Dead and Loving It Read online

  More praise for MaryJanice Davidson and her novels

  “Erotically passionate!”

  —Christine Feehan

  “Entertaining, wicked, and delightful.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “A must-read for fans who appreciate a humorous out-of-this-world tale…fast-paced and filled with zingers.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “One of the funniest books I have ever read! MaryJanice Davidson has once again brought to life an independent, wisecracking heroine…The story is fast-paced, the sex is hot, and the humor outrageous! I highly recommend this story to everyone.”

  —Paranormal Romance Reviews

  “Classic MaryJanice Davidson, in that it had me laughing throughout the book. It is one of the most original story ideas I have read in a long time also…[and] has the steamy love scenes that Ms. Davidson is known for…Awesome.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “[A] wickedly clever and amusing romp. Davidson’s witty dialogue, fast pacing, smart plotting, laugh-out-loud humor, and sexy relationships make this a joy to read.”

  —Booklist

  “A hilarious romp full of goofy twists and turns, great fun for fans of humorous vampire romance.”

  —Locus

  “This is one of the most erotic books that I’ve read in years.”

  —Escape to Romance

  Berkley Sensation titles by MaryJanice Davidson

  UNDEAD AND UNWED

  UNDEAD AND UNEMPLOYED

  UNDEAD AND UNAPPRECIATED

  UNDEAD AND UNRETURNABLE

  DERIK’S BANE

  DEAD AND LOVING IT

  Dead and Loving It

  MaryJanice Davidson

  BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  “Santa Claws,” “Monster Love,” and “There’s No Such Thing as a Werewolf” were originally published in e-book format.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2006 by MaryJanice Alongi.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Davidson, MaryJanice.

  Dead and loving it / MaryJanice Davidson—Berkley Sensation trade pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  Contents: Santa Claws—Monster love—There’s no such thing as a werewolf—A fiend in need.

  ISBN 978-1-1012-0787-1

  1. Werewolves—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3604.A949D43 2006

  813'.6—dc22

  2005058923

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my husband, who amuses the kids when I’m on deadline and thinks it’s swell when I ignore the family for days to finish a story. (Hmm. That could be more a reflection on me than him, but never mind.)

  Thanks also to my editor, Cindy, who asked me, when I was trying to figure out what to write for this collection, “How is George doing?”

  Asked and answered, bay-bee!

  Contents

  Santa Claws

  Monster Love

  There’s No Such Thing as a Werewolf

  A Fiend in Need

  Dead and Loving It

  Santa Claws

  Chapter 1

  Alec Kilcurt, laird of Kilcurt Holding and the most powerful werewolf in Europe, stomped through the snow and slush and wished he were anywhere, anywhere but here.

  He stopped and stood obediently with the rest of the herd, waiting for the light to change. Snow was spitting down on him with malice he could almost feel. It did nothing for his mood. He disliked leaving his home for any reason, but being called to America to pay homage to The Wonderful Child was a bit much.

  And now he was shamed; his duty had never seemed a chore before. He admired and respected the pack leaders, Michael and Jeannie Wyndham. Michael was a good man and a fine leader; his wife was a crack shot cutie; and their baby, Lara, was adorable. Because the cooing, drooling infant was likely to be his next pack leader, Alec’s presence—the presence of every country’s werewolf head—had been required for both political and practical reasons. The pack was some three hundred thousand werewolves strong; unity was both a desire and a necessity.

  Unfortunately, visiting the Wyndhams in their happy home just exacerbated his own loneliness. He’d been searching for a mate for years, but had…how did the humans put it? Never found the right girl. He thought it was funny that human women complained their men didn’t commit. An unattached werewolf male was likely to want to move in after the first date. What was a man, after all, without a mate, without cubs?

  Nothing, that’s what. Meeting baby Lara, aka The Wonderful Child, was a great relief; pack leaders without heirs made everyone nervous. Seeing Michael’s happiness, on the other hand, was a torture.

  Now his duty was done, and thank God. His plane left Boston tonight, and nothing was keeping him from it.

  Faugh! More snow! And not likely to be much better, even when he got home. Really, there was nothing to look forward to until spring. Others of his kind might enjoy romping through the slush on all fours, but here was one furry laird who hated getting his feet wet.

  And Boston! Gray, drizzly, dreary Boston, which smelled like damp wool and exhaust. He felt like pulling his scarf over his nose to muffle the smells of

  (peaches, ripe peaches)

  unwashed masses and

  (peaches)

  He stopped suddenly and felt a one-two punch as the couple walking behind him slammed into his back. He barely felt it; he hardly heard their complaints. He spun, pushed past them, and walked back, nostrils flaring, trying to catch that elusive

  jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

  intoxicating

  jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

  utterly wonderful scent.

  He stiffened, not unlike a dog on point. There. The street corner. Red suit trimmed with white. White-gloved hand shak
ing that annoying bell. Belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly. The glorious smell was coming from Santa Claus.

  jangleJANGLEjangleJANGLEjangle

  He charged across the street without looking, ignoring the blaring horns, the shriek of airbrakes. The closer he got, the better Santa smelled.

  jangleJANGLEjan—

  “Jeez, there’s no rush,” Santa said in a startled contralto, pulling down her beard to squint up at him. Her eyes were the color of Godiva milk chocolate. Her cheeks were blooded, kissed by the wind. Her nose was snub. Adorable. He felt like kissing it. “I mean, the bucket and I aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Nuh,” he said, or something like it.

  “You really should forget that whole ‘pedestrians have the right of way’ attitude when you’re in this town…errr…everything okay?”

  He had been looming over her, drinking her in. Now he jerked back. “Fine. Everything’s fine. Have dinner with me.”

  “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.” She blinked up at him. A stray snowflake spiraled down, landed on her nose, and melted.

  “Then lunch.”

  The woman looked down at herself, as if making sure that, yes, she was dressed in the least-flattering outfit a woman could wear. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked at last.

  “Never better.” It was the truth. This was rapidly turning into the best day ever. He had visions of spending the rest of the day rolling around on Egyptian cotton sheets with Santa. “Lunch.”

  She peered at him with adorable suspicion. “Is that a question? Is this your first day out of the institution?”

  Right, right, she was human. Be polite. “Lunch. Please. Now.”

  She burst out laughing, putting a hand on her large belly to keep from falling into the street. As if he’d let that happen. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, “but the absurdity of this…you…and…it just hit me all at once.” She cut her gaze away from his to smile at the woman who had just tucked a dollar into her bucket. “Merry Christmas, ma’am, and thank you.”

  Now that he was no longer gazing into her eyes, he felt much colder and realized his feet were wet. Faugh!

  “I can’t have lunch now,” she said kindly, looking back at him. “I can’t leave my spot until noon.”

  “Not even if you made lots of money before then?”

  “Not even if the real Santa came along to relieve me.”

  “Noon, then.”

  “Well. All right.” She smiled up at him with timid liking. “You’ll be sorry. Wait until you see me out of this Santa outfit.” The spasm of lust nearly toppled him into the gutter. “I’m not at all cute,” she finished with charming idiocy.

  “Noon,” he said again and then pulled his roll from his coat pocket. He plucked the money clip off the wad and dropped the eight thousand dollars or so into her bucket. “I’ll be back.”

  “If that was Monopoly money,” she hollered after him, “lunch is off!”

  Chapter 2

  Giselle Smith watched the visitor from Planet Hunk stride away. When he’d rushed up to her, she had nearly dropped her bell. There she was, jangling for charity, and then Hunk Man was right there. She couldn’t believe the speed at which he’d moved.

  His hair was a deep, true auburn. His eyes were a funny kind of brown, so light they were nearly gold. His nose was a blade, and his mouth—oooh, his mouth! A girl could stare at it and think…oh, all sorts of things. He was tall, too; she had to crane her neck to look at him. Over six feet, for sure. Shoulders like a swimmer. Knee-length black wool coat, probably worth a grand at least. Black gloves covering big hands; the guy looked like he could palm a basketball, no problem.

  He had come charging across the street to, of all things, ask her to lunch. And to give her thousands—thousands!—of dollars.

  Her, Giselle Smith. Boring brown hair, dirt-colored eyes. Too short and definitely too heavy. The most interesting thing about her was her name—which people always got wrong anyway.

  Obviously a serial killer, she thought sadly. Well, we’ll have lunch in a public place where I can scream my head off if he starts sharpening his knives.

  It was too bad. He was really something. What the hell could a guy like that want from a nobody like her?

  Alec watched the woman (he was still angry at himself for not getting her name…or giving his, for that matter) from halfway down the block. His spot was excellent: he could see her perfectly and, better, he was downwind.

  He thought about their conversation and cursed himself again. He’d babbled like a moron, ordered her to lunch, stared at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood. Yes, like Little Red…hmmmmm.

  He wrenched his mind from that delectable mental image (the better to eat you with, my dear…eat you all…up!) and concentrated on thinking about what an idiot he had been. It was a miracle the woman had said yes. It was a miracle she hadn’t hit him over the head with her bell. He had to be very careful at lunch; it was imperative she not spook. He thanked God he was weeks away from his Change; if he’d caught her scent any closer to the full moon, he’d have scared the pants off her. Literally.

  God, she was so adorable. Look at her, shaking her little bell for all she was worth. Many people stopped (pulled in, no doubt, by her allure) and threw money in her bucket. As they should! They should give her gold bullion, they should lay roses at her feet, they—

  He pushed away from the wall, appalled; someone hadn’t put money in! An expensively dressed man in his late thirties had used the bucket to make change and went on his merry way.

  Alec got moving. In no time, he had closed the distance and flanked the man, snaked out a hand, and pulled him into a handy alley.

  “Wha-aaaggh!”

  “This is cashmere,” Alec said, his hand fisting in the man’s coat.

  “Let go of me,” the man squeaked, reeking of stale piss—the smell of fear. “Or I’ll yell rape!”

  “Your shoes,” Alec continued, undaunted, “are from Gerbard in London and didna cost you less than eight hundred pounds.” Only Samuel Gerbard used that kind of supple leather when making his footwear; the smell was distinctive. “And that’s a Coach briefcase.”

  “Gggglllkkkk!”

  Perhaps he was holding the man a little too firmly. Alec released his grip. “The point is, you c’n stand to share a little this holiday season.”

  “Wha?”

  “Go back,” he growled, “and put money. In. The bucket.”

  He let go. The man fled. In the right direction—toward his Santa sweetie.

  A minute later, Alec was back at his post. He checked his watch for the thirtieth time in the last half hour. Ninety minutes to go. An eternity.

  An eternity later, at 11:57, he realized the skulking teenagers were ready to make their move. The three of them had been casing the block for the last fifteen minutes, had been watching his lunch date much too closely. It was the bucket, of course; they wanted lunch money…or the eight grand he’d dropped in. It would be laughable, except one of them smelled like gun oil, which meant Alec had to take some care.

  Their path took them right past him; he reached out and slammed the one with the gun into the side of the building. The boy—a child in his late teens—flopped bonelessly to the sidewalk.

  His friends were a little slow to catch on, but they finally turned when they nearly tripped over their unconscious leader. And then they saw Alec, standing over the unconscious punk, smiling. Well, showing them all his teeth, anyway. “Take somebody else’s bucket,” he said. Oh, wait, that was the wrong message entirely. “Don’t take anybody’s bucket,” he called after them, but it was too late. They were running away.

  He looked at his watch again. It was noon!

  Chapter 3

  It’s Giselle,” she said to Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love. “Giselle Smith. And you’re…?”

  “Alec Kilcurt. You have a lovely name.”

  “Yeah, thanks. About that. The never-ending compliments. What is your deal? Now that I’m out o
f costume, you can see I’m nothing special.”

  He laughed at her.

  She frowned but continued. “Too short, too heavy—”

  He laughed harder.

  “—but you keep complimenting me, and I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’re a census-taker, right? A salesman? You want to sell me a fridge. A timeshare. A kidney. Stop laughing!”

  He finally sobered up, although the occasional snort escaped. He snapped his fingers, and the glorious redhead at the next table, who’d been studying him while pretending to powder her nose, gave him her full attention. Her eyelashes fluttered. She licked her red, glistening lips.

  Alec held out his hand, and after a puzzled moment, the redhead placed her compact in his palm.

  “Obliged,” he said carelessly. Then he snapped it open and showed it to Giselle. “This is what my people call a mirror,” he said in his ultra-cool Scottish brogue. “Y’ should spend more time looking in one.”

  “I know what a mirror is, you goob,” she snapped. “Too damn well. Stop shaking that thing at me, or you won’t get anything nice for Christmas.” She nudged the bag at her foot that held her Santa costume. “I’ve got friends in high places.”

  “Are you getting angry with me?” he asked, delighted. He handed the compact back to the redhead with barely a glance.

  “Yes, a little. You don’t have to look so happy about it.”

  “Sorry. It’s just…I’m a lot bigger than you are.”

  “And almost as smart,” she said brightly.

  “Most women find me a little intimidating.” He smiled at her. Giselle felt her stomach tighten and then roll over lazily. God, what a grin. “In my…family…we treasure women who speak their minds.”