CHAPTER 1
The October nights were getting colder; in fact, it was feeling more like December, despite the fact that summer had lingered longer than it should. Chelsea adjusted her crimson scarf so that it covered her ears against the brisk wind. Her stylish Amber Rose-esque haircut seemed like a great idea a few weeks ago—she had to remember to dig out her winter hats when she got home. The walk from the attorney's office where she'd just dropped off her resume to her car wasn't long—just a few blocks. It was just before rush hour—if you could call it that in this Podunk town—and the sidewalks were fairly deserted. But she was questioning her choice of attire. The black pencil skirt, white buttoned-up blouse, grey tights and black boots were warm enough with her grey wool pea coat, but the three-inch heels on the boots were hazardous. She could see her car parked at the lot on the corner when the heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. Down she went.
"Shit!" Chelsea screeched, catching herself on her hands and knees. She struggled to her feet just as she heard his voice.
"Are you okay?"
Chelsea looked up just in time to see a chocolate brown-skinned man bend down in front of her to examine her bleeding knees through the shreds in her tights. Even on one knee, she could tell he was tall. He lifted his head and took her hands in his to check her palms. Oh Lord, he was gorgeous, Chelsea thought. His hands were cool against her hot palms.
"Yeah, uh, I'm fine. Trying to do too much in these heels," she said, pulling her hands back to look at them. Not too much damage, just skinned, a few tiny gravels. Her knees were a different story. She could feel the blood dripping down her shins.
"Let me help you—I'm a doctor. Doctor DuBois. Sorry, Germaine. Germaine DuBois," he said, holding out his hand. She looked down at her own hand before looking at him dumbly.
"Shit, sorry, you can't shake hands right now," he said, recovering from the uncomfortable moment by laughing. Chelsea couldn't help but smile in return.
"I'm Chelsea Willow."
"Hi Chelsea," he said, taking her elbow to guide her to his SUV, "But seriously, you need to get those knees looked at. I have my bag with me. At least let me clean them up."
Chelsea felt a moment of hesitation—he was a stranger, after all. But this was her hometown. Her uncle's pawn shop was four blocks away. The law office where her cousin's father-in-law was reviewing her resume at that very moment was only two blocks in the other direction. Her car was at the far end of the lot. She felt safe. She felt safe with Germaine.
"Okay," she said, allowing him to guide her to the passenger seat. She hopped up and sat sideways in the seat while he retrieved his back from the back. He put it in the floorboard beside her and pulled out a pair of gloves, gauze, alcohol wipes, and the other necessary accoutrements for cleaning a pair of skinned knees.
He wiped the shallow scrapes on her hands first with alcohol wipes. They didn't require any kind of bandage.
"These tights are pretty much ruined," he notified her. She nodded in return.
"I'm just going to get them out of the way," he said, unzipping her boot. Her heart soared as he slid the leather down her calf, his fingers tracing the same path. She felt a jolt as those fingers clutched her ankle and then feathered across the sole of her foot. Goosebumps rose up all over her skin, her eyes closed, and her toes curled involuntarily. A second later, those strong, gloved hands were back at her knee, ripping the delicate mesh all the way around. He peeled the torn fabric down and discarded it in a plastic bag from his kit.
Chelsea knew this innocent seduction was all in her head. Her eyes flew open. She felt her face flush and prayed that he hadn't noticed her reactions. He seemed focused on the task at hand, not looking at her face at all. She was studying his though: bald head, straight white teeth, dimpled chin, and the shadow of a beard across a strong jaw. And that smirk was undeniable. Or was it? She sighed as he spent the next minute removing the boot and tights from the other foot.
"You did a real number on these, Ms. Willow," Germaine said, dabbing the blood away with the gauze and neatly depositing each soiled square into the plastic bag.
"Please call me Chelsea," she said, watching him as he worked.
"Chelsea," he corrected himself, "And you can call me Germaine. This is going to sting, okay?"
She nodded. He pressed the alcohol pad against the scrapes and gently swiped. Then she felt him blowing the sting away. The goosebumps returned.
"Sorry," he said, "Probably not the most sanitary procedure, but my sons require it for their own scraped knees. Force of habit."
She smiled. "You have sons?"
"Yeah, two. Levi and Lincoln—four year old twins."
"Wow," she said, "that's a fun age."
"It is," he agreed.
"But then, they're fun at pretty much all ages, aren't they?" she amended.
He smiled, applying an oversized band-aid to each knee, "That's true too. You have kids?"
"No, just a six-year-old nephew. He's like, my favorite person in the world," she conceded, "But I love kids in general. So much that I worked at a daycare for several years. They're so energetic and honest."
"I'm so busy at the hospital, I feel like I miss out on so much. But you're right, Levi and Lincoln are the epitome of energetic and honest."
"Does your wife have much help with the boys? I'm sure twins must be extra tough, especially if she's alone while you're at work."
"Wife?" he said, peeling the gloves off his hands, "There's no wife. The boys were the product of an unfortunate incident with an old friend back home. She didn't want children. I let her off the hook."
"I'm sorry," Chelsea said, embarrassed, "I didn't mean to pry."
"No, no. It's fine. It's something we're open about. Before we moved from New Orleans, the boys had a nanny that they loved. She couldn't move with us. I'm actually looking for a replacement right now. My mother is home with them now, but she has to go back to New Orleans just after Halloween."
"That's less than a week away," Chelsea said, pulling her boots back on over her now-bare feet.
"Who are you telling?" Germaine said, laughing, "I've been busting my butt trying to find someone suitable."
"Where have you looked?" she asked, hopping down from the leather seat. She adjusted her coat and scarf again and looked down at the ends of her ragged tights. She listened as he rattled off the list of the people and places he'd looked for qualified care for his children.
"Is it a live-in position? What other responsibilities would it entail besides childcare? Do you require references?"
"Whoa, whoa," he said, chuckling as he walked her back to her car, "Are you trying to apply?"
"Sorry," she said, getting more excited, "Actually, I'd be interested. I'm looking for a job now. And I have experience in childcare. What do you think? I have a copy of my resume right here."
She pulled out a stack of folders and shuffled through them while Germaine studied her face. He'd caught her blushing earlier and knew how the rush of blood in her cheeks affected his own rush of blood elsewhere. She was at least a foot shorter than his 6'4" frame. She'd buzzed her hair, but it only made her look even more feminine—her huge hazel eyes, button nose, and pouty lips stood out. And Lord, she was thick. He could see the wide hips and thick thighs despite the thick wool coat she wore. It hid the roundness of her butt, but he could see the shape of it anyway.
But would she be able to take care of his children? They were a handful—not just because they were twins; but because they were his.
When he'd left the employment agency on his search for a new nanny, he'd caught the scent of her blood before he saw her on hands and knees on the sidewalk. His fangs instantly dropped in his mouth and he'd struggled to retract them and slow his steps as he went to offer his assistance. There were only a few people out and about, but they'd have surely noticed if he'd zoomed to her side at vamp-speed. He knelt down to examine her bloody knees and fought the urge to lick the salty O- goodness. Hands—he'd told himself—look at her hands, they're not as tempting. From her hands, he'd looked up into her eyes and he, again, had a hard time ignoring the temptation. Those green and gold orbs seemed to stare into his soul.
How else could he explain that the mother of his children died at their own hands. Or, rather, their own fangs. The infants were unable to comprehend that feeding at their mother's breast meant suckling the milk, not burying fangs into the soft skin of those nipples that he himself had fed from. Had it been one child, she would've lived. She couldn't bear to leave one hungry baby in the crib crying while she fed the other. So she'd placed a baby at each breast. Two hungry vampire babies needed too much. He'd explained to her the risks and the rewards. A human woman could bear a vampire child. She could care for him, feed him even. But two increased the risk. And now she was gone.
Not that Germaine loved Celeste. He hadn't. She'd been nothing more than a vessel, an easy meal, an obedient servant to his needs, both sexual and physical. She was a beautiful woman, tall, caramel-complexioned. She was fascinated by the fact that Germaine had been a vampire. In fact, they'd been introduced by another vamp/human couple. She knew what she was getting into. He felt no guilt about her death and wouldn't allow his sons to either.
The nanny was a different story. Levi and Lincoln overheard Germaine talking on the phone one night—he'd been explaining to his own vampire brother, Greg, about the move to Kentucky and how Emmy Valdez would be staying in town. New Orleans was saturated with his kind and they all needed a nanny at one point in time. But for him, it was time to branch out. His mother wasn't too excited, but she understood his need to leave. He'd convinced her with tales of Derby parties, rolling hills of bluegrass, and an untapped population of humans to feed from. A vampire in Kentucky? Why the hell not?
"Oh, Emmy? She's not coming with us. She's of no use to us anymore."
Of no use to us anymore. Four year old twins interpreted this as Emmy being free game. He'd found the nanny an hour later, drained, lying on the floor while Levi and Lincoln played video games from their bunk beds.
"What the hell? Boys, what did I tell you about Miss Emmy? We need her, we don't feed from her! Right?" he stepped over her body and snatched the video game controllers from the boys' hands.
"But Daddy, you told Uncle Greg that we didn't need her anymore," little Levi said, looking as innocent as can be, brown eyes filling with bloody vampire tears.
