innuendo and her tummy did a quick somersault before hollowing out.

Dillon, she reminded herself. Dry-cleaning. Zero attraction.

But while her brain received the crucial messages loud and clear, her body had tuned in to a different frequency.

Warmth zipped up and down her spine, sending out blasts of heat to every erogenous zone in her body, from the arches of her feet and the sensitive skin below her belly button, to the ripened tips of her breasts and the back of each ear.

She had the sudden urge to step forward, close the fraction of distance between them and press her body flush against his.

So do it.

The words, raw and sexy, rumbled through her head as if Dillon himself stood next to her and murmured the encouragement directly in her ear.

He didn’t. He stood inches away, his mouth crooked in a sinful grin, his eyes gleaming with desire and a knowing light that said he read every lascivious thought that raced through her mind.

Yeah. Sure.

She’d obviously had one too many of Winona’s pleasure bites. No way would she ever make the first move on a man again.

Been there. Done that. Uh, uh.

And she certainly wouldn’t make the first move on Dillon, of all people. He wasn’t her type. He never had been. She went for tall, sexy, aggressive.

Okay, so maybe he was her type. All except for the aggressive part.

There were no strong purposeful hands reaching for her, no seeking lips. Gone was the uncertainty that had always simmered so hot and bright in his greener-than-green eyes when it came to women. The fear. Rather, his gaze blazed with a newfound confidence that did crazy things to her heartbeat.

He stood there, ready and waiting, as if he expected her to be overcome by lust and fall all over him.

“You did it, didn’t you?” she blurted as the truth crystallized.

He arched one blond eyebrow. “You’re the one looking through the window. You tell me.”

His meaning sank in and her cheeks started to burn. Or maybe it was the sudden knowing gleam in his eyes that made her face heat. Either way, her body temperature climbed degree by dangerous degree with each passing second. “Not it as in sex,” she said, managing to find her voice. “Although you obviously did that, too. I’m talking about you. You’ve really changed.” Somehow, someway, Dillon Cash had managed to accomplish in a matter of months what she’d spent half her life trying to do. “You’re really and truly—” she swallowed “—sexy.”

His mouth slanted into a grin. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not at all. It’s really good. Great, in fact.” She shook her head. “I just can’t figure out how you did it. I mean, obviously, you did the whole makeover thing—” she eyed his jeans “—with the exception of the clothes, but it’s more than that.” Her gaze met his. “I’ve read every self-help sex book known to man. I’ve taken tons of seminars at the junior college. I’ve completed several online courses. This is my eighth class with Winona since she took over for Cheryl Anne.” She shook her head. “And I’m still trying to get onto Tilly’s list.” She glanced through the handspan of window space at the beauty draped across the bed.

He’d done it, all right. He’d finally uncovered the secret she’d been searching for all these years—he’d found a way to make himself ultra attractive to the opposite sex.

Women ogled him. Fantasized about him. Stripped off their clothes and hopped into bed without a thought.

Skull Creek’s biggest geek had become a bona fide sex object.

To every other woman, that is, except Meg.

She knew firsthand that people couldn’t just change. Not deep down inside. Not overnight. It had taken her years to complete the process. Therewas noway he’d managed it in a matter of months.

No, he was still the same Dillon beneath the silky hair and toned muscles. Still the same guy who’d thrown up after Darla Sue Alcott had turned him down for the Homecoming dance.

She knew that, even if it was getting more difficult with each passing second to remember it.

A strange look crossed his face, as if he’d peeked into her head and glimpsed her thoughts. But then the expression faded into an easy grin and her heart gave a double thump.

“Six months ago, you couldn’t even talk to a girl,” she pointed out, her own desperation getting the better of her. “And now you’ve got Susie Wilcox offering herself to you like some pagan sacrifice.”

“Talking’s overrated,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through her. “There are much more interesting ways to communicate.”

“And you learned this how? Book? Seminar? Gene therapy that replaces geek DNA with a hung-like-a-horse chromosome?” The last comment drew a full-blown smile from him. “Because whatever it is, I want some.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You want to be hung like a horse?”

“You know what I mean.” Her gaze locked with his. “I want the female equivalent. I want to know your secret.” A secret that would surely land her on Tilly’s newest Hot Chicks list. If Meg could make the list, she had no doubt that the men in town would view her differently.

Bye, bye Manhandler Meg, hello irresistible sex object.

“You owe me,” she told Dillon, “so pay up.” When he gave her a questioning look, she added, “For your half of the pizza, plus the tip. Add in pain and suffering because I had to sit there alone, and punitive damages to my hips because of all the extra calories I consumed since I don’t believe in wasting, and I’d say you owe me big-time.”

His gaze dropped. “Your hips look pretty good to me.”

The butterflies started again. An insane reaction because the old Dillon had never acknowledged anything about her. Not her hips. Or her trim waist. Or even the decent rack she’d been showing off with a Wonderbra since senior year.

This Dillon seemed to notice everything.

And made her want to offer herself up as the second willing sacrifice of the night.

She shook away the sudden visual—Dillon naked and panting above her—that popped into her head and focused on her grumbling stomach. She hadn’t eaten yet, so it was no wonder she was feeling so deprived.

She wanted food, not Dillon. Not really.

She swallowed and did a mental recitation of the menu at her favorite restaurant. “Good try, but you’re not changing the subject. Give,” she persisted.

“Since when did you get so bossy?”

“Since birth. Seriously, I want to know.” Desperation bubbled inside of her, along with the deprivation niggling at her gut. “I need to know.”

He eyed her for a long, drawn-out moment and she had the feeling that he faced some internal struggle.

“You’re sure? You really want to know?” he finally asked.

Excitement rushed through her and she nodded. “Tell me everything.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” His gaze gleamed with a hidden knowledge. His fingers flexed on the glass next to her as he leaned forward. His stubbled jaw rasped her cheekbone. His lips grazed her ear. “Why don’t I show you instead?”

4

WHAT THE HELL WAS HE thinking?

The thought pushed its way past the ferocious hunger that gripped Dillon’s insides and sent a burst of reality straight to his brain.

This was Meg. His buddy. His pal. His friend.

Meg was the one woman he could actually talk to.

The only woman who’d ever cared what he had to say.

No way was he thinking about pushing her up against the nearest wall, sinking himself into her hot body and soaking up her delicious energy while he pumped in and out and drove her to a screaming climax.

And there was no way he was thinking about sinking his fangs into her sweet neck and drinking in her essence while he pumped in and out and drove her to a screaming climax.

While he fed off blood and sex, he never indulged in both at the same time. That was the first rule Garret, his other vampire mentor, had taught him. The big no-no because it forged a bond that was unbreakable. Forever.

The last thing Dillon wanted was to tie himself to one woman for the rest of eternity. Not when he was this close to breaking Bobby’s record.

That’s what he told himself, but with Meg’s scent filling his nostrils and her frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears, forever didn’t seem like such a long time. His muscles tightened and his gut ached and he had the sudden thought that he wanted her more than he wanted to break Bobby’s record.

And she wanted a double pepperoni pizza with extra cheese.

The thought slid into his head and he pulled back. His gaze drilled into hers. Sure enough, he saw an image of Uncle Buck’s Pizza Joint, a table, an extra large pie, and Meg scarfing it down to her heart’s content.

She didn’t want him.

Or at least, she didn’t want to want him. She responded to him. All women did. But she wasn’t falling all over him like every other woman he’d come into contact with in the past few months—with the exception of Nikki, the owner of the local beauty salon.

Nikki was totally enamored of Jake and so her lack of interest didn’t bother Dillon.

But Meg…She was a single, red-blooded female. She should be out of her mind with lust.

Or at least a little overwhelmed.

He drank in the sight of her. No inviting smile. No come-and-get-me-now gaze. No pleading or begging.

“Please.”

All right, so she was begging. A little. But not in the way he’d become accustomed to since stepping over to the vamp side. She wanted his help. His guidance. His advice.

What she didn’t want was to jump into the sack with him.

Correction, she didn’t want to want to jump into the sack with him. He stared into her bright gaze and read the truth as if it were spelled out in neon. Shewas determined to resist temptation, towait for aman—anyman—to make the first move when it came to sex. Shewas even more determined to resist Dillon. They had too much history. Even more, she knewfor a fact—makeover aside—that he couldn’t kiss worth a flip and she was in no hurry to try it again.

He fought down the urge to press his lips to hers and prove her wrong right then and there. He would have, if he hadn’t been so determined to break Bobby’s record.

Bobby hadn’t put the moves on any woman. Rather, they’d come to him, eager and willing.

Ditto for every woman in Dillon’s recent past. He was on a mission and he wasn’t about to get distracted now.

“I’ve been trying to make Tilly’s list forever,” Meg continued. “If I can beef up my sex appeal, I’ll be a shoe-in. You have to give me some pointers.”

“And what will you give me?” He waited for a long list of seductive suggestions starting with “I’ll strip naked and give you a lap dance.”

“New clothes.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“While you’ve made a decent transformation physically and, obviously, mentally, what with overcoming your shyness and everything, you haven’t come anywhere close to finding a sense of style.” She eyed his jeans. “Designer?”

“Who cares?”

“The majority of women the world over, every homosexual on the face of the planet, and let’s not forget the metrosexuals, bless their stylish little souls.”

“When I look at awoman, I seriously doubt she cares what sort of jeans I’m wearing.” He gave her an intense look and grinned at theway her pulse suddenly leapt at the base of her throat. But while the reaction was immediate and intense, it quickly faded and once again shewas fantasizing about the pizza. “Myjeans are irrelevant.”

“Maybe. But if you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Namely, if you want to make a complete transformation, it means looking the part right down to your skivvies.” She arched an eyebrow. “You still doing the Spider-man boxers?”

“Not since the third grade.” Her dad had gone out of town and she’d slept over at his house. She’d worn an oversize Green Bay Packers T-shirt that night, while he’d been in his webbed boxers and a plain white T-shirt. She’d brought her army men and a flashlight, and they’d snuck into his closet after bedtime and played until dawn. While she’d looked and acted like one of the boys back then, she’d smelled a hundred times better. He could still remember the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

His nostrils flared. Beneath the perfume and hair products, he caught a whiff of the familiar scent.

“Whites?” she persisted. “Solids?”

“Neither.” He inhaled again and electricity spiraled straight to his groin. He fought against the hunger and focused on giving her another grin. “I’m in commando mode.”

“Oh.” Her gaze shifted nervously and he knew she was racing to think of something else to say to distract herself from the sudden mental image he’d stirred. She shrugged. “Okay, so you don’t really need any advice when it comes to undergarments. But these jeans…” She shook her head and wrinkled her nose.

“There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“They’re from last year’s bargain bin at the Shop-’til-you-drop, aren’t they?”

“So?”

“So you need a pair that are a little more updated, not to mention a shirt to go with them. An outfit that says cool, classy, sexy, which I can certainly provide.” She leveled a blazing blue stare at him and made her proposition. “You educate me in the finer points of being a convincing sex object, and I’ll help you find a look that does your new image some justice.”

He seriously doubted she could come up with anything that could do more for his sex appeal than the vamp blood flowing through his veins, but the thought of letting her try definitely snagged his attention.

Resisting him during a brief run-in like this might be easy. But no way could she hold back if they spent more than five minutes together. The thought struck and suddenly he knew exactly what he needed to do—seduce Meg Sweeney to the point that she stopped holding back and offered herself to him like the countless other females in Skull Creek.

Not only would he break Bobby’s record, but he would disprove beyond a doubt what he’d started to suspect—that he was, indeed, as geeky as everyone thought.

Tempting a woman determined not to be tempted would be the ultimate proof, not to mention he’d spent a lot of years wishing he could go back and re-do that first horrific kiss.

His memory stirred and he saw the disappointment in her eyes, the reluctance to try it again.

The image fueled his determination and he gave her his most seductive smile. “You’ve got yourself a deal, darlin’.”

DARLIN’? SINCE WHEN DID Dillon Cash use the term darlin’?

Since he’s morphed into a megalicious stud-muffin who makes you want to rip off your panties and do the happy dance all over him.

Not that she would.

Shewas through taking the lead. Shewanted a man towant her so badly that he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. A man who would gladly rip off his boxers and do the happy dance all over her.

Holding tight to her resolve, she drew a deep breath and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she walked back toward the motel lobby.

She could feel his gaze on her and awareness zipped through her. Her nipples pebbled and she became painfully aware of the way the lace cups of her bra rubbed back and forth with the slight swinging motion of her arms. Her blue jean skirt tugged and pulled and her thighs actually trembled.

Thanks to Dillon and his suddenly overwhelming sex appeal.

As tempting as he was, she couldn’t deny her good fortune. She’d definitely found the key to her future success. Once they started lessons—

Her thoughts slammed to a halt. She’d been so anxious to escape her traitorous thoughts that she hadn’t proposed a time and date for their first session.

“What about tomorrow morning—” she said, but the words died as she turned and found the walkway empty.

June bugs bumped against the single bulb that lit the concrete path. Her gaze traveled back to the spot where he’d stood and she eyed the closed door.

No rustle of denim as he’d turned. No creak of metal as he’d opened the door…No thud as the door had shut behind him. Nothing.

One minute, she’d felt his gaze and the next…poof. He’d disappeared.

Right.

She ignored the strange tingling that worked its way up her spine. He wasn’t actually gone. He was inside and she’d obviously been too wound up in her thoughts and her body’s traitorous response to notice the details.

Grasping at the explanation, she fought down the notion that something wasn’t quite right and turned back toward the lobby.

She would give him a call in the morning and set up a meeting. Maybe midmorning. While she didn’t have any men’s clothes in her shop, she could take his measurements and then do some online shopping later. He would tell her what books he’d been reading, give her some pointers, and then they could head over to Uncle Buck’s for a makeup lunch.

Thanks to her lustful thoughts and her desperate attempt for a diversion, she had a sudden craving for double pepperoni that even a dozen pleasure bites couldn’t touch.

A craving that haunted her for the next hour as she turned in her homework, finished her class and headed home. A craving that drove her straight to her kitchen in search of satisfaction, aka junk food.

In massive quantities if possible.

Since it was the end of the week and she hadn’t yet made it to the grocery store, she quickly ruled out massive and settled for Babe’s three remaining Twinkies. She also snatched up what was left of a bottle of wine she’d received from one of her customers the Christmas before last.

Bottle in one hand and sponge cake in the other, she headed upstairs and tried not to think about Dillon and whether or not he’d improved in the kissing department.

Obviously, he had. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have every woman in town falling all over him.

Most of the women in town, that is.

They were just friends, she told herself as she peeled off her clothes and crawled into bed.

Just like she saw the real Dillon, he saw the real Meg. The one who hadn’t managed to cancel her subscription to Sports Illustrated. The one who still tossed around a baseball in the back-yard every now and then when she was sure her neighbors weren’t looking.

Which explained why he’d done little more than flirt with her tonight. Not that she’d wanted him to do more.

It was the principle that mattered.

Obviously, like everyone else in town, he just couldn’t see the Hot Chick that Meg had become.

Not yet.

Not ever a voice whispered. One she quickly ignored as she devoured two of the three cakes, downed a long sip of wine and snuggled under the sheets.

If Dillon could convince an entire town full of people he’d known since birth, so could she. Even more, she could be convincing enough to get herself into Tilly’s top ten.

All she had to do was buckle down, learn everything she could from Dillon, and not jump his bones in the process.

No problem. Manhandler Meg was ancient history.

At least that’s what she told herself.

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