them out as artfully as I could along the tops of some of the bookshelves. I had a collection of stuffed teddy bears I’d had since I was a little girl. Digging them out of one of the boxes at home, I scattered them throughout the store and among the greenery on the shelves, along with an occasional decorative birdcage. I found a fancy automatic coffeemaker and a sturdy table to put it on, stocked up on colorful cups and napkins, and opened the store for business.
After three weeks and three customers, I was thinking maybe I had opened the wrong kind of enterprise for such a small town. Maybe people in rural areas didn’t have time to read. Maybe I should have opened a pet store. At least then I would have had some company!
I called the writers’ group in the next town to see about setting up a book signing in hopes of drawing customers into the shop.
The woman who answered the phone sounded doubtful that any of the authors in their organization would be willing to drive a hundred miles to sign autographs in such a remote location, but she said she would ask around and see if she could find any writers who lived closer to Oak Hollow. I thanked her for her time and hung up.
One day, out of sheer boredom, I painted a mural on the wall behind the counter. It started off as a flowering peach tree, its branches spreading out along the wall. But as the days went by, I painted a young girl sitting beneath the tree reading a book. Next, I added a gray squirrel on one of the branches, and then a little brown and white dog sleeping beside the girl, and then, in the distance, a fuzzy yellow duck floating on a small blue pond. It wasn’t the Sistine Chapel by any means, but it was something to do to pass the time, and it wasn’t too bad, for an amateur.
A few days later, while sitting at the malt shop trying to lift my spirits by indulging in a hot fudge sundae with double whipped cream, I overheard a couple of the townspeople talking. Normally, I don’t approve of eavesdropping, but in this case it turned out to be highly informative. Apparently, the reason my chosen hideaway wasn’t inhabited by Vampires or Werewolves was because it had been designated as neutral territory, a place where the baddies could get together without fear of attack when they needed to parley with one another. Apparently, Oak Hollow was the Switzerland of the Midwest.
I was getting ready to close the store a few nights later when the cheerful jingling of the bell over the door announced that someone had actually come into the shop. Looking up, I put on my best how-can-I-help-you smile, only to feel it slip away when I got a good look at my first customer in over a week. He was, in a word, magnificent, from the top of his black-thatched head to the polished tips of his expensive black leather boots.
I blinked up at him, all rational thought wiped from my mind as I stared at the Adonis striding toward me. He could have been the poster boy for handsome, with his dusky skin, chiseled features, strong jaw, and full, sensuous lips. Never in all my life had I seen such a drop-dead gorgeous guy.
He glanced around the store, and I could almost see him wondering how I stayed in business, since he was the only customer in the place.
With an effort of will, I managed to stop staring at him long enough to ask if I could be of help.
His gaze moved over me in a way that made me feel as if he had just finished a seven-course gourmet meal and I was dessert.
I had never actually met a Vampire before, but I realized with a sudden jolt that I was looking at one now, although I had no idea how I knew. He was tall, at least three inches over six feet, and solid. As might be expected, he wore nothing but black—black silk shirt, black jeans that hugged a pair of long, muscular legs, and a black leather jacket that covered a pair of broad shoulders. All that black went well with his hair and his eyes. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone who had black eyes before, but his were like pools of ebony ink, deep and dark and mesmerizing. I wanted to dive to the bottom and never come up.
Being in the same room with one of the Undead, breathing the same air, made me decidedly uncomfortable. I took several deep breaths, hoping it would calm my nerves. It didn’t.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” I asked, pleased that my voice didn’t betray my uneasiness.
“I was hoping you could recommend something.” His voice, as deep and mesmerizing as his eyes, danced over my skin.
It had never occurred to me that Vampires liked to read, or do much of anything except wear black, drink blood, and spend the daylight hours resting in their coffins.
“What do you like?” I asked. “Mysteries, suspense, sci-fi…?”
He shrugged. “Have you read any good books lately?”
“Me?” I was unaccountably pleased that he had asked for my opinion. “Well, yes, I thought the latest Jordan Montgomery mystery was his best one to date.”
He nodded. “I’ll take it.”
Aware of his gaze on my back, I hurried to the mystery section and plucked a copy from the shelf.
“That’ll be twenty-seven fifty,” I said, ringing up the sale.
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a crisp fifty-dollar bill. His fingers were cool when they brushed mine, yet I felt a frisson of heat race all the way up my neck to warm my cheeks. I slid the book and the receipt into a sack, also hand painted by me, and handed it to him, along with his change.
“Might I know your name?” he asked.
I hesitated to give it. I’m not really into Supernatural stuff all that much, but I knew that names were powerful mojo.
His gaze locked with mine, and I found myself saying, “Kathy. Kathy McKenna.”
“A lovely name for a very lovely lady,” he murmured, bowing from the waist. “I hope to see you again.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?” I asked. Hey, it only seemed fair that I should know his name now that he knew mine.
“Ah, of course. I am Raphael Cordova.”
I stared at him. Raphael Cordova! Good grief. He was the leader or chief or whatever they called it of the North American Vampires.
He smiled, displaying remarkably even, white teeth. “I will see you again, Kathy McKenna.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a promise, but before I could ask, or think of a suitable reply, he was gone, as silent as a shadow running from the sun.
The night after Raphael’s visit, thirteen people stopped by the store. They didn’t just come in because they were curious or to browse, either. They came in to buy. Every one of them bought at least two books; one lady bought four, another bought nine.
I’m not sure when I realized that they had all come into the store after the sun had set, or exactly when I realized they were all Vampires, and that Raphael Cordova had probably sent them. I guess I should have been pleased. Instead, it annoyed me to think that he had rounded up a bunch of his Undead pals and ordered them to throw a little business my way. I didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for me, thank you very much. And I certainly didn’t want to be beholden to a Vampire for anything.
I had a feeling he would show up later that night, and he did, just as I was about to close up shop. He was clad in unrelieved black again—a short-sleeved T-shirt that emphasized his broad shoulders and muscular arms, another pair of tight jeans, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots. Just looking at him made me feel good all over.
