Big Girls Don't Die [NOOK Book]

Read an Excerpt

That damn evil hellcat.

I was in the shower just as my day began, right at the crack of sunset, when a huge crash sounded through my teensy bathroom. I jerked back the curtain to see what the hell was going on, when Beelzebub streaked across the floor and tackled the overflowing trashcan, which spewed the contents everywhere. And still, he attacked the trash. Shit. A cold rush of dread made my stomach do back flips. Somehow, I knew he'd cornered a rodent. In my bathroom. With me trapped, sopping wet and stark-ass naked in the bathtub. This was a hell of a way to start Valentine's Day.

So. I had to deal with the whole mouse situation, not the least of which because he was about to slaughter the thing on my landlord's cream-colored carpet. And who carpets a rental in cream? I hopped out of the tub and into the scattered trash. Wads of things I didn't even want to think about were stuck to the bottoms of my wet feet.

Since I couldn't kill it, I had to get rid of it. What did I do to deserve this? I caught sight of myself in the floor to ceiling mirror and tried to ignore the fact that all I could see reflected back at me were my wide blue eyes. What I couldn't see was the rest of me, the pale skin, the mile long legs and too-generous hips and thighs. The dripping black hair that was sleeked to my scalp. The pointy fangs. None of it, because I was a walking spawn of Satan.

I tossed Beelzebub into the living room, grabbed the tallest glass from my kitchen and played tag with the stupid mouse until I finally scooped it up and slammed a plastic dish over the top. No need to let it try and escape, right? Right.

Then I realized I was stillbuck-naked, and I had to toss the mouse out into the yard. After I set the glass on my dresser, I snatched my nightshirt off the dirty clothes pile and pulled it over my head. With my Winnie-the-Pooh nighty stuck to my wet skin and the mouse in a glass, I jerked the door open and launched my uninvited guest ... right into the broad, scrumptious chest of my worst nightmare.

Andre St. James, the man responsible for turning me into the undead. His large dark-skinned hand snapped out and caught the tail of the mouse. When he brought it up to his eye level, the hairy little guy squeaked in mad terror, prey before a predator. I could relate. I'd had those pale celery-green eyes trained on me enough times to know that I melted into an orgasmic puddle within a few seconds. He dropped the mouse that, like a smart little rodent, ran like hell. Unlike me, who stayed where I was with my mouth agape.

"Cynthiana." The way he said my name, with an emphasis on the first syllable, made it sound like something naughty and sinful. His Noo Awlins accent made everything sound naughty. The man could read a phonebook, and I'd get turned on.

Heat flooded my body, and my nipples tightened. His gaze zoomed right in on the pointed tips. I swallowed.

Don't panic, girl! He's a bad, bad man who turned you without asking pretty please first. Even if he was gorgeous and had skin like yummy milk chocolate. Even though he tasted just as good as he looked. Delicious in every possible way. Mmm-hmm. Wait, what was I thinking? Bad, bad man. Remember? Shit.

"Yes, Satan?" I propped my forearm on the doorjamb and cocked a hip. My other hand kept a death grip on the doorknob. Right now, it was the only thing keeping me from flinging myself at him and begging him to shake me all night long.

His full lips quirked, and I swayed toward him. "Invite me in."

"No." The word escaped as a sigh.

His long finger lifted to stroke my elbow, the only part of me that stuck out of the doorway. Hot flashes rippled out from the touch, and I wanted to rip my nighty off and run around with my panties on my head. If I had any on. Which I didn't.

"Invite me to come inside."